I just read an article about how the chairman of Smith & Wesson (a very famous American gun company) resigned after it came out that he had served time for armed robbery. I would think this would make him even more capable of being chairman of this company, as he really understands its clientèle.

And the United States continues to appear more and more ridiculous to me...

So I signed up for this class called The History of Fantastical Litterature and Film (that's my translation at least) because I thought it would give me a nice break from the dozens of books that I have to read that require me to be way too serious and morose. (I did this all for you so that you don't have to drown in so many posts about Victor Hugo!!!) So I went to my first class today and for 2 glorious hours I was transported to Hogwarts. I am beginning to realize that when I decided to go back to school, I didn't want to just take classes, I wanted to go to Hogwarts. And sitting in class taking notes on Nicolas Flamel and Michel de Notre Dame (or Nostradamus, if you will), learning all of the different trajectories of alchemy and how the philosopher's stone is actually used, getting angry at Descartes for going all Carl Sagan on magic and taking the fun out of it with his crap "reason", noting the qualities that constitute a pact with the devil, etc., I kept looking around to see if Malfoy or Ron was there. Of course, this was more like History of Magic with Professor Binns than Divination with Professor Trelawney or Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid, but it was cool nonetheless.

My hair was all bushy today like Hermione's and I was being very studious and excited by learning until my next class, when I suddenly transfigured into David Sedaris. I was called on to answer a question that the professor said was really "just too easy" and I had NO IDEA. As the professor lead the class to laugh at me, saying "You are just really amusing me, Amanda," I turned as bright red as Ginny Weasley when Harry Potter walks into the room. Anyway, I don't mind being more Ginny than Hermione. She's cool. I just hope You-Know-Who doesn't start commenting on my blog and eventually kidnapping me and sucking me of my lifeforce. I will be patrolling for any bizarre anonymous posts! And anyone that tries to scare me into thinking He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is posting to my blog me will most certainly be sent a Howler, I assure you!

This expression has always caused me to shiver a little. It makes me think about men and women being married off to increase their families' wealth, maintain a certain status, and submit to innumerable sex roles, that while useful for organizing life, often degenerated into the woman being simply a household servant. Marriage is not a bad thing. I think I might try it some day. But the Institution of Marriage is not worth protecting. Other measures that would protect this institution? How about making it illegal for people to divorce? How about stoning people for committing adultery? That would teach all those cheaters out there! Or how about letting the parents choose the right partner for their children to avoid the mistake of marrying for love instead of prospects, economics, and homogeny?

Homosexuals should have the ability to marry someone of their choosing. They should receive the same benefits and privileges as their straight counterparts. But thinking even beyond this issue, why should married people have benefits at all over single people? Isn't this a form of discrimination? I for one do not like the idea that it is economically more secure for me to enter into a marriage before I am ready, than to stay single as long as I want. The Institution of Marriage, with all of its exclusions, does not only hurt the people who are perpetually barred from it but also all who have yet to find the right partner. I understand that such benefits were created with the idea that marriage leads to children and it is expensive to raise children. But let's face it, more and more kids are growing up in single parent households these days. Why should they suffer from this antiquated system? I think that the issue of marriage needs to be re-evaluated in our modern society. The current system is obviously not working and many, including the gays, lesbians, single parents, children of broken homes, and single people are suffering because of it. Let people love each other, but don't punish people for living outside the mold.

This is a letter that my friend Kevin sent to a friend of his who works on the Bush re-election campaign.

I have been trying to compose my thoughts on the issue of gay marriage for a while now, but I think that Kevin's letter states what I wanted to say more eloquently than I ever could. It is incredible to me that in a country that claims to be defending the rights of people all over the world, that tax-paying, law-abiding American citizens would be denied rights by the Consitution. The Constitution is meant to guarantee and protect the rights of our citizens, not take them away. Who exactly would be protected by such an amendment? Ok, enough of my words….here are Kevin's:

Dear (name withheld),

I think I am angrier today at a political figure than ever before in my life. As I am sure you know, your boss came out yesterday in favor of a federal Constitutional amendment defining marriage as between one man and one woman. In doing so, not only has he taken a very personal issue for me and millions of others and politicized it to energize the most conservative of his voting base, but he has used the weight of the presidency as a club against me and my best friends. If I hadn't already been convinced that Mr. Bush has no respect for values that differ from his, this would have convinced me beyond all doubt. By the way, my mother, who voted for Bush in the last election, told me that his State of the Union speech criticizing those "activist judges" finally convinced her that he is not worthy of her vote. And I doubt that she is the only one out there who feels that way. Every parent wishes their child to have a happy, love-filled life, and there are lots of gay children out there. Despite your boss's best efforts, this is becoming legally possible for them in America.

Until today, I believed that civil unions were enough, were a necessary compromise to grant equal rights while still avoiding angering too many people who just don't get it. My opinion changed today. I wish that we, as a nation, could understand so many years after the phrase first entered the lexicon, that separate really is not equal. Civil unions granted state by state still would not confer the rights and privileges of marriage that the federal government allows. I now believe that the right to choose who I marry is one that belongs to me no matter what the Constitution says. I see no reason not to demand from my government the full rights granted to my heterosexual counterparts to decide that I know best with whom I should spend my life. For that altering of my opinion, I suppose I have Mr. Bush to thank.

