Kung Fu Dana

MIDNIGHT IN PARIS

2011-05-11T02:25:00.013+02:00

Last fall while 8 months pregnant, I got a call from a friend who works with Woody Allen's editors. They were looking for French accordion music for his latest film, Midnight In Paris, and knew my friend had an accordionist friend in Paris....moi. So she put us in touch. When they asked me if I had any recorded music in this genre I promptly said "Totally. I have tons."

CUT TO: FRANTIC PHONE CALL TO FB

ME: Come home right now.
FB: Why? Is everything ok?
ME: Yeah yeah, the baby is fine. I just need you to lift my accordion onto me and set up my studio.
FB: Why?
ME: BECAUSE I JUST TOLD WOODY ALLEN'S EDITORS THAT I HAVE TONS OF FRENCH ACCORDION MUSIC AND I NEED TO WRITE AND RECORD SOME RIGHT NOW, AS IN RIGHT NOW THIS VERY SECOND. I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF I CAN PHYSICALLY PLAY THE ACCORDION ON MY BELLY SO I NEED YOU TO COME HOME RIGHT NOW. EMERGENCY.
FB: What? Woody Allen? How did that....
ME: I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR QUESTIONS! JUST. COME. HOME. Oh, and pick up some duct tape.

A few hours later teetering in a semi-reclined position with FB's help and some creativity duct taping a 50 lb. accordion onto me, I pulled myself together, went to my quiet place and said "YOU GOT THIS. YOU'RE GETTING IN THAT MOVIE. RIGHT NOW." To my unborn child I explained, "Look pal, I'm about to play accordion basically on your face soooo....I'm not sure if you'll like this or not but this is who I am and I gotta get this job and this is what trying harder means so you'll just have to sit tight in there and enjoy the new sounds....cause it's gonna be loud."

And with that, I spent the next weeks in a constant stream of hobbling in and out of my accordion, writing and sending songs, revising others, pitching new ones. Every time I played, the baby would kick like crazy inside, putting me in a constant state of burping. Play, kick, burp, play, kick, burp. In the end, Mr. Allen asked me to cover the French classic "Parlez Moi d'Amour". Three versions later, I got the email at midnight.....my piano and accordion version is in the final cut featured under the romantic scenes.

I stood up, one pregnant transplant New Yorker, went to my window, leaned out far enough to see the Eiffel Tower and just smiled and rubbed my belly. It seemed the perfect culmination of my time in Paris. Sometimes life makes a perfect sweet circle. Today I can say I am in the opening film at Cannes.
Score. :)

BYE BYE 75

2011-02-25T21:03:00.020+01:00

It's official.

Tomorrow we are moving out of central Paris. No more Eiffel tower and no more Louvre.

We are moving into the banlieue of Montreuil, just east of Paris. Moving out of a 6th floor walk up/tiny one bedroom apartment and into a house with room to throw concerts and parties in. Something feels momentous about moving out of the middle of the city and into the fringe. FB is on an overnight trip to get our things out of storage tonight and I'm sitting in the dark in a near empty apartment drinking a beer next to my two month old sleeping son and feeling sentimental. I took him on a walk today to say goodbye to an arrondissement he will never remember and I was filled with contradictory feelings. On one hand, I feel burned by this area. The lightning speed and intense colors of my life in New York has been replaced with the slow burn of an elusive Parisian candle. Friends have come and gone here and in my solitude I haven't yet found the equivalent of the fiery humor and tree trunk solid of my NY circle. I know it's here somewhere, hidden like the garden my window looks out onto, the garden where nobody has gone in the two and a half years I have been staring at it.

We walked today, my son strapped to my front looking at the world with fresh eyes and me having a big think. As we passed by the infamous taxi stand where two sets of people stole a cab from me while I was in labor in the middle of a snowstorm, I got enraged all over again and thought that most of all, I will not miss the lack of community in this area and the general frosty and negative attitude. BUT....I WILL miss walking a block to the Seine river, the beauty of my surroundings, my boucher and cheeseman but most of all, my dearly beloved and worshipped Eric Kayser bakery, also known as the best bakery in the entire universe and beyond. It's currently donut season there so I ate 12 of them yesterday in honor of my departure....

Au revoir little apartment in the sky on the left bank.
You were kind to me and a lot of music came out of these walls.
As I move onto my next Parisian adventure, I will always remember my time here with a smile...

AND THEN THERE WAS ZED: A BIRTH STORY GONE SLIGHTLY AWRY

2010-12-18T16:06:00.027+01:00

From moment one, I wanted a natural birth. No drugs, no interventions, no doctors and NO HOSPITAL. A full on tree hugging, green, fuzzy, give birth in the woods while unicorns unite in a birthing circle of wondrous rainbows gleaming from all the creatures of the earth culminating in a beam of light spiritual experience I could hold in my heart of hearts forever. Over the summer, I mentioned to FB a story I read where a woman leaned on a walking stick throughout her birth. It made me think of wizards and lasers. FB immediately went on a vision quest into the Burgundy woods, found a sapling tree, cut it down and hand carved me my very own 7 foot long birthing stick, varnished and everything. It was beautiful and I was Gandolf. I practiced spinning it on the lawn while chanting...."BRING FORTH THE SPAAAAAAAAAAWN!" (insert lightning bolts)

And thus I sailed through the second trimester, feeling like a million wizard bucks until around the 7th month of pregnancy when I began to feel severe pelvic pain if I moved. As in, moved at ALL. My midwife and the sonogram confirmed that my baby was, in fact, a rather LARGE one and was currently in a posterior position (head down but turned around the wrong way) and therefore pressing on my pelvis. Whatever, I thought. I'm American with German and Dutch roots and I have size 11 feet and I am POWERFUL. None of the men in my family dip below the 6 foot tall mark and besides, I am NINJA. And a WIZARD. I am a NINJA WIZARD. And if anyone could turn this baby around, I COULD. Duh. Talk began of "he might be a 10 pounder" and even though I began to have serious issues making it up and down the 104 steps to our apartment nor could I walk more than a block without searing pain in my groin, or even turn over in bed without crying out....undeterred I marched on, knowing in my heart that I could, in fact, get this big baby out naturally.
No one could tell me any different.
No one.

I spent months reading copious amounts of natural birthing books, doing yoga and practicing deep breathing. I bought the Hypnobirth CD series and taught myself to self hypnotize every day...I followed Ina May Gaskin's guides to the letter, got into my spiritual place early on, talked to my baby every day about what a magical birth he and I would take on together in a field of wild poppy dreams of greatness. After watching The Business Of Being Born, I decided I wanted to home birth but was finally deterred by the fact that we live in a tiny 7th floor walk up with no room for a yoga mat to be spread out, much less a birthing pool and a midwife and some unicorns. In the end, I found a birthing center in Paris with a pro-natural team of midwives and OB/GYNS (WAY harder than I thought it would be to find) and decided that was about as close to the woods I was going to get. C'est la vie. So even though I would end up giving birth in the hospital/clinic they worked out of, at least I trusted the process would still be drug and intervention free. I would just bring my birthing stick and my cape to the hospital, exclaim "PREPARE THE ROOOOOOM!" (insert more lightning bolts) close my eyes and go to the Inner Earth place in my mind. To top it all off, a few weeks before giving birth, I was sent this birth video of a theatrical natural birth complete white curtains and candlelight, ancient songs, poetry in multiple languages and a couple of cats hanging out in the foreground. RIGHTEOUS! I added candles to my hospital bag and wondered where I could rent some cats.

My fairytale birth was WELL on its way.

Then December 7th came.
THE OVERTURE
For most of the pregnancy, I had been obsessed with this date, I knew something would happen on the 7th. In the week leading up to it I started to have practice contractions and felt a sense of excitement looming in the near distance. I vigorously cleaned the apartment over and over, I cooked enough vegetable curry to feed an army and spent hours rolling back and forth on my newly purchased birthing ball telling the baby to turn his fat butt over while watching shitty American TV shows and ignoring the fact I could barely move from the pelvic pain. He was near......and so, as my eyes popped open on the 7th, I knew immediately that I was in early labor. The contractions were still mild enough to do housework throughout but I sensed a pattern starting. I skyped with NY friends and family all day and each time a contraction came, I laughed through it with a giddy feeling of FINALLY this show was on the road. FB and I watched movies all night and as the contractions got stronger throughout the night, I tried to get some sleep as I knew it would be tomorrow. He's coming tomorrow. BRING FORTH THE SPAAAAAAAAAWN!! (CHOOCHOO! lightning bolts)

December 8th
THE SNOWSTORM
After a rather sleepless night, I woke up in the middle of a painful contraction that wrapped around my back like a vice. Whoa. Um.....THAT was uh....intense. I tried to sit up in bed but the pain was too enormous and for the first time, I got scared. What happened to those nice funny little contractions of yesterday that made me laugh and dream of rainbows and ponies? Oh no....did I get this all wrong? Do I have no idea what is in store for me? WHERE ARE THE RAINBOWS???!!!! WHERE ARE THE FRICKIN' PONIIIIIIIES?!!!!!!! Okokokokokokokokokokok....I calmed myself down and decided to settle in for what would be a very. long. day.

For these purposes I had made three birthing music mixes:
1. FOLK/GET SPIRITUAL
2. WORLD/GET INTERNATIONAL PRIMAL
3. U.S. of A. /GET FULL ON DANCE PARTY

I switched back and forth between these three mixes all day while trying to go into myself and become some semblance of Zen. But it was getting harder and harder. Despite my efforts over the weeks, the baby had refused to turn and I was now in full back labor which can best be described as this...think of the spot at the bottom of your spine where all those sensitive nerve endings meet up. Now think of it like a giant gong with a bullseye in the center that a vindictive ogre with a sledge hammer hits as hard as he can every 30 minutes, then 20, then 10, then 5, then 4 etc. Then imagine the pain radiating around your entire body like a giant wave each time that brings you literally to your knees and takes your breath away. Stand up. Repeat. Nerves. Vindictive ogre. Sledgehammer. Knees. And on and on and on....on a hot tip from my massage therapist friend, FB started applying counter-pressure on my sacrum during each contraction and for a while it all seemed doable.....especially when the aforementioned scientist husband graphed a contraction chart in real time while carefully timing out each one...I seriously love this man, WHO DOES THIS???!

But then the snow came.
First a dusting, then heavier and heavier until the afternoon where it became clear it was not stopping anytime soon and this was, in fact, a full on snowstorm (I found out later this was the first one of this magnitude in Paris in 25 years). When they shut down the buses and the trains at rush hour, I knew we were in trouble as our clinic was across town. Paris is not like NY where you can get a car service or taxi any day, any time, any weather. Paris is Paris. She shuts down at the first sign of trouble and leaves you to hang on your own. As I had been previously warned about NOT calling an ambulance service or the fire department should I be in labor due to 45 minute paperwork processes, untrained drivers, unnecessary episiotomies and the biggest fact that they would only bring you to nearest hospital, not the one I was registered at across town....we thought if we waited until after rush hour we might have a better chance at getting a taxi. At 10:00PM I could take no more. My midwife awaited our arrival at the center and FB began the taxi cab calls.
His face said it all after the first call.
Nothing.
Not one company picked up the phone.
My list of carefully put together numbers yielded 0.
Okokokokokokokokokokok.
Think about the unicorns, the ponies and the rainbows.
What would a ninja wizard do?

We decided to just grab the delivery room bag and get out of the apartment, make our way to the main boulevard and try and find a cab there. I knew if I was moving, I could ward off the labor. I put my mind in "TRY HARDER" mode, shut down my labor as best I could, got my coat and shoes on and headed out into the snow. For me, this was actually the easiest part of the night, trudging through the ice and snow 1/2 mile up to the taxi stand in St. Germain des Prés. I had to stop a few times to go through a contraction but the icy air felt good on my face and at least we were MOVING towards the hospital. Everything was doable again. Until.....

THE TAXICAB FIASCO A.K.A. PEOPLE ACTUALLY DO SUCK
As we got to the taxi stand, my heart lifted a bit as there were people waiting. FB explained that I was in labor and could I please have the next cab. No one said yes or no, they just ignored us. Thanks friendly people of the 6th arrondissement! (insert massive eye roll) After waiting a few minutes, I spied a cab letting people out across the street outside the famous Café de Flore and told FB to run for it. I ran across the street after him holding my giant belly yelling (in French) "I'M IN LABOR, I'M IN LABOR!! PLEASE GIVE ME THAT CAB!!" I arrived just in time to have two young men cut in front of me, get in the cab, slam the door shut and give me the "too bad for you" shrug as the cab sped off.
I could not believe what had just happened.
I stood there stunned for a second but then survival mode kicked back in.
OK.
I get it.
People SUCK here.
We moved a bit down the street towards the metro and started discussing whether I could make the 45 minute trip with a change of stations as I spied another cab coming up the small side street next to the café. It was free.
"RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN!!!!!!!!!" I shouted to FB who took off after it.
I sprinted waddled after him and my eyes widened in horror as I saw three women in their 50s who had been waiting at the taxi stand across the street ALSO sprinting for it. These women KNEW I was in labor and they SAW me running for it and STILL, they went for it anyway. They beat us to the cab and got in. At that point, something in me snapped. Something primal and bigger than myself. That cab was MINE and those bitches were going to GET THE HELL OUT OF IT. NOW. I can safely say this is the first act of maternal love I acted on, where NOTHING in the world could have stopped me from getting my baby safely to the hospital. IN. THAT. TAXI. As I approached the cab, I threw myself on the back door and started pounding, screaming and crying as loud as I could (in French) "I AM IN LABOR! I NEED THIS CAB!! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?? WHAT KIND OF PEOPLE ARE YOU???!!! REALLY???? REALLY??!!! YOU ARE SAYING NOOO??? I AM IN LABOR!!! I AM A PREGNANT WOMAN IN LABOOOOR!!!!!" It was Oscar worthy and it caused the kind of public scene and humiliation I had hoped for. The women finally BEGRUDGINGLY opened the door and proceeded to argue with us saying "Just call the firemen!! Why should WE get out of the cab?? It's not what taxis are FOR!", etc. etc. As if THIS weren't enough, we then had to talk the taxi cab driver into TAKING us to the hospital as she started arguing that she didn't want problems, didn't want me to give birth in the back of her cab, etc. After FB pleaded with her and she was satisfied I wouldn't "cause any problems", we were allowed in and FINALLY took off for the hospital.

(I will take a small pause outside of my usual KFD banter here....honestly, I can't find anything funny or witty to say about this incident because two weeks later it STILL angers me to the core and brings me to near tears to think about that night as I cannot imagine ANY situation whatsoever that I would NOT let a woman in labor take a taxi at night during a snowstorm....none. The fact that I found TWO sets of people within minutes of each other who had no problems doing this makes it really hard for me not to question the quality of people in this area or make huge generalizations about Parisians. I will try and do neither but suffice it to say, we are moving to Montreuil in February and no one could be happier to say au revoir to tourist central Paris than me). OK back to it....

THE HOSPITAL
11PM
Upon arrival, the baby's heart rate was checked, all was good. Then I was checked. Fully effaced but only 1.5 cm dilated and baby is still posterior. My heart sunk a bit but I convinced myself that it was because of the taxi fiasco and I must have managed to shut my labor down completely. So, we were left to continue laboring and I focused on opening up. I was safe now, no more traveling and I could really go into myself and make it happen. The contractions started back up heavy and though we were both exhausted and I had not really eaten all day, we continued the cycle of Nerves. Sledghammer. Counterpressure. Knees. Repeat....

1AM
3 1/2 cm dilated. YES! Progress. But baby is not turning. At this point, my midwife gives me the best advice so far. "The pain is bigger than you. You are fighting it through each contraction, try and let go into it." And so I changed my mindset. FB laid on the floor and took a nap and I laid on the bed and let myself go into the pain. These few hours I will never forget...truly transcending pain, it was as if I was floating above myself and the more I let go, the deeper the experience became, my only thoughts were holding hands with my baby and walking him into this world safely. It felt as though I had spent just a few minutes but also an eternity in this state when I finally looked up at the clock.

4AM
3 1/2 cm dilated. OMG. NO. Labor was stalling out and the baby was not only posterior but his head was not tucked to his chin but was instead straight so each contraction, his head was being pushed into my pelvic bone instead of my cervix. My heart sunk and I knew I was losing steam. I had been in unmedicated back labor since the previous day and I could not take much more of it. My midwife and I discuss the possible next step of an epidural and an oxytocin drip to make the contractions stronger in the hopes that it might make the baby turn. At the very suggestion of these medical processes, I felt nothing but doom and gloom and a sense of total failure....how could all my ponies and unicorns abandon me? I was a ninja wizard with no staff and no nunchucks and suddenly I felt very, very small. The pain of the next contraction plowed into me and I cried for the first time. My midwife was amazing at this point, talking me through it and then giving FB and I time to discuss our next steps and come to terms with it. We decided I would take the epidural as by numbing the pain a bit, it might give me more steam to keep laboring. Shivering and trying to stay calm, I got the epidural injection and the oxytocin drip. I knew the next step was the dreaded C section but I focused all my thoughts on the last chance of turning him around and making his head tuck. Pleeeeease baby, turn, pleeeeease. I will buy you twenty ponies if you do....

6AM
4 cm dilated and I am totally out of steam. The word "Ceasarean" is mentioned for the first time and I feel knives go into my soul. I did NO research whatsoever on C sections because I was THAT SURE I was NOT going to have one. I am deathly afraid of the knife and the thought of being awake during a surgery is enough to send my soul into a blood curdling scream. Tired, hungry, sick from the meds and distraught, I agreed to a C section and my OB/GYN began the preparations. The only thing that made me feel better was seeing FB in scrubs and calling him Dr. Boulé.

8AM
The surgery room. It feels about 0 degrees in here and I am naked and on the verge of a panic attack as they strap me to the table. My French is gone, looooong gone. While a dozen people hover around me speaking in tongues as far as I am concerned, I focus myself on not barfing in my own mouth or screaming...small victories with every passing moment. WHERE IS FB??? And why is this male nurse talking to me when I clearly have no idea what he is saying??? I make a mental note that I really DO NOT EVER want to be abducted by aliens because this is what it must feel like and frankly, I can't think of another situation that blows more, not even my 8th grade prom. FB arrives as they put up the paper curtain that hangs in my face so I can't see what they are about to do to me. He tries to make me feel better by telling me we are about to meet our son but I can't get my mind out of alien abductions. As the doctor feels around my abdomen, I realize...I CAN FEEL HIS HANDS. In my panic, I feebly say....help, I can feel that but hardly any sound comes out. He is feeling around more and it suddenly dawns on me.....I just walked off the anesthesia. When in a full panic, I have no doubt I could walk off horse tranquilizers and before I can say any more, I feel a sharp, searing pain in my belly that sends me jerking from the table as my voice regains itself in full force..."I CAN FUCKING FEEEEEEL THAT!!!!!!!OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!" and I let the full panic in. Suddenly, there is a mask on my face and I am being told to breathe deeply. I stare in horror into FB's eyes and breathe in and out and in and out.......alien abduction, alien abduction.....

9:20AM
A RECOVERY ROOM
I wake up. I see a few hospital staff wheeling in a small boy of 4 years old or so who is moaning in pain and no one I know in sight. My head is killing me and my abdomen is on fire. Where am I? Where is FB? Wait, WHERE IS MY BABY????? I try and get up to no avail and am told by a male nurse something in French but I can't understand...where is my baby??? I say over and over....they say something and leave me alone and I feel I am going to die...did something go terribly wrong?? What happened?
This is my official hell.
A nurse comes in to tell me that my midwife is on her way to me and that everything is fine. They wheel me down the hall, I am crying an ocean of tears the whole way until at last, I see FB and he is holding a crying baby.
OUR crying baby.
Zed Emile Boulé has made his way to us at last.
I see him for the first time and suddenly, nothing else matters to me in the world.
My son is here.
On my belly.
And he wants to eat.
I cry with FB.
I cry with Zed.
I just cry and cry and cry and cry until I laugh and hold him close to me and promise to always take care of him and feed him cheeseburgers.

THE EPILOGUE
I didn't get the natural birth I wanted. Not even close. I got a dubbed version of Rosemary's Baby with no subtitles. But I got Zed and he's a fat, happy healthy baby with blue eyes and a smile that slays me. And for that, I'd do it all over again a million trillion zillion times.
Because in the end, I AM a ninja wizard.
Welcome to the world, Zed.
We're gonna have fun.
That's a promise.

THE HOSPITAL BAG AND THE SEXY SWIMSUIT

2010-11-15T10:58:00.016+01:00

As my 40 week due date looms right in front of me, this weekend I decided to finally get my hospital bag together, or as I call it, the "GOOOOOOOO!!!!!GET OUT NOOOOOOW!!!! LOCK AND LOOOOOOAD!!!!!" bag. For someone who tends to pack 30 minutes before a month long trip, I thought it would probably be in my best interest this time to not just wing it as forgetting toothpaste is probably slightly less of a hassle than forgetting clothes for your new human being or like, a car seat or whatever other lifesaving item I am supposed to know all about but will surely not bring. Is there really already so much to REMEMBER?

But this what I excel at.
MAKING LISTS.
Number one.....uh......BAG. I realized that the first thing I needed to buy for my hospital bag is an actual bag as my current options are a ratty backpack given free to FB at a science conference, my NY Knicks duffle bag that I stole from a friend in 2003 that has wiped the floor of practically every bar in New York and Paris as it has been used as my music gig gear bag (complete with gum stuck to the inside and a broken zipper), some heavy duty trash bags, or a giant four wheel suitcase with a broken wheel. Okaaaaay. I was comfortable moving across town via the metro with most of my belongings in trash bags and I have often hauled my accordion to across town gigs strapped to my back with a giant trash bag covering it like some sort of cape of yesteryear meets the homeless look.....but this time, I dunno, maybe I should present myself as a little more "professional" or something considering I will be taking a human being home with me.
"Yeah yeah, just put him the bag, he's fine there, RIGHT SON?"

So after purchasing a super cute bright purple wheely bag, I happily dropped a couple diapers in it, a blanket, one baby outfit and a shirt for myself, zipped it and called it a day.
Done.
Next.
That was easy.

Until my appointment this week. The hospital and my midwife gave me a printed out list of items to bring in TWO separate required bags (one for delivery room and one for the hospital stay). Huh? Uh......scanning the 40+ items on the list, I understood about three of them. What's a gilet? Coquilles recueil-lait? And what the hell is a gigoteuse? And why do I have to bring my own sheets? Wait, what IS this???

I enlisted the help of FB that evening to translate. I stood by the ever growing pile of "the baby crap" reading off the list, ready to pluck each item from the stack and throw it into the bag while FB put his "let's get serious" look on.

ME: OK, what's a velour pour l'hiver?
FB: A velour pour l'hiver.
ME: Yes. What is it?
FB: You know, a velour pour l'hiver. (FB's most useless learning tool for me...I ask what something means in French, he repeats it back in French. Thanks. So helpful.)
ME: I KNOW WHAT IT SAYS IN FRICKIN' FRENCH. WHAT DOES IT MEAN IN ENGLISH????
FB: Oh....you know, that theeng you wear in winter.
ME: OK, is it a sweater? A shirt? A jacket? A coat?
FB: Yes.
ME: WHICH ONE?? I just said four things! A SWEATER COAT?
FB: Oui, oui, like that theeng...
ME: OK, I could be googling this WAY faster than you are helping me right now...
FB: OK! Sweater! Yes, it's a sweater. Jeez!

Item after item went on in this fashion, until we got to the brain teaser of them ALL....THE BODY.

ME: OK (scanning list)....what do they mean by "1 body"? I'm assuming it's not a corpse they are talking about and they probably don't mean "bring yourself" or "bring the body of the baby to be delivered".....
FB: Oh! Non non non, it's that theeng...
ME: Yeah ok, we've been down this THEENG road 23 times already....what makes this THEENG different from the OTHER 23 THEENGS?
FB: AAAAAAGH! Dana! It's that TIGHT theeng.
ME: Alright, I could go down about 400 inappropriate roads with that explanation....
FB: Non non! (he grabs his computer and does a quick search) It's THIS but not like this exactly! It's a body!

He passes me his computer with the following photo attached:

ME: Are you fucking kidding me?
FB: Non, non, but like...it's that tight theeng....
ME: A sexy swimsuit. You are ACTUALLY saying that the hospital wants me to make ABSOLUTELY certain that I bring my sexy swimsuit to BIRTH MY CHILD IN. Do I need hooker heels too????
FB: NON!!! It's that THEEEENG...(he shakes his hands with frustration)
ME: Ohhhhhhhhh wait, do you mean a BODYSUIT?
FB: (with great relief) YES! YES! THAT'S IT! A BODYSUIT!
ME: (pause) Ok, well...that is actually EQUALLY as ridiculous as the sexy swimsuit. WHY would I need to bring a bodysuit to give BIRTH in?? I actually can't think of another type of clothing I would rather NOT try and give birth in...where is the baby supposed to go? Am I supposed to squeeze it into the bodysuit like some horrible modern dance gone awry? And more importantly, do I need to bring Jazz shoes?
FB: Non! You know, like maybe if you want to cover up something or something...
ME: What??? For like, modesty purposes? I'm GIVING BIRTH! Do I need a sheet with a hole in it too? OK, they can't POSSIBLY mean that....forget it....ok, moving on. Last item for the delivery room...what's a brumisateur d'eau?
FB: Oh! It's that theeng that puts water into the air.
ME: A humidifier?
FB: YES!
ME: They want me to bring an actual HUMIDIFIER? Like, the machine??
FB: Yes!
ME: And that is supposed to fit in my bag? OK, do I need to bring a heating unit too? And some nurses uniforms? And lunch for 6? And a doctor? And some walls? And...
FB: I don't know why they put that but yes, it means a humidifier.
ME: Dude, you are worse than I am at this and it's your native language.
FB: Yeah well, whatever. How am I supposed to know what all this is either?? And it DOES mean humidifier. Hmpf.

I consulted FB's mother the next day who gave me all the answers I needed including the two major revelations that a BODY is actually a baby ONESIE, NOT a sexy swimsuit. And a brumisateur d'eau is the little water spritzer bottle you buy to spray on your face when you get overheated, NOT an actual humidifier machine.

Ahhhhh, the theengs you learn together along the way.....come on little rocker, we're waiting for you now in our sexy swimsuits.....and yes, I'm using the NY Knicks bag for the delivery room, gum and all. :)

SELECTIVE COMPREHENSION

2010-11-10T12:04:00.009+01:00

Sometimes I understand French. Other times I don't get anything at all. As of late, I have noticed it depends on my mood, level of interest in the subject being discussed, my level of interest in the person talking, quality of the "sell" (if you use lots of wild hand gestures, I am more apt to be interested in what you are saying). It can also depend a lot on the weather, if I've eaten or not, whether I feel you will take too long to get to the point, or if my pants are too tight.

Having gotten knocked up by a French boy in a French land with a French medical system, I have found myself in a whole new blur of incomprehension for the past nine months. Medical terms, insurance terms, procedure names, long windy explanations of red tape to get through the system.....multiple visits to the hospital to be explained why something is not right with my card followed by phone calls to FB to talk to the secretary while I stand there as she explains it to him over the phone and I look around the office with a glazed over blank stare like a mute foreign trophy wife with a 9 month pregnant gut of goodness pouring over my pants while I think again for the millionth time "I used to be somebody."

But not understanding is sometimes a gift in disguise. At three months pregnant, I had to get a root canal redone and a crown put on one of my teeth. I dropped my New York transplant dentist because he brought with him New York prices and instead I opted for a Parisian dentist recommendation from FB's dentist in the village he grew up in. After making an appointment with her, I asked FB where his dentist knew this woman from and he said "I think he met her once about 20 years ago or something at a dental conference and now they are Facebook friends."
OK.
Sooooooo....I am now making my healthcare decisions based on a village dentist's Facebook friend who he may or may not have banged at a dental conference sometime in the late 80s. Great. Seems one step short of the yellow pages but whatever. I'm so used to rolling with random punches here, I may as well give her a try.

I went to see her for the first appointment, told her I was pregnant and spaced out for the next five minutes as she explained a bunch of terms I never heard of while I answered in my usual pretend I know voice "ah oui, ah oui, ah oui". I've always been a less talk/more walk type of girl so I happily ended the conversation with not one question and after some xrays....PLOP...into the chair I went, expecting the usual shot of Novocaine. It never came. As the minutes ticked by and the drill came out and into my tooth with the sounds of metal sheering off metal, I realized that maybe there was something in those five minutes of jumbled words that might have explained why she was now drilling into the side of my head without any sign of using a numbing agent on my now screeching gums. I spent the next 45 minutes with a drill in my face, debating in my head whether this woman (whom I now call Dr. Torture) was actually doing a root canal with no anesthesia, or if maybe she DID give me a shot and I just didn't see it. Then I ran through the Little Shop Of Horrors soundtrack in my head. I had to remain as calm as possible as to not upset the other human being I am growing so I did what I always do in times of extreme stress.
Pretend I am Bruce Lee and just get on with it.

