My life is so full of firsts. Today's? A two-champagne lunch. This job just gets better and better. Ok. I am not being totally honest with you. There is a lot of crap. A lot of boring, technical work. A sense of not being included or trusted. A reprimand here and there for doing stupid things. But after two glasses of champagne and some cake, who cares?

For the first time since I left my parents' house my home smells like me. I first sensed it when I was walking down the hall toward the bedrooms. It was so powerful. It wasn't laundry detergent or perfume or sweat or shampoo. It smells like nothing else in the world, and perhaps I am the only one that recognizes it as me. My parents' house smelled like cigarettes, dog, and meatloaf, but my room was different.

I realize that I have in fact lived in this apartment for nearly one full year (our apt anniversary will be in 2 weeks). This is the longest I have lived in one abode since leaving the folks on Coniston Drive, back in 1997 when I was a 18. I don't know whether to run or rejoice. But it is such a lovely smell...

It is summer! It is hot! Paris is singing on every corner (it is the annual Fete de la Musique). String quartets were camping under the Louvre's arcades. Choruses were rockin' the Musee d'Orsay (where I went for lunch). My neighborhood is a veritable cacophony of minimalist techno, Frank Zappa cover bands, and accordions. It's like a DJ playing his whole record collection at once.

So what the hell am I doing blogging?

Tomorrow, at my place of work, I will be hiding behind busts with my binocular spy glasses in order to spot Forrest, Amelie, Leon, and Richie, aka Tom Hanks, Audrey Tautou, Jean Reno, and Ron Howard. They are filming the Grand Gallery scene for The Da Vinci Code tomorrow. I doubt that my otherwise all-powerful badge will get me onto the set (they are filming at night) and unfortunately, in this scene, there is no real need for extras, but I still am as excited as a Mandounette at a tequila tasting.

For our friend's birthday party in the country, we had to buy a tent. So we went to Decathlon and invested in the super hi-tech, megahip tent that you can pitch in two seconds...which is not a reference to how quickly AssRay gets aroused.

I got a bicycle this weekend! It has only broken once since. I now have sunburned arms and an aching crotch. Hey, I tell it like it is. I am the only dork in Paris who wears a bike helmet, but considering I was nearly run over by a bus on the quai, trampled by a clone army of Vespas at Place de la Republique, and close-lined by an old lady at Bastille, I will sacrifice my free-flowing locks and pride for the helmet. The weekend rides from the store to my house and to Breakfast in America for pancakes on Sunday morning were excellent, complete with bike path through the outdoor sculpture garden near the Jardin des Plantes. Even getting to work today was quite pleasant. But in the 90-degree humidity trapped behind a bus and a motorcycle, seeing the sweat drip down my grayed skin, I began to wonder if the metro is so bad. At least on the metro you aren't breathing in carcinogenic and birth-defect causing agents for a half hour straight. It seriously pisses me off that the economy of the world and all the bullshit politics of my homeland come down to something that causes such unpleasant urban biking.

Bonus points to those who can identify the origin of the title of this post.

So, I have been chosen as the offical English voice for Louvre multimedia materials. Tomorrow I am recording a CD-ROM that will be given to journalists at the site launch next week. I'll let you know if I do anything that is downloadable. Then you can all sample me!

Monday: I spent the morning with my "boss" (and neighbor ironically, I caught her at the Turkish sandwich place on the corner last weekend) going over the admin site set-up. With 30,000 works and a staff of 2,000 people, you can imagine that the information contained on the site is a bit overwhelming. But thanks to my training with Mr. Oteri at NewMusicBox, I have learned how to deal with excessive information and within an hour I was flying. Attended my first staff meeting, which was fascinating (we're hosting a press conference next week in the Mona Lisa room apparently). Oh, and there was a big bowl of chocolate in the middle of the conference table. I love my department already! Got my badge, which gives me access to all of the national museums in France as well as mad discounts at just about every cultural event in the city. Had my first free lunch at the cantine, which is very different from American cafeterias. No chicken nuggets or fiestadas here. Instead, you get a 4 course meal. And the dessert selection is dangerous. I will probably go there most days, as it is free, but I will also have to profit from being right near the little Japanese neighborhood as well.

