Coming back to Paris after a debaucherous NYC weekend can often be a real downer. Not only are you jet-lagged and liver-lagged, but faced with the dark French attitude toward life, the return of daily annoyances, and often a gray drizzle. But not this time my friends. Today is the first day of spring. Am I a bit daring to make such a bold statement? Perhaps. Or at least I would be if this were western New York, where there are many trick first days of spring and winter is never totally gone until mid-May. But here, spring is a sensorial explosion that is difficult to suppress once it starts. The little buds that I noticed when I was heading to the airport last week have pushed out their first yellow-green leaves. Our garden must have instituted an affirmative action program, because the bird species are diversifying rapidly, the aural entropy multiplying exponentially. Floral fragrances precede the visual birth of the blooms and transform the smell of cigarettes from that of a stale carcinogen staining the lobbies of buildings and swirling around bistrots to a sign of enthusiastic Parisians moving out from behind close doors onto the sidewalks to witness the arrival of Paris's most famous season. The white, drab buildings are transformed into golden edifices that remind you that it is time to fall back in love. I choose the sun itself as my lover, streaming through my window and warming my whole body.

Remember that recent post where I said I forgot how to feel? It doesn't have anything to do with age. it is the weather. Every year I forget. Be sure to celebrate pagan-style on Sunday.

I finally saw Finding Neverland on the plane and I have to say that of all the best picture nominees, this was the one that gave me the most personal enjoyment. Was it because it was about a man that pretty much shares my values of imagination, child-like wonder, and a refusal to fit into the restrictions of society? Is it because this man is played by my boyfriend, Johnny Depp (sorry Vanessa, I'll make sure that he still sees the children)? Is it because the all you can drink Bloody Marys from brunch made me particularly susceptible to the emotional impact of death by consumption? Who knows. I just know that I truly enjoyed it.

Also of note, on the way to NYC I caught Lemony Snicket and, despite mediocre reviews from friends, I found it to be very, very fun. Very much like Roald Dahl's stuff, child-like magical realism with an incredibly dark side. Speaking of Roald Dahl and Johnny Depp, Tim Burton's new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory looks super. Oh, will I ever grow up?

I just got back from New York and find myself happily faced with an iPod shuffle and a $40 iTunes gift certificate. I am working on uploading all of the albums I own (I am in a major CD buying phase after an 8 year hiatus). Here's what I need from you : 40 songs that you think are worth buying from iTunes. This means a song that makes you (you personally and hopefully me) want to listen over and over again. Make me hip. Make me smile. Make me dance. Make me cry. Make me sing. Make me get in the mood for love.

I will take album suggestions as well. Many thanks in advance.

That famous East Village landmark, the Astor Place cube, has gone missing. Some goofy local residents offer their theories on its disappearance in this Village Voice article. I particularly like the dude who suggests that we call the Ghostbusters.

But still, it makes me sad that this strange little piece of urban folklore has been spun at all. First it was the Landmark Tavern and now this. Times and fashions may change, but underneath the Astor Place cube, it was '90s skaters forever.

The older I get, the more I think and the less I feel. I am rarely inexplicably happy. I convince myself that I'm happy, going over a mental checklist of things in my life that are worth being happy over...my boyfriend, my apartment, my cat, the incredible opportunities that have been offered to me, the support I get from great friends, the future, a good meal, cake, massages. Likewise, I am usually rather ambivalent to the harder side of life...sadness, depression, jealousy, anger. I really have to think about all that is wrong to feel these ways. Watching world events unfold I feel bewildered more than anything, as if I can't have an emotional reaction until I have considered all sides of the story. I feel ashamed of unexplained emotional outbursts. The irrational having taken on such a bad reputation.

Is this strange emotional flatness a natural consequence of growing older? Is it because being immerged in a foreign culture, my intuition has been shot to hell and I don't trust it anymore? Is it the remnants of post-9/11 shock? Is it existential ennui, the ghosts of Sartre and Beckett haunting the cafes I frequent? Self-denial and destruction egged on by Jim Morrison's bad influence, risen from his Pere Lachaise grave, only a kilometer from my house and singing to me over the phone lines? Am I doomed to spend the rest of my life balanced on emotional apathy? Are they putting Prozac in the water?