MK & A = Inversion of Homeless Chinese Man

Ever since Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen stopped shooting kids' movies and Full House episodes, they have created a sensation in the fashion world due to their artful ability to layer sleep clothes with street clothes. This "homeless chic" look seems to result from their lifestyle of constant jet-setting, which forces them to wear some of the contents of their luggage directly on their bodies. MK & A dress like they are ready for anything: rain or shine, lunch with Martha Stewart or downtown rave with Jay-Z.

In China, instead of idolizing billionaires who dress like vagrants, style gurus are making a fashion icon out of an actual homeless man. Talk about gauche. He has been dubbed "Brother Sharp," for his striking good looks and his finesse for sporting multiple jackets at once. His followers say that he looks more like "a vagabond" than "a beggar," and fashion critics rave that he does an affordable version of Dolce & Gabbana menswear. If "Brother Sharp" is anything like the Olsen twins, I see a lucrative collaboration with Wal-Mart in this homeless man's future.

Wanker of the Week: Misinformed Modelizer

While hovering on the Parisian sidewalk with my pro-health signs up against the crowds of fashion editors, photographers, and models, a man shouted out to me, "Size zero kills -- I have to disagree. Designers should be able to do whatever they want!" I argued with him, rambling on about the fact that top designers have a responsibility to consider the broader impact of their aesthetic decisions. To put it plainly, requiring models to fit such tiny measurements is sadistic and creepy. To put it elaborately, the prevalence of size-zero models spreads body dysmorphic disorder in consumers the world over.

As I battled it out with this modelizing fiend, his nonsensical rant quickly devolved into the wanker-worthy comment: "But thin girls just look beautiful in clothes! It looks better!" I quickly realized that he was not a reputable fashion editor or artistic director but merely a random straggler taking his Sunday stroll through the Tuileries Gardens. Perhaps he was lurking outside the Karl Lagerfeld tent hoping to find a wafer-thin waif to stand in front of him and "look beautiful in clothes."

Size Zero Kills: A Performance Art Piece Part 2

My experience on the fashion frontlines at the Karl Lagerfeld show in Paris was full of unexpected good fortune from strangers. After an hour of lying frozen in the same position on the ground of the Tuileries Gardens, wearing nothing but tights and a few trash bags, my limbs were trembling and I had lost all feeling in my hands and feet. I had my eyes closed to maintain the image of being dead, when all of a sudden I heard male voices circling around me.

One Louvre security guard crouched down close to me and started saying that I had to get up and clothe myself, because he was worried that I would become gravely sick. Since the Tuileries Gardens are the property of the Louvre Museum, it is the security guard's problem if some deranged performance artist freezes to death on the premises. They scooped me up off the ground and seized my "Size Zero Kills" signs, refusing to give them back and threatening to call the police. But the young, adorable security guard who helped me off the ground seemed to be genuinely worried about my health, and said, "It's a great cause!" He escorted me to the gates overlooking the Obélisque de Louxor in the Place de la Concorde and advised me to exhibit my signs at this strategic entryway.

As I stood with my shield-like signs in hand, my trash bags flapping in the wind, all the paparazzi, socialites, models, designers, and editors walked by to leave the fashion show, each with their own reaction of disdain, excitement, or merely a flash of their iPhone cameras. One statuesque fashionista smiled and shouted, "I'm not a size zero--I'm a size 4!"

Another woman approached me and commented, "But you're not a size zero." I replied, "No, I'm a size 4. I was a size zero and I almost died of anorexia." Her response was: "You look great. You're not too big, you're not too small, you're perfect!" She was so submerged in the fashion industry that even her compliment remained constricted by the 'thinness institution.' Nonetheless, it felt like a Chanel ballet flat in the right direction.

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.'

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.

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.

"antiseptic perfumed cream"

My friend and I were recently pashmina-bartering in the splendor and squalor of Calcutta's New Market, where you can find stacks of eggs in extraordinary bulk, baskets of chickens, butchered animals, spices, and loads of Indian fabrics. After we purchased a rainbow of pashminas for about 2 dollars each, an overly solicitous man whispered in our ears about a secret store in the basement where we could buy shahtoosh -- a type of shawl woven from the finest neck-hairs of endangered Tibetan antelopes, making it the most coveted (and illegal) scarf in the world.

Our salesman claimed that his shahtoosh was "all natural" so it was not technically illegal. But during my entire time in India I never saw a single policeman (only a few traffic directors in uniform), so I don't think the salesman was too concerned about legal issues.