The thing about all this that I guess makes me the angriest is that there is no argument against gay marriage that is not based on religious belief. It amazes me that all Americans, even those with strong religious faith, are not disgusted by Mr. Bush's blatant, disgraceful attempts to impose his own faith on the legislative agenda. The very heart of the separation of church and state is the idea that religion should not impact social legislation. A secular government is what we have, despite Mr. Bush's continuing efforts to turn us into a theocracy. You cannot legislate morality, and you cannot single out one group of citizens and deny them the rights granted to all others. The Constitution has never been used to strip away rights, only to broaden them. For Mr. Bush to propose this amendment threatens the very document that he took an oath to protect. Just who is protected if the Constitution can be used to take away civil rights?

Finally, it amazes me that you, one of the kindest and least judgmental people I have known, can work for this man and believe that he deserves to run the country. I am disappointed in you for continuing your work. I apologize if that upsets you, but I do want to impress you with the depth of my disgust with this, the latest in a string of abuses of power that I perceive in the nation's highest office. How can you in good faith continue to work for a man who says that I, your friend, do not possess the dignity or ability to choose my own partner? How can you support a president whose hypocrisy is so apparent? It seems to me that Mr. Bush did not mind the "activist judges" that put him in office, but when they start handing out civil rights, he cannot stand it.

When I was returning home from rehearsal tonight, I happened to look up at the Empire State Building and notice that its upper floors were awash in lavender light. That's what they do on gay pride day, and it made me very happy to see that whoever controls the lights up there is on our side. I hoped that the message of support those lights signify would carry much farther than the lights themselves.

I do not think this amendment will pass, though its mere proposal has so enraged me (and, I believe, millions of others) that I felt I had to write to you and let you know how angry we are. You are the only person I know in the administration, so I know that my occasional rages are dumped on you unfairly. For that, I apologize. I do hope that you are well and that you will come to believe as I and my friends do, that we should not allow our president to manipulate the feelings of Americans in this cruel, bigoted way.

With Love,
Kevin

Penfield High School graduate Philip Seymour Hoffman. That man cracked me up. Particularly the scene when he is giving all of the reasons why it will be beneficial to them to take the saw: "We can cut down trees, play music..." and then there is this little moment where he is in the background and you see him bound over to a tree and pretend to saw it. It was brilliant and my description doesn't do it justice. And when he compares pooping to the tribes of Israel fleeing from Egypt. He is so brilliant! I was very sad that his character was only in the film so briefly. But oh, well. Looking on his IMDB page, I see that he will be starring as Truman Capote in an upcoming film called Capote. Should be interesting...

After seeing Cold Mountain last night, I think that Carey's observation is right on. The movie really is classic, it takes so much from 19th century romantic novels. This point is made clear when Nicole Kidman's character is reading from Wuthering Heights to Renee Zellwegger's. And as someone who was impelled to read the both Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights many times over again, this film certainly pleased me. Not as graphically violent as people had warned me, but it nonetheless led me to conclude that there were a lot of bastards on Cold Mountain. I hated the Militia so much! Did people like that really exist? If a man has an open wound on his neck and is spitting up blood when he talks, how is it a crime that he goes home? It made me so mad that these horrible men that weren't even brave enough to fight (come on, they weren't that old) were riding around harassing people. And what is the difference between a dead deserter and a deserter? They aren't fighting either way.

But beyond the violence, let's talk about Anthony Minghella and his incredible incredible ability to evoke passion. On my Nerve profile, posted oh-so-long-ago, I sited that scene in The English Patient, when Ralph Fiennes pins Kristin Scott Thomas against the wall, as the love scene that turns me on. It does, it is so...hot. And the first kiss in Cold Mountain, between two frighteningly beautiful people--Nicole and Jude Law--was definitely in the same realm. But I was also really touched by the scene with Natalie Portman and Jude, when they are lying side-by-side in bed. It was so tender and simple. The love scene near the end was just so-so.

In fact, the whole ending was so-so. Thanks to the magic of foreshadowing (the well scene), we already knew what was going to happen. So the last half hour seemed like I was just waiting for the train wreck, but it was beautiful anyway. Loved the last kiss, as cliche Hollywood as it was.

But I am curious to hear what the word on this film was like south of the Mason-Dixon. It's pretty obviously biased (despite trying to balance it out with the one scene with the hunger-raged, woman-raping Union soldiers). All the southern men come across as stupid, war-mongering meanies. Or maybe they are not perceived that way in the South. I have no idea.

But all-in-all I think it was a well-made film. Very beautiful and an evening well-spent.

So, I have a lot of travel dreams and they always make me happy. I remember dreaming of sailing in a yacht on the Mediterranean toward Barcelona and seeing the sun setting on the Spanish coast...all brown and gold. Once, I was wandering through the brilliant greenness of Ireland with Carey. Since that one, I have been determined to go to Ireland one day (but only with Carey, that is a required condition). And last night I had a similar one. One that made me want to take action, that imagined a future where this might actually happen. In my dream, I was on the phone with Ms. Tubbs and we were discussing where we were going to meet in Sydney. We both had our tickets and were arriving within hours of each other. The tickets were really cheap, so we both had a million layovers in little crappy places, but we were psyched anyway. We talked about the month we were going to spend in Australia, diving at the Great Barrier Reef and driving a souped up old car through the outback photographing wildlife. In any case, waking up from this dream, I realized that I couldn't think of a better person to go to Australia with than Mollie. I have never really thought about wanting to go "down under", but now I can't wait for the day when we are both a little richer and a little freer and we can meet up there. It will rock!