Tuesday: The freelance correction team was in, so we continued work on the Louvre.fr style guide. The lead correcter is a major comma freak and it drives me nuts. I am for the parsimonious use of the comma.

Wednesday: More correcting. So many errors. My errors database was exploding with missing serial commas, hyphenated compound words, and inaccurate translations. I was beginning to wonder if this job is going to be 4 months of total, insanity-causing boredom. I was starting to despair.

Thursday: My boss was in a meeting all afternoon, so I was putin charge of the team (like when the teacher leaves the classroom...). It was much cooler than my two days of death by copyediting. I got to do a lot of things: give assignments, contact other departments, fix computer bugs, translate some stuff, and answer questions. The boss was thrilled that I was able to take over so easily. I think it will help her to feel more comfortable taking a vacation this summer. I felt a lot better when I left, knowing that I will be given a bit more responsibility next week.

That's all. Even when it is boring, I am awestruck by my surroundings. To be able to go to work in a building that millions of people feel inspired to photograph is quite amazing. I am a lucky one.

Most quotable quote since "Girls only like guys who have great skills."

From A Dirty Shame. Thank you John Waters, Johnny Knoxville, and Tracey Ullman for this one.

Hear it in the trailer: adirtyshame.com

And for the record, I got a concussion when I was five years old when my sled hit a tree at Ellison Park...

For some reason, I am not able to really connect to my life right now. I manage to witness events and then I store them away in order without actually processing them. Maybe it is the massive quantities of copyediting that I am doing at the Louvre, the psychological scars of yet another academic year, or some kind of strange rhubarb side effect, but I am beginning to understand a bit better what it must be like to not be self-centered.

But, don't worry. I am incurably self-centered, so I will keep blogging.

Last night, I witnessed a mind-blowing film: Monte Hellman's Two-lane Blacktop starring James Taylor and Dennis Wilson (that's right, Brian's brother, Wendy and Carnie's uncle, and Charles Manson's landlord). Hyped as one of the greatest road movies of all time, it captured a kind of romantic Blue Highways era, a time that, while in the 70s, was actually an ellipse to the 60s. In Arkansas, a blond pretty-boy drag race challenger asks, "You ain't hippies, are ya?" Then proceeds to call Tennessee a "piss poor state."

While, watching the movie, three thoughts continually passed through my mind. 1/ When this movie was released, my mother was my age. 2/ Dennis Wilson was beautiful. 3/ Ste and I have to rent a car and road trip it when we go to the states in November. Oh, and a fourth idea, James Taylor has a near unibrow. Don't you think Joni could have encourage him to wax or at least pluck?

A pleasing evening, the film's impact wore off quickly and Ste and I went to bed. Then the dreams came.

Me: I'll race ya for papers.
Hiro (my good friend who is responsible for the new site feed link): Where to?
Me: Heather O'Buck's house. (another friend, lives in New Orleans)
Hiro: Where's that?
Me: Finding out is part of the challenge.

I get into the car with Stephane and Sara (yet another friend). Hiro takes off with his crew.

Now, I am no guy or even tomboy, so I can't tell you what kind of car I was driving. All I remember was the blur of green and gray and the vision of O'Buck's smiling face when we arrived at her screen door, honored that we chose her place as the road race destination. I know she'll give us a good victory party.

Nowadays, I go to an outdoor market to buy all of my fruits, veggies, meats, tapenades, cheeses, etc., at least once a week and I am convinced of the superiority of this system. Last week, while I was poking and prodding avocados, I spotted, just beyond the bin of cherries, that elegant, magenta wonder: rhubarb. I dropped the avocados, which were all way too soft for my needs, and rushed over to scoop up an armful of stalks, my tongue tingling with rhubarbian memories : jam and Roquefort on bread last summer in Aveyron, my mother's pie, made every summer when the Waterstreets (our next-door neighbors) harvested their rhubarb crop. Rhubarb crumble, rhubarb tarts. I was going to make it all!