He was so determined to sell us his shahtoosh that he started recounting stories of his childhood as an orphan and being raised by Mother Theresa. Apparently all his shahtoosh profits go to "the children." He and his troop of associates swarmed around us for almost an hour, offering us glasses of sweet chai and thrusting so many scarves, tablecloths, leather jackets, and jewels in our faces that we left the New Market feeling dazed and endeared by these charmingly brazen salesmen.

Dressed For Dinner

I was wandering the crowded banana-stand-filled market streets of Puri, India, when I turned onto an alleyway to admire a lovely broken-down air conditioning unit and a typical vendor selling Lay's masala-flavored potato chips, chewing tobacco spices, stacks of cashew nuts, and other essentials. I paused to snap a photograph of an old poster for a Hindi movie whose tagline was "THE PLEASING TOUCH!"

Suddenly a young man popped out at me and said, "3 rupees and I look at you." He proceeded to undress his unique lower-body sarong ensemble. And that was my cue to return to my vehicle. He was offering me the equivalent of 6 cents to look at me as he fondled himself. He was a creeper to be sure, but somehow the interaction was less threatening than the Western World equivalent -- especially since it was a colorful sarong being undone instead of a zipper.

Pimp of the Week: Graydon Carter

Over the sea of Botoxed brows and candy-coiffed diners at a posh restaurant, I spotted the billowing plumage of none other than Graydon Carter. The Vanity Fair editor-in-chief exudes laid-back New England suavity, even though he is a political, literary, and cultural king of Manhattan. He also dabbles in restaurateurism and co-owns New York's cozy-clubby celebrity dining spot, the Waverly Inn, along with Midtown's old school Monkey Bar.

As Carter was exiting the restaurant, I dashed up to him like the desperate young pseudo-writer that I am and handed him my email address on a scrap of paper. All I could muster up to say was, "I'm a huge fan -- I'm a starving writer," but then I corrected myself, "Well, clearly I'm not quite starving, but you know..." I told him about the unpublished novel I wrote and let him go on his way. You never know when a humiliating experience will spin into gold. Perhaps Graydon Carter will be my Rumpelstiltskin.

An Uncanny Resemblance

The best thing about being a tourist is ogling other tourists and deducing their nationalities. In a bar with a distant view of the Taj Mahal, I found myself culturally confused: the American girl, in India, with a French man, at a British-colonialist-style resort, observing two Italian women sipping cocktails (or perhaps they were Spanish, or Greek ... it was hard to discern at first).

They were both well-dressed, well coiffed, dripping in designers, young, brunette, and pretty. One of them wore a threateningly large emerald ring, had a haughty look on her face, and sipped a mimosa. The other girl wore a headband embellished with a satin bow and had a sweet smile. She opted out of her friend's prissy champagne cocktail and ordered various ingredients from the bartender to create an odd concoction of tomato juice, beer, Tabasco sauce, celery salt, and Worcestershire sauce. Talk about gauche. We finally asked her about her custom drink and discovered that they are from Mexico. And when I saw the Worcestershire sauce, I was about to guess Great Britain.

But how much can you really tell about a person from what they drink? In Chile, Argentina, and India, I noticed ads for Johnnie Walker everywhere. I guess globalization turns international people watching into true detective work.

"fortune hunter!"

Heidi Montag is the 23-year-old reality television celebrity who went from sweet and natural Colorado girl to botched and butchered Los Angeles pop star ... all in a matter of minutes. She recently underwent 10 different plastic surgery procedures in a day, saying that she wanted to become the "perfect" version of herself.

She's always indicated signs of derangement: she married a sociopathic mimbo-creeper, Spencer Pratt, and the two of them were baptized in the jungle by a born-again Christian minister (a.k.a. the youngest Baldwin brother) on public television. After they were absolved of their sinful hard-partying lifestyle, Spencer and Heidi (a.k.a. "Speidi") decided to make a series of music videos featuring Heidi's enlarged breasts on the beach. Well, now her lips (and cheeks, and eyebrow arches, and butt) will be bigger too. And her thighs (and ears, and nose, and chin, and neck) will be smaller.

She might be a talentless celebrity past the brink of sanity, but in a culture saturated by image obsession and body perfectionism, Heidi Montag might also be a dreadful alarm call for a future lived in plastic.

"an ungarnished colonial"

The excessively civilized Caffe Florian, overlooking the Plaza San Marco, is the Venetian equivalent to the eternally posh Café de Flore on Paris' Left Bank: there are waiters in white jackets and it is generally inadmissible to look or act like a tourist (though tourists inevitably abound).