It's Mardi Gras! Show me your titties! Ok, no, don't. Please. Stop.

Anyway, I was ready to get crazy at the Asian Dub Foundation/altermondialiste party with Carolin tonight, but alas she is really sick and I feel like someone whacked me in my sleep (I hurt all over!), so I will have to settle for going to see Cold Mountain. And I don't really mind this, as I am old now. I know, this sounds ridiculous, but really, there is a big difference between 20 and 24. I remember at age 20, my friend Julia and I had Phat Tuesday parties every Tuesday (which was usually wandering around Ithaca, using people for their weed and beer). But now, I can't even motivate myself for one night!

I think I like being older. I am finally growing into my brain. I just have to get used to the fact that a night of hardcore partying can, as Stéphane says, knock me down. But thinking farther ahead, I think I am going to make a kick ass old person. I am going to live on the beach somewhere beautiful (NOT FLORIDA) and my grandkids will laugh at my antiquated nose ring and ask me why anyone ever thought that was cool.

But back to Mardi Gras, can anyone tell me exactly what Ash Wednesday is? I know that it is the beginning of lent and I know that some people walk around like dorks with black stuff on their foreheads, but why??? What does this mean? Oh, how my deacon father and Sunday school teaching mother would be proud of me at this moment…

I'm watching an interview with Norah Jones and she does a duet with Dolly Parton on her new album. I know that many of you disagree with my opinion, but I love Dolly Parton. I think she is a great songwriter. I was just thinking how cool I think it is that Norah Jones totally kicked the asses of all the gyrating, oiled pop divas last year and here she goes collaborating with someone I adore. This is great. Now, tell me, who wants to take a road trip with me to DollyWood this summer?...Anyone? Ok, I pretty much thought I'd be alone on this one. Tennessee or bust!

You are very much missed.

Maybe it was the very inspiring visit I made to the cathedral at Chartres at the beginning of the month, or perhaps it is the desire to be the perfect tour guide for Carey and Bridget when they come to visit in June (woohoo!), but I have had this overwhelming desire to do touristy things in Paris lately. It's strange. I've spent about 9 months in Paris throughout my life and have probably seen less than a good tourist who spent 4 days here.

So today, reeling with enthusiasm after a really interesting lecture, I decided to tackle Notre Dame. (I still remember the first time I ever saw it. It was my first night in Paris and, slightly tipsy after some wine with Maya, I rounded a corner and exclaimed "Oh my god! What is that???" To which Maya replied, not quite able to believe that I didn't know, that it was Notre Dame, perhaps one of the most recognizable icons of Paris.) Anyway, this little anecdote pretty much sums up the extent to which I am lame as a tourist.

So, went to Notre Dame, was too much of a wuss to wait in line to climb the towers (it is really cold and windy today and the line was ridiculously long), but decided to use my Eyewitness Guide and go on a self-guided tour. Well, Notre-Dame is being renovated, so there was this huge white monstrosity right where the transept crosses the nave. I couldn't see either of the north or south rose windows very well and the chancel screen (all 14th century carvings that are really stunning) was partially obscured.

But nonetheless, I was determined to find beautiful photo opportunities. Except that I do not have the patience to be a good photographer. You have to stop and wait and set up the shot and work with the light (which in a gothic cathedral is always problematic). Other tourists are pressuring you to keep moving and frankly, I don't care enough to fight them. So, I took a few mediocre photographs of things I thought were cool: the memorial candles that are held on these circular racks that look like UFOs, illuminating Christ on the cross, an enormous incense burner that looks like a Burning Man sculpture, and Nicolas Coustou's Pietà. And I don't know if it is because I am dating a Jew (and according to Mel Gibson, he is responsible for Jesus' death, of course…) or because I partied a little too much this weekend or because I was thinking impure thoughts, but God struck! He knocked my camera from my hand and onto the really, really, really hard floor. In any case, you can't even see my middle-of-the-road pictures! The lens cap wasn't closing automatically anymore and the viewfinder is no longer working. I really hope this latter one is just a battery issue (my batteries were low) and not something mortal for my camera. I became very envious of the cute girl who was sketching next to where the incident took place. She helped me fix the lens cap and I told her that perhaps it was time I took up drawing…it is less risky!

In any case, I was not impressed with Notre Dame, but by no fault of the cathedral's. More due to my own weaknesses as a tourist.

I wasn't expecting last night's sushi soiree to be quite as wonderful as it was. But thanks to the expertise of TV chef George Duran, who made his way from Caracas to Paris by way of New Jersey, and the always warm ambiance of Joseph's super apartment, it was just fabulous. The sushi was by far the best I have had in Paris. The fish was so fresh it melted in your mouth and George's signature mixing of fruits (mandarine oranges and mangoes) with the normal sushi fare was oh-so-yummy. But beyond that the presentation was beautiful. So I have included a few photos. Of course, the night was certainly enhanced by the sake that Stephane, Carolin, and I picked up at a little Japanese market beforehand and by the special "gateau" that's effects lingered on until this morning. Of course, the car ride home felt a little like a video game, with people on scooters darting out in front of us and traffic circles that were just impenetrable. And man, the parallel parking...if only someone had been filming us. It was a very Austin Powers moment.

