Pimp of the Week: Leonardo DiCaprio

I know I talk about him a lot, but Leonardo DiCaprio is something special. His charms are part-boy, part-man, which lend him the appeal of being both prince and pimp. As the apple of Martin Scorsese's eye, Leo stars in the new epic thriller, Shutter Island. The film takes place at a hospital for the criminally insane in the 1950s. As my father says, "It seems pretty heavy duty." But even with the strangely feminized French dubbing of Leo's voice, I was riveted.

Leo is not only a ravishing screen specimen, but he is also into solar roof panels and boats made from recycled plastic bottles. He promotes clean energy, attracts lovely women, gives away millions to worthy causes, has his own production company, and is on the cover of Esquire magazine smoking a cigar and splashing a low ball of scotch. If he's not a Pimp of the Week, then there's no hope for the rest of us.

The Pedagogue

There is a stereotype about The French that they only like to travel so that they can complain about how inferior every country is to France. But I recently read that some French travelers are searching for a genuinely thrilling experience in their next vacation: they are paying a minimum of $1,200 to Ultime Réalité for someone to kidnap and imprison them for four hours.

If they are true high rollers, then they'll opt for a package that is more expensive and custom-designed to their mental histories (and most likely, mental illnesses, considering that they are paying to be tied up, gagged, and carted away). It makes me think of Michael Douglas in the classic psychological thriller of capitalist malaise, The Game. The only birthday gift his brother can think to get him is the most elaborate "abduction package" money can buy.

"You certainly get around."

I was recently in an emergency situation. As usual, my friend and I had drunk too many espressos, and the nearest toilettes were in a café in the center of Paris. My French friend spoke to the waiter at the bar and he pointed her toward the downstairs bathroom. But when I followed behind her, the snotty waiter stood in my way. I asked him in perfect French if "the toilets were forbidden to Americans," and he responded in his haughtiest tone, "Oui."

It was such an absurd display of rude Parisian service that I had to laugh -- but I tried not to laugh too hard, as I still hadn't found a bathroom that wasn't restricted to Americans.

Film Review: Valentine's Day

The new romantic comedy, Valentine's Day, is a rompish series of vignettes chock full of amusing stereotypes and clichés. Within the first ten minutes you get a glimpse of the bare legs and asses of most of Hollywood's hot actresses, but my personal favorite was the young starlet and country singer, Taylor Swift, playing the ditzy blonde high schooler who just can't get enough of her hunky boyfriend and the giant white teddy bear he gives her for Valentine's Day.

There is an ultimate scene of romantic revenge, in which the sweet girl-next-door humiliates her cheating wanker boyfriend in front of his wife during their fancy Valentine's dinner. And perhaps the most cinematic incident of the film involves an 18-year-old boy in the nude, his guitar, and his girlfriend's mother, but I'll leave the rest to your wild imagination. I also enjoyed that they cast funny boy Ashton Kutcher as a florist.

The moral is: romance can be charming, but love is messy -- love is torturesome ... and you're lucky to find someone honest who is enjoyable to be around for more than seven seconds, so grab on tight (and pray that their mother doesn't walk in on you naked).

A Somnambulist

I recently attended an AIDS fashion couture gala in the Bois de Boulogne, a scenic area of Paris currently famous for its prostitutes and formerly famous for the opening scene of Gigi with Maurice Chevalier.

At this particular champagne-soaked evening there was a striptease spectacle involving men in hot pink Lycra and transvestites dressed as geishas. I have always had a penchant for beautiful drag queens, so I felt in my element, sporting a mink stole and gold leggings, which would be considered gauche in any other venue.

Surrounded by fashion designers, dapper gay men, and their fancy ladies in waiting, I decided that my favorite character of the night was a sixty-year-old man from the Great American South. He became a modern dancer and directed fashion shows in 1970s Paris. Now he leads a gospel choir and writes operas. When he returns from a nightclub or party, he makes a wistful comment about how 'things are not like they used to be, at Studio 54.'