That is, until, I had the ultimate in rhubarb desserts last Friday. Now, normally, I don't use this blog to write about my deep dessert passion, which pretty much is the basis of my eternal optimism. But it is now nearly 72 hours later and I am still smiling, thanks to this dessert.

The restaurant was Les Artistes, 48 rue de la Folie-Mericourt. Owned by a very cute gay couple, the menu changes every day based on what they find that day at the market. That night, I had eaten stuffed eggplant and Stephane dared to try the mountain goat, which was really pretty delicious. The table next to us, having arrived an hour earlier, nearly emptied out the rhubarb tart that was on offer, but left one piece when I expressed my undying love of rhubarb. They were all so awed by this rhubarb tart, that they actually stuck around to see my reaction when I tasted it. To be more precise, it was a rhubarb-chestnut cream tart. I cannot even explain the divinity of this creation. I now look at the shelf of rhubarb in my fridge and feel shamed, knowing that anything I make will never make rhubarb as beautiful as this tart did. I have reached rhubarb nirvana and there is no going back.

I had my last class today, graphic design. I handed in my project, filled with pictures of dicks, balls, and condoms (these were the images I was given to work with...) and ran away. Free from the horrors of French university for 3 whole months.

I also finished my classes with the eight year-old Chloe, who spoke no English a week ago, and who can now do an entire monologue introducing herself, her family, her school and her favorites. For our final class, I brought my iBook and we recorded a CD of spoken word and songs...5 tracks in all as well as two "On the moon..." bonus tracks, where we employed all kinds of funny space effects. Then she kicked my ass at Go Fish.

She cried when I left.

Chloe's classes are paying for my London trip. It is quite cool to get paid for singing songs and playing games.

My chorus concert was on Monday, and despite the fact that it is a terribly mediocre group, we sang our best. No rehearsals for 3 months.

I am incredibly relieved. I have my first free weekend in 2 months and it feels soooo good. Too bad the Ani DiFranco concert I was supposed to go to tonight was cancelled. That would've been such a great exclamation point. Oh, well. Instead I will treat AssRay to dinner!

Because when I hatch one of my ridiculous schemes, such as "Hey, let's break the record for the World's Longest Locomotion!" or "Let's celebrate 05.05.05 at 5:55 at The Five Bar!" or "Let's celebrate Oktoberfest in Glendale, Queens!" or "Let's go out for Finnish food!" or "Let's get drunk this morning", they respond not only in the affirmative, but with a "Hell yeah!"

The latest example would be MizMaya, who responded in this very fashion when I propositioned her about visiting her in London for the release of Harry Potter 6. AND she added, "I'll go as Harry if you go as Hermione."

So yes, MizMaya, I will go as Hermione.

And this is why my friends are truly the greatest.

So last night, the recent resurgence of my most likely unhealthy Weezer obsession climaxed at the Olympia, France's most coveted concert hall. Surrounded by the bouncing, bespectacled masses, I found that I am not the only one in this city that has been listening to Weezer for nearly half of my life and knows every song by heart. They are pretty fun live, with a giant WWF (or whatever the acronym is now...) W that blinks and shimmers throughout the show. I jumped and sang and wiggled for an hour and a half straight, fueled by two pathetic beers. The morning after, I am sore and tired, yet truly satisfied. But for some strange reason, I don't feel the need to listen to Weezer anymore. I reloaded my iPod with a 100% non-Weezer mix.

And so my fling with Rivers Cuomo comes to an end. But oh, what beautiful memories I will always have...

This should be France's national book.

http://www.despair.com

Unleash the power of your mediocrity!

Beware, you will spend a lot of time on this site. But as the saying goes (directly quoted from said site) "Hard work often pays off after time, but laziness always pays off now."