Got into bed and became entranced by a documentary on the life of Merce Cunningham. Although I only really met Merce a handful of times (when I was down at his studio digging around in the archives for film footage for an issue of NewMusicBox), I felt like I was watching a documentary about an old friend. Some of the footage they were showing in this documentary was just beautiful: John Cage tinkering fastidiously inside the piano, while Merce made his spine move in ways that were just not human. One thing he said stuck with me: that the way people walk is just as expressive and personal as the way they speak. Every movement we make in our daily lives is uniquely ours. I am on a very physical kick right now anyway, really trying to follow the patterns of my body and I think it will be neat to pay a little more attention to the way I move. Plus it is a fun game to play when you are waiting for the metro, to watch other people move.

So anyway, here are some pics from last nights rager. It was really dark so there weren't too many good shots.

Many thanks to Erratic Ninja who suggested the film Lost in Translation as a possible catharsis for my recent melancholy. In fact, I saw this film when it came out in France a month or so ago and you are right, Erratic Ninja: it is indeed of cathartic value. I am waiting impatiently to get my hands on the DVD, which I know already came out in the US, but has yet to here. This stunningly beautiful film makes me want to see it over and over again. Not only does it feature Bill Murray, one of my all time favorite comedians, in a role that garnered him an Oscar nomination (and hopefully a win), and an elegant performance by the supercool Scarlett Johansson (who I was turned on to by Ghost World), but it also features Tokyo, a city that I never imagined to be so beautiful. Those scenes when Scarlett is sitting in the window with the city spread out below her are just breathtaking. And the script! My gosh, what a talent to behold in Sofia Coppola. In any case, I can't elaborate too much as one time simply isn't enough to truly grasp this film. But I am going to go out on a limb and say that this movie merits a place on the very small list of films that have touched me in such a personal way that I will never tire of them. So, wanna know what the other ones are?

Ok, here they are:

Ghostbusters
The Goonies
West Side Story
Annie Hall
Muppets From Space
The Philadelphia Story
Hedwig and the Angry Inch
Lost in Translation

It is a short list, with an obvious preference for music and comedy. This is not to say that I don't appreciate the heavier brand of cinema, it's just that I really like to laugh and to sing and that is who I am. Yeah, I get depressed too, but I don't like it! And I really have distaste for movies that feature rape, domestic violence, or graphic beatings as plot thickeners, which unfortunately eliminates A LOT of movies that are being created these days. Give me the Truffle Shuffle or give me death!

PS-And as for the subject line, my first job ever was at Blockbuster and were it 7 years ago, this is what you would see under my employee picks!

I would like to send my sincerest birthday wishes to "my first friend in kindergarten" and Pisces extraordinaire, Carey!!! Here's to 20 years of friendship baby! I hope you have a fabulous day and know that I am there in spirit...but not in a creepy way.

I loves you and I misses you too.

I love chocolate. This is probably no secret to any of you. Some of you might recall the massive outing I planned to the Chocolate Show last year, which like many of my outings, ended up with a lot of drunk people wandering around the streets of New York. Most recently I demolished the box of chocolates that my mom sent to me for Valentine's Day in just 3 days. But as appeared in The New York Times yesterday, "That Valentine's box of delectable chocolates that made your heart sing last weekend also might — if it is the right type — help make it tick better and longer, scientists gathered last week in Washington said." (Read the article).

Woohoo! It's not just for breakfast anymore!

Article about a Frenchman who ate $650 worth of coins brought to my attention by Carey.

http://www.cnn.com/2004/HEALTH/02/18/coin.eater.ap/index.html

So, today seemed like a good day to make a mental list of some of the little things that make me happy. Here is a sampling. (Of course, lots of negative thoughts kept pushing there way in, but eventually the happy ones won out.)

The smell of French bakeries...The color of the winter sun...My bed...The excitement I feel when the lights go down at the movies...Pepe the King Prawn...Harry Potter...Singing while I do the dishes...Hookahs...Pub crawls...Baseball games...Planning trips...The Tonight Quintet from West Side Story...Chocolate...Happy thoughts...Stéphane's ISIC card photo...happy thoughts...tequila...I'm flying, I'm flying...massages...triangle pose in yoga...the thought of having a cat that I will name Sir Mick Jagger...I'm flying!

But so that I don't come down and can continue flying, if anyone has a good catharsis (West Side Story, Muppets From Space, and Harry Potter have been overused in this capacity), I would love to hear them. I will take TJ's Kundera suggestion! Muchas gracias.

So, some of you may have had the good fortune to catch my post titled "The Quarter-Life Crisis is Upon Me," a long, somewhat depressing account of the big shift going on in my perception of self. But after a few hours of reflection, I decided that those thoughts are too personal to post to a public blog. A girl has to retain some kind of mystery about her! In any case, here is a brief, enigmatic summary of that post: I have been struck over the past week or so by overwhelming spells of sadness, that disappear as quickly as they come. Sometimes they are brought on by dreams, sometimes by things I witness in my daily life, and sometimes for no reason at all. In any case, it is disconcerting. I thought I had my emotions under control, but something weird is going on. I will call it Puberty #2, because it kind of sucks like that. But this time, at least, I know it will pass. If anyone can identify with this or offer me any advice, I'd be interested in hearing it.