Having made it through the first session alive, I went back to Dr. Torture two more times, never once asking for any explanation beforehand of what would be done that day. I know it sounds crazy but I actually prefer to not know too much about anything I do beforehand. Like my dream date would be if FB said "we're going for a ride today!" then I found myself being pushed out of a plane skydiving. THAT sounds fun.

I'm applying this train of thought to the last stage of the birthing process now as in just a few short weeks, I am apparently pushing a human being out of me. I read all the books I was supposed to read, I overgoogled everything you could dream of, I heard from way too many people about their experiences. So now....I'm shutting it all out of my head because in the end, it's just a giant root canal in my vagina. I don't need Novocaine, just the floor, my baby and me.
And a margarita afterwards. ;)

THEY GOT ME.

2010-10-11T15:03:00.012+02:00

This is the bag of a total moron who doesn't know how to travel safely with belongings in a city.

The open bag is mine.
And the total moron is me.
I have carried it since I moved here nearly three years ago......until I got pick-pocketed last week in the St. Germain des Prés metro stop.

I never EVER thought that would happen to me in Paris what with me being so ninja and everything. I am hyper aware of my surroundings at all times, I mistrust everyone and I am fast on the street....WAY fast....like a CAT....a CHEETAH. Yeah, whatever, so I carry a canvas bag with no zipper. So what? I clutch it to my chest on the metro while giving everyone around me the hairy eyeballs. And besides, it says BROOKLYN on it which duh...screams YOU ARE SO F'IN STREET and should scare off any potential hoodlums and hooligans, right?

Wrong.
Maybe the lightning method works for hyperactive people who run through their life as if being chased by wild dogs which has safely spared me from pickpockets for the past 20 years of my existence in urban living. But then I got knocked up and everything changed. Everything. I went from cheetah to goldfish in 8 months. Two months ago I had to trade in my beloved 8 pairs of Converse for the only shoes I own with actual support in them which happen to be white ugly Mom jogging shoes. And yes, I wear them with dresses because frankly, I don't give a shit anymore and my back hurts. My once cheetah pace has slowed to a near crawl and my mind is perpetually absent or is thinking about way more important things like cheeseburgers and Pad Thai. I'm the perfect bait for any shark. A pregnant, slow, dopey goldfish with a giant, open bag. I may as well wear a sign that says HELLO. STEAL EVERYTHING I OWN BECAUSE UNLESS YOU ARE SHAPED LIKE A CHOCOLATE DONUT I WON'T NOTICE AND EVEN IF I DID I CAN'T RUN AFTER YOU ANYWAY.

The scene of the crime just fits so PERECTLY. I knew when I moved into this area, aka tourist CENTRAL, that I should watch my step because where there are large amounts of prey....there are also large amounts of predators......sigh....oh hindsight.....

I moseyed my way down to one of the ticket machines and bought a carnet of tickets using my bank card. I never think to cover my hand as I type in my code which is pretty stupid because the way the machines are set up, it's really easy to read someone's code as they type it in (I know this now because I have spent the last week reading other people's codes as they type them in). As I waited for the tickets to print, I took my bank card and put it in my open change purse in my open bag. I grabbed the tickets after they printed and as I walked down the steps, I reached in my open bag to put them in my open purse which.....quelle surprise!...had been dumped over and the contents were spread across the bottom of the bag. Interrupting my thoughts of Korean BBQ, I decided I must have accidentally spilled it....so I put everything back in and went along on my day.

It wasn't until that night at the grocery store with a cart full of Haribo, cheddar cheese and green bell peppers (weirdest pregnancy craving to date...I eat them like apples) and no way to pay for it that I realized my bank card was gone. Disappeared. Bye bye. And even THEN, I thought I must have just lost it until I looked at my bank statement the following day which informed me that I was now 600 euro lighter. I didn't even have 600 euro in my bank account to begin with. Thanks a lot, overdraft system. That was REALLY HELPFUL TO ME. I thought I left the whole "criminals stealing money borrowed on YOUR CREDIT" thing behind me......guess not.

To get reimbursed by the bank, I had to make a formal declaration at the police station. One hour later after an Oscar worthy performance dramatically recounting a detailed description of what happened in my shit French to the police officer "I descended the thingies...how do we say....shelves....no stairs....and OH LO LO....I look.....money bag it is not good, it is like this (miming upside down).....but I didn't think then that there is baaad.....I went to the grocery in the night and I have no money for candy and then I think OH LO LO, someone....someone in the day takes my things."

Hey, I'm progressing.
Signed, sealed, delivered.

8 more weeks left and I can begin my return to cheetahland (not to be confused with cheetOland).
Until then, this goldfish in white jogging shoes needs to get her mind off the donuts and back in the game.

THE WANDERER

2010-09-17T18:50:00.021+02:00

Today was one of those perfect Parisian September days and as I have been stuck indoors for the most part since April either sick and knocked up or sick, knocked up and recording an album, I set out on a wander to remind myself that yes, there is still life outside your apartment......

Ohhhhh Paris....sitting in the park pondering your pretty face, I lose the disgust I have had for you these past few weeks that you are an unfriendly and unloving city. I'm just cranky because my best friend just moved away and I'm too knocked up to run fast right now or hit stuff or have dance parties and margaritas. But sometimes you DO make me feel a bit like THIS....

I wandered around and got caught behind a pack of 17 year old French boys. All smoking. All snickering. All cocky. All wearing the exact same jeans. And all under 5'7. This is my future, I realized, as I am going to have a French boy as a son in two months. Wait, how did THAT happen? Is he gonna smoke and complain about everything in a thick French accent? Maybe by then, I'll actually understand the language.....

Ahhhhh...my favorite English school has a new affront to my senses up in the metro..."A new language! A new job!" As what? A serial killer whose signature is to lick the flag onto his victims? Seriously. Couldn't they have found a model who doesn't have bloodshot wandering dead eyes?

And last but not least, the award of the day for most unfortunate clothing store name goes to.....Teenflo, who, by the way, sell business casual, not maxipads and zit cream.

DECONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM

2010-08-31T15:08:00.003+02:00

I'm done.
It's over.
My patience has been worn thin and torn.

If one more person of French descent and more specifically, a Parisian, tells me I look fat, tired and/or red, I will unleash the New York apeshit that has flooded over the surface. Do you REALLY need to let me know I am "very very beeg"? Gee, thanks, I hadn't noticed THAT I AM ACTUALLY PREGNANT. Your helpful reminder was SOOOOOOO NECESSARY. Thank you also for making a point to tell me every time that I enter your store how red my face looks. It's called a motherfucking ROSY PREGNANT GLOW, OK? And I don't tell YOU how pasty your permanent grimace looks so lay off my face before I pound on yours.

(Taking a breath) OK, maybe it's the hormones talking but in the past two months, I've been pushed down the metro steps, consistently not offered a seat on the train, told by a local concert organizer he "doesn't kees zee pregnant women" when I went in for the customary bises, told by a Parisian musician "I hate zee sound of your instrument" (pointing to my piano) not more than 30 seconds after we finished playing a packed show, constantly asked if I'm OK because "I don't look so good"....all this in addition to daily reminders that I am big and red and apparently look like I am going to die at any given moment. WTF? Maybe I should just start telling random strangers here as I push them down a flight of stairs that "hey, by the way, your face is HUGE and you look like you're gonna DROP DEAD, you should really rest more....ARE YOU OK???"

I know this is a city of critics and the almighty "opinion", I've known it from the moment I arrived and for two years I have played it nice, patiently trying to learn the language and stay friendly while trying to make sense of the jokes of circular "wit" that abound here. And by "wit", I mean basically just insulting and critiquing everything around you in as many words as humanly possible.

Well, not anymore.
Why? Because I ACTUALLY AM fat, tired and red and I've HAD IT with the deconstructive criticism from a bunch of whiny self appointed critics. I recorded an entire album in August. What did YOU do Paris? You closed down and took another month off and now everyone is oh so cranky to be back. Awwwwww so sad for you. If you don't have anything nice to say, KEEP YOUR TRAP SHUT. I don't need to know that you think my baby must have an ENORMOUS HEAD and that it must be hard to walk if you're like me. Just sell me my half kilo of fucking ham and MOVE ON. And yes, I KNOW MY LIPS ARE CHAPPED, you didn't need to point that out too.

I miss the USA right now with it's giant dose of friendliness and a big fat smile to go with a side of "HOW ARE YOU TODAY?"

Paris, you are my home but you are reeeeeeealllly trying my patience right now........

NOW I'M A FOLK SINGER.

2010-08-07T11:15:00.007+02:00

Yes, that's real a real breeze at sunset in the country.
We should be a Prell ad.
Anyway.....
It's August in Paris.
And everyone is on vacation.
Everyone except me and Erica.
In the spirit of "finish every goal you have or may have in the future NOW before the child arrives", I am recording, mixing and mastering The Resident Cards album this month with Erica, le BFF and l'autre coté of our duo. I've never made a record with a girl before. Having spent the past 10 years in rock or punk bands with boys, I'm used to foul mouthed, smoking, farting, drinking, belching, totally inappropriate discussions about women and their lady parts, eye rolls, arguments, garbage, garbage, more trash and having a REALLY good time except when I wanted to throttle all of them.

Now I live in France and I'm in a folk duo with a girl where we have daily discussions that go something like this...

DB: You're so awesome!
EB: No, YOU'RE so awesome!
DB: BUT YOU ARE THE AWESOMEST!
EB: OK! We are BOTH so awesome!
DB: You look pretty today!
EB: Awwwwwww, so do you!
DB: You know what's really pretty? Our record is sooooooo pretty!
EB: It's AMAAAAAZING!!! This is soooo fun! Here, let me help you clean those dishes!
DB: Awwwwww, SO FUN!
BOTH: YAAAAAAAAAAY!

We work every day and night, cook vegetarian lunches and take "watch Weeds or True Blood" breaks and sometimes we are crabby and we cry and then we laugh again. And then we work more. Because we are ninjas. We mix and master in London on August 26th and after a year of working the minutiae of these songs, it's SO AWESOME to have them recorded properly.

Sometimes we get frustrated and have to take a dance break from the grind.....

One awesomely pretty record coming soon.....

BIIIIIIIIIIIIG SOLDES

2010-08-01T10:31:00.004+02:00

Living in France, I often miss Daffy's (High Fashion Low Prices!)and Marshalls (Brand name fashion for the entire family!) and especially Loehmann's (Off price specialty retailer of designer fashons!). Ahhhhh.....the the thrill of the aimless wander through these stores on the hunt for a designer bargain, somewhere buried among the piles of ugly print dresses and Mom jeans. These stores were my Ativan, immediately calming and utterly satisfying.

I get my Ativan twice a year in Paris where YES, once again, this week ends the season of SOLDES SOLDES SOLDES (SALES! SALES! SALES!) I quietly sat out the whole month of the sales as I refuse to battle the crowds and for me, there is no point because at the end of the sales are the best prices and guess what's left? LOTS OF MY SIZE. LOTS AND LOTS AND LOTS. It's the joy of being a big girl in Paris. All the size 0s, 2s and 4s have long ago been snapped up but me? I can wide load shop happily now.

Today is my time. SOLDES are ending and I have the crazed itchy fingers, heart racing excitement of knowing I will be spending the day wandering aimlessly through store after store. I also have a new card in play this year.....THE PREGNANT CARD.

It took me a few months to really feel comfortable using this one but as I waited sheepishly in line after line, I was scolded by at least a dozen Parisian women (all over 50) who would look at me with the most scornful and pitiful look and say incredulously, "WHY ARE YOU WAITING IN LINE?????!!!" as if I was the dumbest person ever to grace the planet. I'd stutter out a "welllll.....uh.....I don't know....I" to which they would respond "YOU ARE PREGNANT! YOU GO TO THE FRONT! IT'S YOUR RIGHT! IT'S THE LAW!" as if by standing in line, I was somehow messing up the rules for everyone else.

It took all of two times waltzing to the front of the grocery store line for me to realize....THIS ROCKS. I have four months left of this card, and goddamnit, I'm using every last one. Move over beeyatches, I got 12 items on a 7 item limit and I got giant a dressing room and I will happily push past your size 0 ass BECAUSE I CAN.

Happy SOLDES SOLDES SOLDES!!!!!

BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS

2010-07-28T10:30:00.014+02:00

FB: (bursting through the door) I have a present for you!
ME: YAY PRESENTS! (jumping up and down)
FB: You're gonna loooooove it, they are sooooo good!
ME: YAY PRESENTS!!!

He opens a bag and presents me with this....

ME: Um...is this like sheep brain baked in veal eyes or something??(automatic sneer)
FB: No, it's an Oeuf en Gelée!
ME: A what???
FB: OEUF. EN. GELEE.

I pick it up and sneeringly examine it more closely.....

ME: Um...is this a JELLO cup?
FB: Delicious!
ME: Is that an EGG in the middle???
FB: Yup. SO good.
ME: Sooo...(putting the foreign object down)....it's basically ham and egg jello.
FB: Pretty much.
ME: Ham and egg jello cups....ugh (sneer turning to grimace)...That. Is. SO. GROSS.

My mind races back to various Jello molds I encountered as a child, with enticing names like "Ambroooooosia Jello Salad" all of which ended in a big fat ten year old EWWWWWWWW from me. I'm a fan of the Jello. I would happily rock a bowl of American over-sweetened cherry flavor Jello in a heartbeat. It's the putting things INSIDE the Jello that I find to be a horror show.

I am usually adventurous when it comes to trying new food but THIS thing presented in front of my eyes just takes the cake. WHY would ANYONE put HAM and EGG in JELLLLLLLO????? The ten year old takes control...

ME: EEEEEEEWWWWWW! I can't eat THIS!! I'm gonna BAAAAAARF! It's so GROOOSSSS!! EWWWWW!! What are you DOING?? You just plop it onto your plate like that??? BARF-O-RAAAAAAMA!!! HAM JELLLLLOOOOO....GROOOOOOSSSSSS......
FB: It's not JELLO. It's in ASPIC and it's AMAAAZING. TRY IT.
ME: (poking at it)...ugh....ok, fine.

I cut through the center and gingerly try a bite.

WHOOOOOOAAAAAA.
IT.
IS.
DELISH.

I scarfed the whole thing in three bites and it's official. I am a convert to the Oeuf en Gelée, or as I call them: Jello Cups of Champions. Some have a tomato in them, others have cornichons, a bit of parsley or estragon. I have no idea what time of day the French eat them but these are my new breakfast of champions.
YUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

THE WOMEN MAKE LIKE WAH WAH

2010-07-23T14:53:00.010+02:00

Today I went back to the 10th arrondissement to visit my favorite old men. First stop was my Savate teacher at my old boxing school. I hadn't called him since dropping off the face of the planet months ago and I missed being made fun of by all the old men at the school so I picked up some of my favorite tarts as a gift and paid a little visit. Upon entering, my teacher smiled a wide grin and said "PAS VRAI!!!!" (NO WAY!!!)
"OUI VRAI!!!" I replied wholeheartedly.

After giving him a giant American hug and explaining my giant belly, we sat down to catch up. When the topic of whether I am having a boy or girl came up, the convo went like this (in French...)

TEACH: Is it a boy or a girl?
ME: Almost certainly a boy.
TEACH: AHHHHHH, felicitations!!!
ME: Yeah, I am very happy. (pause) The women are difficult.
TEACH: Ah yes, very difficult.
ME: TOO difficult.
TEACH: Of course....
ME: I like boys.
TEACH: Clearly.
ME: The women make like WAAAAH WAAAAAAH (wild hand gestures)!!!
TEACH: (nodding seriously) Ah yes, ah yes.....

Apparently I suddenly hate women in baby language. Lately I have found myself saying things that makes absolutely no sense to me or anyone around me. I don't really know what I meant by "the women make like WAH WAH" and I am fairly certain my Teach had no idea what I meant either so we just let it go at that......

After catching up with all my favorite old dude boxers, I went to my favorite Indian market up the street to stock up on supplies. The owner Raj never remembers my name but instead calls me New York. He learned English while working on a Texan steamship from 1972-1978. He has three kids and still loves his wife after 37 years. He told me the key to a happy marriage is to tell your wife she is beautiful every day. (He's right.) As I was leaving, we had the following convo (in English)....

RAJ: WAIT! YOU WILL BUY MY MANGOES! (he declares with a raised finger and ushers me to a large stack of boxes where he delicately selects a box from the middle)
ME: (laughing) Oh really? I will?
RAJ: YES! YOU WILL BUY THIS BOX OF MANGOES, THE SWEETEST MANGOES ON THIS STREET, THE BEST MANGOES IN PARIS IN THIS BOX!!!!
ME: How much are they?
RAJ: 5.90
ME: How come the sign says 3.50?
RAJ: Oh no, those are for other mangoes. Those mangoes are BAAAD. You will NOT buy those mangoes. Very bad, VERY bad. (opens a box to show me some sad looking shriveled up fruit)
ME: Then why are you selling them?
RAJ: I am not selling them to you, YOU ONLY BUY THE BEST MANGOES!
ME: OK OK, I'll buy a box. But they BETTER BE GOOD. IF NOT.....
RAJ: Yes, yes, I know, New York comes to find me and finish it.

I laughed so hard that tears came to my eyes as I promised Raj that in my current state I wouldn't be hunting him down and that the only thing I would be finishing are his box of best mangoes (which, consequently, ARE the best mangoes I have tasted in a long time).

I so heart old dudes.

BUBBLESMACK

2010-07-20T09:09:00.021+02:00

Spent a lazy Sunday at the inlaw's house outside a sweltering Paris. They had left on vacation the day before so I did what any normal person would do the minute they left the house.....raid the cabinets for snacks (as rifling through other people's kitchens is a favorite sport of mine).
Duh.

Past the rice, beans, soup mix...blah blah boring.....through the chocolate, cookies and confiture...eh....not in the mood.....dried pasta....blech.....weird packaged sauce....ew......my eyes widened as I found a bag of what looked like....YES IT IS.....WHOOOOOOOAAAAAA......my favorite candy in the whole entire universe.....BUBBLEGUM. A GIIIIIIANT BAG OF BUBBLEGUM.
WIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNER!!
DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!!!!!

(yes, the slippers are also pilfered and are my new favs)

Trying not to get too excited because as I've learned, you never know what weird flavor French candy might come in, I let out a small yelp as I ripped open two pieces and popped them in my mouth. Chewing furiously, an oversized gummy smile came over my face.
OH MY GOD....IT'S COLA.
AND IT'S DELICIOUS.
(Spit out first two pieces).
NEXT.
(Rip open three more).
TUTTIFRUTTI.
AMAAAAAZING.
(Spit out, rip open three more)
CHERRY AND CITRUS.
AAAAAWESOME.
(Make my own mix of cola/citrus/cherry/tuttifrutti)
WHOOOOOOAAAAAA!
Chewchewchewchewchewchewsmackchewchewchewchewbubblesmackchewchewchewchew.

I have always been a gum fanatic with Bazooka cherry flavor in particular being my lifetime gum of choice. I could always roll with Bubblelicious and Double Bubble in a pinch of course, but I would inevitably return to the master of all gum, Bazooka Joe. In the third grade my mind got blown when I walked into the dime store to buy my usual handful of Bazooka and saw a new product calling out to me from the shelf....GIANT BAZOOKA GUM. "Whaaaaaaaaaaa?!!!!" my nine year old brain shrieked as I shook with excitement. 10 pieces in ONE???? It's GUM and more importantly, it's BIGGER???? IT'S BIG GUM????!!!! This oversized piece of sugar rush overcame all my senses as I yanked it eagerly from the shelf, ran to the cashier, dumped my change and proceeded to stuff the entire jackpot into my mouth.
(Insert nine year old crack high)
AAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHAAAAAAAA

I chewed that piece all day and into the night when I proceeded to go to bed with it still in mouth. At some point during the night the mangled wad fell out of my mouth and adhered itself to my face, then my nightgown, then my sheets and eventually my hair which resulted in large chunks of pigtail needing to be cut out the following morning.
Lesson learned?
I need more gum.

That same year I was doing my fleeting stint as a softball player on the presciently hipster named "Oakland Plum Sox". My father has a photo of me up to bat in mid swing during this time with gum in mouth, determined look on my face to kill the ball and the bat about two feet below where the ball actually is. Needless to say, I was never any good. My most vivid memory is during a game, standing in my out-outfield position, the snack bar perilously close to my right, my gaze is permanently fixed on it and my thoughts are HOTDOGS BAZOOKAGUM HOTDOGS BAZOOKAGUM HOTDOGS GUM HOTDOGS GUM.....when....
SMACK!!!
The ball knocks me on the head and rolls away as I realize I just added another notch to the "The Plum Sox SUCK" club.
Oops.

I spent the entire afternoon on Sunday chewing and bubble blowing my way through the entire bag of Malabar Bubble Mix while covering my body with the fake tattoos that come with each piece.

(**NOTE: ROCK ATTITUDE must be said with a French accent)

I AM famous.
Life is good.
Chewchewchewchewbubblechewchewsmackchewchewchewchewchewchew.....

CRACKED LOGIC

2010-07-16T12:08:00.029+02:00

8:02AM THIS MORNING

RING! RING!
ME: (jolted awake) Who is ringing our doorbell this early????
FB: I don't know.
RING! RING! BAMBAMBAM
ME: WTF?
FB: I don't know....
RING! RINGRINGRING! BAMBAMBAMBAM RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!
FB: J'arrive!!!!! OK OK!

We threw some clothes on and as FB answered the door and I heard him accept a package, my heart skipped a beat and I knew immediately what had just arrived.....

THE STETHOSCOPE.

It all started a few months ago after my perception of the world and how it works came to a grinding halt in 15 short seconds. Hooked up to a sonogram machine, I saw and heard for the first time a heartbeat not my own but instead from a small globular alien with a giant head and shortened limbs growing inside of me. Maybe for some, this is as natural an experience as could be, one to print out and send to everyone you know as the first glimpse of your oh so precious little cupcake.
No, I say.
Not for me.
My brain immediately went to THIS PLACE......

Straight out the window and into the world of space aliens and creatures from the beyond. I have just always assumed I was made of plastic. I have no tolerance for blood and guts and what goes on inside the body. I have no clue where any of my organs are and frankly, I have never really cared. I go about my daily business just fine, thanks. But now I hear this thumping sound over the monitors and it hits me like a Godzilla smackdown...THIS THING IS INSIDE OF YOU. AND IT COULD EAT YOU ALIVE. IN FACT, IT IS EATING YOU ALIVE RIGHT NOW.

I instantly fall in love with it.

It was at this pivotal moment I became obsessed with the daily question "is the monster still alive?". Having a creature from the lagoon living inside of you but not being able to hear or see it on a daily basis can drive a control freak like me off the deep end. Every day I meditated on "letting go"....basically, on changing my entire personality. One morning I caught FB online looking at medical gear...
ME: What's that?
FB: It's a home fetal monitor
ME: Oh nononononononononono, bad idea. BAD IDEA.
FB: Why?
ME: 'Cause I'll be that neurotic retard who ends up with it permanently taped to my belly wearing a pair of headphones all day "just to check". My OCD will LOOOOOVE THAT. No way. I'm trying to be a hippie instead and let go, ok?
FB: OK.

As the weeks progressed and I started to feel actual movement, my neuroses diminished and we had the "fun" idea last week to order a stethoscope off ebay. Why not? What a "fun activity" for us to be able to hear the heartbeat whenever we wanted to. As usual, all logic flew out the window and as FB tore open the box this morning, I jumped into bed and yelled "OK DOC! I'M READY!!" After a quick read of the directions, he set the stethoscope on my belly. After searching around for a few minutes, I felt my familiar panic starting. He can't find it, he can't find it, oh my god, oh my god. OK, calm dooooooown, he couldn't find his OWN heartbeat a few minutes ago. Relax, just relax. But with every passing minute, I felt my own heart rate rising until finally I couldn't take it anymore. "JUST GIVE IT TO ME". After a quick Google search of "hear fetal heartbeat with stethoscope" (which brings up about 100 other jackasses trying to do the same thing) and ignoring all the advice saying it is difficult to hear at home with a stethoscope , I laid down and started furiously pressing into my abdomen. Listening intensely, all I could hear was bubbles and water. Oh noohnoohnoohno....tears welling, I tore it off of me and threw it across the room. "WHY DID WE BUY THAT STUPID THING???!! I CAN'T FIND THE HEARTBEAT!! WHAT IF THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG?????" As I laid back down exasperated and in tears, I felt a sudden jerk of movements in my abdomen and the alien gave me good solid kick as if to say, "LISTEN YOU IDIOTS, LEAVE. ME. ALONE."

Oops. Sorry, alien. I'll knock next time....

ME: That definitely qualifies as most asinine waste of money EVER. WHO BUYS A STETHOSCOPE?? Why did we DO THAT??
FB: It's not a waste, I'll still use it.
ME: For what exactly?
FB: We can check its heartbeat after it's born.
ME: (rolling eyes) Yyyyyyeah, ok. Cause it'll love THAT so much, two crazed parents chasing it around with a stethoscope just to "make sure everything is ok". That sounds really productive and I'm sure its friends will love that...."Dude, why does your loser Dad keep trying to check you heart?"
FB: OK fine, I'll use it to check my OWN heartbeat.
ME: You mean the one you couldn't find five minutes ago? A little unnecessary...
FB: Why is that unnecessary?
ME: Because if you are standing there breathing and moving and thinking you need to check your heartbeat, chances are YOUR HEART IS DEFINITELY STILL BEATING.
FB: Whatever. I'm still gonna use it.
ME: Yeah ok, doc. ;)

BIGGER AND BADDER

2010-07-14T09:55:00.000+02:00

Four months ago I unexpectedly dropped off the face of the planet. We had some house-guests from NY staying with us at the time and I was exhausted and feeling pretty ill.

After hosting a particularly boozy dinner party that included this....

my jambalaya or as I call it, Four Meat Frenzy, I awoke at 3AM and raced to greet the porcelain throne. As I slowly lifted my head out of the toilet, it suddenly dawned on me......the unexplained exhaustion, the coming and going flu symptoms......DUUUUUDE. YOU ARE TOTALLY PREGNANT.
(Blank stare at the toilet lid)
AND YOU JUST DRANK A BOTTLE OF PORT.
(Blank stare at the toilet lid)
Good job.
Off to a great start there, champ.

Whatever fleeting pregnant glow I got from the surprising but good news quickly faded as I settled into what I now call my Three Months In The Dark Ages. This was me on a good day.....

My exciting Parisian life now consisted of sleep, shuffle to bathroom, throw up, cry, whine, eat watermelon, sleep, shuffle, throw up, cry, demand cottage cheese, throw up, whine, sleep.....and on and on and on....

There were a few detours along the way, i.e. the "McDonald's Incident" about two months in. During one of the rare 45 minute periods in the early afternoon where I actually felt I could stomach more than water and fruit, I had the genius idea of giving myself and the growing monster inside of me a real "treat". A real congratulatory edible gift in the form of a Big Mac and some fries. So, under the guise of going birthday gift shopping for FB, I quickly threw on my first makeup in two months and headed out the door to the golden arches across the Seine, the whole way thinking fries fries fries fries fries fries fries fries......
Entering the restaurant and making my way to the front of the line, I was suddenly overwhelmed by all the pictures and blurted out "I'll have a Big Mac menu please, LARGE....aaaaaaand also a Fish Royale....no wait, make it a Fish Royale MENU....um, also a large but um, just one soda, thanks. Uh, yeah."

What possessed me in that moment to order TWO large meals for myself is beyond me. What was a bad idea in the first place was spiraling into a disastrous idea by the second. I slunk to the back of the restaurant feeling sure all eyes were on "that fat girl eating two lunches BY HERSELF". I quickly downed the Big Mac and got rid of the box evidence of my double lunch. Scarfing down two servings of fries and topping it off with one giant piece of fake fish smothered in fake mayonnaise, I let out a burp, sat back and enjoyed exactly two minutes of satisfaction my delusional binge had brought me.

And then it started.....the burps, the unidentifiable stomach sounds....uh, I don't feel too good. Oh no....I REALLY don't feel too good. I have to get out of here. Have to get home. NOW. Hot sweats starting. Heart beating faster, gotta get home, gotta get home, get home get home get home get home....