Ever wonder why lighting a match dispels the smell of flatulence? Fart expert Dr. Michael Levitt has the answer!

So I actually have vacation and, goddammit, I am going to go somewhere. So the monsieur and I are trying to decide where we want to go. Here are the three options we've come up with so far :

Scotland (I must witness the Highland Games once in my life)
Sicily (I must have gelato and sunshine)
Israel (I must bob about in the Dead Sea and visit Stephane's family)

What do YOU think?

I know where I'm going to pick up guys next time I am in NYC...

The Apple Store's Genius Bar

ooooh, how I love the computer geeks...

Who wants to go with me? Assuming that it is not Mariah Carey that they choose for Paris...

"This morning, international stars such as Bono, Bob Geldof and Dave Matthews announced "Live 8", a series of free global concerts to take place on July 2. "Live 8" concerts will be held simultaneously in Philadelphia, PA; London, England; Rome, Italy; Paris, France; and Berlin, Germany.

The "Live 8" concerts are part of the ONE Countdown to the G8 Summit to urge President Bush and other leaders of the world's 8 wealthiest nations to save millions of lives when they meet together in Scotland, July 5th to 8th.

The global concerts will feature performances by a historic line up of artists including Dave Matthews Band, U2, Jay Z, Paul McCartney, Black Eyed Peas, Stevie Wonder, Mariah Carey and many, many more!"

http://www.one.org

http://www.peerflix.com/

Since publishing my Baudelaire post yesterday, I have been constantly debating removing it. I don't really want to censor myself, but I felt like I didn't do a good job of expressing the simplicity of this moment and instead wrote about it from the point of view of some American victim of French marketing, the wool pulled over my eyes by poetry, wine, and the reflection of the June sunshine of the Louvre Pyramid. While the experience touched me, I somehow feel like it was banal and I have not yet mastered the beauty of the everyday.

I prefer the freakish.

Today, in an analogous situation, and with absolutely no warning, Paris went Bizarro on me.

On the 8, heading to Creteil for an English exam, which is absurd in its own right, I was happily listening to my 100% Weezer mix that I had prepared for my iPod that morning, reading over some info on British Parliamentary debates when the clattering of metal added a surprising counterpoint to the end of the Sweater Song. I looked up, as you do, in time to see a 2 and a half foot hipster wearing a Superman t-shirt and an Alfalfa gelled 'do, slide into the seat across from me. The sound had been his crutches. Next to him settles a pleasant yet VERY obese young woman, complete with two-toned ratted hair. They are chatting with each other, and I think to myself, isn't that nice?

The next song comes on Rivers Cuomo sings to me: "I gotta keep my eyes open, you came outta nowhere." The cripster starts massaging the girl, eventually pulling her sweater down, exposing her massive and shapeless shoulder. Rivers: "Man you really freak me out. I'm so afraid of you." It's like a train wreck, I can't keep my eye of this most disturbing public display of affection. He starts kissing her neck. She caresses his arms, scabbed and calloused from the crutches. "And when I lose my cool, I don't know what to do." I am in a panic. There is nowhere to go. I fake fatigue, close my eyes and rest my head against the window. It's really not so upsetting. After all, everyone has a right to love and be loved. "I know you don't mean me no harm, you're just doing your thing." I sense sunlight and open my eyes to see if we are almost at my stop. The cripster and the large gal are going at it. Rivers is back. "Man you really freak me out."

We are close to my stop. I scramble out of the seat and impatiently tap at the door until it opens.

Leaving the Louvre today, where I was signing my contract, I found myself sitting across from a pimply-faced 15 year-old who was reading Les Fleurs du Mal, Charles Baudelaire's masterwork and one of the pillars of French poetry and culture. An old woman with blue hair and yellow teeth, like a Fauvist portrait, sat down next to him and started discussing it with him. As oppressive and conservative as French culture can be, it is a beautiful thing to see how it spans generations. Could you imagine two strangers, separated by 60 years in age, on a bus in the US talking about Walt Whitman? I think not.