Ok, so I just saw a segment on EuroNews about Bon Jovi's new live, unplugged DVD. Do we really need to hear and see Jon Bon Jovi trying his hand at jazz standards? And should "Living on a Prayer" really be sung in such a manner that we are forced to pay attention to the "poetry" of the lyric. And this brings me to a bigger question, should "Living on a Prayer" even be listened to at all unless you are really, really drunk? Chew on that one!

The concert I have had marked on my calendar for over a month is sold out and I don't have tickets. I am not going to blame anyone, but I want to!!! Oh, well. I guess it'll be a normal Thursday night at home this week, listening to Blonde Redhead CDs and crying into my beer.

Victor Hugo speaks at length about "l'abîme," literally the precipice, or the infinite unknown. It is nothing and everything and only reveals its secrets to a few worthy prophets. Of course, in the discourse of Hugo, he and all other "qualified poets" are the prophets, responsible for communicating its offerings to the rest of humanity in order to help guide us on a path to a brighter future.

Yeah, I know it is lofty stuff, and the idea of a bottomless hole separating here from there was kind of nullified when Nietzche killed God, but this hasn't stopped poets from, as Kerouac wrote, "contemplating the void." While the infinite something of the precipice was replaced by the infinite nothingness of the void, replacing an external search for truth with an internal one, there still seems to be this fascination with living on the edge, with being close to this mystery. As I am incapable of conceiving of a constantly expanding universe or the idea behind "forever," I have always envisioned this tableau of whiteness into which the universe grows. I had a recurring dream when I was little that I was standing on the edge of it. The whiteness counteracted the darkness of the universe (which in my child's mind was made entirely of celestial bodies). I could not and still can not comprehend infinity.

I think this is why I feel calmest next to a body of water. I remember spending a sunny afternoon at the Parc de la Ciutadella in Barcelona, sitting next to the little man-made lake smoking cigarettes and writing and noticing that, no matter how beautiful the rest of the park, almost everyone had congregated next to this little lake. It was at this point that I made note of the natural phenomenon that draws people to water. But it is the frontier, not the element that interests me. Yes, there are some among us who find the sounds and feel of water calming, but for me I realized that the comfort lies within the ability to situate myself when I am near a waterfront. I am on one side, not the other. I exist on land, not in water, in one reality and not the other.

Victor Hugo, during his exile on the island of Jersey, also equated the shoreline with the edge of reality, the border between the known and the unknown. It was here, waiting for it to be safe for him to return to France, waiting for revelations, that he composed the second part of one of his best known collections of poetry, Les Contemplations. So in other words, he was just "sittin' on the dock of the Bay, wastin' time" while the Second Empire played itself out.

And as much as I have always loved Victor Hugo, I think I have to identify more with Mr. Redding on this one. Maybe it is because I am a nostalgic American who can't get enough of the oldies station, or maybe it is because I am not one of the great poets of the world who are given special treatment by the muses, but the idea of sittin' on the dock of the Bay, watchin' the tide roll away, seems much more appealing than being airlifted to the top of a megalithic structure by a holy ghost who wants to lecture me on the ways of nature. Hugo expected to be approached by supernatural forces who would reveal there secrets. Redding didn't expect anything from the world, "Look like nothing's gonna change. Ev'rything still remains the same. I can't do what ten people tell me to do, so I guess I'll remain the same, yes." And although the approaches and conclusions diverge, both men found their way through roaming and wondering.

Me, I don't want to know the path to a better future like Hugo. I am content just watching the ships roll in and away again. There is nothing more beautiful than the present. And it is for this reason that coming 5000 miles, from my oh-so-comfortably suffocating life to one that is definitely lonelier, scarier, and more satisfying, was the only path to be taken. So here I am, sittin' on the banks of the Seine, wastin' time.

Perhaps it is because I have a little cold, but for the past few days I have really been feeling as though everytime I go outside in this city, I am being suffocated by a blanket of pollution. Although everytime I returned to New York, it appeared to me as the Emerald City trapped in a bubble of haze, once inside the city I was normally unfazed by the air quality (unless of course it was 100 degrees out and I was stuck on the corner of 6th Avenue with a line of busses puffing in my face.) But here, the air has been really heavy. Even at the pool today, I felt like the sauna must have been turned into a smoking lounge because there was this putrid smell circulating at one end of the pool. Maybe I just notice is more here because you don't expect a place that is so visually beautiful and dainty to be envelopped in a cloud of poison. But in any case, hopefully a nice wind will come in and blow this heavy air out soon.

That is all I am going to write today, as I have to go and do my HOMEWORK!!! Today is the first day that I have had to work at home. I feel like I am 15 again: working in front of the television, trying to balance Victor Hugo with a stupid French comedy where the 3 Wise Men have suddenly ended up in modern-day Paris. And as I am having high school flashbacks, I will end with a mid-90s expression: I'm outtie!