I half ran out of the restaurant in a panic, up the stairs and outside. OK fresh air, fresh air. Across the Louvre and to the river, ok, ok, ok I can make it I can make it. Overcome by a wave of nausea, I had to stop half way and lean over the side of the bridge....NOOOOOOOOOOOO, I WILL NOT PUKE MCDONALD'S INTO THE SEINE, I WILL NOT PUKE MCDONALD'S INTO THE SEINE, I AM NOT THAT PERSON, GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF. I forced myself upright and somehow made it home without losing my cookies, crawled back into bed and spent the next five hours paying DEARLY for a two minute binge. FB IM'd me and asked where I had gone..."to buy you a present"....I left out the part about ripping my insides out with chemically treated beef and partially hydrogenated oil.
Some things are best kept to oneself.

8:30PM FB arrives home, upon opening the front door....
FB: OH MY GOD....WHAT IS THAT SMELLLLLLL???????!!!!
ME: (from the bedroom) Huh? What smell?
FB: IT SMELLS LIKE SEWAGE IN HERE.
ME: Sewage? Huh? I don't know, I think I'm a little gassy from the pregnancy...
FB: (enters the bedroom and is immediately thrown back two feet by the stench, covers his mouth) AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH, OPEN THE WINDOWS! (races to windows and throws them open) What is your DEAL???!
ME: Oh, uh ok, yeah I don't really know what's happening.....strange....
FB: What did you EAT today?
ME: Oh, you know....just the usual....watermelon, some toast, cottage cheese....
FB: That's it?
ME: Yup, that's all. Pregnancy, man. (pause) Crazy what it does, ya know?
FB: (furiously lighting matches over the bed) Are you sure you didn't crap in the bed or something?? Seriously. That smell is HORRIFIC.
ME: (lifting sheets as a new wave of stench is released) Yeah, um, I'm sure. I'm just...ya know....a little gassy....from uh...pregnancy...
FB: (fleeing from bedroom) AAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!! (from other room while opening the rest of the windows) Oh my GOD, you're blowing me out of the apartment with this.
ME: (innocently) Yeah I know, I'm reeeeeeally sorry. Stay on the couch tonight....I'll get a grip on this....it won't last long I promise....it's just....what comes with being pregnant.....

The next morning I fessed up to what really happened and vowed never again to set foot in the golden arches. After I spilled the beans, FB got a smile on his face...
FB: Guess what?
ME: What?
FB: I did the same exact thing two nights ago but I didn't tell you about it because I knew you'd be mad that I didn't bring you any.
ME: Huh????

Apparently, he was working late and went into McDonald's to get a late dinner, got overwhelmed by the pictures and ordered the exact same thing I had....a Big Mac menu and a Fish Royale.
:)
I guess we're in sync after all.

p.s. Now in the middle of the second trimester and having traded in the McDonald's for quinoa salads, I am back in the world of living laaaaaaaaarge. One baby rocker is on the way.....

photo courtesy of Naomi White

THE RESIDENT CARDS

2010-03-26T09:28:00.010+01:00

I knew that Erica and I were real friends the moment she came over and gave me a pair of her jeans that didn't fit her.
Clothes trade = automatic BFF
It was further sealed the night I got a giant care package from the states and we pored over US Weekly and InTouch Magazines together while eating peanut butter sandwiches with bags of Cheetos washed down with giant glasses of milk.
Guilty pleasures are way more fun when shared.

Now we have a folk band together called The Resident Cards and we throw a fantastically fun monthly party and bake cookies.
If you're in Paris, come say hi.
And have a chocolate chip cookie.

(photos by Elena Usacheva)

SERIOUSLY. REALLY?

2010-03-13T14:44:00.028+01:00

Yes, the English language school with the unfortunate name of Wall Street Institute has come up with yet another genius ad campaign. I really don't know what their original intention was but the first thing that comes to mind when seeing three people lined up with half baked smiles and flag tongues hanging out at me is "LICK MY BAAAAALLS".
I imagine the following conversation each time I see these ads on the metro.....

BRITS: 'Ello! You therah! Yes, you French people! Terribly sorry to distuuuurb you but we would like to inquire if you might be up for a good old fashioned ball licking, perhaps this evening? A right proper slap and tickle if you will! You see, we've brought along our cheeky little American ally heeeah and as we've most CERTAINLY been licking HER balls for AAAAGES, we thought it might indeed be a jolly good ham shank to lick some French balls or perhaps vice versa...

AMERICAN: Hi! I'm Janet! Let's lick some Wall Street balls!! Yaaaaay!!! Gimme all your money!! Yaaaaay!!! Oops you lost your house but I bought a new Ferrari yaaaaaaaayy!!! Lick my Ferrari yaaaaaaay!!

The following ad reads "How much more does he make since he speaks English? +35%!"
Wow.
Does he also make a lot more since making racist Chinese eyes?

And last but not least.....
AMERICA.
YOU.
LICK IT.

Great job, guys.
I imagine students are lined up around the block to get in on this.
(cue eye roll)

RATATOUILLE

2010-03-11T11:56:00.014+01:00

Last October, a NY friend of mine recounted a story to me that sent chills down my spine and lumps into my throat. Every city dweller's worst nightmare had actually happened to her. The story began with "I heard scratching in the wall" and ended with "and then a giant rat ran across my face while I was sleeping."
Cue vomit.
Yes.
Urban paranoia?
No.
These things ACTUALLY HAPPEN.

I left the conversation feeling terrible for her living in NY and grateful for my vermin free Parisian apartment. I thought about all my previous apartments....Los Angeles where I used to see cockroaches the size of small cars that would send me into screaming fits of madness as my two fat cats just sat and watched with feigned looks of interest.
FAT OVERFED CATS: "Oh...you didn't expect US to chase that thing, did you? Look, can you just open another can of Sheba please cause your screaming is REEEEALLY making us hungry."

New York where my band rehearsal space was on a street we called Rat Alley because everyday at dusk like some horror film, the vacant lots on the street would fill with a swarming mass of giant rats, an ocean of vermin playing among trash cans and broken children's toys. Terrorized by the horrific squeeking sounds I pretended NOT to hear, I used to sprint to rehearsal down the middle of the street as though I was running from my death.

New York where the lack of bug size was made up for in sheer numbers when each summer rolled around and the 24 hour cockroach party would kick into full swing in my kitchen and where the occasional mice passing through were met with the same look of disdain from my lazy cats.
FAT OVERFED CATS: "Hey Dana, I think I just saw something scurrying all over the apartment. I don't really know what you are doing screaming with that broom but I'm just gonna sit here and squint at it while I lick my ass, ok?...sigh....this is soooooo boring.....oh hey, do you have anymore of those Friskies treats?"

Ahhhhhh, the good 'ole days. How very lucky I am here in Paris, living on the 7th and last floor to have never seen anything close to vermin in my living quarters, not even a cockroach. Nothing. I don't have cats anymore but it's ok because there's nothing to fake chase anyway.

So with that, I shrugged off her story along with my nightmares of Rat Alley and went to bed. The next night I had a friend over to play some music. As she opened the front door to leave, we both saw it at the same time. Something black came scurrying inside and into my kitchen. Praying it was just my overactive imagination, I was utterly shattered to see my friend's face curl into a "wow, that is really gross" grimace...meaning.....it was real. This was happening.
Cue jump onto chair followed by screams of "FB!!!! FB!!!!!! A RAT!!! A RAAAAAAAT!!!!!! KILLLLLL IIIIIT! OH MY GOOOOOOOOD!!!!!"
My friend calmly looked at me hysterical on the chair and merely said "aw, that's so cute. You're doing the cliché jump on the chair thing. OK, I'm going home, byeeee!"
Exit.

While I stood on the chair hyperventilating and crying and marveling at how my NY friend's story was seemingly just a precursor to my own horror, FB tried to root out the....THING. He couldn't find it and I quickly realized that it was not going to die tonight. It was going to live. In my apartment. Somewhere. And that sleeping on top of a chair was not an option for me. I'd have to eventually make my way to our bed.
Our futon bed.
ON THE FLOOR.
Where we sleep eye to eye with whatever crawls around ON THE FLOOR.
Oh God, I wish I had a Xanax.

I made it through the night and the next few nights without seeing any more signs of...the THING. I refused to call it a rat, instead trying to picture a little black mouse with cute eyes and who talks and says cute little things in a French accent like "si'l te plaît, may I have a bit of fromage?" When in doubt, delusion is the place to go. We mouse-proofed our kitchen the best we could and tried to figure out where this little French fellow came from. Reverting to my knack for fantasy storylines, I decided I knew EXACTLY where he came from. We had just been in the countryside and had brought back with us a giant box of apples picked directly from the field, loaded into the box and packed into the car to bring back to Paris.
THAT'S IT!!! It's a little field mouse!! Of course!!!! My very own little Ratatouille, probably scared, alone and wondering why there is a 5 foot 9 monster with a broom screaming "DIEEEEE!!! DIEEEEE!!!!" at him. Maybe he even plays a little country mouse banjo at night to remember his time in the fields.
I suddenly felt sorry for it.
And with that, I left for NY on a three week trip with not a thought about mice.

FB is a friend of the vermin. He grew up in the country and they don't bother him in the slightest. When I first met him, he had a family of mice living with him that he had named things like Newton and Matilda. He got rid of the mice only after I refused to come over anymore. So it should come as no surprise on my return from NY, he announced "oh....uh.....so.....the little mouse is still with us, I've seen it a few times and it seems to really like your music studio area." OK. OK. ENOUGH. Listen, you little poor country mouse. I KNOW you must be terrorized but I am NOT sharing an apartment with you and my keyboard is NOT A MOUSE LITTERBOX so CUT THE CRAP. Just pack your shit and GO, ok? GO.

I went into a cleaning frenzy, upending every corner of my apartment and finally I found it....his food stash. Under my stereo speaker. He had been picking berries off a flower arrangement in the apartment and had stacked them all very neatly in little piles. Eaten, half eaten, and ready to eat. Hey, at least he is organized. After dumping all the berries in the trash and vacuuming every corner as loudly as possible, I pronounced to the mouse "MAMA IS BACK AND MAMA DOESN'T LIKE MICE OK? TIME TO MOVE OUT. NOW."

And I never saw him again. I occasionally pictured little country mouse with his little kerchief tied to the end of his little stick, making his way through Paris after being thrown out by a cold and heartless me. Maybe he was playing a tiny violin on the subway somewhere and had made new friends. At any rate, he was out of my apartment and I had my own cute little Ratatouille story. Oh ho ho ho, how absolutely adoooooooorable!

Last week I was in Burgundy spending a week with my mother in law. As I wandered through the field where my little Ratatouille used to live, I sighed and said "I'm sorry little one for taking you away from your home. I hope you are ok wherever you are." I phoned FB that night. At the end of our conversation, he cleared his throat and said...
FB: Um, I have some bad news.
ME: WHAT???
FB: Well....it seems as though....well....I've seen another mouse.
ME: WHAAAAAAAAAAT?????WHAAAAAAAAAAAT????!!!!
FB: Yyyyyeah, he was in the kitchen last night. A very cute little brown one and he looked so scared and....
ME: WHAAAAAAAAAT????WHAAAAAAAAAAT?!!!!!!!
FB: Look, calm down, I'm just as upset as you are about this and..
ME: YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW UPSET FEELS!!! WHY IS IT EVERY TIME I LEAVE OUR FRICKIN' APARTMENT THE VERMIN MOVE IN? WHAT DID YOU DOOOOOO, SEND OUT INVITES FOR ANOTHER MOUSE PARTY???
FB: ME? I didn't DO ANYTHING!! We have mice, OK? I will deal.
ME: KILL IT. KILL IT NOW. KILL EVERYTHING.
FB: Yeah, ok. I'll kill everything.

My delusional field mouse story came crashing to a grinding halt when I told my mother in law about it and she simply replied "oh, no, that wasn't a field mouse, a field mouse doesn't eat apples like that". But.....but.....

Upon return to Paris, I marched into my apartment and yelled to any vermin within a half mile earshot.
GET.
OUT.
OF MY SIGHT.
You DO NOT want to meet me.
EVER.
I HATE YOU and I will KILL YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY, OK??
ARE. WE. CLEEEEEAR?

It seemed to go ok for a few days until night before last when I was sitting on the couch and I heard a noise in the kitchen. My blood ran cold, my heart stopped and my eyes widened like saucers as I saw something fly across the room and into the wall behind the radiator.
Pick up phone.
Dial FB.
"Get home. NOW. I am going to DIE."

We searched in vain. No mouse. Nothing. Our traps are empty but my heart is full of anguish and rage. The most delusional story can't save me now. In bed last night I awoke at 3AM to the sounds of scratching. I thought of my friend in NY whose story began with "I heard scratching in the wall".

I know how this story ends.
And it's not good.

IT NEVER ENDS

2010-02-19T17:17:00.010+01:00

2 years and some change later.....I've made a rule for myself to get over my phone calls in French fear so I have made myself pick up EVERY phone call. Every last one. Known number or not. Doesn't matter. Face the fear. ROCK the fear.

TODAY
5:21PM

Cell phone rings.
I look.
Private number calling.
Gulp.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
Crap.
Crap.
OK, OK OKOKOKOKOKOKOK.
DO IT.
PICK IT UP.
YOU CAN HANDLE THIS.

Feeling particularly ballsy from my triumphant return to my French Savate school today.....I OOOOOOOWN THIS LOCKER ROOM! RAAAAARRRGH!

......I pick up the phone and for some reason decide to go with an exaggerated shrill American accent about two registers above my normal voice...
"HEELLO?"
Silence.
"HEEEEEEELLOOOOO????? HEEEEEEEELLLLLOOOOOO?????!!!!"
Silence.
I realize that I just screamed into the phone which would be startling no matter what country or language this was in when I hear a voice clearing and a quiet woman's voice says...
"Ah, bonjour Madame, je....."
And that's about as far as I got before my listening skills clicked to the OFF position, my conversational French really kicked in as I interrupted her by shrieking in English "I DON'T KNOW! I'M SORRY I DON'T KNOOOOOOOOW!!!"

Dial tone.
She hung up.
Gee, I wonder why.
Sure hope that wasn't important.
Sigh.
Two more points for team IDIOT.

GREY

2010-02-02T15:30:00.020+01:00

February is the best month ever in Paris.

WHAT? WHYYYYYY?, you might ask....it's cold, rainy, snowy, wet, and the days last roughly 3 hours....what about the beautiful springtime breezes and the sunshine and the flowers and the little children who laugh and frolic in the green, green parks? Or the early fall with the days still long and the leaves begin to shed their green for golden shades of red and orange while you sit in a bustling café with a steaming hot chocolate carefully mulling over your book of poetry...and oh, isn't it WOOOOONDERFUL to be in PAAAAAAAAAARIS?

No, it's not.
I prefer February. Why? Because I live on the beaten path of tourists in the center of the number one tourist destination in the world. In fact, the street I live on may as well be called BEATEN PATH and I guarantee if they opened a TGIF on it, it would THRIVE. Beginning in early spring, my neighborhood is descended upon by the 15.6 MILLION annual visitors per year (World Tourism Organization) and does not let up at ALL until January when my spirits rise as it fizzles out mid month. Then comes the month I have been waiting for all year. My precious, beautiful, adored month.....FEBRUARY! YESSSSSSSS.....

I can walk along the Seine without meeting anyone and play pretend it's olden times, like, before 1950....sometimes I try and pretend it's WAY OLDEN TIMES and what shoes would I wear if it was like, 1700 something and would I smell bad? And how would I be moisturizing? Could I drink the Seine then? Would I still be tall with teeth? Would I walk like THIS or like THAT...the possibilities are endless when no is around....

The tourist boats are empty....

I can walk the five minutes to the Louvre and enjoy the art minus the throngs of commentators.....

But mostly I like the low grey sky that rolls in and out like a never-ending ocean. It makes me feel dark, pensive and somewhat dangerous. Then the city belongs to me in my own pretend olden times way, with my own pretend dagger in my own pretend shawl as I pretend dance along a very real river.

TWITTER THIS

2010-01-21T14:54:00.007+01:00

I got sucked reluctantly into technology by having a band and a blog.
I actually hate my cell phone.
I hate iphones.
I hated Myspace then I hated Facebook (although I keep checking it).
But most of all, I despise Twitter.
Twitter is the Grandaddy of useless.
I never understood the point of telling the universe when your last crap was (although isn't that what I'm doing here? Busted.) Seems to me the world is too busy updating what it is they are doing instead of actually DOING SOMETHING without looking at a computer screen or small gadget while doing so.

But then I went on Twitter and found something I never expected in the sea of inane 140 character life updates and spelling mistakes........
THE MOST INCREDIBLE LYRICS I COULD EVER HOPE FOR.

So, my Twitter song series was born......

BAND CAMP

2010-01-08T15:39:00.009+01:00

Band camp in Paris reopened yesterday with the arrival of Matt, my bandmate from Brooklyn and the other half of The Sobs, our folk-punk duo. I love hosting band camp. It's become clear to me that my dream life is to have a music venue of my own in Paris where musicians can stay over and where I can throw parties all the time.
The Musician Madame.
I'm dreaming it.
I will be it.

It's no secret that most musicians are crackheads. While in NY the last time, I gave Matt some new white t-shirts to print up some Sobs shirts to sell here. As I was ironing them before our show last night, I pulled out the following pit stained gem....

"Um...Matt?"
"Yeah?"
"What's this?"
"Oh....one of the shirts you gave me got messed up so I replaced it with one of my own."
"And you actually think we could sell this dirty, wadded up old-ass shirt of yours that smells like B.O.?"
"I dunno."

Ladies? Any takers? Real live pit stained shirt from a real live touring musician. Highest bidder can own this beauty.

We're off tomorrow for three concerts in Brussels with our dear friend Erica Buettner. Band camp goes on the road to the land of the Belgian waffles and Belgian beer! We'll be back in Paris for another concert 14 janvier.

All aboard campers! Use your buddy system.... :)

TWO YEARS OF GREAT PROGRESS

2010-01-04T14:51:00.019+01:00

TODAY.
Via Gchat...

ME: I'm shitting my pants here.
FB: Why? What's going on?
ME: OK so here's the deal...hold on...I have to stop typing...
FB: Why? (pause) HELLO?
ME: OK I'm back. You HAVE NO IDEA. The woman from 5 1/2 (downstairs apartment) is outside our front door talking to some guy and all I could pick up was...renters.....problems....oh la la..then..OH LA LA again...REALLY LOUD....they're talking about me, I KNOW THEY ARE TALKING ABOUT ME!
FB: Don't worry about it, we are legitimate renters there with a contract, stick your nose out and ask what's going on if you want to..
ME: STICK MY NOSE OUT??? WHAT???? (typed from under covers in the bedroom after manic rush to turn off all music, nosedive into bed to pretend no one is home) It's just THAT EASY for YOU. I'm not gonna STICK MY NOSE OUT so they can talk at me and glare at me and hate me and speak French to me that I WON'T UNDERSTAND. Do you have ANY IDEA of what foreign terror feels like??? ANY IDEA??? NO. NONE. You have no understanding of terror at ALL.
FB: OOOOOOOK....just ignore them and I'll deal with it if it gets to that level.
ME: It's AT THAT LEVEL. We have to get out of here.
FB: Really.
ME: Yes! They are making war every time they pull this shit on me. Standing complaining outside my front door, making me all paranoid, upsetting my stomach, I can't even go into my own kitchen now. We have to get out.
FB: Ok, I have to get back to work.
ME: Yeah, yeah....I'll see you later if they haven't torn our door down to get at me...

December 27th marked my two year anniversary in Paris and I'd like to think the foreigner terror has subsided but all it takes is some strangers outside my front door to send me right back to Anne Frank's house.
Sigh.

I was in Bourgogne with my French family over the holidays so on December 27th to celebrate the honorary occasion of my two years in France, I decided to do something that has terrified me too much to try since I arrived. I would enter their well worn French kitchen where many a perfectly cooked French meal has been prepared for me....and I would cook for my French family for the very first time.
On the menu?
Chocolate chip cookies.
American deliiiiiiciousness.
Simple YET complex.
Chewy AND crunchy.
I've made these a million times in the US of A.
Easy breezy.
Until the cookie chain quickly started unraveling....

It started when I forgot to buy the key ingredient before I left Paris...packed brown sugar. Eh, whatever, I thought. I'll just use the regular sugar and they'll be cakey or whatever. It'll be FIIIIIINE.

As I entered the kitchen, I asked my mother-in-law for some flour. I was handed a package and my heart dropped...it wasn't the right kind of flour....you know, the white Gold Medal stuff I never ever thought about when buying. This is like....yellow stuff and like, a totally different texture.....it dawns on me suddenly that I have no internet here to research this yellow substance and now my aunt is in the kitchen asking me what she can do and how she would like a cookie lesson from me and now I am starting to sweat and my throat is closing and I'm gonna freak out in just a couple seconds and I wish I never offered to do this and....PULL IT TOGETHER. YOU HAVE WATCHED TOP CHEF, OK? YOU WATCH TOP CHEF. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO.
MAKE IT.
FUCKING.
WORK.

Controlling my breath, I put my aunt to work on chopping some fresh walnuts from the tree in the yard, that should take her a little while so I can figure out what to do with this new flour. Change is bad. Change is bad.

Blow two comes swiftly. To the face. The vanilla extract I thought I saw there is actually coffee syrup. Omg...omg....okokokokokokokokok...substitute it or not? Substitute it or not? Coffee cookies? Well, it's still in the same syrup family but....but....make a decision make a decision.....yes, no, ok yes...but maybe the vanilla extract does something scientifically to the batter that you don't know about because now it's really clear that YOU DON'T ACTUALLY KNOW HOW TO COOK, JUST HOW TO READ A STUPID RECIPE AND NOW YOU ARE TOTALLY FUCKED AND WHY DID YOU EVEN TRY THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE THIS IS SO STUPID SO STUPID.....PULL! IT! TOGETHER!
OKOKOKOKOKOK deferring decision, deferring decision, asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness, strength not weakness...

Interrupting the card game in the other room as inconspicuously as possible (as in, not making eye contact with anyone seated), I quietly ask my MIL in French
"Uh....yes...sorry....but I see this bottle, I think vanilla but now I taste coffee. It's not vanilla and I..."
WHOOSH! She's up faster than I can finish my sentence and into the pantry. She whips through the spices and upon exiting the pantry she apologizes saying she has no vanilla when my aunt bursts out "J'ai de la vanille dans mon sac!" with triumphant conviction and WHOOSH! out she goes and up the stairs to get the vanilla.
From her bag.
Where she apparently keeps a spice rack.
Huh.
WHO CARRIES VANILLA IN THEIR PURSE??? Apparently, French women do. I suddenly have the vision of what's in French purses everywhere....foie gras, vanilla, a wheel of cheese, sprigs of rosemary and thyme, white wine vinegar, leeks....

Back she comes in a jiffy with some handwrapped fresh vanilla beans.
Handing them to me, she looks proud for providing a missing ingredient as I swallow hard and pretend I know what to do next. 'Cause it's not syrup.
It's the bean.
Not syrup.
Bean.
So.....um.....(putting it on counter and fake cutting it open while I try and decide what to do next......yyyyyyyyeah....uh......uh.......YOU ARE A TOTAL SHAM OF A COOK, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO USE A REAL VANILLA BEAN, YOU ONLY KNOW A BOTTLE MARKED SYRUP FROM THE GROCERY STORE YOU IDIOT AND NOW YOU ARE FAKE CHOPPING?? WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOING???....ok think think.....I got nothing here. Nothin'. I stop fake chopping and slink into the card game again where my MIL has resumed her cardplaying...."um....sorry...haha....um....yes so....I could see you in kitchen?" WHOOSH! She herds me into the kitchen before I can stutter out "so....um....do you maybe have that thing you grate things with?" She gently takes the bean and shows me how to cut it in half and scrape some out.
Oh.
Yeah.
I KNEW THAT.
YOU KNEW THAT!
I swallow my pride and say "so....um....how much do you think?"
MIL: Oh, about a spoon will do, it's stronger than syrup.
ME: (bright red and half smile) Of course..thanks.
GREAT JOB.
YOU'RE MAKING AN AMAZING CULINARY IMPRESSION.

As I mixed all of this into a batter, it became crystal clear I had one giant, extraordinarily heavy chunk of a hot mess. Frantically, I poured the rest of the flour in which just made it worse and worse.
OK.
Screw it....just throw it on the cookie sheet and bake it, it'll be FIIIIIIIIINE.

I wanted to die when I took them out of the oven....crawl up into a corner and just DIE. Instead of the delicious goodness I planned, THIS is what came out....

I walked into the card game and announced (a little too dramatically) that the cookies were horrible, all the ingredients weren't what I planned and I am terribly terribly sorry but I am throwing it all out and just forget I ever said anything about cooking. "MAIS NON!" cried my aunt and MIL, "it can't be THAT bad!" I knew in my heart it WAS that bad but I couldn't let them down so I skulked back into the kitchen alone and tried a second batch, this time turning the oven down, putting very small balls of dough on the sheet and sticking a half walnut on top of each one out of sheer desperation.
They were still not very good but at least they were edible.
"Delicious!" cried my father-in-law.
"So good!" cried my aunt and mother-in-law.
"I love your cookies!" cried my 6 year old nephew.

I didn't believe them but they did eat the entire plate.
That night, I pushed my "Top Chef Fails Miserably" aside and made dinner for the whole family. Butternut Squash Risotto which I have made a million times in France and for which I brought every ingredient with me, including a sprig of fresh sage.
From my purse.

Bonne anniversaire to me.
Maybe I am more French than I think.
:)

TOURIST!

2009-12-15T17:11:00.013+01:00

I just got back from a hectic New York visit where, for the first time, I felt like a tourist. I don't know....maybe it was the guy who pushed me and yelled "GODDAMN TOURISTS!" but I have never felt like such a stranger in my former home. As I got off the bus and walked down 8th Ave. pushed from all sides, I couldn't help but think "maaaaan, you people need to CHILLLLAAAAAAX". For reals. Have some wine and a baguette, take a load off. I stood in Times Square looking up at the 42nd floor of the building I used to work in and it feels like it was a different person who worked there. One who doesn't eat sticks of butter and giant bowls of fromage blanc.

I did manage to do all my favorite things while there.....

THE SPAAAAAAAAA

THE MAAAAAAAALL

Teaching my nieces that louder is ALWAYS BETTER....

But in the end, I got back on a plane, thought "I'm going home" and smiled as I thought of Paris and my life here. It's taken two years but I'm finally starting to call it home. Chillaaaaaaaaaaaaaax, man. You're back in Fraaaaaance.

MILESTONE

2009-10-09T13:10:00.004+02:00

I did a radio interview in French this week on Radio Campus Paris.
A real, live interview on the radio with French people and French questions and French answers from me. As I was walking to the station hyperventilating, I just decided to LET IT GO and have FUN. It's so tiring be an anxiety ridden person all the time. Sigh. It helped that the folks at Les Disques Bien were reeeeeally nice and fun. You can listen to the program in it's entirety here....EUPHONIE #34

MAGICAL UNICORN NINJAS AT NIGHT

2009-09-26T17:22:00.003+02:00

This is a rock opera ode to homesickness written in two hours shortly after my arrival in France. It took a year for my friends to convince me to post it.
In the spirit of spreading the good word that everyone can, in fact, have magic giant balls of glory, I present to you Magical Unicorn Ninjas At Night, a rock opera in 6:36.

Text written in 14 minutes of inspired greatness by Corey Tatarczuk, my partner in comic crime.

KEEPIN' IT REAL.

2009-09-16T11:03:00.010+02:00

I am playing a real concert here in Paris at La Maroquinerie on October 14th. By "real", I mean a place where the sound system includes more than one crappy PA system, some broken amps and a bored dick for brains sound guy, holds more than four people comfortably, has an actual stage and most importantly, PAYS you. In cash money. Not warm beer. Yes, it's all the rage here to pay you with two small half glasses of warm beer. You brought forty people to our club who drank all night and made us a lot of money? Here's a nice warm shot glass of piss beer, thanks for letting us rip you off, now get out. It's like if I had my old desk job and my boss suddenly came in and told me I would now be paid with two small glasses of toilet water straight out of the bathroom, hope that's ok, now go jump off a cliff.
Not anymore....because this morning I was asked by the booker for the real club to provide my hospitality rider (my list of demands for the concert). My first thought is "2 lbs. of cheddar cheese and a can of Beefaroni. Hot. Out of the can."

I flash back to my days as a P.A. (Production Assistant) in live television concerts. I once was sent to Bed, Bath and Beyond on a frantic fetch for white candles for Jennifer Lopez's trailer because apparently everything in the trailer had to be white and the green candles in there would just not do. Jenny From The Block. Keeping it real. How, exactly, do people end up in that special crazytimes place where reality takes a nosedive? I also watched one of the tour managers for Def Leppard light into a woman in the talent department (who was 8 months pregnant at the time) over the cheese plate on their provided private jet. Standing there watching a grown man yell his head off at a tiny, 5 foot tall pregnant woman over a cheese plate made me think that yes, in fact, the human race will eventually be wiped off the planet.