Gauche Things to do in a Chic (Elitist) European Café:

1. Bringing a Starbuck's thermos and telling your waiter, "Fill it up!"

2. Wearing sweatpants, or any garment involving an elastic band.

3. Taking a picture of anything, especially your waiter's head as he is serving you.

4. Informing other diners that you find the décor a bit outdated -- and that you think the IHOP on Route 1 has a much more contemporary flair.

5. While en route to the WC, pilfering large quantities of wrapped house chocolates (customarily served as an accompaniment to the espresso drinks).

6. Exclaiming in horror, "10 Euros for a Coke!"

The Showcases

I had a true Bavarian Christmas with my endlessly entertaining German cousins. They are my third cousins, so technically they are considered "kissing cousins," which is an expression that either denotes "distant cousins familiar enough to kiss" or "cousins that are distant enough in relation that it is not the end of the world to kiss them." Either way, the expression is gauche, and probably not the best holiday dinner-table conversation.

After we celebrated Christmas with a roast goose at an old-school Bavarian golf, polo, and hot-air-ballooning club, my cousins and I continued to the bar where many of the German guests had brought their dogs with them during after-dinner drinks. One older man and his wife, who seemed Russian in temperament, had two Chihauhaus in tow (very 'Paris Hilton' and un-German of them). When the couple exited the lounge, my cousin asked, "What kind of dog is that?" and the portly man responded, "A very expensive kind." When we commented on the tiny dog's pink diamond-encrusted collar, the owner responded, "Yes, the collar was more expensive than the dog."

I guess on Christmas some people have kissing cousins to keep them company, and some people have their blonde wives and very small dogs.

"A Dead Adder"

When two people decide to take the next step in their relationship and move in together, disaster inevitably ensues ... It can become a chaotic game of emotionally unavailable men, secretive women, and at the end of the day, it's all about money sense and logistical convenience.

Gauche Things To Do To Your Lover-Roommate:

1. Moving in with them merely because their apartment is more conveniently located to your place of work.

2. Shouting at them before 9am -- especially if it is in order to take their laptop from them and use it as an ironing board.

3. Insulting the way that they use kitchenware. (e.g. if they are cooking pasta for the two of you, avoid saying things like, "Do you intentionally put the stove up that hot? It scorches the pan!")

4. Snoring so loudly that it prevents your lover from getting a good night's sleep, and then reprimanding them for escaping from the bed in the middle of the night to sleep on the couch.

5. Insulting them for wearing "too many clothes" in the apartment, and expecting them to be always in the nude. Then accusing them of being "A Puritan." (This is a common problem in Franco-American relationships.)

6. Using your lover's apartment as a laundromat and office, because your own slum apartment is cold, drafty, under construction, and without a washing machine.

Credit Card Security Code

My dear friend from boarding school is stranded in Manhattan working in a soul-sucking PR job. She has been doing some 'email writing' on the topic of emotionally unavailable men. The latest guy in her life is a hunky magazine publishing tycoon and an extraordinary lover. As he is a bit older, he already has a kid and is 'in the process of divorce.'

The romance began as most New York City romances do -- with a series of ambiguous text message exchanges. But before she knew it, my friend was falling in love with him and his adorable son too. The three of them spent a cozy weekend in the Hamptons, but she quickly realized that he was using her as a babysitter. He even asked her to take his son out for a walk, so that he could sleep in late one morning.

In typical Wanker of the Week form, he disappeared from her life as soon as she started displaying her affection toward him. Since the Hamptons weekend, she has not received so much as a courtesy text. He has even hoarded her favorite scarf and book at his house and seems to be too caught up in massaging his own ego and avoiding intimacy to use girls for anything but sex and babysitting.

A Man of Convenience

The Children's Hour is an old-school Audrey Hepburn film with Shirley MacLaine, based on a classic Lillian Hellman play. I was naturally inclined to attend a midday screening of it, because the story takes place at an all-girls New England boarding school in the 1950s and takes the central theme of The Crucible (vicious gossip) to a lesbian level.

Hepburn and MacLaine play the headmistresses who develop an unhealthily, codepent, platonic love for each other. A naughty young pupil tells her grandmother that the teachers are engaging in (debaucherous) lesbian acts. The rumor spreads, the girls are removed from the school, and the two women become social pariahs trapped alone in their drafty farmhouse-boarding-school.

MacLaine realizes that she is actually a lesbian, and the film ends with her suicide. Meanwhile, the dashing local doctor pines away after Hepburn, and watches her from behind a tree as she visits her best friend's grave. The film's message is both progressive and 1950s in nature: homosexuals are shamed to seclusion by the ignorance of society; homosexuals die of shame, at the end of their ropes (to put it gauchely).