Pimp of the Week: Owen Wilson

Owen Wilson dazzled me as a pot-smoking male model (mimbo to the max) in Zoolander. And then he stole my heart when he co-wrote and co-starred in the eternally iconic film, The Royal Tenenbaums. And now Owen Wilson is rumored to be starring in Woody Allen's next movie with French first lady and anti-monogamist, Carla Bruni.

Wilson calls himself a bad boy, and, like any proper pimp, he knows how to turn nothing into something. At age 16 he was expelled from his straight-laced Dallas prep school. But then he found a way to make a career out of dicking around with his best friend, Wes Anderson, and his brother, Luke. They turned 5 million dollars of Texan petty cash into the well-reviewed, poorly received film, Bottle Rocket.

By some ignorant film-goers, Owen Wilson is known for his distinctive nose, which was been broken many times, but I think it's just another sign of a life lived to the max.

The Ogres

My Swedish neighbor in Montmartre once told me that Paris is lovely for a year or two, but after a while its "crumbling glory" starts to aggravate anyone accustomed to modern conveniences. I lived next-door to her in a studette apartment for several months. A studette is a charming term that French landlords have adopted to describe an apartment that is smaller than a studio but slightly larger than the miniature chambre de bonnne (maid's quarters) so prevalent on the eighth floor of Parisian buildings without elevators.

Unfortunately for me, my studette recently devolved into a slumette. One morning a troop of construction workers covered my only window with scaffolding, started jack-hammering and drilling at the outside of my wall, and I never saw the light of day or heard the sound of my own thoughts again.

After months of 8-am wake-up calls from sledgehammers, I didn't even receive a one-Euro reduction on my monthly rent from my evil wanker landlord. The banging became so intense that my wall cracked in two, and a gaping hole formed. The sound of my sobs sent the construction workers dashing into my apartment to repair the 'crumbling glory.' They made a habit of knocking on my door when I was still in my pajamas, in order to "check up on" the state of my ancient Parisian wall. One of the creeper construction workers even tried to kiss me while I was crying on the phone to the frustratingly French electricity company. Charm is easily overwhelmed by disaster.

Restaurant Review: Lasserre Paris

I bet the snobbiest restaurant in Paris was booked to the max with Russian tourists for Valentine's Day. Restaurant Lasserre, just off Avenue Montaigne and near the Grand Palais, serves exceedingly expensive French Haute Cuisine involving foie gras, cepe mushrooms, things infused with truffles, and the requisite touch of caviar.

But the most exciting dish (in my adolescent sweet tooth's opinion) is the "Vacherin aux fruits exotiques" -- translation: "meringue cake filled with exotic fruits." Or you can have one of the adorable elderly male waiters wheel over an elegant silver cart and prepare you a Crêpes Suzette for two people.

As if the whole scene weren't nauseatingly Valentine's Day enough, the ceiling of the dining room literally opens up to reveal the beautiful night sky above you. I guess the words of Martha Stewart come to mind when I think of institutionalized displays of romance: it's a good thing. But I personally spent Valentine's Day with my two girlfriends, burning incense, cursing off men, and eating Italian amaretto cakes. But I'm sure Martha would say, "That's a good thing too."

A Screen Memory

My Canadian friend living in Paris usually dates people whom she meets through reputable connections, preferably at black tie functions. I was astonished to discover that she recently pulled a creeper move straight from my toolbox of 'meeting men' tricks.

She exchanged stolen glances with an attractive gentleman seated in the next box at the Comédie Française. When the curtain rose, she left her phone number dangling on a grocery receipt at the edge of her seat. He succeeded in noticing the strategically placed errant paper, and they exchanged text messages, and they met, and they dated. And they had long romantic lunches in cozy Parisian bistros -- and even longer strolls through idyllic Parisian parks.

But two months into the relationship he left his cell phone on the café table while he went to the toilettes, and it began to ring. She glanced at the caller ID to read the name "Poupée" (translation: "doll"; a.k.a. "baby doll"; aka "my baby doll"; a.k.a. "my other lover"; a.k.a. "my other girlfriend"; a.k.a. the owner of this iPhone is a Wanker of the Week).