But right now I am thinking what I WOULD actually like in my rider.
Me.
Dana From The Block.

2 pounds YELLOW farm fresh English cheddar cheese
1 can Beefaroni, hot, out the can
1 fork, shiny and silver, NO plastic
1 box Premium brand saltines
2 bags sour cola bottles candy
1 EXTRA large bag sour skittles (1 lb. or higher)
1 lb. ground chuck roast shaped into the letter D
1 D shaped bun (NO SEEDS)
1 plate of fixins (NO MAYONAISE)
1 Weber Smoker Mountain Cooker grill
1 can Crazy Uncle Jester's Brush Fire BBQ sauce
4 cans COLD Cel-Ray soda
4 packs Dentyne Ice Vanilla Chill gum
3 bags CRUNCHY cheetos (NO PUFFS)
1/2 lb. Dean's French Onion Dip
9 bags Lay's Potato chips

And on and on and on and on......I think everyone should write up their own rider. If you need inspiration, click HERE.

RUMBLE IN THE GARDEN

2009-09-10T09:33:00.006+02:00

I witnessed something yesterday that I never in a million BILLION years thought I would ever see in Paris, ESPECIALLY in the very serene, very upscale and very calm Jardin du Luxembourg.
There was a good old-fashioned catfight between two middle-aged women.

I was quietly sitting in a chair meditating on how to be more successful by one of the many circular patches of grass that you can look at but never ever dream of actually walking on (this outdated concept of garden eludes me...what's the point of grass if you can't roll in it?). A group of 10 year old boys were running around the circular path with fake guns, shooting at each other, playing a game. Four mothers stood by watching them and directing the game. A woman of about 50 sat in a chair near me, reading the paper. The game went on for about ten minutes or so and I was enjoying watching the freedom of kids just playing. The reading woman near me was clearly not as the boys kept ducking behind her chair and shooting their guns from behind it which made a CLACK CLACK CLACK sound. Suddenly, without any warning, the woman reaches behind her chair, stands up, grabs the boy's gun out of his hand, screams at him and throws the gun into the trees. The boys all stopped in front of her and yelled back.
That's when she did the unthinkable.
She raised her hand and slapped the boy across the face.
Hard.
OH NO SHE DIDN'T.

Oh yes, she DID.
She slapped another woman's kid. I sat up in my chair with a start and before I could even process what just happened, the Four Mamas Gang was already on the move and halfway across the forbidden grass. Like tigresses protecting their young, I have never EVER seen French women move so fast and with such intent. In a khaki pants pack, they moved as one and were up in Slappy's face before I could even blink an eye. In mere seconds, one of the mothers already had all the boys herded back over the grass and the other three Mothers had Slappy encircled. Animals are animals. You mess with the kids, you're gonna feel Mama's TEETH.
For REALS, yo.

Then the screaming began. Back and forth, back and forth. I thought for sure it would end at that and dissolve into the usual French argument for an hour, so I settled back into my chair.....but then Slappy kicked it up ANOTHER notch.
She raised her hand AGAIN and slapped the MOM.
Even harder.
OH NO SHE DIDN'T.

Oh yes, she DID.
All hell broke loose as the Mom completely lost it and grabbed Slappy's hair with a vengeance. Slappy grabbed back and for a moment, they were locked in a battle of the hair grip. In a matter of seconds, these two women had gone from calm Parisians to two shrieking, clawing, punching banshees at each others' throats. The two other members of the Four Mamas wrenched the now flailing Mom out of Slappy's grip and the three of them shot back across the grass, again, moving as one giant khaki pant. And then Slappy did the MOST surprising thing to me. She sat back down calmly, opened her paper back up and simply continued reading. I sat in shock, staring at her and wondering how she could have raised such hell and then just calmly sit back down as though she hadn't just bitchslapped a kid and tried to rip the Mom's face off.
Cultural difference or just a case of the crazies?
I'm not really sure.....

Five minutes later, the Four Mamas returned with about 15 guards from the garden who honestly looked a little bewildered by the whole situation. Then things took their expected and natural French course with a lengthy discussion between all parties that lasted at least the 32 more minutes I stayed and probably long after I left.

But for one moment there, I saw a little bit of New York....more walk and less talk.
Nice job, France.

THE WANDER

2009-09-09T11:04:00.026+02:00

Yesterday I went on a hunt for a cheap blanket. I know there is a store somewhere near Opera that I have been to with my mother-in-law when I first arrived. I thought it started with a C or something. After fruitlessly searching the internets for things like "sheets and cheap blankets Paris" "sheeterie Paris not Hilton but France and starts with C and sells cheap blankets" and finding nothing, I decided to just go to Opera and hunt for the store. I figured I could just find it if I wandered enough. It was a beautiful sunny day so at noon I set off to wander across the river, past Le Louvre and into the 1st arrondissement. I never really wandered through there but one thing I noticed right off the bat is that people in the 1st seem to have jobs.

Huh.

Jobs, like, where you go to a sleek office somewhere and meet with people and make calls and do stuff. I catch a glimpse of myself in a window......purple pants, crappy oversized t-shirt, sweaty face and eyeliner running down/raccoon eyes. "I used to have a job." I proudly say out loud to no one in particular. A group of suits and click clacky heels with tailored jackets push past me. "I used to have a job!" I say louder, this time to their backs as they continue walking briskly down the busy street, the smoke from their cigarettes trailing behind.

I suddenly think back to exactly two years ago when I had my corporate job working for Viacom in a skyscraper in midtown Manhattan. I used to wear click clacky heels when I wanted to feel like an important, intelligent and sophisticated hot chick executive (who might actually be a spy) on the corporate ladder rise in New York City...THE city. I had an office with a view of Central Park. I enjoyed ending calls with phrases like "Going forward, I think we should....blah blabbity blah blah blah" or my particular favorite "The deadline? How about YESTERDAY?" Click. I used to have my own phone extension with real numbers. And my "I'm REALLY busy" voice. When I was promoted to manager status, I spent a week passing out my very first ever official business cards to all my friends and family.
"Here, take one."
"Um, I actually already know your name and number and where you work..."
"Yeah but this has my job title on it too. Seriously, just take one, you never know."
"You never know what exactly? I HAVE your number AND your cell phone. Remember? We've been friends for 8 years."
"Sigh. Look, just TAKE ONE OK? You NEVER KNOW. Jesus CHRIST!"
"OK, OK, I'll take one!"

I used to shuffle papers and stamp stuff. I used to sit in bi-coastal video conferences and give status reports and updates while checking the video screen to make sure I looked hot and adjust my hair accordingly.

How life changes. Now I work freelance from home, my list of TO DOs includes "TAKE SHOWER" and on my off time I go look for cheap blankets in unknown stores in a fancy part of a fancy town with a fancy language I don't really understand.

An hour later and still no blanket store. I pass the fancy Au Printemps department store and stare at the model on the sign who seems to me to say "Youuuuuuu. Oui, yoooooooooou. You veel never ever haves eenough moooneeey for thees store. Ever. Oh, andz also, vee haaaate youuuuuu." (Apparently she is of both German and French descent)

I turn around and see the magic sign.....C & A.
YES.

C&A is one of my preferred stores in Paris. I don't know what the letters actually stand for but I call it Cashstrapped & Asstastic because it is Walmart level cheap and the only people I ever see in it are the big girls.
My peoples.
I reluctantly pull myself away from the $7.99 sweater rack that I am furiously leafing through like a crack addict gone wild, wipe off the drool and make myself walk out the door. I am on a MISSION to find the cheap blanket store which still eludes me, like a ghost......a cheap blanketed ghost.

I walk back down the street and pass the fancy Galeries Lafayette pausing for a moment to stop and look at the 9 million dollar tranny shoe display I could have made myself with some Payless heels, a bedazzler and some glue. NOTE TO SELF: Halloween costume idea: Tranny Dorothy.

Lost, tired, hungry and patience gone, I give up my hunt for the mystery store and walk back home. On my way, I stop in my tracks when I see a sign for Bagel's Café. In the display are a variety of "New York" themed bagel sandwiches which include "real American recipes" such as sliced chicken, pickles, tomato, cream cheese AND cheddar cheese. All on one of Bagel's bagels.
While I have never in my life seen this particular combo of ingredients except for here, at Bagel's place, I decide to go for it.
Verdict: I may not have found the cheap blanket store that I was looking for but I did find out, once again, that Cheddar cheese actually DOES in fact make EVERYTHING better.

6:28AM this morning
Eyes shoot open, I stare at the ceiling for a minute before turning and poking FB awake.
FB: What is it?
ME: I need to be more successful.
FB: Huh? What are you talking about?
ME: Me. I need to be more successful.
FB: (silence) You already are successful. What time is it?
ME: 6:28. I need to be MORE successful.
FB: OK...be more successful, sure, sounds great. Where is this coming from?
ME: (pause a moment to think) The 1st. It's coming from the 1st.

TUNISIAN COLON CLEANSE

2009-09-03T16:52:00.014+02:00

I recently traveled to Tunisia with FB and two other biologists. I like traveling with the scientists through the Sahara desert. They always know where on the GPS we are, they have maps taped to the inside of the car and they can calculate exactly how much gas will be needed and how much air conditioning we can use between any given points. They know what to do in case of a snake bite or heatstroke and they have seemingly thought out every possible scenario and have an action plan attached to each.

What they DON'T do, however, is tell you when you look like a freak religious missionary sent to recolonize North Africa.

Yes. I apparently traveled through Tunisia dressed as a pale, tightwad Quaker. Given it's a Muslim country where I hardly saw any women out on the streets, I was trying to NOT call attention to myself. Good job. Only thing missing is a giant sign around my neck that says I AM WHITE. REALLY. REALLY. WHITE.

As usual, I was nervous when I bought my ticket....hmmmm....the Sahara desert in the summer? 118 degrees in the shade? Uh.....ok. Following three hyper boys around? Uh....ok.

Hilights of the trip include almost dying twice while 4 x 4ing through the dunes of the Sahara desert. Dude, I thought the desert was flat. Yeah, well, it's not. There are these big things you see called DUNES that if I had spent more than a millisecond reading up on it or even just thinking about it, I would have KNOWN that. I also thought I could just kind of figure out how to drive a 4 x 4 with no instruction. Well, I can't. As the two guides and three scientists sped off across the dunes, I was left in the dust (literally). Here's a tip: You have to ACCELERATE up a sand dune or the 4 x 4 will stop moving and tilt back on you and you will fall off and then you will cry and then you will have a panic attack and then the guides will come back to get you and will laugh at you as you wipe sand and tears off your face while telling them what a beautiful country they have.

Just a tip.

I fared only slightly better with the camel, which I gripped with terror as though hanging from a cliff. FB rode behind me and kept calling out "um, are you sure you are on top of the camel?"
"YES!! I am FINE, OK???? My GOD!!! Just....just.....DON'T FRICKIN' TALK TO ME! I am CONCENTRATING!!!!"

Then there was the sun. The hot, burning, torturous sun. I admit, I was a fanatic with the sunscreen and went through 4 bottles of 70+. The scientists got pretty tired of my crazed Quaker mother reminders "You need more sunscreen. Here. Put this on. No...put MORE on. PUT IT ON! Seriously. I am SERIOUS. YOU COULD FUCKING DIE HERE, OK? From the sun. You could DIE."

But this is finally what did me in.....

The oasis. You magical deadly mirage of intestinal destruction. There were fig trees, palm trees, peach trees and lots and lots of waaaaaater. The scientists ate one piece of fruit from the trees. I got biblical and ate 5. Because I'm American and more is always better. I stood under the waterfalls and then gorged myself in the swimming hole. For one brief second, a distant thought passed through the back depths of my mind about maybe having heard somewhere that maybe the water or fruit might possibly have something like micro...microsomething...like, organisms or like, foreign something.....or bacterias or...I don't know. Whatever. I'm thirsty and this fruit tastes AAAAAAAWESOME.

24 hours later I'm in a near coma in a bed somewhere with my guts spilling out and a 102 fever. FB asks if I want to go to a hospital.
"HERE????IN TUNISIA???? ARE YOU INSANE??!!!! I AM GETTING ON THAT FLIGHT BACK TO FRANCE TOMORROW IF IT KILLS ME." And kill me it nearly did. I had to pull out every ninja bone in my body to get back to France without losing it. For eight hours I chanted one sentence in my head over and over "You are Bruce Lee. You are ninja. You are Bruce Lee....ninja....Bruce Lee...ninja....."

One week later and 14 pounds lighter, I finally pulled myself off the bathroom floor.

Back in Paris, the French doctor I saw in the tropical disease clinic said it best when he saw me...."I thought Americans were smarter about these things than you were."

Uh....yeah. Guess not.

DIAM'S = A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND

2009-08-09T11:09:00.004+02:00

This may come as a shock, but I am not often associated with two genres of music....rap and opera. I know, I know it's surprising but given my general whiteness, my punk rock background and my gangly tall stature, people just don't usually see my inner bling. Or my inner high C.
But they are there alright.
WORD.

A musician acquaintance of mine randomly called me a few days ago to ask if I would be interested in singing some opera/choir type music for Diam's, a female French rap artist. Not knowing who Diam's is, I said "yeah sure...I'm no opera singer but I can certainly fake it." :)
You know, cause I'm SO hip hop opera and everything.

I told FB about it...

ME: Yeah, so I have a gig on Saturday singing opera for someone named Diam's or Diamonds or something like that.
FB: (pause) NO WAY.
ME: Yes way, why?
FB: Do you know who she is????!!
ME: Um, a rapper?
FB: Dude, she is REALLY famous here. It's like going to sing for Missy Elliot. That's amazing, I'm telling the lab right now, they're gonna freak OUT. YOU singing for Diam's HA! Wait....you're singing opera??
ME: Um, YEEEESSS. I can TOTALLY sing opera.

I practiced my fake operatic trills all morning in the shower followed by a hip hop "yyyeeeh yeeeeeeaaahhh".
"MEEE MAAAAY MIIIII MOOOOOH MOOOOOO...yyyyeah, yyyyyyeah"
"AAAAHHHHHH OOOOOHHHHHH EEEEEEE.....yyyyyeah, yyyyyyyeah, c'mon, c'mon"
I totally got this in the BAG.
Eazy.
Bareeeeezy.

The gig ended up being really REALLY fun. Fake understanding direction in French while fake opera singing for a rap record might be my new favorite past-time. I have a friend in NY who calls moments like these "now I'm a ballerina!".
Just put enough balls on and pretend and you really CAN do anything.

And for the record, Diam's (aka Mélanie) is a DOLL. I love her music and I love her political views and activism. She is also one of those artists who is actually nice to everyone around her. The producers were super sweet, the studio guys were great and I got paid well for my efforts.

Life should always involve epic levels of randomness.
Merci, Diam's.
Do you need any backup dancers? Cause I could TOTALLY do that too. ;)

Diam's - La Boulette
envoyé par nono_the_bean. - Clip, interview et concert.

TERROR IN PARIS

2009-08-04T19:05:00.020+02:00

I live down the street from the Eiffel Tower. I can see it from my window (well, if I crane my neck hard right), the sparkly lights shining on summer nights and the search beacon piercing through the fog each winter. Every night I think "OMG I live in PAAAAAARIS and that's the frickin' Eiffel TOOOOOWER".
Then I smile.
Or look pensive....depending on which music video I am pretending to be in that night.

But, like most tourist attractions I have lived close to, I have never actually been inside it. Or up it. So when my dear friend Sue came to town this past week with her family in tow, I was more than happy to take the walk down the street to meet them for a night journey up into the tower. I should have known what was in store when it took me a lot longer than I expected to walk there. One hour later, I realized why you can actually see the Eiffel Tower from my window.

Because it is REALLY FUCKING BIG, that's why.

After giving my usual speech about not asking me any pertinent questions about when it was built or the guy's name who designed it or anything other than what color it is because I actually AM the worst tour guide on the planet, we braved the long line and shoved our way into the window elevator. Smashed up against a window, hurling upwards, the city spread itself before my eyes. Higher and higher, my heart jumps into my throat as I think one thing only....

GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE.
NOW.

I usually "forget" all the things I am scared of....like um, heights. I talk a big game all the time, "Yyyyyyyyeah, one day I'm TOTALLY gonna skydive, bungee off a bridge, maybe onto a cliff. Then dive into the Colorado River.....maybe para-sail off the coast of Africa...you know how it goes. Of course, this is all after I para-glide off the Alps next season."

Cut to airless elevator face pressed against glass, the beginnings of hyperventilation and knees buckling....yeah, you're a regular Top Gun there, champ. The six year old next to you has more balls.

Exit onto the first level deck.
Be cool.
Be cool.
(look down)
OK, not so cool.
OK, DEFINITELY not cool.
NOT.
COOL.

It helps to have a friend in terror. I was genuinely excited when Sue informed me that she was about as high as she wanted to go that night, and maybe in her life.....so we just waited patiently on the deck for the rest of her family, gazing up at the 2/3 of the tower we would NOT be visiting and taking terror shots of each other.

"Ha, I'm so glad we're not going UP THERE."
"Yeah me too, NO WAY am I going up there."
"No WAY."
"TOTALLY no way."
"I'm ready to go back down when you are. You ready?"
"TOTALLY ready to go back down."
"Yep."
"Yep."

Enter sister-in law:
"Hey you guys! We decided we are going to the top, OK? You ready to go?"
Silence.
Clear throat.

"Uh.....yeah....sure am....."
"Um....ok....sounds...uh....great."

Especially after I caught a glimpse of the tiny tiny string that pulls the big big elevator....

24 minutes of terror on top of the world is all I needed to resolve that I would never ever in a million billion years bungee off of ANYTHING, much less para-glide off the ALPS.

Someone had the bright idea to take the stairs on the way down. The stairs. Staircase after staircase, a never-ending metal jungle....around and down, around and down, the ground never seeming any closer while vertigo quickly setting in on me...

SUE: "You OK?"
ME: "Yeah....uh....(pant pant)...this is just....(round and down) kinda funny and all.....ha (round and down) kinda like my recurring nightmare that uh....I've been having since I was a child."
SUE: "Oh wow, what's that?"
ME: "It's uh.....I'm walking on endless stairs really high up and uh....it's actually uh....exactly this. (round and down) So uh.....don't really wanna talk about it or uh....describe it more or even really discuss it right now at ALL...'cause uh....I am actually LIVING my recurring nightmare at this very moment. I'm living it...and it's real....and uh.....I'm about to freak the fuck out and everything...."
SUE: "Yikes. OK."
Silence.
(round and down, round and down, round and down, round and down......)

We made it.
And I've already forgotten the terror.
I'm TOTALLY paragliding off the Alps this winter.

EAST COAST/WEST COAST

2009-07-31T11:48:00.004+02:00

I am playing a gig with two California singers tonight.
Sweet.
Basically, hot USA chicks night in France. ;)
If you are in Paris, come by and say hi to both coasts!

Vous voulez venir.
Je veux que vous venez.
Vraiment, franchement, clairement, tellement, en fait, en effet........

Dana Boulé + Kacey Johansing + Vera Gough
vendredi 31 juillet (that means today)
20h00 (je joue premiere partie)
Le Vieux Léon
18, rue de La Grande Truanderie 75001
Entrée libre (that means freeeeeeee)

THE TURNING POINT

2009-07-24T12:45:00.013+02:00

(French tarmac....somehow so appropriate....no, no Dude, don't bother getting up, it's just my PLANE you are supposed to be guiding in, I don't want to bother you)

I have to admit, I bawled my eyes out on the plane ride back from New York this time around. Alone in the dark at 3AM. For exactly 76 minutes. I thought about my family and cried. I thought about my friends and cried. I thought about all the stoops in Brooklyn and Queens I sat on and cried. I thought about the concert I gave there, the stage banter in English flowing effortlessly from my mouth and an entire room laughing at all of my jokes.
Cry.
Eating a steak and watching deer with my Mom.
Cry.
Doing Kung Fu with old friends.
Cry.
Ninja dance party.
Cry.
4th of July, crying while looking at fireworks and was blindsided by a crazy sense of patriotism that yes, in fact, I DO love the US of A.
Cry for the US of AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.
But mostly I cried because for two weeks I had felt like ME again. The one who wears no bra and flip flops and likes to sing while skipping down a Brooklyn street to get a bagel while stopping to talk to everyone about everything. The one who has giant shiny steely balls of wonder and fearless glory power (well, most of the time).

(Visiting Mom in NJ forest...yeah that's right, THIS IS NEW JERSEY)

(Hanging out on the East River in Queens)

But now I sat hurling across the Atlantic in the dark with "France" approaching closer and closer. My stomach quickly knotting, the sense of adventure gone this time around and all that is left in its place....a looming sense of isolation and incomprehension.
Bienvenue.
I'm back.
Sigh.

It started the minute I got off the plane and stood waiting for our bags.
Silently sulking next to the carousel trying in vain to talk myself out of the attitude problem, bits of conversations around me floated through my ears and into my brain where they were not translated, but understood.
Huh?
I shake my head back and forth as if a butterfly somehow ensnared itself in my ears.
Whatever.
Get into a taxi with FB under a grey Parisian sky. Silently sulk and do my usual "I'm in a reeeeally sad music video where no one understaaaands me" pensive look out the window. The radio is on and again, some of the words are in my head and I am somehow understanding them......
OK, is this the point where I take Jesus Christ as my personal savior? Because some craaaaaazy shit seems to be going down in my brain.

Up the 104 steps....
I missed you, little apartment with your yellow and blue walls high above a garden.
I missed you, butcher, greengrocer, cheese man and wine guy.
I extra SPECIALLY missed you, best butter I will ever have in my life and that I sometimes dab behind my ears because I secretly want to smell like this butter all the time.

I wiped the crocodile tears away and went to Burgundy this past week where I fell for you all over again, France.
Attitude adjusted.
I'm in love.

(Autun, France)

IT'S NINJA TIME

2009-06-25T15:33:00.006+02:00

Off to NYC tomorrow to play a concert.
I need my bagels.
I need my pizza.
I need my English.
And I need my ninja girls.
:)

(film by Corey Tatarczuk)

WELL, HOWDY PART TWO

2009-06-24T12:42:00.005+02:00

I am losing the battle with the tooth as it cracks off bit by bit.
Some people look cute with a gap tooth.
I'm not one of them.

WELL, HOWDY DOO!

2009-06-23T10:50:00.005+02:00

When I was 16, I very gracefully knocked out half of my own front tooth with a tennis racket. "Swing up", he said. And swing up I did. Right into my own face nearly knocking myself out along with the tooth. Based on the sympathetic howls of laughter from my family as I stood crying with tooth now in hand, I decided at that point that comedy might be better suited for me than tennis.

Since then, every five years or so, the fake part of my tooth takes a good long look at my daily life and chooses the most inopportune time to fall out. Leaving me with a toothless grin somewhere between "hillbilly" and "6 year old". Like the time in college, sitting in the front row while nervously and stupidly flicking my front tooth with a pen. It flew out of my mouth and landed at the professor's feet which resulted in me nearly crawling across the floor and having to ask "um, excuth me, I juth need to pick up my tooth...thorry...thorry...."

THIS MORNING
Two days before I leave for NY for two weeks, I decided that three day old baguette really COULD work as toast and CRRRRRUNCH. Off with the tooth. This time, however, only MOST of it came off, instead leaving a tissue thin piece of tooth I can almost see through. Anything heavier than cream of wheat is gonna send the rest of this puppy flying.

okokokokokokokokokokok DO. NOT. PANIC. You can cry but NO PANIC.
NO PANIC.

I have yet to see a dentist here but remembered that a friend gave me the name of an American dentist a while ago. I called, my voice heavy with certainty that I would never be able to get an appointment on such short notice and would be spending the day trying to find someone who could fix this before I leave for uninsured NY. I almost fainted when the receptionist told me "sure, come in Thursday and we'll fix it". My New York dentist made me wait a WEEK the last time this happened and the final bill (WITH my insurance coverage) came to $450.

I just cannot get over the ease of my experience with the health care system here. Every time I have had to seek medical care, I get this trained pit in my stomach from being hassled by the American system for so many years. And I am young and had full health coverage! For all my friends who have NO coverage, it's just an inhuman NIGHTMARE. All the hour long phone calls I have made to insurance companies over the years...for ridiculous things like fighting over why I should not pay $300 out of pocket for a mammogram as it is preventive care and is covered. (Apparently not if you're under 35 even if it was prescribed by the doctor....and why is a mammogram $300 in the first place?) I have not had to pay off thousands of dollars in dental bills in installments over three years time. The list goes on....

I know that the health care system here in France faces issues of how it will continue to pay for all the care, but I really hope this will last. Because it feels amazing when a society takes care of its citizens. When it's seen as a right, not a privilege to receive basic health care.

Go France!

:).....smiling my toofless grin.

Fête de la Musique....aka REVOLUTION

2009-06-22T13:23:00.003+02:00

If you are looking for a real confidence booster, stand on a chair in the middle of a Parisian street and yell through a microphone for a revolution of the artists against the neighbors.
"TAKE BACK OUR STREEEEETS!! WE ARE THE LIFE OF THE CITY!!! DOWN WITH THE NEIGHBORS!!! WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED!!!"
It works.
I promise.
Because today I feel AWESOME.

Last night I had an out of body experience as I played a loud rock gig on the streets of Paris for La Fête de la Musique, the annual day and night where it is legal to play music outside and for clubs and bars around the city to play music as loud as they want to. It's basically one big street party in some areas. I was the most nervous I have been before a show as I realized I would be playing to an entire street of drunk people so, turning to my bandmates shortly beforehand I said, "OK guys, cut all the slow songs and play the fast ones faster."

IT'S GO TIME.

I could tell it went well as the local shirtless and toothless drunkards high fived me with their 40s. I have to say, it was my favorite concert I have played here so far. I LOVE the streets of Paris and I ESPECIALLY love being amplified really loud in them. I wish Paris was like this every night.....ALIVE and LOUD. I thought the noise ordinances in New York had gotten ridiculously bad, but they are NOTHING compared to Paris. My major complaint is this....artists move to a cheap area and start a scene, the Bobos follow suit and move to the now "cool" area and then proceed to complain about the level of noise. I saw it happen in New York and it's the same, even worse here. I have been told I am singing too loud by soooo many clubs here because of the "neighbors". Maybe it is the same in every city. But enough! This is a CITY, not a morgue and no cultural scene will thrive to its fullest if it is constantly being shut down for fear of "upsetting the neighbors". If it's so horrible, then move to one of the many quiet suburbs and stop trying to squelch the life that MAKES a city.

Ahhhh.....til next year....in the meantime I will keep yelling for revolution.
On the mic.
And extra loud.
:)

p.s. Unfortunately, my camera messed up and I only have the one crappy picture of the scene last night.....maybe someone else has some shots? I saw lots of cameras around....please send if you have any! Merci!

THE RETURN OF TRACY FLICK

2009-06-19T10:01:00.005+02:00

Thursday 6:12PM
Walking hurriedly through crowded St. Germain, my phone rings...

FB: Tu marches vers ta classe?
ME: Quoi?
FB: Tu marches vers ta classe?
ME: Quoi?!
FB: Tu vas à ta classe?
ME: Quoi?!
FB: Are you walking to your class right now?
ME: OH MY GOD, SAY IT IN FRENCH! YOU HAVE TO TALK TO ME IN FRENCH!! THIS IS EXACTLY WHY I AM TOTALLY GOING TO FAIL!!!
FB: Uh, I just did say it in French....like, three times....
ME: I CAN'T TALK ABOUT THIS RIGHT NOW! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH PRESSURE I AM UNDER???? I HAVE TO GO!! OH MY GOD, I AM LATE!!!
FB: Bon courage mon amour!
ME: Quoi?!
FB: Je t'adore!
ME: Yeah, yeah....

Click.

As the whole class stood in the hallway waiting to be called in one by one for the oral exam, I nervously clutched my bag and studied the student murals on the wall. It can't hurt to brush up.....what if one of the questions is about snakes?

Why are all the other students relaxed and smiling? And why did that guy get called first? What's the order here? How much longer am I going to have to wait? MY GOD, why everyone SO LOUD?? Some people are trying to FOCUS HERE....Jesus Christ, I can't even here my OWN thoughts given the...

"DANA."

Oh my God, it's my turn. (wildly look around for my bag that is already in my hand) ohmygodohmygodohmygod (open door, walk towards teacher's desk) ohmygodohmygod (sit down....now, take it easy...DO NOT FREAK OUT) ohmygodohmygodohmygod...

As she handed my written test to me, I saw it. 30.5 points out of 40.
I passed.
I PASSED.
And had I not blown 9 out 10 points on the oral comprehension section (quelle surprise)...that WOULD have been a 99%.

Yes, I am THAT person. THAT student you knew in grade school, freaking out all the time, SWEARING she will fail and then totally surprised when she gets an A+..."Ohhhh! You mean I got the extra credit part right TOOOOOO?" Just slap me. I would. There are some personality traits I would gladly part ways with. Exaggerated neurosis is at the top of my list.