I think my upbringing has taught me to think of Valentine's Day not as a day to celebrate romance and lovers, but a day simply to show my love for others. My family always gave each other Valentine's gifts and I would always come to school on February 14 with an armload of homemade Valentines for everyone in my class (even the one poor boy that we referred to as the "Supersonic Fart Machine" and the kid who will always be remembered for shaving his eyebrows off). In high school, my partner-in-crime Sara and I distributed our own X-rated conversation hearts. I remember our government teacher picking out one that said "Bend Over" on it. Oops! Last year I spent VD at my beloved Union Square Wines* for a champagne tasting with Stéphane and a couple of girlfriends. But this year takes the cake for originality.

Although in many respects, a brief overview of the evening makes it seem the most traditional of all Valentine's Days (dinner and a movie with my boyfriend), each of these tasks was carried out with a twist. First of all, other than having the word "rouge" in the title, the movie was not quite what you would call a romance. In fact it was a documentary titled "S-21: La Machine de mort Khmere Rouge" and it dealt with the genocide that killed about ¼ of the entire Cambodian population under the regime of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge between 1975 and 1979. How's that for love?

No matter how much survivors speak of these events, it will never be clear as to how 2 million people died. One of the guards, explaining how he was able to kill so many people—including children—was to think of them as animals, as beasts, as less than human. But when one human comes to regard others as less than human, then they, too, cease to be human. Through this film I finally understood the nuance of the term "crime against humanity." When such a heinous crime as genocide takes place, it is not only those put to death that are victims. We all are. The dehumanization of even one person, strips all of us of our human qualities, whether or not we are even aware that it is happening. It is also for this reason, that by loving and elevating those close to us in our lives on Valentine's Day and every other day of the year, we are, in a small way, restoring the greatest in humanity.

Valentine's Day has never held much stock for me. I don't like being forced to be all lovey-dovey. As Stéphane pointed out, we live together. There is no shortage of romantic moments in our everyday lives. So seeing this film and discovering an incredible (and cheap) hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant** made for one of my favorite Valentine's Days so far.

*Union Square Wines: Union Square West bet. 15th and 16th Sts.
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**Vy Da: 15, Boulevard de Port-Royal, Paris 13e
I highly recommend the roulades de riz au boeuf à la vapeur and canard aux ananas. They also have fresh-squeezed lemonade (citron pressé) that is better than just about any I've ever had.

Today was a melancholy day. My brain is a bit depressed, so I am afraid I don't have much to recount and I haven't had the mental energy to really move too deeply into my thoughts and emotions. All I know is that I felt off today...lonely and anxious. A little waiting for Godot-ish.

Do you ever have dreams that are so vivid and difficult that you wake up crying? Dreams that you never forget? Dreams that make you realize how little of this world we are really capable of understanding? I do. Perhaps this is why I was so exhausted today. In any case, dream fatigue doesn't usually last too long, so I should be back in the saddle soon.

Ok, what can I say? Blueberry, Jan Kounan's film based on Jean Giraud and Jean-Michel Charlier's western comic book series, is candy for mind-expanders, attempting to be in the same class as 2001: Space Odyssey. I have to say that I enjoyed this movie, but perhaps thanks only to our friend Joseph who helped to enhance the experience by thoroughly preparing us for the psychedelic nature of the film before hand…

The movie is a true Western, complete with whores, shoot outs, scalpings, and wide angle sweeping desert landscapes. Music is a lot of rattle snake imitations and much more foreboding than the expansive, heroic melodies of earlier Westerns. The last half hour, in which hero Mike Blueberry downs some of the Chihacua's secret power potion (yeah…the portrayal of indigenous Americans seem to have gone from murderous savages to original stoners), is basically a really fancy way to make people go, "Whoa man, that's crrrrazy!" But the incredibly expensive, Matrix-like graphics are not as beautiful as the landscape shots that mark the beginning of the film and the movie seems to go on a little bit too long. And the gratuitous close-up of a smiling grandmother hitting the pipe was just too much! Stéphane, a bigger comic book nerd than me for sure, was also disappointed by the mish-mashing and altering of the original material. But on a positive note, Eddie Izzard playing Prussian plunderer in search of the secret power, Prosit, made me giggle every time he came on screen. It was his accent! It just got to me! But all-in-all, I do not ever need to see this film again.

A friend of mine once observed that it seems that the cinema was created to take advantage of stoners—stationary visual and audio stimulation and munchies that are super overpriced. I think that the existence of a film like Blueberry proves her point.

Today was a day for me to practice the anti-anxiety exercises that I am reading in this book called Guérir le stress, l'anxiete et la depression sans medicaments ni psychanalyse (Curing stress, anxiety and depression without medication or psychoanalysis, in case you couldn't decipher that one.) With a title that makes such lofty promises, it's no wonder that the book was a bestseller in France last year and seduced me quickly. In it, psychiatrist David Servan-Schreiber teaches a method he calls cardiac coherence, which involves learning how to regulate your heartbeat patterns to reduce the physical impact of stress and other emotional traumas. Basically, it is a lot of breathing deeply and thinking happy thoughts, explained through highly technical language. Today I decided to stop reading and put this method into action.