Maybe true love is not found in random theatre boxes. But as Edith Wharton would tell you, the other woman definitely completes the scene.

Smarming

I cut right from India to the land of the colonizers themselves. During my weekend in London I took advantage of that dry British humor by passing my time with a gaggle of Etonian boys. My host resided alone in the drafty townhouse of his parents, studying law by day and drinking G&Ts by night. His parents visit him on occasion, bearing sausages from their hog farm.

On this particular evening of "drinks with a view to dinner" (in the words of my well-bred host), the dinner menu involved the most surprisingly to-die-for dessert that I've had in years. In Britain people use the slightly unappetizing word "pudding" to refer to any form of dessert. And this night's pudding involved a steamed sponge cake soaked in Treacle, accompanied by a whipped cream. There is something about Treacle that fails to disappoint. It is a golden syrup laced with lovely soporific effects. I slept soundly in the drawing room, visions of Aloysius dancing in my head.

Upright Position

While resting my legs after a long day of touring Indian temples, I settled down in the empty hotel bar to savor a non-alcoholic chai nightcap. But before I knew it a very drunk man approached my table with a lascivious glint in his eye. He was a creeper to the core.

He started telling me about how he "comes from the land of the snake charmer, where there are a lot of spices..." and then he kissed my hand and stumbled away. But a few minutes later he was back, offering me "a lot of fun" and his business card. He is a banker. From New York to New Delhi, investment bankers and cocktails make for a dangerous mix ending in a security escort out of the building, or hotel in the case of the 'snake charmer.'

Film Review: It's Complicated

The Nancy Meyers film, It's Complicated, is the story of a typical American family: a husband and wife have three beautiful children, they live happily ever after in the upper-class tranquility of Santa Barbara, and once the kids reach adolescence, the husband and wife are fed up of each other and go through a messy divorce ... then the husband remarries a high maintenance and physically fit thirty-year-old ... meanwhile, the middle-aged wife's baking career thrives (in the vein of the Ina Garten empire) and she spends her nights alone.

Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin play the estranged couple still forced to see each other on graduation and wedding days. But they manage to take another stab at it, as they find themselves having a passionate affair, thereby turning the whole familial dysfunction in a whole new direction. Steve Martin is splashed in for the amusing romp, which includes an unfortunate incident between a Skype camera and Alec Baldwin's 'bald win,' so to speak.

No matter how Technicolor and Hollywood it gets, It's Complicated rings at the truth of divorce: for a while it seems tragic to all parties involved, but once people move on, the family can never go back to those fond memories of childhood vacations and cozy movie nights. The love is still there -- it's just different.

Chintz-Covered

At Kali Temple in Calcutta thousands of Hindu worshippers line up to give offerings to the Brahman priests, creating a scene of pandemonium I can only compare to that of the New York Stock Exchange. Women congregate at the sacred fertility tree nearby and pray for luck in marriage and pregnancy.

When my male friend and I visited the Kali Temple, a jovial Brahman priest gave us an unsolicited tour. He finished by blessing us with 'sacred' red strings and asking us for money. Then he inquired as to whether or not we were married. My friend replied that we were not married. Then the Brahman priest asked if we were friends. I replied that we were not friends. Then the Brahman priest exclaimed, "Not married, not friend, there is nothing else!" In India dating doesn't exist as an institution of ambiguity as it does in The West. Perhaps I should have joined the women praying at the tree of fertility and conjugal bliss.

Pushing The Envelope

One afternoon in India while wandering an ancient cave site, a great deal of Indian tourists started asking to take my photograph. One young man's mother was delighted when I agreed to stand next to her son and smile into the camera, like we were sitting for an arranged marriage portrait.

After months of being an impossibly un-French American expatriate in Paris, it was refreshing to be around some Indian people who relished my American appearance.

A harmless adolescent creeper approached me and asked where I was from. He quickly exclaimed, "America! Wow! Amazing ... America is the most disciplined country in the world. To us, that is what we believe." I guess they haven't watched very much American reality television in India.