I have to go put together my summer reading list now.

Byeeeeeee xxxxxxx

THE TEST

2009-06-16T13:50:00.000+02:00

5 hours, 12 minutes before THE TEST...

GET OUT OF BED. IT IS AFTER 1PM. Why are you so retarded? Just CAAAAALM DOOOOOOOWN. It is JUST a French test. A stupid, two hour long, this means EVERYTHING TO ME French test.....So what? So what if you FAIL and have to repeat the ENTIRE five month class again? You WILL NOT fail....you studied so hard for five MONTHS, get a grip on yourself.....I'm sick. I'm really sick this time. YOU ARE NOT SICK, YOU DO THIS EVERY SINGLE TIME. I'm so dumb, I'm so dumb, I'm so dumb...STOP IT...I'm gonna fail, I'm gonna fail, I'm gonna fail....THAT IS NOT POSITIVE THINKING YOU IDIOT!....I'm gonna freak out, I'm gonna freak out, I'm gonna freak out, I am freaking out, I am freaking out, I am freaking out..GET OUT OF MY HEEEEEEAD......ok now my stomach REALLY hurts, I think I have a sinus infection......sigh...how old ARE you anyway? 12? When are you going to stop acting like a 4th grader and start taking things in stride? This is all my Mom's fault, she's nervous too and I totally inherited this from her....that's why.....my genes are messed up.....I have messed up nervous genes....how am I supposed to pass with messed up nervous genes???....my family is from Germany anyway, I was clearly meant to learn German....duh....this is totally FB's fault, if he had actually corrected me more than once a year maybe I might have LEARNED something THE RIGHT WAY instead of the TOTALLY WRONG WAY, yeah this is all HIS fault, UNBELIEVABLE.....I'm sick, I have a sinus infection and this is all my Mom and FB's fault....imperatif....shit....I didn't restudy the imperative....(heart racing) OMG, I TOTALLY FORGOT THE IMPERATIVE TENSES!!! WHAT AAAAARE THEY???? WHERE ARE MY STUDY SHEETS???? They are around here somewhere.....I cannot BELIEVE I didn't think to review the imperatives again....how could I DO this to myself????...what's the imperative of CALM THE FUCK DOWN??? Tranquilles-toi? N'inquietes...uh....toi? Or something something.....ok you are hyperventilating now. Good job. Glad your Kung Fu training has paid off, you REALLY know how to handle pressure. Real ninja material here. What would Bruce Lee do?
GET.
OUT.
OF BED.

LES ENFANTS

2009-06-14T14:54:00.014+02:00

I went to Lyon this past week to play some music for the best audience I have had since arriving in France. Children ages 3 to 6. The thing I love about young kids is that they don't lie and they expect to be thoroughly entertained. You can't bring your B game. If they don't like what you're doing, they make a face and put their hands over their ears and tell you to stop playing mid song. If they like it, they stand up and squeal with delight and clap their hands. It's like the Gong Show. I love it.

I went as part of a program called Have A Good Night, a really wonderful artistic endeavour set up by Jerome from Blog Up Musique. He puts together a compilation CD each year available for free download. It consists of lullabies for children from 20 or so indie bands from around the globe. The result is a really beautiful CD that I was lucky to be part of this year. As part of the program, some participating artists were asked to come to Lyon and do a day of concerts for children at a local elementary school. um....YES!

I received instructions to meet at the train station to take a 6AM train to Lyon. Ouch. The night before, my usual nerves kicked in as I realized I would be traveling alone for an entire day conducted in French. Sigh. As my confidence level in my French has been in the toilet as of late, I barely slept thinking of all the ways I could go down in flames. I double sighed as my alarm went off at 4:45AM and got up thinking, "well, here we go again.....walk it off Boulé, walk it off."

I carried my 90 pound accordion to the station and found my seat. I met the other three musicians: Isabelle and David from Pollyanna and Minnie from eliote & the ritournelles. They were super cool and after my usual language panic bitch slap (which, at 6AM is even more pronounced), I settled into another day of grasping at conversation. Here I am grasping in my sleep....

We arrived to a warm welcome and the day got easier as I ingested more and more coffee. The first group arrived and I swallowed hard, hoping I would remember the words to the French song I wrote the day before which consisted of little more than "what sound does a tiger make? uh....how about a rabbit? a dinosaur?" When in doubt, kids just want to make noise......

It was.....so.....much....FUN.

After our concerts, we were ushered to the cafeteria to eat lunch amongst the children. I was AMAZED at the difference in school lunches between the US and France. I expected a lunch line with unruly kids and meal of fried tater tots, greasy taylor ham on Wonder bread, cake and jello but instead we were served a proper three course meal by some super friendly lunch ladies. OK, I grew up on pizza thrown to you on a styrofoam plate by angry lunch ladies to be eaten in a deafeningly loud cafeteria. But THIS, this just seemed so....I don't know...civilized. Fresh salad and fresh melon followed by a meat and potato casserole. Then topped off with more fresh fruit and cheese. Children sitting quietly at tables for an entire meal......HUH?

After the last concert, we walked around Lyon for a bit and sat at a café for a beer. I smiled when I saw that hipsters are in fact, everywhere.....

Thank you musicians, Jerome and especially les enfants de Lyon for a really beautiful day and for sending my confidence level back up. I really really needed that.
:)

DAY 527 - LE COUP DE PIED

2009-06-04T22:52:00.000+02:00

I snapped today and I wish I could say I am sorry...but I'm not.

I live near Saint-Germain-Des-Prés. Also known to me as hell. If it's not the swarm of tourists walking at a snail's pace down a narrow two foot wide sidewalk, then it's the huge amount of flat-out douchebags who live in this area. We've been here almost a year and it is really starting to get to me. Over-dressed, over-perfumed, over-coiffed, over the top ego, over snotty, over self important douchebags. Tons. On every sidewalk and each corner. I have tried every conceivable route to and from my apartment and the metro station but there's just no avoiding them, especially in June when everyone and their mother is outside enjoying the sunshine.

There's a crosswalk near the Saint-Germain-Des-Prés metro station, right by the bus stop. I cross it every day and almost always, the cars do not make any effort to slow down or stop. I usually just wait for them to pass but today, I did not wait. I don't know why. I guess I didn't really care. I had just come from Savate class where I insisted the teacher let me practice my punches on him for an extra 30 minutes. I had my usual rolling cart in tow with me and I felt good. Annoyed. Crabby. Motivated. The norm.

I saw a car coming but I stepped into the crosswalk anyway. F that. YOU slow down. The car proceeded to miss me by a hair's breadth and as it went past, inches from running me down, I did something I always WANT to but never ACTUALLY do. I kicked the car as hard as I could and yelled "PUTAIN SALOOOOPE!", let go of my cart and flipped the driver an over the head, two arms raised in glory position double bird. I may as well have had a slow-mo 360 degree camera pan around me while the orchestra plays the theme to Rocky.
It felt THAAAAT good.

But then the car stopped and backed up.
Um.....oops.
Now, I would normally NEVER in a million years kick a car in NY and proceed to call it a fucking bitch, much less scream it at the top of my lungs in the middle of a crosswalk. But those are the only two curse words I know and.....I dunno, I'm a foreigner in France losing her mind so somehow it seemed appropriate.

I half thought about running away but there were onlookers and I didn't want to seem like the jackass trying to flee the scene with a rolling cart in tow, tripping over cobblestone roads. I mean, what would the tourists think? Really. As I got to the sidewalk, he was already backed right up to where I stood, hanging out his window and yelling his head off at me. Just as I thought....an over coiffed dude in a fancy car with stupid sunglasses and a face just BEGGING for a swirly.

My fear subsided. I don't even need to run because this jackoff is clearly never going to actually get out of his fancy car, plus he's going to be blocking traffic in about two seconds. Yell away, doucheface. Be my guest. I tried for a second to understand what he was saying but I couldn't make anything out. And as I had already exhausted the extent of my French insults, what's the point anyway?

Then it happened. The flash of light where the witty comeback just appears so clearly in the moment, instead of after the fact. Smiling, I put my hands defiantly on my hips and yelled back in English, "LOOK DUDE, I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SAAAAAAAAYING TO ME!!! 'CAUSE I'M RUBBER AND YOU'RE GLUE AND WHATEVER YOU SAY BOUNCES OFF OF ME AND STICKS TO YOU!!!!JERK!!!" And with that, I marched off down the side-street where I congratulated myself on the creativity and randomness of my 3rd grade level comeback, hoping an American tourist may have heard and caught my prepubescent reference.

I won't be making a habit of kicking cars but I do think I will make a new habit of working in 3rd grade insults.....actually, I just really want to call someone "poopy pants". That's all.

DAY 525 - THE GREAT PRETENDER

2009-06-02T13:41:00.012+02:00

I am getting dumber.
I know this.
I can feel it.
My brain cells are one by one packing up somewhere far beyond my reach. I don't even speak good English anymore. My posts have been fewer, my patience has been thinner and my brain is more fried. Frieder.
Way more frieder.
I have had French class twice a week since January. Whenever people asked about my French, I used to say "Wow, it SURE is harder than I thought!" with my BUT I SURE AM GIVIN' IT A GOOD OLE' TRY! smile smile, wink wink.

Now when I am asked why I don't understand, I just say "Because I am slow and stupid. Did you know I am dumbest one in my class? Seriously. I am the stupidest one. My head is like a brick, I sit in the first desk in the front row too and I study two hours a day and I do ALL the homework and I try every day really REALLY hard. But I am just really slow and stupid."

That usually wraps up the conversation pretty fast.
I'm not even upset about it anymore.
Screw it.

In March, I passed the 15 month mark of moving to France. When it came and went with no perceptible change in my level of permanent confusion, I have to say, I got depressed. I had heard from so many different people about the magic "usually around 15 months or so, you will see a sudden difference, you'll just start to understand"...
And so, I waited.
I waited 15 long months for that magic moment to come. 15 went into 16 into 17 and now on this, my 525th day of wrestling with this language, I have to admit to myself, I feel defeated.

I'm really, almost unnaturally, good at pretending I know what is said to me. I can usually catch enough of the social cues to pretend my way right through every conversation. But it's exhausting trying to make sense out of two paragraphs having caught only CHEESE, HOUSE and HORROR. I could make about 65 different narratives out of that one, each one more implausible than the last. It's exhausting. I'm tired of the GUESS THE SUBJECT OF THE CONVERSATION! game. I fold. I can't do it anymore. I don't KNOW what the subject is, I don't KNOW why you are all laughing so hysterically, I don't KNOW why someone names PIERRE had something to do with a SANDWICH and it was HILARIOUS. I can't pretend laugh HAHAHA PIERRE SANDWICH! HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHAH!!! PIERRE SANDWICH!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!

A few times I have been too tired to pretend and have let the truth come out and it usually goes like this.....

YOU: GRBLEGREBLGREBLEGRBLE GRBLE GRBLE GRBLE GRBLE
ME: Yyyyyyyyeah, I have no idea what you just said. I dunno, maybe slower?
YOU: OH. OK. GRRRRRRBLE GRRRRRRRRBLE GRRRRRRRRBLE GRRRRRRRRBLE GRRRRRRRBLE!
ME: Yyyyyyeah, that actually isn't working at all either. I still got nothing on that one. Was it about a banana that caught on fire or something? No? Wait, was it you have fear of pineapples? No? OK, don't worry about it. Just move on. You don't need to tell me the 5 minute broken English version, it's cool. I probably won't understand that one either. It's seriously not worth it. Just moooove on, you can even go talk to someone else if you want too. Seriously. I'm cool with it. I get it. It's cool.

I have to run to French class right now and count down 120 more minutes, hoping last week's conversation doesn't happen again.

TEACHER: blah blah blah blah SUBSTANTIF blah blah blah
ME: (knowing I should not have asked a proactive question) Um, excuse me? What is a substantif?
TEACHER: blah blah blah blah blah
ME: (vigorous nod of the pretending head) OH RIGHT! OF COURSE! MERCI!
TEACHER: What is the word in English?
ME: (busted. purple face) Uh.....uh........uh.....
GERMAN GIRL BEHIND ME: It's called a NOUN.
CLASS: silent.

Fuck you, Germany. Thanks for throwing me under the bus. You want to paint SHIT FOR BRAINS across my forehead too while you are at it?
Nazi.

I gotta go.
I'll be back more often.

xo Dana

FRENCH PROVERBS

2009-05-13T15:29:00.000+02:00

I had some trouble with my French homework the other day. In one column was a list of the beginnings of French Proverbs, on the opposite side were the finishing words for each phrase. For the life of me, I could not match them up. Uh....."At night all the cats....uh...have taste and color?".....or...."Impossible....uh...you have to run?"

After FB came in and helped me finish the phrases, I realized why not one of them made any sense to me. Because none of them actually make any sense.

#1. Impossible n'est pas français. (Impossible is not French)

Really.
Given the amount of times I hear "ahhhhh, pas possible" on a daily basis, I'd say the word "impossible" is actually pretty frickin' French to me. Like, it could be the national anthem and should be right up there with Egalité, Fraternité, Liberté et Impossibilité. No offense but, come on....vraiment?

#2. On ne discute pas des goûts et des couleurs. (loosely, as in, we don't discuss things that are a matter of tastes and colors...)

OK, there about about 400 French talk shows dedicated to discussing exactly that and in a country where I have had to end countless discussions with "WHAT ARE WE EVEN ARGUING ABOUT????!!!"......my question would be: huh???

#3. Rien ne sert de courir il faut partir à point. (loosely, nothing serves to run, you should start on time....better to start on time than to run)

I don't even need to comment here, except to say that maybe this is some German proverb that snuck over the border. Or maybe "on time" is just relative and the point is more to never run? Ever? In your life?

#4. La nuit, tous les chats sont gris. (At night, all the cats are grey)

Please, someone explain to me what this means. My best guess which brought laughter from FB was: At night, it doesn't matter if a black cat crosses in front of you because it is grey so you won't actually have any bad luck.

?????

WIN BIG.

2009-05-06T16:33:00.008+02:00

photo by ChrisCB

Oui, c'est vrai. I won the first round of LA BASTON a La Bellevilloise. Yay! The video for the show is now posted online. WATCH THE BATTLE UNCUT HERE. While it is always helpful for me to watch my own performance, one thing struck me like a cement block to the head. I am still horrified/terrorized by how I sound speaking French. In my mind, I sound romantic and flowery...oh so effortless, so breezy, so light....like the sigh of a flower petal in June.

In reality, I sound like a nazi gagging on cheeseburgers.

But that's ok. Je persévère.

The BATTLE continues June 24th.
Round Two.
I'm ready. :)

LA BASTON

2009-04-28T17:24:00.004+02:00

I entered a Battle Of The Bands competition here in Paris and was chosen as one of 60 bands to perform over a series of nights at La Bellevilloise. Each night has four or five bands perform, the audience chooses one winner and a jury chooses the other to continue on to the next phase. As far as I know, I am the only foreigner in the competition. And as most indie rock bands here sing in unintelligible English, I thought "DUH, I got this wrapped UP. My English is WAY more awesomer than YOURS is, Fraaaaaance." Last week I got the line up for my night and was surprised at the curve ball. They booked me on the only night the other three bands all sing in French....La Chanson Française.

(eyes narrow)
Fine.
Be that way, France.
I'll fight a battle on foreign turf.
On your terms.
And I will WIN.

I'm not scared of your chanson.
I got my OWN chanson and it's got BROOKLYN NINJA written all over it.
Bring it.

Televised LIVE on the internet!
THE ULTIMATE BEATDOWN
NEW YORK VS. LA CHANSON FRANÇAISE
Wednesday, April 29
8:30PM France time (I play at 10PM)
WATCH THE BATTLE LIVE HERE

Or better yet....buy your BEATDOWN tickets HERE.

YOU BUY HOUSE IN CHINA

2009-04-15T17:58:00.014+02:00

I've been spending a lot of time with other immigrants lately in mandatory government sponsored classes I have to take for my resident card. I like being around immigrants from around the world because it makes me feel like I am at the UN. I've learned a lot about other cultures, I've learned the fastest way to get a room riled up is to mention Algeria and/or "respect" and I've learned never to accept a government sponsored fish lunch.

SETTING: Small, airless room in a government building somewhere in the north east of Paris
SITUATION: Mandatory French Civics class to obtain resident card
CAST: 38 legal immigrants, 4 French government workers a.k.a. "the checker inners", one hyperactive civics teacher and one paid non-English speaking English translator.

9AM: I take my seat along the wall in between Philippines and Algeria. It's too hot in here and why does it already smell like eggs? China and Tunisia are sitting by the window and refuse to open it. The overhead fluorescent lights are killing me. Briefly consider that going to bed at 3:30AM was a really, really bad idea. 8 more hours. Settle in.
9:18AM: Enter The Translator. 30 something guy in dark glasses who perpetually looks annoyed, apologizes for being late in French and takes his seat at the back of class. All who don't understand French gather round him so they may hear his English translation. I prefer the comfort of the wall.
9:29AM: Overactive civics teacher has spent eleven minutes yelling aggressively about how AMAZINGLY AWESOME! French history is. Since it's so great and wonderful, why are you yelling at me? We're right here, lady. Translator is silent, I think he might actually be sleeping under the dark glasses. Finally Russia asks him what the Teacher just said.

TRANSLATOR: (annoyed) Nozing of eemportance.
RUSSIA: Uh, ok.
TRANSLATOR: (silent)
TEACHER: (speaks for five minutes about the French Republique) Translate please!
TRANSLATOR: Ehhh, between zee zerd and zee feef, zey like uh, zey really liked eet.

I stifle a laugh as I cannot actually believe THAT is his translation for 11 minutes of history. I now realize to be a paid government English translator, you don't actually have to speak English. Or even speak at all. The 3rd and the 5th WHAT? Can I at least get a SUBJECT? Translator is neither bothered nor disturbed by the questions around him and slowly everyone not understanding French drifts off into dreamland as they realize they will be spending 7 more hours with someone yelling something they don't understand at them in French while sleeping Yoda speaks in code every 8 minutes.

Now we go around the room and give our names, country of origin and how long we have been in France. We get to a tall guy with dreads at the back of the class.
TG: (barely audible) It's Nafir.
TEACHER: Where are you from?
TG: (gives her a long annoyed look before sighing) Naaaaaaaah.
TEACHER: Excuse me?
TG: (shakes his head) Nuh uh.
TEACHER: What do you mean? I am asking you where you are FROM.
TG: (takes another long look at her up and down) Nah. It's complicated. Move on.
TEACHER: (infuriated) I SAID WHERE ARE YOU FROM!!? Everyone is from SOMEWHERE.
TG: Yyyyyyyyeah.
TEACHER: SO WHAT COUNTRY WERE YOU BORN IN?!!!!
TG: (another long pause) Naaaaaah. Complicated. And I don't HAVE to tell you. I'm not GONNA tell you so MOOOOVE ON.

Entire class looks in awe at complicated dude.
He really does seem.....complicated. Teach decides it IS probably wise to back off at this point and does, in fact, move on.

10:40AM: Losing battle with sleep and resort to head down with pen in hand to pretend write.
10:48AM: I wake up to my least favorite game, the game played by every roomful of immigrants in every mandatory class I have been in. I call it the IN MY COUNTRY! game. It can be started anytime, in the middle of anyone's sentence, about any topic...in fact, off topic, non sequitur and something you know as little about as possible is preferred.
Today's first player is Australia girl who in the middle of a sentence about jobs in France announces...

AUSTRALIA: You can be a cop in Australia!
(Here we go........)
CANADA: No you can't.
AUSTRALIA: Yes you can!
CANADA: No you actually CANNOT, I know this because my uncle moved there and bought some land and.....

13 minutes spent on whether an immigrant can be a cop in Australia. Maybe I am just an annoyed, close-minded NYC jerk but what does that have ANYTHING to do with what jobs I can take in FRANCE? The country I am LIVING IN. The country we are ALL IMMIGRANTS IN. If I wanted to know Australian cop laws, I would have ALREADY GOOGLED THAT SHIT. Before I can get even more riled up, the IN MY COUNTRY! game takes a sudden turn as China guy who up to that point has been silent, SHOUTS from the back corner, jolting awake those around him:
"YOU BUY HOUSE IN CHINA!"
(room goes silent)
"YOU BUY HOUSE IN CHINA!!" he shrieks again. Teacher looks on with her Oprah smile as she has successfully gotten her immigrant class to open up and relate to each other. I thought this was a French Civics class, not a Customs Around The World Based In Shaky Facts class.

USA LAWYER: No, you actually CANNOT buy a house in China.
CHINA: YES! YOU BUY HOUSE, YOU BUY HOUSE IN CHINA!
USA LAWYER: NO, that is just a LEASE, a lot different than buying land, you cannot pass that onto your children so you actually CANNOT buy a house in China.
CHINA: (upset, shouting and pointing at the sky) YES! YOU BUY HOUSE! THEY IN THE SKY! YOU BUY HOUSE IN THE SKY!

The class falls silent because, really, what more is there to say? You buy house in sky in China and then go be a cop in Australia. Moving on.

Next discussion is about passports and EU citizenship, Russia proclaims....
RUSSIA: I don't like that you HAVE to show a passport when traveling to the UK, mine is Dutch."
SERBIA: You have Dutch passport? You Dutch?
RUSSIA: (reacting as though Serbia had threatened her very life) I am NOT DUTCH, I AM RUSSIAN!
SERBIA: You have Dutch passport, you Dutch. You already EU citizen.
RUSSIAN: I AM RUSSIAN!
SERBIA: You Dutch. Why you even here? You no need to be here, you EU, you Dutch.
REST OF CLASS: (taking any opportunity to chime in) Yeah! Why are you here? You don't need to be here if you're Dutch! If you're Dutch, you are already EU! Who told you to come here?!@#, etc.
RUSSIA: (face red with fury) It is for my work and I AM NOOOOOT DUUUUTCH!

OK, so Russia is not Dutch. From the third to the fifth, they liked it. You buy house in sky in China and you can be a cop in Australia.
French Civics 101.
Got it.

THE JACKOFFS

2009-03-24T12:42:00.011+01:00

I have been playing a lot of concerts in Paris lately. Four this past week alone. Hauling my hundred plus pounds of gear up and down 6 flights of steps, arguing with taxi drivers that yes, my keyboard will in fact fit across the back seat, dealing with bookers and sound men in a foreign language, pushing people to buy a CD to make my cab fare home in an age where very few feel purchasing music is necessary (if I had a nickel for each time someone with a 6 euro beer in their hand told me they love my music but couldn't afford to pay me anything for my CD, could I perhaps give them one instead....). I do this because I love what I do and I love the music scene. The music scene that involves the surprise of being paired with a band who blows my mind, who inspire me and who connect me to a new group of talented musicians creating beautiful songs and making the world a little bit prettier. The music scene that involves real music lovers and fans listening attentively to a live experience that cannot be copied and passed around the internet. A shared experience between audience and performer is sublime and it is this experience that keeps me coming back for more.

I treat every musician I meet with respect. I buy a CD if they have them, I listen attentively to their set no matter if I like the music or not. It's a question of community and respect for that community. I therefore pose my next question....

WHY ARE THERE SO MANY F'IN DOUCHEBAGS IN THE WORLD?

I ask this question honestly. For every amazing show I have (and thankfully there are many), I also encounter the following which pretty much sticks to the same formula each time...

A group of 30 something aggressive jackoffs who decided to have a band like, 5 minutes ago, blow into the club like they are reunited Led Zeppelin. They fail to introduce themselves and instead "inform me" they are taking my slot. Argument ensues. Their girlfriends and wives show up shortly after and ask me to remove my gear from the chairs so they can sit and listen to The Jackoffs make their sound check while reliving prom. The Jackoffs will usually sound check for an inordinate amount of time, hemming and hawing with the increasingly annoyed sound man. The "music" is about as bland as the midlife crisis of the bassist living out his teen dream. They chug their free beers and proceed to play way beyond their allotted time slot because they are too wrapped up in "Hey, did you notice what a sweaty JERK I am?" dreamland to recognize the following:

1. YOU ARE NOT A ROCK STAR. YOU NEVER WERE.
2. YOU DO NOT NEED TO TURN YOUR AMP UP TO 11. THE CLUB IS 6 METERS DEEP.
3. IT IS NOT 1991.
4. NO ONE ASKED YOU FOR THREE ENCORES. NOT EVEN YOUR WIFE.

The Jackoffs will hear pretend applause in their heads that tell them "YYYYYEAHHH, keep going, this is the JAAAAAAAM" until I insist they end their now 75 minute extended set of wandering over-amped banality. Another argument ensues. They will take their time to get their shit off the stage and will knock over my gear. I will set up and play my show. The Jackoffs will stand as close to the stage as possible and talk as loudly as possible for the entirety of my set. When asked to buy a CD, they will look at me like I am the most insane nutjob on the planet and say incredulously "No way".

Nice.
End of scene.

You can catch The Jackoffs playing around town pretty much any night of the week. Just follow the guy wearing his sunglasses at night, he'll know where the JAAAAAAM is at.

And if you are in town Wednesday night, go see Ottilie at Le Vieux Léon. I played a show with her last week, she's a singer from the Alps whose show had me dancing and smiling ear to ear. Her live show is amaaaaazing. Oh, and buy one of her CDs after the show so she can make her cab fare home. :)

THE SYSTEM

2009-03-19T11:00:00.014+01:00

This is the face of a legal alien in France.

Proud.
Strong.
Fearless.
Welcomed.

This portrait of pride and jubilation in my new-found homeland was taken during my latest half day stay at a prefecture somewhere in Paris. After 15 months now of mairies, prefectures, administrative mistakes, paper shuffling, office shuffling, people shuffling, interviews, blank stares, feigned comprehension, total confusion and a new understanding of what the word "system" really means, I have received my holy grail...the carte de sejour. I'm legal, man. Before I set off on my half day adventure (for what I thought was just a chest x-ray appointment) I jokingly made a guess that I would end up having to talk to at least 12 different people in French and would most likely cry for three of them. I was off by one. It was 11 and I only cried for two.

The morning started off great. My eyes opened at 8:12AM for an 8:30AM appointment across town. Flurry of SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT, run to the metro with my giant GET LEGAL folder and off to yet another prefecture. The hives started the moment I left, by the time I got there, the tears were lined up and ready to go. French language skills out the window. Check, check and check.

DESK ONE: Sign in. Woman points to desk next to her.
DESK TWO: Two women talking animatedly with each other outside a room filled with foreigners. I step up nervously and show my convocation. She asks where I am from, after blanking I choke out "New...York"

FRENCH WOMAN: "Thank you! To enter, you have to buy my friend and I a plane ticket."
ME: (mind racing crazily....she couldn't possibly have said what I think she said) "Uh...."
FW: "Two plane tickets please!"
ME: "I.....uh...(panic panic panic) I don't understand....you want uh..my plane ticket?"

She laughs and whisks me into the room, I take a seat off to the side and look around at the 50 or so other foreigners, all speaking French. She goes to the front of room where there is a video screen set up and takes out what looks to be a remote control and announces to the class in English "WHERE IS THE NEW YORK GIRL WHO DOES NOT UNDERSTAND?" I am officially dead inside. I slowly raise my hand as all eyes are now on me, the New York girl who does not understand. She comes and gives me the remote control and tells me to push it when I see the Eiffel Tower on the video. What? Huh? Why has she given me this? Why am I the one running the video? Why do I feel special now? She starts the video, I push the green button and I jump as a loud English voice comes out of it.
Only then does it hit me.
It's a frickin' translator.
Not a remote control, you moron.
After watching a video strangely focused on "women have a right to work here", we sit waiting to be called in for interviews. No one talks to me. Quelle surprise.

DESK THREE: I am interrogated for 30 minutes by an older woman in a small office. Sweating profusely, my French is coming out in horribly spoken spurts of chewed up garbles mixed with fighting tears back. Then she pushes me over the brink when she passes over a short French test for me to take. OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD stop it OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD just read the frickin' questions OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD ok name, got it OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD lieu de naissance OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD ok birth, naissance means birth 9 juin OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.....and so on.
I pass the paper over, she glances down over her glasses for a moment before sighing and asking...
HER: Madame Boulé, what does the word lieu mean?
ME: Um....place.
HER: And lieu de naissance means...
ME: Um...place of birth.
HER: (looking me over) Then why have you written June 9?
ME: (tears well) Um..I don't know. Sometimes I have crisis of nerve.
HER: (She looks at me) OK, you need to calm down. Breath.
ME: I know. My whole life is this since I am child.
Before I can burst into more tears and ask her to be my Mom, she gives me THREE more convocations for THREE more interviews and classes I am required to take, shuffles me out the door and walks me down to the medical office....