Test 1: The pool

Water forced up my nose by overly splashy swimmers, kickboards thrown at my head by maniacal children, zigzagging old men who often backstroke right into me, housewives who hang out in the middle of my lane having conversations more suited to cafés, swerving around couples making out against the wall, men in Speedos that keep "accidentally" brushing against me. This is what I am up against at the municipal pool on a crowded day. Normally I let out at least a few grumbles of disgust, shoot a few evil looks, and occasionally happen to kick a little too hard, splashing (or, in extreme situations, kicking) oafish obstacles. Today I was a better citizen, thanks to cardiac coherence! Of course without all of that nervous energy I tired out a little earlier than normal, but I was impressed with my patience!

Test 2: The metro

Public transit—as much as I love freedom from the chains of car ownership—has always been a major cause of stress for me. I am a little claustrophobic and really don't like touching strangers (or worse, having them touch me.) Today, I became determined to shrug off the eat or be eaten attitude that I picked up in NYC (which involved intricate plans to steal a seat from slower moving commuters and violently fighting against the male wide-leg syndrome.) Not anymore. I want to be nice again. This world doesn't need any more assholes. And even if it keeps me from "getting ahead," in this world, I would rather get one smile from someone than a dozen looks of disgust. I don't know if I actually was able to control the rhythm of my heart or not, but I did get a smile and a "Merci!" from a girl who I made room for in an overcrowded car, so whatever I was doing seemed to work. I so desperately want to shed my uptight disposition for a cool one! Someday…somehow…

****

Other than that little experiment, my camarades de classe and I found a great tea house (or Salon de Thé Littéraire if you want to be fancy) next to one of the buildings where we have class. It is called the Le Fourmi Ailée (8, rue du Fouarre, Paris 5e). We have already decided to become regulars there. But now I must run. We are going to the cinema to see Blueberry, which opened here yesterday. I will let you know what I think tomorrow! Stay tuned…

So, I finally finished watching the entire first season of Smallville, which was given to me as a Christmas present. I had first seen the show last year and was attracted most by its color. Everything is so bright and clear, really preserving the comic book feel. But as I am clinically unable to commit to any weekly television show or event—I don't like to submit my leisure time to a routine—I was psyched to see that the first season of Smallville had been released on DVD. And wow! What a fantastic show.

For those that don't know the concept, basically the show traces the high school years of Clark Kent (aka Superman) in Smallville, Kansas. While puberty is rough for everyone, the changes Clark goes through are a bit more intense. Hair in your armpits is disturbing enough, but try having X-ray vision! It has just the right mix of kitsch, action, and fantasy for me. I love the intoxicating flower episode that makes everyone act out their wildest fantasies, or the girl on the kryptonite shake diet who turns into a human fat-sucker. The changeling who can take on the form of anyone she wants, kryptonite tattoos that give former jocks the ability to walk through walls. Ok, the incessant moralizing of Clark's father, Jonathan, and the awkward love triangle dialogue between Clark, Lana, and Chloe gives me the cheesy chills, but one shot of Lex Luthor, who while Superman's archnemesis is actually Clark's good friend in Smallville, and all is forgiven.

If there are any other Smallville fans out there, the site http://www.smallville.net is pretty neat. You can read the Ledger and the Torch to find out what's going on in Smallville, you can see what job opportunities are available at Luthor Corp or Lex Corp, and you can take a tour of the town. And if you are keeping up with season 3, I'd love an update on what's going on. The last thing I saw was a battle in Metropolis between Jonathan and Clark, when Jonathan was granted superpowers from Clark's biological parents…

To wrap up, I have decided that if it were possible, I would leave Paris at the drop of a hat and go work for the Smallville Ledger. Anyone want to join me for a slice of Mrs. Kent's organic apple pie and a cup of kryptonite tea at the Talon???

Stéphane, like many French people, is disgusted by peanut butter. I can understand not eating peanut butter because it is so awful for you, but to despise it? I've seen people here eat jellied veal hoof, foie gras—made by force-feeding geese until their livers explode, these huge blobs that are the equivalent of fish hot dogs, cow face, fish egg spread on toast, and the marrow out of animal bones, but peanut butter and root beer are the enemy? Hmmm. I guess I will never be fully integrated into this culture, no matter how much I wish I could be. If anyone that is coming to visit from the States wants to bring me something, make it a jar of Peter Pan, some Reese's Pieces, and an IBC.

My grammar class started today and as grammar is definitely my Achilles' heel when it comes to French, I was a little heavy-hearted on my way to La Sorbonne. But as it turns out the professor is a very fun woman who laughs a lot (particularly when we mispronounce words and end up saying "a fucked head" instead of "lowered head" or "a stretched ass" instead of "a stretched neck") and really made an effort to get to know all of us (a phenomenon I have never experienced during my studies in France.) We all had to have a mini-interview with her as she interjected grammar corrections along the way.

The class is super diverse, making us look a little bit like the United Colours of Benetton: A German former jeune fille au pair with journalistic dreams, a Brazilian psychologist who just moved to Paris after two years spent skiing in Chamonix, a Russian who teaches English and French back in her hometown in Siberia (I think this is the coolest…), a gaggle of Canadian teachers, an American grad student with a predilection for James Joyce, a Turkish girl with a very pretty name, two Japanese students who smile a lot, an American exchange student who looks a little bit like Faruza Balk, a Moldavian (I have to check my atlas for that one), and a bunch of others who I am sure I will be come close to over the next 4 months. (I am after all spending nearly 20 hours a week with these people.)

There is so much more than French to be learned. So much about other cultures and subjects. I am like a kid in a candy store! I left class at dusk and walked across the Seine, head-over-heels again for Paris. Then my overcrowded bus arrived and, smashed between a baby carriage and a backpack, with an elbow lodged in my back, I fell out of love again. But those 20 minutes between leaving school and getting onto public transit were worth it.

Last week, the weather here was absolutely superb. 65 degrees and sunny. I immediately came out of my mild, gray weather depression and trekked down to the Lac Dausmesnil in the Bois de Vincennes. I had heard there was a Buddhist Temple down there and I wanted to check it out. I had often seen monks wandering through the woods during my daily autumn hikes and thought I would pay them a visit. And although the temple of beautiful and the sounds coming from it (intricate patterns of drumming and chanting) were inspiring, what really struck me about the excursion was the number of people who were walking arm-in-arm around the lake, making out on the lawn, reading on a bench, feeding the ducks and peacocks, etc. For a Sunday this would be normal, but at 3 PM on a Thursday, I was a bit surprised. Of course many of these people were retired and there were certainly some tourists. The young people were probably part of the 9 percent of the population who is unemployed. But at this moment it didn't seem so bad to be unemployed. It costs nothing to sit on a log, listen to the sounds of the temple, and watch the ducks.

As I explored all the nooks and crannies of the lake, I began to think how lucky I am to have the means to be able to experience life without the grind of a 9-to-5. I am always going the wrong way on the metro and there is never a crowd. If it is a beautiful day, I am going to profit from it. And when I get an idea, I don't have to put it off until I have more time to develop it. It has also allowed me to play Sim City a lot. :) And as I watched the happy faces around the woods, I thought, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Americans were forced to take a sabbatical every once in a while. To have the guilt-free time to really get to know themselves and pursue things that may not be immediately lucrative. I decided that in my Sim City, where I create the city and am responsible for all decisions affecting it, I will have mandatory sabbaticals. I don't know how often. Maybe 6 months every 5 years, or a year every decade, with a small stipend to live on. I don't want to consider the economics of it, because that takes the fun out of a fantasy. But what would you do if you had to take a year off? Where would you go? What would you look for?

When I first arrived in France in 2000 and came down with a freak case of mono, I picked out a dog-eared copy of Bertrand Russell's In Praise of Idleness. It seemed like a good read for someone facing at least a month of forced rest. Russell argues that the greatest discoveries and thoughts generally arise from leisure time and were the average person allowed to spend less time clocking in hours at a job, perhaps we would discover a great deal more about our world. The protestant work ethic of the United States guilts people into working, saying that working hard is a virtue. But is it the hours we spend in an office or a factory that we're going to cherish most at the end of our lives?

I understand that idleness is the bane of some of my more fiscally-minded friends and friends who have families to take care of, but I have to say that I appreciate life a lot more with less money and more time than I did with the inverse. So I ask you all, what would you do first, if you had nothing to do?

Did anyone else have to do the Presidential Physical Fitness test in high school? All kinds of circus acts like hanging from bars and chasing after erasers and then being ranked against other kids your age. I always thanked God at this time of the year that I wasn't born with a Y chromosome, because the guys actually gave a damn about it, as if the President himself was going to descend on Penfield, NY, just to congratulate them on having an above average ability to do sit-ups. My hero was a girl who, referring to the Mile Run, said, "I guess it's time to walk the mile."

In any case, that statement of apathy and mild irritation kind of summed up my attitude toward exercise for many years. But after a year of being ravaged by the evils of Depo Provera^® and the pleasures of Johny's lunch counter,* I have modified this position. I started running in September and just when I was beginning to get good at it and experience that "Runner's High", I became lame. Don't know how, but I did. Some of you may have seen me limping all over NYC during the holidays. So, just as I was about to refer to another fitness mantra that I learned from a high school comrade ("Why run to get high? Just do drugs."), Stéphane took me to the municipal pool down the street. Wow! Swimming rocks! I don’t hurt afterward and I am becoming huge like the Governor of California. (This makes Stéphane happy because if I am Arnold, he gets to be Maria Shriver and as he told me the other day, "I've always wanted to be a Kennedy!")

Walking home from the pool yesterday, stringy chlorinated hair slapped into a messy pony tail, oversized sweatshirt making me look like a giant meatloaf, white winter sun bringing out every imperfection on my ruddy face (complete with marks on my forehead from my swim cap), I got a glimpse of myself in a store front window and shuddered. Ew. I do these things to make me feel better but man, it ain't doing much for my looks. But then it hit me. Since life is really just a series of contradictions, this hour of heinousness has to be repaid by an hour of radiant beauty, right? So I think, it is this ugliness that, through the power of contrast, can make me look great at another time in the day or week. And so I embrace my homeliness, march smiling into the newsstand to get a magazine, and don't even take it personally when the man behind the counter, who would normally be a flirter, treats me with indifference.

*Johny's, where you can get the best chicken sandwiches in the world, is located on W. 25th Street between 6th and 7th Avenues on the downtown side of the street in Manhattan. Oh, and ladies, Johny is really cute.