DESK FOUR: Sign in while crying.
The medical area waiting room is in the middle of about 8 doors which open and close in a flurry of doctors coming out, x rays being stacked, people shuffled in and out of one room after the other. In the next hour I would see five people in white labcoats. In one door, check eyes, passed to different labcoat guy, check weight and height. As he writes the numbers on my chart, I suddenly say in English loud and clear, "Wow, must be those delicious French donuts!" I realize my crisis of nerve is really kicking hard now. He doesn't even look at me as I internally chastise myself for making some sort of Turrets inspired wisecrack about French donuts. WTF IS A FRENCH DONUT?...YOU FOOL...YOU IDIOT..WHY WOULD YOU SAAAAY THAT? TO WHO? IT WASN'T EVEN FUNNY ANYWAY....WHY WOULD THAT BE FUNNY?

"OK go into the hallway and wait for one of the doors to open, go in and lock it, take your shirt off and wait for the door on the other side to open."

Uh....alrighty. But like, all these doors keep opening and closing, who is on the other side? Some dudes? I go in, lock the door, whip out camera to take a portrait of my self esteem being smashed to bits in a maze of incomprehension and crises of nerve.
Door opens as I stand there half naked with a camera in my hand.
Uh...hey guys, just uh....getting one in for the books here....heh...heh...have you heard the one about the French donuts?
I am smashed against a screen as two technicians take the chest x ray and shuffle me back into the room and out in to the waiting room.
Wait wait wait wait.
Shuffled in to see Doctor who asks a barrage of medical questions including..
DOCTOR: Are you depressed?
ME: Why? Do I look depressed?
DOCTOR: Just answer the question.

Back to DESK 4 to check out, shuffled down hall to pick up carte de sejour only to be told I have to pay 275 euro in stamps only, not money (cause that just makes soooo much more sense) and they of course only sell the stamps down the street at the Tabac but it is 1:23 and their office is closing in five minutes so if I cannot make it back in time, I will have to return later. Or tomorrow.
NO WAY, compadre.
After all this I AM walking out of here with my carte.
I race down the street again to get the stamps as I know how serious the French administration are about their lunch hour and if I come back at 1:31PM, it's game over for me. I ponder briefly the irony of how I always seem to be running somewhere for an administration that took 15 months to process me. Panting, I rush up the stairs where finally.....I receive my carte.

Next week...off to the local prefecture in my arrondisement to explain my work situation for apparently four hours. Hmmmmmmm......

BROKE ENGLISH

2009-03-16T18:59:00.004+01:00

Every time I see one of these advertisements around Paris (and there are lots), I think of a new pitch for them...

"Learn the language skills to destroy your own economy and possibly your entire country! Learn the word games you'll need to milk the most out of subprime mortgage backed securities and as a special bonus, you'll learn to create invisible money! In three easy steps! YES! I speak Wall Street English!"

Really.

I don't think anyone needs a class for this, it's pretty basic....

Give me your money.
Thank you.
Unregulate me.
Now go fuck yourself.
Give me my bonus.
It's not my fault.

Seriously.

I HEART YOU

2009-03-07T09:40:00.010+01:00

LAST NIGHT.....

ME: "I'm bored."
MY FRIEND COREY IN NY: "Bored?"
ME: "Yeah, bored."
MFCINY: "Ok so let's make something in 5 minutes."
ME: "OK." (thinking)
MFCINY: "Ideas?"
ME: "I dunno but whatever it is, it has to have laser eyes."
MFCINY: "Of course. OK, send me a portrait."

Bored?
Come here me sing tonight.....
Le Delly's
19h30
5 rue des deux Gares
10eme, PARIS (Metro Gare Du Nord)

THE AMERICAN ONE

2009-03-05T09:50:00.005+01:00

(photo by KDunk)

My first French review of my album came out this week. I couldn't understand the whole thing so I typed the text into freetranslation.com and what followed is now officially my favorite review of my music of all time.
EVER.
(Note: I am now officially changing my name from Dana Boulé to Rolled Dana, The American One.)

"Landed to Paris by love of a French, Rolled Dana comes us from Brooklyn. To enter into the album of the American one, all clean in appearance, is to open a positive can of Pandore - therefore the whole opposite of the original can - that is not miserly some surprised, in pleasure, in fantasy, in life all simply. To the first level of reading, we find therefore a wise songwriter, well as it is necessary behind his piano and his classical formation. In opening, Go Away, elevated of ropes, would resemble itself a pop one in played laces under the boudoir boudoirs. But distrust we of the water that sleeps and the usage that done Dana of an accordion (following the example of Dawn Moors) could put us the flea to the ear: the American one leads a debauched life itself, confronts itself to more popular pleasures, surrounded by about ten musicians (with section copper) as one could do it in eastern Europe (Unforgiven). The music remains nevertheless by American gasoline but there is this same exuberance that comes gladly to hit to the door. The music of Rolled Dana is full of life, sometimes as expressive as a number of cabaret or of circus or a spectacle of Broadway (Right Place, Wrong Time). Even truly centered titles around the piano indicate a passion that asks only a thing: to exult. Natural girl of Tori Amos or of Kate Bush on the échevelé I Don't Mind (that will recall also the fleeting Suddenly Tammy), the piece is a beautiful musical rescript of the formula "storm under a crane"; it is also intoxicating as a quick turn on an old carousel. The lunar Sorry stresses the impression of a singer that puts all sound heart in his interpretation and the épanchement of its feelings, without being nevertheless clumsy or bombastic. Rolled Dana plays the tightrope walker with talent."

Yeah. Can it get any better than that? HELL NO, says the American One who leads a debauched life and walks a tightrope with talent (as opposed to the talentless/dead tightrope walker).

Opening a positive can of Pandore might be my favorite thing to say EVER so of course, I have worked it into conversations wherever and whenever possible. It makes me think of Tinkerbell dressed in rainbow spam or glittery sardines jumping out of a can and forming a chorus line.

Exult.
Always.

:)

DRESDEN, DENMARK AND OTHER JACKASSERY

2009-02-16T14:18:00.010+01:00

My level of France retardation spiked this past week with a series of events that left me googling "loss of brain cells"....

ACT I
DRESDEN, DENMARK
French class, take 3.
After two disappointing rounds at Alliance Francaise last year, I was able to sign up for super cheap French classes through the mairie. I have learned not to cheat my way through placement tests and I showed up the first day to learn that after a year in Paris, I am now qualified for level 2. YES! I can say all sorts of things now but my major problem remains...I still don't understand one word anyone says to me. I am 100% convinced now that I am either an asshole who doesn't listen or I actually do have a learning disability. My class is held in an elementary school and I felt the butterflies as I squeezed myself into the tiny, tiny desk and looked around at the 30 other adults. I fought a sudden urge to yell "CAN WE ALL GET THIS OVER WITH!!? MY NAME IS DANA AND I JUST WANT YOU PEOPLE TO LIKE ME, OOOKAAAY??!!" I add "Tourette's" to my internal "to google" list and I wondered if anyone else is afflicted with childhood holdover anxiety disorder.

Our first lesson is to turn to our neighbor and interview them. Where he/she is from, what they do, how long they have been here, etc. After your neighbor interviews you, you are to present each other to the rest of the class. OK, no sweat, I think. I turn to my neighbor....Jonas.
Where are you from?
Germany.
I write DENMARK.
What city?
Dresden.
Can you spell that, please?
D-R-E-S-D-E-N
OH! DRESDEN, DENMARK I carefully write.
OK, age?
26.
24? No, 26 he corrects.
Oh, right. I knew that one. (Note to self: brush up on numbers 1-10)
OK. What do you do?
Physicien, he says.
DOCTOR, I write. Wow, they must have really super advanced med school in Denmark, I think. OH those Danish! So efficient and so very smart too!

We finish our interview and the teacher begins calling out names to present. I smile as my name is called and stand proudly to announce my new neighbor. I got this in the baaaag. My very first words to the class, I am ready to make an animated and friendly first impression...

"I present to you....JONAS! (I gesture grandly to him). Jonas is a DOCTOR from DRESDEN, DENMARK!"
Silence. Blink. Blink. Something is clearly wrong as I look around at the puzzled faces. My teacher asks me to repeat, please?
"Jonas is uh.....a doctor....from.....Dresden...Denmark...he is Danish..." Jonas taps my leg and quietly and politely informs me he is actually a physicist from Germany. I feel the blood drain as I search wildly for something to say, in French, something...ANYTHING to save me from this horrible display of inadequacy. I try and muster my shattered self confidence.
"Ha....ha...uh...just now...what FUNNY! I think he say Denmark....I hear Dresden...what JOKE...ha...ha...it is reason I am here!"
Silence.
I awkwardly sit down and concentrate on making my face turn back to white from purple. I can't even look at Jonas, the physicist from Germany. Or the rest of class for that matter. I pray someone else will make a similar mistake..."Maria is a FISHERMAN from CANADA!"...."Antonio is an ASTRONAUT from KOREA!"....aaaanything.
But no one does.

ACT II
LATHER UP
I have been searching for a good lotion for my winter dry skin. After carefully scouring the shelves at the pharmacy, I see a picture of a baby on a giant jumbo size bottle. OH! BABY lotion, perfect! After slathering this on my body every night for two weeks, I notice my skin is getting progressively red and bumpy, I frequently wake up in the night itching and I am developing some sort of skin condition on my feet. I take a closer look at the bottle again and realize there is actually an English translation on the back.
Baby soap.
It's soap.
I have been slathering myself in soap for two weeks wondering why I am itching and why my morning showers are particularly frothy.
It's because it is SOAP.
Not lotion.
SOAP.

EPILOGUE
I made some Vietnamese food yesterday. Chopping the hot pepper for the sauce, my nose itched and while scratching it, I accidentally shoved a bunch of hot pepper seeds up my nose. The fiery burning quickly spread from my nose to my throat and I spent the next hour making "freaked out cat with a fur ball stuck in throat" gagging sounds, praying to god that the neighbors weren't home.
HECCCCH.....CCCCHHHHH.....ACCCCCCCCHHHHHH.......CCCHHHHHHHHH......WUCHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Just trucking along, as usual.
Sigh.

FRENCH BOY

2009-02-13T10:10:00.005+01:00

It has arrived. My dance pop music video homage to French boys....

In the middle of making my album, I got tired of producing sad songs so one night on a lark, I wrote a dance song as a joke called French Boy. An homage to my inner francophile. I played it for Jeff Byrd, my co-producer and he flipped out. Said we had to produce the track. I sighed, said "but it's just a JOKE" song...he persisted so we made a rough cut of the song. My filmmaker friend Corey Tatarczuk heard the track and flipped out. Said we had to make a dance video. So we started working on the storylines. Ninjas! Breakdancing! Girl fight! First thing we needed....some real live French boys. I convinced FB and his friend they had to star in it by telling them all they had to do was walk around all day smoking and looking French. It quickly spiraled into a three day 12 person crew shoot at Princeton University and Institute For Advanced Studies (Einstein's academic home). The result is my most favorite video, shot with the help of my friends and forever ingrained in my head as "that magical weekend".

This is for all you French boys out there.
This American girl totally loves you.

CE SOIR CE SOIR

2009-02-06T08:57:00.005+01:00

Come rock it with me if you're in Paris tonight.
21h00.
Toi et moi. XO Dana

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A PIG - PART TWO

2009-02-05T16:24:00.021+01:00

Once the morning of slaughtering the pig was over, I returned after lunch to a small stone room to watch the farmers make Boudin Noir (black sausage/blood sausage). As I entered, I was a bit startled to see the head, lungs, heart and what I thought at first was some sort of cool kerchief but instead turned out to be the stomach lining hanging from the pig's head from the ceiling.

I learned that every bit of the pig is used, absolutely nothing gets wasted. The lungs are fed to the dogs, the head is used to make fromage de tete (head cheese), and the blood (with onions and herbs) is used to make Boudin Noir. The two women funneled the filling into the casings, their hands a blur a movement. The old woman here was so animated and so kind, I could not take my eyes off her as she is one of those old people whose young self shines brightly through all the wrinkles. The way she moved and especially the way she laughed, I kept glancing back at her thinking I had just seen her transform into a 20 year old girl.

After the links are all filled, they piled them onto an old sheet and lowered it into a round fourneau (like a cauldron), tied it shut and put a brick on top. The Boudin Noir then cook for thirty minutes. The smoke coming out of the pot made the whole room magical and I kept getting confused what century exactly I was in.

After the Boudin Noir was taken out of the fourneau, I was brought to another room to see the carcass, ready and splayed out for the butcher to come. The old woman taught me what every part of the pig is called. Then the butcher showed me how to cut up the whole pig. I have to say, that part was AWWWWWWWESOME. It made me rethink butchery as a possible career choice.

And last but not least...dinner.

As I sat down to eat the Boudin Noir, I couldn't help but be amazed that in 10 hours, I saw the pig go from alive to cooked on my plate for dinner. Call me naive, suburban, etc. but I just never grew up with the notion that what you eat EVER resembles an animal. I feel grateful for the chance to have witnessed the process of slaughtering an animal so that I may eat it. I walked away from the experience with a new perspective on what it really means to eat an animal. While it did not turn me into a vegetarian, I have a new awareness and a new resolve to only eat organic meat.

Once again, thank you France for opening my eyes.
And thank you, pig.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A PIG - PART ONE

2009-02-04T13:23:00.016+01:00

PREFACE
Friday January 30...
As the train left Paris behind and dipped into the countryside, I felt my stomach flutter with nerves over what I would be witnessing the next day. The pig slaughter. Now that I had no one to whom I could announce my lofty reasons, the idea was quickly losing its charm. What was I getting myself into? Because I have no reference for a slaughter and an extremely overactive imagination, I settled into my seat and for two hours dreamed up horror film after horror film starring zombie pig bloodbaths. Zombie pigs eat the horses. Zombie pigs kill the farmer. Zombie pigs stampede towards Paris.

I am shaken out of my Amityville Horror by the arrival in Bourgogne. There is something about the hills, the air, the sounds and smells that makes me feel calm each time I go there. I start to think that maybe I could actually pretend to be cool with the country life, at least enough to not barf. Or cry. It's a start. At 10PM, I embrace farm time and go to sleep in my dark little room with surprisingly no bad dreams.

Saturday, February 1...
I am woken up at 8AM by the sounds of the cows next door. I think maybe they are talking about their pig friend who is about to get the axe. Then I wonder if the pig knows. I have read they are really smart animals and I wonder if it has a sense that something awful is about to happen to it. Then I wonder if I will know the day I die that I am going to die. OK this is quickly spiraling so I decide this is not a good foot on which to start the day off. I get back in bed and do a do-over, stretching calmly and force-thinking about what a wonderfully interesting day this will be. After breakfast, the farmer from next door calls and says they are ready. "OK Dana, let's go barf up some coffee and bread" I think to myself as we walk next door....

The pig.
It was already screaming wildly when we arrived, clearly not happy with the current situation. The other animals around the area were clearly agitated as well. I had about 60 seconds tops to really look at it before one of the farmers took a sledgehammer and brought it down on the pig's head between the eyes. It was immediately knocked out completely.

The farmer made a swift cut about four inches long in the pick's neck and while the heart was still beating, the blood was caught to later make Boudin Noir (blood sausage). Unlike the oceans of blood I had dreamed up in my head, there were a few bucketfuls. And instead of the panic I had expected, I was simply mesmerized by the slaughter. A deep sense of respect and sorrow for this animal overcame me. To cry or to throw up suddenly seemed disrespectful. And I didn't feel sick, I just felt curious and sad. (I have posted a series of photos HERE if you would like to see the whole process).

It took almost 30 minutes for that pig to stop moving completely, during which it's screams got more and more faint and then finally, silence. As I watched with intense sadness as the force of life left this animal, I quietly thanked it for it's meat. After what seemed an eternity, it at last stopped breathing and the other animals in the area quieted down. I wondered if any of them would remember this moment.

The hair is then burned and scraped off with blunt knives. The pig is cleaned and lifted onto table where it will be cut open and disemboweled. This whole process was done so deftly and swiftly by the farmers that I suddenly felt idiotic in my Jessica Simpson coat and my stylish hat. I spend my days complaining about WHAT exactly? A pig just died so you can eat it. Bacon doesn't grow on trees. These people are living off the land and I'm upset I can't get good sushi delivered?
I tell myself silently to go jump off a bridge.
Seriously.

PIG SLAUGHTER WEEKEND GETAWAY

2009-01-29T19:19:00.008+01:00

FB: "Oh, by the way, my Mom wants to know if you want to go to a pig slaughter next weekend."
ME: ".........a what?"
FB: "A pig slaughter. In Burgundy. You wanna go?"
ME: "......." (lost in images of Charlotte's Web meets Texas Chainsaw Massacre)
FB: "Hello?"
ME: "Uh.....sooooo....like, the invite is to go watch a pig get butchered? With like, a knife? Is it like...alive?"
FB: "Yes, of course it's alive, then it gets slaughtered. Then it's dead. Then you butcher it."
ME: "Right. Of course. My college degree in Theater covered that. Wow. OK. Well, sure, I'll go...I mean when was the last time I got invited to a slaughter? I should get out more anyway."

Each year my French in-laws buy a pig from the farm next door and help slaughter and butcher it. We ate last year's pig for months, every time we visited we would walk away with a bag of meat. So I decided to go this weekend. For a week I have been professing my noble reasons for wanting to become one with the animal before I eat it, for wanting to witness where my meat comes from. If I am to eat it, then I must bear witness and thank it for it's meat. Become at peace with the food chain, blah blah blah.
My Greek accordionist friend who grew up with many farm animals asked me today after I told him where I was going and after spouting my lofty city/fake hippie girl "gets" the country life reasons.....

GA: "So, have you ever seen an animal killed before?"
ME: "Wulll....not really....I guess...(desperately searching for any moment in my New Jersey suburban childhood that might include an animal slaughter)...hmmm.....no. I guess never."
GA: "I have to tell you, with a pig, it can be quite brutal, especially the squealing, it's very human and you may be traumatized. And there is a LOT of blood."
ME: "But....like, I just like, want to...(images of knives)...you know...(sounds of humanlike pig squealing)....SEE what I'm eating (bloody carnage images).....and....uh....you know....(trails off)....become....one...with...stuff?"

I'm still going. Tomorrow morning I set out solo on a train to watch Wilbur's throat get cut and chopped into pieces. Just a weekend getaway with my French in-laws, the farmers, a pig and one possibly vomiting, crying city girl traumatized for the next six years. I may return on Monday a vegetarian. Or more likely strapped to a gurney, frothing at the mouth, eyes bugging out of my head while I scream uncontrollably "IT WAS ALIIIIIIVE, IT WAS ALIIIIIIIIIVE, IT WAS ALIIIIIIIIVE!!!!"
Gulp.

Bon weekend.
Party on.

xx

YOU HAVE MORE GUT.

2009-01-21T16:48:00.007+01:00

My Savate teacher told me point blank I am fat today.
In front of the whole class.
The class where I stand in the front row.
The class where I am the only girl.
Right before he started the warm up he looked at me, grabbed his own gut and said "I see you have more...somethingsomethingIcouldn'tunderstand". I suddenly felt five pairs of eyes behind me boring into the back of my apparently GIANT ASS. I almost choked but managed to laugh it off with a "hahaha oui....hahaha....oui".
hahaha yes...hahaha yes?
THAT'S my best comeback?!

OK, so I have kind of sort of been in denial that eating up to two galettes a day mixed with giant bowls of pasta at 11PM for weeks would have any physical effect on me whatsoever. And OK, so I have kind of sort of noticed that this past week my pants got like, kind of sort of really tight. Even my purple fat pants which were dug out of obscurity a few days ago. Then yesterday I rolled over in bed and I felt my stomach kind of sort of roll slightly AFTER the rest of me rolled over and I thought "hmmm, that's interesting". But a public humiliation seems to me a kind of sort of I don't know, HARSH way to break someone out of their denial.

I am taller than any of the French dudes in my class. And now, apparently, I am also wider. Throughout the warm up, my anger at my teacher, galettes, French dudes, French language, everything started to boil as I angrily double timed my sit ups like a crazy person, steam shooting from my ears. They were all talking about Obama and didn't even look at me and I couldn't understand what they were saying about him or the US and that made my rage even MORE palpable.

Here you all are talking about MY country and all any of you has to say to me is I AM FAT?!#$%@! Well, guess what, mofos? I AM fat and America frickin' RULES and so does BUTTER and FU if you think me and my cake rolls are gonna let this one slide by like bacon on my back fat.
Game ON.

While the French dudes leisurely made their way through sit ups, talking the whole time and pausing every so often to have more animated discussions I couldn't follow about the US and Obama, I stopped caring about understanding and tuned them out, pretended I was in the Marines and ripped through warm up like I was going for drill sergeant. As soon as warm up ended, adrenalin pumping and game face on, I sprinted to the locker room, pulled my gloves on, body slammed the heavy hanging bag twice on my way out and happily stepped onto the floor to work with my teacher.....

BAM!
Yes.
BAM!
We.
BAM!
Can.

I hit him so hard at one point his contact flew out. But he seemed to really enjoy it and the harder I hit, the more he smiled and the more enraged I got so the harder I hit and the more he smiled and so on and so on. Towards the end of class I nailed a series of head kicks that sent him across the floor. As I bounced back across the room with my gloves up, I realized the class was silent. I looked up and saw five sets of eyes silently staring at me.
Breathing heavily, I stare back.
What are YOU lookin' at?
I notice no one is sweating.
Silence.
Sweat drips off my brow and falls to the floor.
Silence.
"Wusses", I think.
My teacher breaks the silence with "I think that's enough for today." Enough for who? My rage workouts last waaaaaay longer than just an hour, Teach. I wipe the sweat off, do 45 more minutes of weights in the weight room, grab my bag, put my best and brightest red lipstick on and roll myself right on out the door.
You mess with the bull, you're gonna get the horns, son.

AU REVOIR & BONJOUR, MR. PRESIDENT

2009-01-20T14:44:00.006+01:00

A friend sent me a live clip from my smash hit/standing room only/reduced the crowd to tears but brought them back with peals of laughter/three encores/four people fainted/medics/fireworks stage show the other night.

The clip is my butchered French intro to what recently became my "George Bush" song titled "The Monster". Originally written about corporate America and performed with my former band Stupid, it has since become my homage to George Bush and is my instant crowd pleaser song here in Paris. I dedicated it to Mr. Bush for the last time at a show last night and it made me a little sad. But it's ok, I can just go back to railing on corporations. As the video clip my friend sent of the show cut off right after the intro, I thought I would add the original recording of the song. But I couldn't figure out how to just post an audio file, so I got all fired up and decided to make what could best be described as WORST MUSIC VIDEO EVER MADE BY ATTEMPTING TO GET POLITICAL WHILE MAKING OBVIOUS STATEMENTS AND ASSOCIATIONS USING SHITTY INTERNET PICTURES AND CHEAP GRAPHIC TRICKS WITH IMOVIE.

But the song is there. :)

Au revoir, George Bush. Bonjour, Barack Obama. I may be in Paris but I can feel the hope and excitement from here on this historic day. Cautiously optimistic......

ODE TO LES MUSICIANS

2009-01-18T23:04:00.000+01:00

The feature film I just scored premiered this weekend at Slamdance Film Festival. It is called Drool and stars Laura Harring from Mulholland Drive (you know, the hot brunette who makes out with Naomi Watts).

I am really happy how the score came together and had a hectic yet amazing time recording over a month with my New York posse.....

Jeff Byrd - engineer extraordinaire and my partner in crime.

Matt Bixby
I went to his studio twice where he proceeded to do what he does best....ideas. "Matt, play me something like, plucky, not loud, not too sad but a little tense".
I walked away with 36 tracks. He will never ever play the same thing twice which means my engineering skills had to be on "A game" cause if I didn't get it the first time...well, just forget it.

Benjamin Hoyumpa I know he's a little young but hey....(this is actually Parker Hoyumpa, son of best drummer ever, Ben. The one with the camera). He knocked out 9 songs in 3 hours. It ruled.

Liam Carey I was so happy to work with Liam again who added his beautiful voice, guitar playing and amazing harmonic ear to several songs.

Chern Hwei Fung
Came up with five part harmonies off the top of his head in single takes. Seriously.

I love finishing projects....

Merci mon posse. I'll be back for the next one....

LE SHOW

2009-01-13T17:13:00.003+01:00

I am particularly excited about tomorrow night's concert because...

a. It is my first show at a venue where I don't have to worry about my levels of loudness, aka my levels of ROCKNESS
b. I am playing with two French singers who I really like
c. I haven't rocked it outside of a studio in three months, I'm like a crack addict about to get her fix.

I play at 10PM, 22h00 and it's free free free.....lalala....
xoxo Dana

THE WORLD IS MINE

2009-01-12T14:42:00.003+01:00

Having lost the throne, I went on an all out galette bender. For three days I ate an almost exclusive diet of galettes. By myself. One by one. Piece by piece. Picking out prizes, shoving the rest of the cake in my mouth and adding another crown to my ever-growing pile.

I'm not sure if it's the horrific gas or the 10 lbs. I gained from eating an exclusive diet of butter and sugar but somehow, none of the new galettes made me feel any better. Though I technically already gained my kingdom back by winning (albeit against myself) 11 times over, I couldn't forget the one that got away. The one I couldn't cheat my way into. Somehow I just...didn't feel like a king anymore....or queen for that matter. All I felt like was a big fat buttery nobody.

So I decided to go search out the wisdom of previous kings. What better place to go king soul searching than the Basilique Saint-Denis, the mother of all resting places for French royalty?

Situated in a suburb of Paris, it was there that I found peoples who could really relate to my plight. Dead peoples who knew my pain. Dead peoples who had BEEN there. I walked between the tombs and crypts of French kings and queens and sat meditating quietly. I'm not sure if it was the blistering wind drafts but something hit me right then and there among the dead monarchy and I gained a sudden clarity.

It doesn't matter HOW you gain control, what matters is that you HAVE control.

So I lost my kingdom for one night? So what? I got it back 11 more times and it doesn't MATTER that no one else was playing! I am still the KING and I have 14 crowns to prove it! What would Napoleon do? Duh! Smash the crown, call yourself EMPEROR and call it a day!

I got back on my horse the very next day for a visit to the American Legion Post #1. My father (an American Legion member) was in town visiting and we decided to check out their New Year's get together where they would be serving.....that's right....galette.

Guess who got the prize?
Crown # 15. M.I.N.E.

It's not as nice as Louis XV's....but it's MIIIIIIIIIINE. The galette craze ends this week as the bakeries one by one stop selling them. Until next year my little almond butter ones....

REVOLUTION

2009-01-07T13:57:00.002+01:00

My reign of galette terror ended last night abruptly and left me with a hole in my heart and anger in my soul for what could have been, what SHOULD HAVE BEEN MINE. My strategy of hording the galette and systematically fishing out the prize for myself was brought to an end when we had one of FB's French friends over for champagne and galette. Not wanting to reveal my Napoleon side right off the bat, I stood in the kitchen quickly trying to scheme a way to get the prize. I decided my best bet would be to cut the galette into four pieces, give myself the biggest piece and leave a piece in the kitchen (as every one I have eaten so far had the prize in the last piece). Smiling at my ingenuity, I confidently brought out the three plates:

FB #2: Wait, you can't just serve up the pieces you want.
FB #1: And why did you only cut three pieces out?
FB #2: You just cut THREE pieces? Where's the last piece?
FB #1: Yeah, where's the last piece!? Are you hiding it in the kitchen? You can't do that either!
FB #2: And why is your piece enormous??? No way. We're redoing this.

Damnit.
OK, so these guys are harder to play out than I had expected.
Fine.

FB #2 hides his eyes and as I point to a piece of galette, he says who the piece will belong to. I hate this game. This is stupid and I don't want to play anymore. I wolf down my piece and find it prizeless. I try and hide my scorn as I watch them slowly eat their pieces. Why should THEY win the prize when I CLEARLY want and DESERVE it the most??? My mood lightens when I see that they too....are PRIZELESS. The prize is still out there. In the kitchen. In the last piece. And it will be MINE.

"Oh! I have a GREAT idea!" I say as I run into the kitchen and quickly devise another scheme. I will feel out where the prize is, put all the pieces under three bowls and put the prize one under the bowl with a mark on it.
Suckas. They don't stand a CHANCE! Hahahahahahaha

I bring the bowls out and start the switcheroo. Switch. Switch. Switch. But in my delusions of grandeur, I somehow manage to forget the most important step, the step I have to do for this to actually work....I MUST go first but FB #1 is already choosing a bowl. MY BOWL. The one with the mark! Waaaaaiiit.....nooooooooooo! I can't show what a lying, cheating immature grade schooler I really am. At least not in front of a guest. In my mind, Napoleon is dying as I reluctantly hand over the winning piece to him with a tight smile "Here you go. Good luck."

My insides turn over as I watch him find the prize and happily announce that my reign is now officially OVER and could I run and fetch the crown for him please? I can't believe I let it go so easily. Napoleon would have NEVER made such a stupid mistake! But there is always tomorrow.....

REIGN OF TERROR

2009-01-06T15:32:00.009+01:00

It's Epiphany time here in Paris which means the boulangeries all carry my most favorite cake ever made on the planet...past, present and future. The galette des rois, aka kings' cake. The most delightfully deliciously almondy, buttery piece of heavenly AWESOMENESS I have ever tasted. My epiphany this year is that I need to replace as many meals as possible with galettes, to be the best I can be, to eat as many as I can and most importantly, to win the prize every time.
BRING IT.

Each galette comes with a crown. There is a little trinket baked in each cake and whoever gets the trinket is crowned king. My reign of terror began last night when I systematically sliced and ate my way through an entire galette for six people in one sitting. In the last piece was the snowman trinket. YOU ARE MINE, LITTLE MAN for I am now crowned KIIIIIIING, mwahahahahaha! I wore my crown to bed and repeated my assault this morning on another galette for four people, this time no knife, just chomping my way to the little panda bear trinket on the other side. YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CANNOT HIDE, ENDANGERED ONE!
Victory is mine again. DOUBLE KING!
I shall save my crown for an heir.

This is super easy holding down my iron fist reign of terror, just don't let anyone else near the cake(s). FB asked me where the galettes went.....I told him I didn't know.

Off to the boulangerie to try my hand at a galette for ten people....

SON OF FIVE & A HALF

2009-01-05T11:26:00.008+01:00

These are the shoes that launched a thousand ships.

When I lived in New York, I basically had half my apartment stored in the hallway outside my front door. Everything from the air conditioner to a broken vacuum cleaner, seven trash bags filled with clothes, wire desk organizers, plates, two bathroom gift sets and a pair of crusty pajamas that sat on top of the pile for approximately three years. No one ever said anything. Why would they? No one cared that the fire escape was perpetually blocked by the sports nut next door neighbor's giant duffle bags of sweaty gym clothes and various baseball bat collections. No one cared that the painter downstairs would consistently drag his giant canvases into the tiny, unventilated hallway and proceed to spray them down with toxic paint fumes, then leave them there for weeks, sometimes months on end. No one moved a muscle to clean up the dead mouse on the second floor. Or to remove the plaster chunks when the ceiling caved in....again. The only thing you had to "worry" about was your piles of shit outside your apartment getting stolen when the crack addict on the 1st floor quit N.A. and went back to using. My rollerblades (used once) disappeared around then. I think I finally noticed the following year. 'Cause no one cared.
The least of all....me.

But now I live in a fancy building in France. Where seemingly everyone cares. Deeply. Emotionally. About EXACTLY what I choose to leave in the hallway outside my front door. Fortunately for me, I am the foreigner in the building whose wide smile and frequent, terribly improper tendency of using the familiar CA VA?!!?? (and way too loud) with everyone I see has...

a. rendered me so dimwitted I am not to be spoken to EVER
b. rendered me so frightening and so toxic I am not to be looked in the eye or have my presence acknowledged IN ANY WAY unless I am with the French husband
c. all of the above

The only one in the building who actually speaks to me is the concierge from Portugal. She's down with me 'cause I'm a foreigner like her and I keep asking her to teach me how to say her dog's name with the right Portugese accent. She had a conversation with FB while I was in New York about the "shoes situation" by our front door. Evidently, it has caused quite the stir in the building. This came as a surprise to me as we live on the top floor in an isolated hallway with no neighbors. No one has any cause to walk by our apartment unless they come up to look for something. I suddenly got the vision of the snoopy old rich ladies who live here coming up to rubberneck the foreigner with her foreigner ways, finding my well worn sneakers and recoiling in horror before running down to complain to the concierge.
It seems someone, or someONES.....care.
WHO, I wonder, WHO are the shoes actually bothering???
So naturally, we just left the shoes there.
Like shark bait. Waiting and wondering if they would come ask us directly while my suspicions about the identities of real complainers began to form....

FIVE AND A HALF, the REAL cuplrit.
We live on the sixth floor but technically it is the seventh floor because the apartment below us is on a half floor. It has a little half front door and it is the only apartment where I have never seen the woman who lives there. I know she is there all the time because I can hear her below me all day. I have seen the woman in FIVE peeking through a crack her door to stare at me as I come up the steps but FIVE AND A HALF has remained an unsolved mystery until....

ENTER SON OF FIVE AND A HALF
About a month ago, I was home alone when the doorbell rang. I froze in my usual terror before tiptoeing to the door and sheepishly answering. It was a man of about 45 years old and he asked for Veronique. I told him "Veronique for it has been six months moves and now I live here with my husband". He told me he was the son of the Madame who lives below me and asked to use my phone because she does not answer when he knocks on her door and he forgot his phone. I asked him to wait there, shut the door, returned and brought him my cell phone. He asked to use my home phone claiming it was cheaper but I insisted he use my cell phone in the hallway. He made his call, left and I thought nothing of it UNTIL.....

NEW YEAR'S EVE 9PM
I am in the kitchen preparing food for our friends who are coming over. FB opens our front door as he thought he heard someone outside and who is standing there? None other than SON OF FIVE AND A HALF. Again. But this time, he is just standing there. He seems taken by surprise but then proceeds to complain to FB about the "shoe situation", how it is REALLY out of control now and that this space is common space and it REALLY needs to be taken care of. And that we should watch out because things outside the apartment can get stolen. I'm sorry, is that a veiled threat in there? Dude, I dealt with a crack addict, SON OF FIVE AND A HALF doesn't scare me in the slightest. Go ahead, steal my shoes. I have six more pair exactly like them. And don't MAKE me go get an air conditioner for the hallway too, pal. I could have six plastic bags of crap out here faster than you can say GIVE ME THE MOTHERFUCKING ROLLERBLADES, I NEED SOME SMACK.
Whatevs.

As our friends arrived at just that moment and filed past SOFH loudly with flowers and champagne, I had to wonder...why on earth did you feel the need to bring this up on New Year's Eve of all nights and more importantly...WHO SENT YOU??!!
WHO. IS. FIVE AND A HALF?!!
And how can she HATE MY SHOES when she NEVER comes OUT???!!

I moved the shoes inside today after realizing I had spent waaaay too much time on this and in the end, I didn't really care all thaaaaaat much. I grabbed my shopping cart, walked down the 7 flights of stairs, staring at the mysterious half door as I passed five and a half. As I walked through the courtyard, I felt someone staring at me. I quickly turned around and looked up directly at five and a half just in time to see the curtain rustle and move back into place. I stood there in the snow for a moment before smiling and waving.

FIVE AND A HALF.....who AAAAARE you?
The mystery continues......

THE CONCIERGE HATES ME

2008-12-19T11:33:00.005+01:00

FB: "The concierge hates me."
ME: "What? No way."
FB: "Seriously. She hates my guts."
ME: "You're paranoid, I'm sure she doesn't HATE you. Why would she HATE you?"
FB: "I don't know, but she does."
ME: "Are you kidding me? I just saw her today and she was nothing but nice to me as always! Asked how my trip was, said you must have missed me, we talked about her dog and Christmas....."
FB: "Of course she likes you, you're foreign and you brought her cookies. She tells me what she REALLY thinks though."

Evidently, while I was away the concierge told him to get the shoes and all the other crap we keep in the hallway out and please make it look prettier. Evidently, while I was away there was a certain incident involving a certain armoire that we failed to measure before purchasing that resulted in some heated words with the aforementioned concierge. The armoire ended up denting several walls, sitting downstairs for three days before being loudly sawed apart in the courtyard, hauled back up the six flights and put back together again (I have new-found respect for FB's woodworking skills fyi).

But still, I had trouble actually believing that the very sweet, always smiling and asking how I am concierge was truly capable of HATING anyone.

That is, until yesterday morning when we walked out of the building together. She tried to avoid our eyes but I was persistent and walked past her with a cheery "Bonjour!" She turned, gave me a quick a smile before shooting dagger eyes into FB's skull.

ME: "Oh my god. You're right. Dude. She hates your frickin' GUTS!"
FB: "Told you so."
ME: "Wow. So uh, what are we supposed to get her for Christmas?"
FB: "I don't know, what do usually get someone who wishes you would drop dead?"

Hmmmm.....

THE LOST MONTH

2008-12-05T15:36:00.002+01:00

I've been in New York for the past few weeks doing the music for two film scores and shoving my face full of bagels, pizza and Mexican food. I heart U Brooklyn. Every time I come back here, my Parisian reality fades into the background as I understand everything people say, I catch up with good friends and I eat myself across the borough.

But I do miss Paris.
I'll be back in a week, retarded as ever.....

:)

Dana

BLOOD, SWEAT, BUT NO TEARS

2008-11-19T16:35:00.006+01:00

I had to get some blood work done today. My fear level of blood tests is somewhere in between having my eyes stabbed with forks and my arms sawed off. While I have absolutely no fear of the dentist (one dentist told me I was his first patient to actually go to sleep during a root canal), I had some bad experiences with blood tests and IVs as a child that have left me with a sheer terror of anything having to do with needles in my arms. Even though I always eat beforehand, I bring my own "fainting kit" of juice boxes and cookies for the inevitable pass out.

I woke up today and my stomach sank as I realized not ONLY would I be getting blood tests done...but I would be going ALONE and having to deal with the whole process in Frrrrrrrench.

Gulp.
Ok.
Pack extra juice box.

I was recommended to go a CEF lab in the 14th arrondissement. I walked in, took a number and was immediately called to one of the secretariat desks.

S: JDFKSDVKDJFBVKDFV JDSV JHV JFDSVBJDVHD?
ME: (Silent. Deer eyes.)
S: JDFKSDVKDJFBVKDFV JDSV JHV JFDSVBJDVHD?
ME: (Cricket sounds. Big deer eyes.)

SNAP OUT OF IT! You have been here almost a YEAR. Just LISTEN to what she is SAYING. Listen CAREFULLY instead of just flipping OUT all the time. My GOD, what is WRONG with you!????!?!!!!

ME: Uh....peut etre un peu plus lentement? (maybe a little slower?)

I have to tell you, as she proceeded to raise her volume level to 11 and slowed it down to a mere crawl, I could actually understand her and we got through all the paperwork and information without much of a problem. I now know that yelling at a foreigner really slowly DOES actually make it easier to understand. I used to find this offensive in NY when I'd hear someone yelling at a stranger but I'm 100% DOWN with it now. I wish all of France would yell at me really slowly. With hand gestures.

WHAAAAAT IIIIISSSSS YOOOOOOUR MAAAAAAIIIIIIIIDEN NAAAAAAAAAAAME????!!!!!!!
HOOOOOW WILL YOOOOOU BE PAAAAAAAAYING TODAAAAAAAAY?!!!???!!!!

She gave me a gold colored token and about 65 pieces of paper so I wandered down the hall she had pointed at wondering where to go and what this token was for. Is it for the toilet? Is there a prize? A technician spotted me coming and guided me into one of the saw my arms off/torture rooms. I told her my French was bad and that I have fear. She was very nice, I looked away as she took the needles out, breathed deep breathes and tried to picture the ocean. Sometimes I am able to go to my special place where no one can touch me but today was not one of those days as when I imagined the ocean, I just saw Coney Island with needles all over the beach. OK, forget that.....moving on...California, California, California...you used to live there....picture the beach, the biiiiig beautiful beach....briiiight blue waves....wait what is that in the water? Oh look, it's a school of needlefish jumping into floating arms in the blood red stained waves where sharks have just torn the arms off all the swimmers and everyone is screaming....

OK STOOOOOOP IT!!! And then I feel the old familiar....arms and legs go numb, heart racing, profuse sweating, stars in eyes, ringing in ears...NONONONONONO... you will NOT pass out in a foreign country...NO WAY....pull it TOGETHER NOOOOOOOOOOW.....(trails off)

And
scene.

Pass out.

I wake up and the technician is asking me if I am OK. "Uh...Je ne sens pas tres bien..." She tells me she is going to get me a café which cracks me up as I reach for my fainting emergency juice box kit. Is coffee the French answer to all ailments? And more importantly, does it work? I drink both juice and coffee as she tells me to sit quiet for two minutes. I feel better after five minutes or so, pack my bags and put on my coat to leave. She comes back in and asks me where I am going.
"I'm leaving."
"No no, you have to do the second series of blood tests still."

WHAT?

I'm only HALFWAY done? I hear the waves crashing on Needle Beach already as I mumble "uh...ok" and sink back down into the torture chair.

A second technician comes in, this time a guy with Converse sneakers and punk rock hair. I tell him of my previous pass out (actually all I managed was "I fell down when she takes the blood"), we chat a bit (all French), he finds out I am musician from NY and he starts talking to me about every punk band he knows from there. He's never been to NY and wants to go badly, he learned English from listening to lots of American music. As we sit discussing the genius of Sonic Youth, I don't even notice the needle is already out of my arm and I am finished with series number two. Whoa. I thank him profusely, he says he will myspace me and suggests the next time I just talk about music when I get blood tests.

I'm asking for THAT guy next time.

:) Peace out.

OUTTA MY WAY

2008-11-13T18:26:00.003+01:00

I quit smoking again. For those of you who know me, feel free to roll your eyes into the back of your head. I know. I am forever known as the girl who is ALWAYS quitting smoking. If only one of these times, I would NOT do the idiotic "oh I can just have one" before hurtling headfirst onto the slip n' slide right back to it....

Day 1 & 2 - Things are OK as long as no one speaks to me or looks at me in any way. My shut in job as a film composer works great for this but am having serious trouble writing a love theme as all I can think about are knives and fire.

Day 3 - a friend's band is playing a punk rock show. I want to murder everyone in sight and am breaking into random fits of crying but I must go to the show. We arrive early and as an hour turns into two, I realize I have not eaten dinner and I am about to lose it. I HAVE to eat. HAVE TO. As in, RIGHT NOW. We are down the street from the Monoprix at Pigalle so I make a beeline from the club to get myself a sandwich or five before I die. As I head up the sidewalk, I see two young guys approaching me and they move to block my way. Are you KIDDING ME? Nothing right now in this world could possibly get in between me and my Monoprix sandwiches. NOTHING. I saw them coming and I think secretly inside I wanted them to mess with me because frankly, I am looking for a reason to go off. As they give me the up and down creepy look and say something in French, I get in the little one's face and yell as loud as I can, "I WILL TAKE A HAMMER TO YOUR FUCKING FAAAACE, UNDERSTAND ME LITTLE MAN????" before pushing through them and continuing my beeline for tasteless ham on white bread with cheese.

They didn't follow.

Yeah yeah, I know the smarter thing would have been to ignore them and cross the street instead as I do time and time again being a girl in a city, but I have to say....
that felt REAAAAAALLY good.

O O O O O!!!!!

2008-11-05T18:13:00.003+01:00

I stopped by the small market yesterday and as I checked out, the man behind the counter asked me how I was. "Nervous" I said. "I hope tomorrow I have a new President Obama." There were about 8 people in line behind me who cheered when the woman next to me said, "the whole world does!!!" The magnitude of this election hit me. Yes indeed, the whole world is watching.

From my little apartment in Paris, I sat with baited breath devouring both television and the internet. Internet then television. As night descended and state by state went blue, I really began to believe that yes, it actually....can happen.

And then it did.

O.B.A.M.A!
I have a huge smile on my face and joy in my heart.
There's a long road of troubles to overcome but after 8 years, I finally have hope for my country again.

America, I really do heart you.

LET'S GO TO THE MOVIES!

2008-10-24T13:03:00.004+02:00

In the past month, out the clear blue, I landed two jobs scoring two different films. One feature and one short. They are both due by December and as I made my usual excel spreadsheet to chart out everything, it quickly dawned on me the MASSIVE extent of work I have ahead of me in the next two months. Gulp. In the last week I have been outside my apartment once a day to go grocery shopping and that's it. The rest of the time - morning, noon and night is spent in my home studio, writing, recording and placing music to images. Yesterday I started to feel really really really insane so I went for a quick walk and was actually surprised to hear people speaking French on the sidewalk.
Oh, yeah. I am so holed up I actually forgot I was in Paris.
Whoa.

I love, love, LOVE scoring film. I have already done one feature film and countless songs for television. Adding another story and another life to an image and seeing a magic result gives me a natural high. My favorite film scores are movies by Wes Anderson, Paul Thomas Anderson, the Coen Brothers, Tim Burton and Gus Van Sant. They all use an eclectic mix of licensed tracks and/or they have genius songwriters like Danny Elfman and Mark Mothersbaugh scoring.

I have no budget to license any popular music for the scores so I am aiming as high as possible (quelle surprise)....can't license big expensive songs? OK, no problem. Just write a ton of songs really fast (in multiple genres, everything from punk to lounge to country) and hire all your musician friends to come together to make it happen. I just LOVE organizing and a movie score brings out the best talents in me. I was flipped out last week about my lack of knowledge of the industry standard recording software, Pro Tools. As in, my usual sobbing on the bathroom floor while giving myself hives sort of freak out. But with some help from my friends (thank you Byrd and Chicky), some online tutorials and something I never seem to have enough of - less tears and more patience, I am working my way along just fine.

I might not be posting a whole lot (especially about Paris considering I forgot I live here but hey, it sounds mysterious for the movie...film scored in Paris, ooh lala) until these two projects are finished, but I'll be around, looking at the world through music colored glasses and figuring out if country music or a punk song would fit best. I was in the shower the other day and had an idea for my next business venture - write personal theme songs for people. Wouldn't YOU want a theme song of your own to play each time you feel down? (Or I could customize it and if you are feeling too up, something to bring you down, WAY down)

"OH DANA, SOAR WITH THE EEEEEEEAGLES! YOU ARE ON FIIIIIIIRE!!" (insert squealing guitars)
OR
"Oh Dana....everything is daaaaaark in your wooooorld..." (insert organ dirge)

I'd have an initial consultation with a list of questions......

1. In what ways do you rock? Be specific.
2. In what situations do you most feel your rockness?
3. What kind of music makes you feel fired up? As in, MAN do I ROCK!
All genres welcome.

They would make wonderful birthday/anniversary gifts or stocking stuffers.
Oh the ideas, they are a flowin' these days. :)

THE REVOLT

2008-10-16T11:33:00.005+02:00

It started slowly, quietly and I almost didn't realize what was happening until it was too late to do anything about it. French classes at the Alliance Francaise rotate students in and out every week so the classes are like waves of ever-changing social dynamics. What started out happily as my quiet collaborative French class of mostly Asian students and myself, by week four had turned itself into unruly three hour shouting matches between Italy and Brazil with occasional outbursts from Spain and some disjointed lengthy wastes of "I can't even formulate a question but I am going to sit here for five minutes and mumble something while I hold up class for the 6th time in an hour"....you guessed it....California.

Am I the ONLY one who actually WANTS to learn French? And learn French efficiently? My teacher is very nice but she is prone to letting students drone on and on and ON and OOOONNNNN about whatever topic they want at whatever point they want to during class. In the beginning, this wasn't really an issue. But one by one as the loud, belligerent most annoying "WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE" students infiltrated, they tested the boundaries, found none and proceeded to hijack every class. If I wanted to listen to bad, uncorrected French for three hours, all I need to do is open my own mouth. Why am I sitting in class for this? I made a TANGENT CHART and at last count the average number of interruptions per class is standing strong at 38. Why bother speaking French when you can shout in Portugese across the room? Why bother paying attention when it's OK to use an electronic translator that SPEAKS Chinese throughout class? Why bother learning French grammar when you can instead argue and INSIST every day with the French teacher who is FRENCH that "In Italian it is not like this! You don't do that! You are not right!" Are you seeeeerious? WE ARE IN FRENCH CLASS. WHY are you insulted that the teacher would even DARE to teach something that's not ITALIAN??? I am not paying a whopping 336 euro a month to listen to you flex your imaginary brain muscles and last time I checked? I DON'T CARE ABOUT ITALIAN. I LIVE IN FRANCE. F-R-A-N-C-E.
FRANCE.
Where they speak FRENCH.
That language I don't know.
The one I am PAYING to learn while the minutes tick off on your diarrhea of the mouth/I just wanna hear myself talk some more tangent.

I've officially had it with this sitcom situation where everyone is a cliché of their country. I am clearly the snotty New York bitch who thinks she's better than everyone. I try and show up late to class (in black) so I can best gauge where to sit the furthest away from the battle of the dimwits but there are too many of them now, it's impossible to escape. They are in France for only a few months, half of them don't even do the homework anymore and I sit desperately rolling my eyes at the teacher, BEGGING her to DO something. In NEW YORK time, please.

I feel that my time at the Alliance Francaise is slowly turning me into an eye rolling racist asshole so I have decided to cut off classes after next week and take another breather before I really start assuming things based on peoples' country and place of origin. Or I totally lose my shit altogether, join a secessionist movement and vote for McCain or something.

I'll be back again but I'm going to insist on getting my old teacher back from January, the one who made me cry and openly made fun of students. Hey, at least the students were too scared to speak much during class. Well...everyone except Italy. ;)

GO AWAY

2008-10-07T11:55:00.005+02:00

I am the proud recipient of another amazing music video made by my dear friend, Adrianne Jorge. She rules and she ruled Burgundy on our shoot there this summer. Go to youtube and watch it in high quality....merci Adrianne!
xoxo Dana

p.s. My album is on itunes now. Hooray.

PLAN DE SCENE

2008-10-02T13:24:00.005+02:00

A music booker asked me to email my stage plan to him.
So I did. Written on a giant blackboard.
It's now the centerpiece art in our home and my new favorite thing.
I think that everyone (musician or otherwise) should draw up their own stage plan and pin it to the wall to remind yourself of the magic balls of fire within you.
If you were to ROCK THE UNIVERSE with the POWER of your very BEING...where would YOU stand?
Stage left? Stage right? Or flying from the rafters with flames coming from your wings?
Exactly.
Having a bad day?
Well, just look at your wall and remember the LIGHTNING coming from your ROCKNESS.

That's it.
I'm drawing flames on the guitars right now and lightning bolts shooting from my accordion....

IN SEARCH OF..........

2008-10-01T10:45:00.010+02:00

I like finding things out by myself. I know it's the long way of exploring a place and I know there are plenty of opinions to be found about what is good in Paris, where to go, where not to go. But I simply prefer approaching things like a five year old with no knowledge and no expectations and without someone's opinion etched into my mind. It leads to conversations like....

ME: OH MY GOD, I found the MOST AMAZING bakery today that sells artisan bread and these butter cookies that are SO AAAAWESOME.
YOU: Poilane?
ME: Uh, yeah. How'd you know?
YOU: Cause it's a really old and famous bakery.
ME: Oh. Well, totally. Yeah. That place ROCKS!

It's just.....more fun for me this way.

My latest search has been more difficult. I didn't fully realize the complications of foraging for food in a tourist area before I actually moved into one. I've never lived in a tourist trap before. One by one I have written off all the overpriced and less than mediocre restaurants on my block bordering the 6th and 7th arrondissements. I can't even afford to be mediocre here. My hopes were raised when the epicerie around the corner on rue des Saint Peres opened at the beginning of September. YES! They were then smashed into bits when the small rotisserie chicken I purchased came to a total of 26€. I visibly choked when the cashier rang me up. 26 FRICKIN' EURO FOR A PIECE OF CHICKEN????!! I at least hoped it would be the best rotisserie chicken I ever ate but as I chewed the dry bits of chicken trying to calculate how many euro each bite cost, I realized I had been taken for another mediocre and overpriced ride.
Again.
Sigh.
GONE are the 2 euro Indian meals I could easily have when I lived in the 10th. GONE are the surprise and wealth of little hole in the wall restaurants offering tasty bits for not a whole lot of money. And if it sucked, oh well. What did you expect for 3 euro? Suivant.

So I cook a lot. But now I have to deal with the Monoprix St. Germain where, despite trying to do my shopping at every hour of day, it remains a hellion of crowded shoppers and lackluster produce. La Grande Epicerie is way out of my league for any regular shopping and the produce stand on Rue de Seine is just...eh. So yesterday I went to check out the Marché St. Germain in my usual style of not reading anything about a place beforehand and just going. Expecting an actual food market, I rolled in with my wheely cart. And stopped.

Soooooo....am I in New Jersey now? Uh, is that a food court I see? Is this Short Hills Mall? Is there a Hot Topic here too? And more importantly, can I get cheese fries? Is this air conditioned? Uh......where's the....marché? Wait, am I still in France?

After rolling past The Gap and Zara, I finally found the market tucked into a back corner. Empty but for a few shoppers, there was not a whole lot of choice there but hey, at least I'm not being run down by carts and pushy people in Monoprix. I have already written off the fish vendor at the front who sold me tuna steaks covered in scales (um, how does one manage that?) and Merlan filets filled with bones but the butcher seems alright, the produce hasn't been toooo bad and I got a nice bottle of wine from the caviste.

In the meantime, I will keep not doing any research at all and instead just blindly walk the streets one by one in search of something better.....

SEPTEMBER MORN.....9 MONTHS

2008-09-25T12:33:00.005+02:00

I'm in my last season of firsts.
My last first fall in Paris. It will be 9 months ago tomorrow that I left New York. I love September morns here. If it could just always stay like this forevs.....the sun, the warm afternoons, the slight chill in the air at night but only enough to make a hot toddy that much better. I know the drear is around the corner but in the meantime, Neil Diamond has been rocking my world. I highly recommend walking along the Seine and fake crying to this song nonstop ad nauseum.

LA DEFENSE, THE FINAL FRONTIER - SHIRLEY AND NANCY PART III

2008-09-22T19:32:00.008+02:00

After helping Shirley up the 68th staircase of the night, we stand there huffing and puffing and I have a look around. Here we are in the middle of the giant plaza by the giant arch I vaguely know about. I only have a moment to think "ohhh, this is pretty" before Shirley takes off in a different direction exclaiming....

SHIRLEY: OHHHHHHH! I recognize that big thing! (points to arch) We've been here before! Vincent the tour guide took us here and said something about that big thing!
ME: (catching up to her) Great! Do you know where your hotel is from here? (they both point in different directions).....sigh....ok. (think, think) Can you SEE this arch from your hotel?
SHIRLEY: Yes.
NANCY: No.
ME: OK, just take a good look around. Look at the different buildings and angles. Does that help you remember anything?
SHIRLEY: The tour guide DEFINITELY said something to us about that big thing right there.
ME: OK, but are you RECOGNIZING anything about your HOTEL location maybe?
NANCY: Ah just don't know. Maybe ah have been here at some point.

Pointless. I give up and we head back to where there is a taxi station. My heart leaps as we walk up to the first taxi driver. But before I can even get to him with the address given to me by Benoit, most helpful security guard ever, Nancy rushes up to him to exclaim....

NANCY: WE NEED TO GET HEEEEERE! (points to piece of paper that says Hotel Mercure, 3 rue de Fontanot, La Defense...note that there is no Q in Mercure) HEEEEERE! DO YOU KNOOOOOOW HEEEEERE? (pointing pointing pointing)
TAXI DRIVER: (looks at piece of paper) No. Thees no here. Two Hotel Mercure. Go across that way (points in general direction) and there ees one.

Uh, ok.

I intervene again and find out in French from the taxi driver that the address is apparently completely wrong and that there are in fact at least two Hotel Mercures. My heart sinks and for the first time, I just don't know what to do. Nancy is still asking the driver "WHYYYYYY? WHAAAAAAT? Ah just don't understaaaaaaaand! Vincent GAVE this address to Benoit and he wrote it out!" as though mentioning the Spirit tour guide and the security guard at Conforama will somehow magically make the taxi driver suddenly understand bad directions and know where we want to get to. I tell Nancy it's over. Done. We have to come up with plan B. Nancy spies a Hilton Hotel right in front of us...
NANCY: Ah'll bet they have a bar in there and they speak some English.

Nancy is now making sense to me and the thought of a drink is growing more appetizing by the moment. Hotel Hilton here we come. One rolling cart, four bags and now three lost tourists enter the lobby. Shirley sees a piano and as she now knows I am a singer, she stops and insists I sing them a song. "Well, you're a lounge singer aren't you? Play something!" Ok I am just not feeling up for breaking out in song. No ladies, this lounge singer is grabbing the bull by the horns here as I have had it with any further distractions. I'm doing it My Way from here on out. "No, we are going to the front desk. Let's move."

We roll up to the reception area and I ask the young guy behind the desk if he could look up the Hotel Mercure for me. He has just started working there and has no idea where 3 rue Fontanot is. I ask him over and over to please just google it. Nancy pipes in with a "JUST GIVE US THE NUMBER!" as I try to speak in French to them. I smile my best "I am really really really trying to stay super friendly" smile and ask him again if he could just google it. He directs me to a woman next to him who also has no idea what the address is I gave them and also knows nothing about any Hotel Mercure. She tells me there is an old man who works there who knows every street in the area but he doesn't start work for another 10 minutes. OK, I say, we'll wait. And we wait. And wait. Another hotel employee tries to find the Hotel Mercure and also comes up empty. I begin to wonder what exactly is on the mystery screen that they have been looking and looking at behind the desk as I could have googled this half an hour ago and already had the number.

An older man approaches me, takes one look at the name and the address on the paper and tells me that the hotel I am looking for is actually in Nanterre and I can take the RER A train there. Nanterre. Really. As in, not in Paris. No way. I am not putting these ladies on another train to nowhere. They will take a cab. I thank him profusely. Still no number from the mystery/I no google screen so I decide to stalker dial Vincent the tour guide over and over and over until he picks up. I dial two times, three, four....I begin to hate Vincent with all my soul as I get his voicemail over and over and over and over and over.

Then, at last, he picks up....

VINCENT: (frantic voice) ALLO? ALLO?! (massive static and voices and noise)
ME: Yyyyyeah. VINCENT. HI. You don't know me but I have the women from your Spirit tour that you left behind at the Louvre. Yyyyyeah...I found them in a store totally lost and VERY upset. The address you gave the last guy who called is TOTALLY wrong and we are now in La Defense at the Hilton. I need the number of the correct hotel please.
VINCENT: ALLO?! Ahhhhh, oui, bien sur. D'accord...I am on ze RER A (train) weeth the rest of ze tour and I....NONONONONONONONON zees ees NOT zee stop! Do NOT get off ze train here!!! ALLO? ALLO?!! Attends.....NON! STAY ON ZEES TRAIN! OK ZE NUMBER EES 01 58....
Click.
Dead.
Suddenly I cannot possibly be mad at Vincent. After two more calls, I finally get the entire number of Hotel Mercure, call and get directions and a correct address. It is, in fact, in Nanterre. I write everything down for them real big and clear. Nancy spies the hotel bar and invites me for a drink. I want to but it is 10pm now and I have to find my way back to the metro with my wilting lettuce and get home.

NANCY: Aw your husband must be worried sick about you. You go home. We'll take a cab downstairs. Dana, you are just an angel.
SHIRLEY: A real ANGEL.
NANCY: Thank you so much for getting us here. We'll send you the pictures.

I kissed them goodbye on each cheek. As I walked out the door, the old man who helped me asked where the other ladies were so we cold catch a taxi. I told him I didn't really know them and was just helping them find their way. I asked if he could keep an eye on them, he smiled and I rode the subway home with a grin on my face.

Thank you for the random ride through Paris, Shirley and Nancy. I had a wonderful time and yes, you did get to see the "real Paris." I hope you made it home ok.

xo Dana

BOTTLE WITH THREE STRAWS - SHIRLEY AND NANCY PART II

2008-09-21T23:04:00.004+02:00

One rolling cart, four bags, and two lost American tourists in tow, we roll out the door of Conforama in search of the 1 train. As we left the store, I whispered to Benoit, the most helpful security guard ever..."um, Chatelet metro....a droit et a droit, oui?"
Yes, he smiles and I try to hide my frantic look at the map to see which way this La Defense place is that I have never been to but am now apparently the designated tour guide for. I am carrying Shirley's bags for her, she waves her cane at me and says...

SHIRLEY: I feel great! We should walk! My pill kicked in!
ME: Oh yeah? What pill is that?
SHIRLEY: My Vicodin.
ME: (pause) Vicodin. You're on Vicodin right now?
SHIRLEY: For the pain. I feel GREAT. Let's walk!
NANCY: Let's get a drink. Ah don't drink but today ah feel like drinkin'. Let's get a bottle.
SHIRLEY: And two straws!
NANCY: THREE straws!
ME: Uuuuh...well Shirley, I don't know how smart drinking while on Vicodin is....
SHIRLEY: I feel great! Let's stop and get a drink!
ME: Aaaaaactually....let's just get to La Defense first before it gets dark, OK ladies?

As the last sentence comes out, I grab Shirley's arm and yank her back to the sidewalk before she walks into oncoming traffic on very busy Rue Rivoli. At this point I realize I should just settle in because it's gonna be a long night. Shirley's popped up on painkillers and Nancy has a sudden urge to get trashed. We reach the first subway entrance and make the long descent down several flights of stairs, through hallways and down some more stairs only to find....the entrance doesn't take tickets, only swipe cards. Shit. After apologizing profusely to them, we have to make our way back UP all the stairs and across the street, all the while Nancy and Shirley telling me how their grandchildren will never believe this adventure of theirs.

"Betcha this beats the Pope, EH???!!!" I ask.
Silence.
Ooooookkaaaaaay....note to self...nix nay on the religious talk with conservative Christians. I gotta get to La Defense. And FAST. It's getting dark and I don't know when Shirley's painkillers will wear off.

We finally make our way onto the crowded subway train. Neither one of them has ever been on a subway in their lives and they are busy snapping pictures of me, having me snap pictures of them. Shirley whips the video camera out...."WAVE DANA, WAAAAAAAVE!" The looks from other passengers range from incredulous, hate, pity, fear and straight up laughter. I make Shirley sit down after she insists on trying to stand, cane in one hand and video camera perilously perched in the other.

ME: Shirley, seriously. SIT DOWN.
SHIRLEY: I feel GREAT!
ME: I AM SERIOUS. SIT. DOWN.

After a long ride, we finally reach the last stop and I audibly gulp as we get out and all I see are endless stairs leading into a GIANT station. I cannot let them see me sweat. But this place is HUGE and I cannot see ANY exits, much less signs for taxi stations. But Nancy spies something much more useful....the liquor shelves behind the counter at a Monoprix in the station.

NANCY: Let's get some vodka!
SHIRLEY: And THREE straws!
ME: Um, OK, you want me to buy you some liquor now? Uh...maybe we should find the taxi stand?
NANCY: Let's get a bottle!
SHIRLEY: And THREE straws!

I am clearly not in control of the ship anymore as they head straight into the Monoprix, walk right past the huge line of people, right up to the cashiers who are ringing up other orders and exclaim slowly and loudly for the whole store to hear...

NANCY: WE WAAAAANT A SMAAAALL BOOOOTTLE OF VOOOOODKA, OOOOKAAAAAY? A SIIIINGLE SEEEEERVING BOTTTTTTLE, OKAAAAAAY? NOOOOT A BIIIIIIG BOTTLE. DO YOU HAVE SMAAAAALL BOTTLES? PETEEEEEEEEEET BOOOOOOOOTTLE?, OOOOKAAAAAAY?

I stand behind them with my mouth hanging open. This is actually happening. The cashiers look at them like they are insane which, is clearly beginning to dawn on me that maybe they actually are. But they are MY two insane tourists and I try to intervene.

ME: How about a small bottle of wine instead? See? They have those small bottles there.
NANCY: Oh no no no, ah don't drink waaaaahn.
ME: OK, well, it's the big bottle of vodka then or nothing.
NANCY: Well ah am certainly not drinking awl THAT vodka!

I manage to shuffle them out the door, convince them that looking for a taxi might actually be a better idea as I see the station is emptying out into a ghost town and this is clearly no place for a lost tourist at night. We finally find an exit only to find steps steps steps in every direction. I stand there not knowing which way to go and just before I lose my cool, a woman approaches me and tells me in French that there is a taxi stand up the steps to my left. I thank her profusely and we make our way up to what I think is going to be my saving grace.....

SO MAD I COULD SPIT - SHIRLEY AND NANCY PART 1

2008-09-16T19:45:00.011+02:00

I left the house on Monday with my rolling cart that I travel with each day packed to the brim with everything I need for my three personas. My 65 books for French class, my boxing gloves and clothes for Savate and my CDs and flyers for music. Just another rolling overachiever in Paris. As I left, I spied my camera on the table and thought "Oooohhh, I should take it."
"Nah, I'm just going to classes today, I'll never need it."
"Wait, just cause I thought that means I should actually take it but now I know I am not going to take it and I also know I will somehow regret it but here I am leaving anyway."
And out the door I rolled.

After an uneventful French class, I tried to roll my way onto the subway at St. Michel. I have never seen it so packed to the brim with people and after me and my cart got violently pushed off two trains, I decided to screw Savate class and go couch shopping instead. Little did I know what this twist of fate would bring.....

PLACE: CONFORAMA FURNITURE STORE, NEAR THE SEINE RIVER
TIME: 6:30PM

I roll into the store and am browsing the couches that are next to the front door when two women enter the store, disheveled and distraught. They barrel up to the security guard. Enter....

NANCY (American, from Texas, 65 years old, bright pink shorts and matching top, heavily made up and a name tag that says SPIRIT TOURS: MY NAME IS NANCY!

SHIRLEY (American, 81 years old, from a Denver suburb, wearing a cream travel suit with matching visor, cane in one hand and large video camera circa 1990 swinging from the other)

NANCY: Sir, we need a phhoooown, OKAAAAY? We are lost, lost LOST and we need you to make a phown cawl for us, OKAAAY? Our tour bus left us high and dry at the Louvre, we have been walkin' for HOURS now, I crossed that rivah 'bout four times, I have NO idea where in God's name we are and we need some help....right now! I am just BESIDE myself!

My head wheels around as I am stunned into silence. The guard smiles, pulls out his cell phone and tells them of course he will make a phone call. I make myself conforama on one of the couches and listen to Nancy spill their story to the guard, as loud and dramatic as possible. Shirley stands vacantly smiling next to her seemingly enjoying herself. I wish I had some popcorn. So....Nancy and Shirley are on a Spirit Tour Catholic pilgrimage with 75 people following the Pope around Europe for three weeks. Nancy's friend Suzanne wasn't feeling too well at the Louvre so Shirley let her borrow her wheelchair for a while. While they were leaving the Louvre, Shirley was walking slow with her cane so Nancy stayed behind a little to help her. When they got outside, the two Spirit Tour buses were gone...they left them there with no money, no Spirit, no idea where they were and only the telephone number for the tour guide. They proceeded to wander around trying to find the buses and ended up getting completely lost.

NANCY: I am TELLIN' YOU, I am so mad I could just SPIT! I got left behind last night too and I had to pay 50 euro to take a cab back to the hotel. Sir, what is your name?
GUARD: Benoit.
NANCY: Weeeell, Benoit, here is the card for Vincent our guide, ah suppose he won't pick up his phone now but I just don't know what else to DO! You'd THINK they would do a HEAD count!
SHIRLEY: No use crying over spilled milk. (camera swinging next to her)
NANCY: Shirley, I am TELLING you they should have done a HEADCOUNT! My LORD!
SHIRLEY: No use crying over spilled milk.

Benoit calls the tour guide but there is no answer.

NANCY: Ah HAVE to sit down a minute, my head is spinning! I am so MAD!

And with that, the two women plop themselves down on the couch directly across from me. Nancy announces, "We should say a St. Jude raght now, Shirley. Oh Lord, do we need one. A St. Jude would do us some good." As they start to pray, I cannot hold it in any longer.

ME: Are you two ladies lost?
NANCY: Whaaaaah YES we ARE. Are you Freeeeench?
ME: No, I'm from New York.
NANCY: You're from New York CITY?
SHIRLEY: I was there once in 1952.
NANCY: I am just BESIDE myself, they should have done HEAD COUNT!
ME: What's the name of your hotel?
SHIRLEY: There's an M and a Q in it!
NANCY: I don't really know and I left without any of the papers today. Maybe M-U-Q....no wait, M-U-N-Q...
SHIRLEY: There's a Q! A Q!
NANCY: ...M-Q...then something something...maybe an E in it
ME: Uhhh, ok. I could call my husband and ask him to google it. (I dial) Yeah, hi, it's me. Um, I need you to google MUNQ Paris Hotel ok?....Don't ask why, long story...Nancy, what part of town is it in?
NANCY: The NEW part.
ME: Uh, ok.....(into phone) um, does the NEW part of Paris mean anything to you? Yyyyyyeah, I know.

FB finds nothing, I tell him I'll explain later and hang up just as Benoit gets the tour guide on the phone. He gets the hotel address from him (Hotel Mercure near La Defense) before Nancy grabs the phone away to yell into it "VINCENT. I AM PISSSSED raght now. You left me AGAIN and I am NOT spending another DIME to take a taxi. I spent 50 euro last night and that's 75 dollars! You send someone right now to come get us!"
SHIRLEY: Let's walk there! I can walk!
NANCY: Vincent! I am serious! (listens) Well why not? OH! (she hangs up phone) He said no he couldn't and I am NOT taking another cab.
SHIRLEY: I can walk! Let's walk!
BENOIT: You could take ze metro.
NANCY: Can't the Police come and get us?
BENOIT: I don't zeenk zey will do zat.
SHIRLEY: Let's walk! I can walk!
ME: Shirley, I don't think you can walk to La Defense. That's like, REALLY far.
SHIRLEY: I can! Let's walk there!
NANCY: We are NOT walking there! Okaaaay, let's take the metro.

At this point, I realize there is no way I am letting these two ladies get on the metro alone with name tags and swinging video cameras to find their own way to the outskirts of Paris with no clue. I lie to them and tell them I am going the same way and will show them onto the metro. As we leave Nancy tries to slip Benoit a $20 bill.

BENOIT: Nonononoonononon!
NANCY: But you have been so NICE to us!
BENOIT: I weel not take your money!
NANCY: But why NOT? TAKE $20!
BENOIT: Beecause I would want a person to do ze same zing for me and I want to show you zat French people are, een fact, very nice people.
NANCY: Well aren't you just a DOLL? You should get together with Dana here, she's such a pretty girl, just look at her, she's...
ME: I'm MARRIED! I told you that!
NANCY: Well maybe she has a sister or something. You give me your address, Benoit. Such a nice boy.

Benoit laughs and writes his address down for her. I decide that it is now my personal responsibility to get these two ladies back to their hotel. If my Mom and Grandma were lost, I would hope someone would help them. Someone with more than just a vague idea of where La Defense is or where to catch the 1 train from where we are. But hey, I'm all they have at the moment.
"Ladies, on y va. We're off to La Defense."
And out the door we roll......

THE ART OF FLYERING

2008-09-15T11:15:00.009+02:00

I love flyers and I love talking to people. I especially heart giving people I just met a flyer. Little nuggets of art with some concert info on it. FB made me these awesome flyers and I have been enjoying the surprised looks on peoples' faces as I pull out my Grandma ziplock plastic baggie out of my purse and hand them a flyer for my show this Saturday. I should have some cheese bites in there too and offer a snack with that.

Unlike New York, Paris is not overrun with people flyering. I used to stand outside of shows in New York with my punk band (Stupid) and pass out flyers, homemade stickers, buttons and sampler CDs. There would usually be a bunch of other bands doing the exact same thing. It seems that culture has been moved to mostly online flyering and marketing now. Nothing beats the face to face interaction though. I can myspace people all day but I much prefer going out, introducing myself and having an actual conversation. Especially when I am trying to speak French. I gotta talk with the hands!
So here's my online flyer.
I'll be around the clubs all week though, talking with the hands and passing out more flyers. :)

AU REVOIR, LIAM

2008-09-11T11:07:00.005+02:00

When I arrived in Paris eight months ago and began to check out the local indie rock music scene, I thought I would find many more Americans based here than I actually did. I have seen plenty of American bands pass through but I have not seen or heard of that many who call Paris their home. I met talented Californian (and half French!) singer/songwriter Liam Carey somewhat randomly when I went to see a show of his back in January. I was an instant fan of his music and we became fast friends ever since. He introduced me to Erica Buettner, another American musician in Paris working the music scene who has the most angelic voice that makes me actually stop chewing my nails when I hear her sing.

We all played a show together this summer and it seemed the beginnings of a scene of our own....and then....(drum roll).....Liam announced he is moving to New York City.

Yes, devastated I am.

Tonight he plays his farewell show in Paris before moving to my hometown, the big and beautiful New York. Erica Buettner and Stefanos (my favorite anarchist accordionist) will join him for what will be a beautiful night of songs and some teary goodbyes. It somehow seems strangely appropriate for September 11th to go listen to some incredible music and send a dear friend off into the New York horizon.

Jeudi 11 Septembre
Café Charbon
109 Rue Oberkampf, 11e (M : Parmentier)
19h00, gratuit

Bonne chance, Liam. You will be sorely missed.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo Dana

A+++++++

2008-09-10T11:05:00.003+02:00

10:06AM
Yesterday
HOME

Books scattered everywhere, worksheets on the floor, conjugation book open, dictionary in other hand....
"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god...WHYYY did I leave ALL my homework for this morning!$@#....(tears welling)....I have to leave for class....
FB: "In two hours."
ME: "But I...(choke choke) have to study more and I don't understand this part and I can't show up without everything done and I have to write this chart out for myself still and I don't remember the reflexive verbs in negative passé composé and I SHOULD have studied this more last night I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT and now I totally SCREWED myself!!!!..."
Silence as I throw book across the room, smashing it against wall and proceed to collapse into more tears.
FB: "Dude, for real. You need to seriously RELAX. It's not high school."
ME: "YOU. TOTALLY. DON'T. GEEEET IT!!!!" SLAM.

And with that....it's back to school. My inner high schooler is easily accessible because I never worked on becoming a less competitive, sensitive, overly emotional and generally reactionary kind of person.
Why would I do that? At least I FEEL things, man.

I do actually love my class this time around. Chapter 5 is my friend. My teacher is my friend and the other 8 students from mostly China who I can never understand are my friends too. They all got here between a week and three months ago and there was an audible sigh on the first day when I announced I have been here for 8 months. "Ohhhhhhhh" as I heard everyone's mind ask the same question, "Is she retarded?" Hmpf. I'll show THEM what retarded looks like. I sit front and center every day with my highlighters and my charts neatly lined up in front of me. I raise my hand for every question, even if I don't know the answer and I help break the ice with the shy students when we separate into small groups to roll play.

"OK Feng, YOU be Pierre, OK? You just won 5 million euro in the lottery, OK? 5 MILLION. And I'LL be Marie and we are at lunch so you can tell me you are leaving me for a younger woman now, OK? Tu comprends? OK GO!"
"PIEEEERE, NOOOOOOO, C'est TERRIBLE! C'est un HORREUR! PIEERE, MON AMOUR, PIEEEEEEERE!!"

My favorite exercises are the "finish the following sentence" ones.

1. Carole and Maxime have been married for three years. They leave the doctor's office, they are very happy because....

(raising hand) "Excuse me, how do say brain tumor?"
TEACHER: "Pardon?"
ME: "Actually, wait, no...how do you say boils....um, how do I explain...your skin is bad, you have infection in your arms, your skin with red circles...very big...and there is a lot of water in the circles?"
TEACHER: "Furoncle? Qu'est ce que tu veux dire?"
ME: "Oh! I want to say that they are very happy because Maxime's brain tumor is gone and Carole's boils have finally disappeared."
TEACHER: (blank stare) You certainly are.....creative. (cracks a half smile)

MERCI PROF!

THE RETURN OF TRACY FLICK

2008-09-02T10:31:00.011+02:00

I thought it would work.
Who needs SCHOOL?
Gross.
I've got osmosis and French in-laws.
Just open your mind maaaaan, and let the French just floooow right in...

Yeah, it flows in OK.....flows right in, hurls itself around while my brain searches for some sort of order then usually propels itself right back out while leaving a word or two behind. Most of the time the words that really help me understand the conversation....like THE or THEN or NOW.
Wow.
Deep.

I've got zero problems talking (diarrhea of the mouth since birth helps) but having 10% or less comprehension doesn't really make me a very good listener unless you are into confused faces and "Je n'ai compris pas" being repeated dozens of times. After three months of a French comprehension plateau and much internal debate, I decided to humbly accept that I do in fact, need to go....BACK TO SCHOOL.

I dusted off my books and returned to the Alliance Francaise on Friday to sign up for class. I took a month of classes there in February and all I wanted to do is pick up where I left off. Simple. Chapter 5 please. I went to the information desk, stated my query in French and was promptly told by the woman (in French) that I would have to retake the French placement test...

ME: Why?
HER: Because your French level may have changed since February.
ME: To change nothing. Wait, nothing change. My French does not change.
HER: You cannot enter the class without taking the test first.
ME: I want chapter 5.
HER: Take the test first. You are speaking French to me now. See? It is better.
ME: No, no. I do not know chapter 5. I never learn chapter 5. I want to take chapter 5. I do not want the test. It is not necessary the test. My French is same. My husband is French. I know chapter 4. I want chapter 5.
HER: Take this test to the second floor testing room.

GRRRRR. OK, fine. I am clearly not going to get anywhere with her. But I am NOT taking that test again. I already took it once and I am DONE. I march up to the second floor, determined as ever to get out of this test. The man running the testing room escorts me to a desk with the test.....(in French)

ME: Wait. I want to talk. It is not possible for me, the test. I studied here in February and I want chapter 5. I want a class with chapter 5.
HIM: But your French may have improved since February.
ME: My French is terrible. I do not understand. I want chapter 5.
HIM: You are speaking French to me right now. Take this test and we will talk after the test.
ME: No, we talk now about this test. This test that I do not take. We talk. I want chapter 5.
HIM: It has been more than three months since your last class and the policy is that you MUST take the test again.
(pause)
ME: If I take this test, I am dead.
HIM: (stops and looks at me for a moment) You will die?
ME: Yes, I am dead if I am taking this test. Dead.
HIM: (thinks for a moment and smiles) Well, we don't want any deaths here. You can start with chapter 5.
ME: THANK YOU. You are very nice.
HIM: That's what my wife says to me every night.

SCORE. My comprehension kicked into high gear in my hour of need (well, that and the fact that everyone at Alliance Francaise speaks in overly pronounced, extra slow for dummies French) and I learned that yes, you can really talk your way out of anything here. No means maybe means yes. Just threaten to die, that's all. Simple.

BOURGOGNE PART 4 - THE TEST

2008-08-29T00:45:00.000+02:00

Our last day here. We spend the day on a walk through the woods with one of FB's aunts. We return to the house and have time to make one last dinner before departing back to Paris. FB's Dad mentions making an omelet and doing a simple dinner with bread and cheese before we leave. I think "GREAT!" and then notice no one is making the move to actually cook the omelet. FB's Mom has departed earlier and I wonder who will actually be doing the cooking in her place. And then it dawns on me.....hmmmmm....um, maybe I should try and make the omelet?

I have not cooked one single thing for FB's family yet, being intimidated and overwhelmed by French cooking as I am and having FB's Mom always making me delicious meals, it just never fell to me to do any cooking. So here it is. The chance to do something. I did not grow up cooking and I only recently started experimenting and cooking in any real sense. So far, FB has been the main one to try my various forays into the kitchen experimenting with recipes and ideas. I knew the moment I took the eggs out, there was some sort of unspoken pressure to prove that I could, in fact, actually cook. My palms starting sweating but my dear friend Adrianne stood in the kitchen with me and calmed me while my thought train went berserk.....

OK OK OK OK OK eggs. It's just EGGS. You KNOW how to cook eggs. Eggs are your favorite. You cook eggs ALL THE TIME. But the Julia Child book said how important being able to cook basic eggs is and oh my god, what did she say to do? OH my god, I don't even know where the pans are. OK OK OK OK here are the pans. Um, this one looks too big....uh, I think. Well, like, I would NEVER cook my own eggs in this pan. OK OK OK pretend no one else is here. You are just cooking your own eggs. OK this other pan is oval shaped. What's it used for? I don't know. I guess you could cook eggs in it. No, you couldn't. Yes, you could. OK, if no one was here, what pan would you cook them in? DEFINITELY the oval pan. OK, crack the eggs.

ME: OK OK, I am using six eggs. There are six people, one egg each, right? I mean, the pan couldn't fit more than six or it'll be too full, right? What do you think?
ADRIANNE: Yeah totally. Sounds great.
ME: (frantically searching the fridge) OK, there are tomatoes. If they have thyme, I could do tomatoes and thyme.
ADRIANNE: They totally have thyme.
ME: OK OK OK OK, but wait....they are French people. Do they like thyme and tomato? Shit, I don't know....what if it freaks them out? What if they hate these flavors? What if they never eat tomato and thyme on eggs? I would put the tomatoes and thyme in at the end but wait, is that right? What if there is a better way to add them? What if they think it sucks? I don't know what to do. OK OK OK I'll make it plain. That's the safest choice. Just a plain egg omelet. Just salt and pepper...or wait, no salt? Let them salt it at the table? Yeah, just pepper. I think. I mean, I don't know. OK OK OK OK wait, salt and pepper them. I would do that anyway. OK, I'll salt and pepper them.....right?
ADRIANNE: Totally......maybe put some cream in them?
ME: Yeah, yeah, yeah....cream. Cream is good. Who doesn't like cream?
(heart starts racing and I choke back a panic attack)

I search for olive oil but only come up with a mystery bottle of some sort of oil. Oh my god, what if it's weird oil? I have no idea what this oil is and I always think everything smells like oregano anyway soooo I don't know, I don't know, I don't know what to do......OK OK OK....screw it.....just use the oil. Done.

I try and turn the stove top on but I can't figure it out so FB's Dad lights it for me. Great. I already have one retard point. I put it fairly low and as the pan heats up, I add the eggs. FB's aunt walks by, proclaims the flame is too low, turns it way up and leaves. Uh......OK. Does that mean she is cooking the eggs? Um, OK, guess not. Great. So now I have eggs cooking faster than I ever would and now I REALLY start sweating. Panicked, I take the eggs off the heat and go to my special place where no one is there and I am only cooking eggs for myself. With tunnel vision, I make an open faced omelet, sprinkle salt and pepper on top and serve it in wedges. I have to say, it looks very pretty and as we sit at the table to eat, FB's Dad comments on what a good looking omelet I made. And it tasted great too. I breathe a sigh of relief. I passed the egg test. Next up...Bœuf Bourguignon. :)

It was truly four days of magic and I could not have asked for a better place to shoot a video. Merci to the Boulés for making two American artists very very happy......xo.....

BOURGOGNE PART 3 - COCKS, BATS, SLUGS AND FISH.

2008-08-28T23:11:00.000+02:00

I had zero idea of how many animals would make their way into this music video. A couple weeks ago I half seriously asked FB's Mom if she could cook some sort of animal and keep the head on it so we could possibly use it in the video shoot. She has taken me absolutely serious and got a rooster from the farm next door to make a Coq Au Vin. She has told the farmer to preserve the head and as she takes a large bag out of the freezer, I shriek in surprise as I see two huge frozen rooster heads, the blood still dried on the necks. Adrianne and I burst into fits of amazed laughter as we thank her for such an incredible addition. A random thought that PETA officially would NOT approve of this video crosses my mind.

We shot a scene using the head with the cooked meat behind it and then sat down to eat my new favorite dish...Coq Au Vin. Holy crikes, can someone say DELISH??? Food for art and the art of making and eating food, all in same day. Merci mon petit coq, you were wonderful and delicious.....

4PM
Though warned of the 100 bats in the attic, we nervously decide to shoot anyway in the run down house next to the chateau. After mistaking a salamander for a viper and shrieking "OH MY GOOOOOD!!!!", I enter a dim lit room, close the door and wait for Adrianne's cue to enter from the next room. I suddenly hear "OHHHHH....OHHHHH....OOOOOOOHHHHHHH!!!!!" I desperately hope that her shouts are because she thinks the light is so good. Please oh, please.
"THERE IS A BAT IN HEEEEEERE......"
OK OK OK OK OK OK OK....do NOT panic....DO NOT PANIC......walk out the door......OK OK OK OK....just walk quieeeeetly through the room and out the door....OK OK OK OK OK OK...do NOOOOOT PANIC....down the stairs....OK OK OK OK...keep moving....keep moving.....

We make it outside and after our shaking stops, we decide that maybe the rest of the day we should shoot outside instead. We enter the apple trees....

5PM
Climbing a tree in a ball gown proves harder than I thought. Nerves are shot from the bat terror in the broken down house. My makeup keeps smearing, I am sweating and after seven hours of shooting, all I want are my Converse sneakers and a cheeseburger. We decide instead of climbing, I will simply crouch down and pretend to climb some low branches. I kneel down and put my face to the ground when I see one, then two, then ten giant slugs creeping their slimy way around my sandaled feet, my dress and now my face. Standing up I declare I am officially done for the day. Nature can keep it's creeping and flying beasts. I need a glass of wine. Immediately.

9PM
FB and his friend have gone fishing for the day and return with enough fish to feed six people for dinner. I watch as he deftly chops the heads off and guts fish after fish, all the while thinking "Um, you were like, totally CITY when I met you...". I had NO idea about his livin' off the land skills and I unsuccessfully try and silence my peals of urban girl horror/laughter as each fish is chopped up, gutted and thrown into the frying pan right before my eyes. Hot. And they were deliiiiiicious.