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.

SIZE ZERO KILLS: A PERFORMANCE ART PIECE

Today I am doing a performance art piece in the Jardin des Tuileries Espace Ephémères, outside of the Karl Lagerfeld show for Paris Fashion Week. I will be lying on the ground feigning death, my body partially covered in black trash-bags crisscrossed with white ribbons and mesh covering my eyes. My face will be painted white with blue lips to accentuate the death imagery, my legs will be covered in black tights, and my feet will be in Chanel ballet flats. The white signs propped next to me on the ground will read: SIZE ZERO KILLS.

I spent my early adolescence poring over fashion magazines and skinny models, and by the time I was 20, I was hospitalized for anorexia. I finally realized that viewing thin models and absurd retouching contributed to the serious distortion of my own body image. When I was in the hospital, I was horrified to meet 13-year-old girls on feeding tubes, barely alive, still worshipping Chanel and Vogue as though the fashion industry was their savior.

Karl Lagerfeld has promoted the illegitimate claim that size-zero models are better at selling products than models at healthier weights. He famously lost 90 pounds in a year and uses the anti-obesity card as a way of deflecting from the anorexia issue. Our culture is struggling with a problem of extremes, and if the media's beauty ideals return to a more balanced vision of naturalness and health, then perhaps it will encourage the same in the general population.

We are bombarded with images of impossible perfections that feed on our insecurities, driving people to dangerous dieting, plastic surgeries, and in the extreme case, anorexia ending in death. Too-thin, too-young models perpetuate a culture that is afraid of embracing beauty as a thing of depth and variety that spans across all ages, races, and shapes. The new female beauty ideal starts with changing the sample size from zero. The concept of beauty has always been tied to the saturation of images in a given time, and if those images are created by society, then they can be changed by society too.

A Street Urchin

Since I live in Paris' red light district, everyday I walk by a slew of sex shops and strip clubs with names like "Pussy," "Glamour," "Two Asses" (as in the animal), and (my personal favorite) "Sexodrome." But since I was in the mood for a glitzy highbrow version of all that synthetic lingerie, I went straight to the home of burlesque, the Moulin Rouge.

It was an internationally appealing and well-choreographed spectacular. There was even a sultry blonde woman who dove into a glass tank while wielding multiple snakes. The costumes were minimalist, and tended to involve pink feathers and reflective beads. I came out of the theatre in a daze, having seen more firm female bare butts than in all my life. And unless I plan on taking up a job in hip-hop video production or the porn industry, I don't think I ever will again. Conclusion: the real Moulin Rouge is much better than the Nicole Kidman version.

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.

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.

Pimp of the Week: François Pinault

In terms of billionaires in the world, François Pinault is apparently around number 39. He is the ultimate Frenchman of luxury, owning Gucci, Christie's auction house, the Vail Ski Resort, and that sort of modest NGO-based work. But the best thing about this capitalist pimp is that he bought a beautiful old customs building and a marble palace on Venice's Grand Canal, and then he turned them into museums for his extraordinary contemporary art collection: the Punta Della Dogana and the Palazzo Grassi.

His son, François-Henri Pinault, is married to Hollywood hot actress Salma Hayek. In fact, they got married twice -- first in Paris and then in Venice. Just for good measure. There are some things money can't buy (like marital bliss), but there are other things (like a Venetian-masquerade wedding reception, or a Felix Gonzalez-Torres installation), where a lot of money can't hurt.

"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!"

"are you enfianced?"

Nestled underneath the arcades of the Place Des Vosges, I debriefed on my underwhelming impression of Berlin with a couple of true Parisians. The zany stranger seated at the neighboring table overheard my less than complimentary comments about Berlin, and we delved into a discussion of urban gentrification (and the irritating characters who accompany it). There are the bobos in Paris's 17th arrondissement ("Bobo" is a term for Frenchies who are simultaneously "bourgeois" and "bohemian"); there are the yuppies in Manhattan's Murray Hill; there are the hipsters in Brooklyn's Williamsburg.

But nowadays there is something more offensive than yuppies or hipsters: the yipster. Yuppie + Hipster = Yipster. Yipsters tend to reside post-college on the Upper East Side (where they live rent-free in apartments formerly occupied by their grandmothers). But the yipster quickly accumulates enough wealth to move to Williamsburg, where they stock their kitchens with Whole Foods groceries and frequent the gym in their full service river-view buildings.

The yipster drinks Red Stripe beers out of the bottle at the local backyard bar venue on Friday nights. The yipster probably went to Harvard but prefers to hang out on weekends with up-and-coming artists who went to RISD. I suppose I am similar to a yipster, except that yipsters usually have real jobs so that they can eventually buy a house in Westchester County, forget the "grunge" of Brooklyn, and buy the paintings of their former 'artist friends' who gain credibility from Christie's contemporary art auction.

Wanker of the Week: Apicius Restaurant Encounter

While dining on frogs' legs at Apicius Restaurant, one of the most elegant and hidden-away culinary delights in Paris, a mysterious man caught my eye. He seemed bored at his table of stuffy, well-coiffed, Chanel-dipped elderly relatives. After an hour of exchanging glances, I made an exit for the ladies' room -- he brushed past me in the hallway and I slipped a piece of paper into his hand. It was a perfectly timed encounter between two creepers.

Moments later we were texting, and a few days later we were doing the standard email writing procedure: he is a banker, his family has a house in Paris, he thinks New York is a wonderful city, he is not one of those 'emotionally unavailable men,' he is enamored of my long hair, and OH, one more thing -- casually, at the end of the email he mentioned:

"What else ???? I'm married (no point in hiding that !!)."

So maybe I didn't find true love at Apicius, but I certainly found a Wanker of the Week (no point in hiding that !!), and the chocolate soufflé was delicious.

Sex & Surrealism at Centre Pompidou

Centre Pompidou's recent exhibition on Surrealism, La Subversion des Images, is a glamorously curated look into the sexy 1920s art world of understanding dreams and rejecting bourgeois rationalism.

The exhibition included a secluded black chamber where viewers could watch a "sexually explicit" film by Man Ray entitled "Cinematic Experiment: Two Women." Once inside, I witnessed some vintage hardcore lesbian strap-on pornography. But because the Pompidou Center is a very French museum (and not at all Puritanical in nature), there was only a measly warning sign: "The following film may offend sensitive children."

The intersection of pornography and high art has such a rich history that it is difficult to imagine one without the other. What would the Louvre Museum have to display if not for the idealized body of a naked woman?

Marzipan Mustache

When five French bachelors cohabit in a grand Parisian apartment, New Year's Eve is bound to be a debaucherous affair. I spent my first hours of 2010 in the company of a crowd of horny, sweaty, semi-elegant young Parisians (and a smattering of confused Americans who were passing through town). The dance floor was throbbing, the champagne was flowing, the silly string was spraying, and the handsome French boys were ogling each Parisian girl wearing a little black cocktail dress that entered their line of sight.

New Year's Eve intensifies the creeper-quality in everyone because of the societal pressure to ring in the New Year with your perfect love match (or else your next 365 days will be cursed with lonely nights of watching sitcoms stored on your TV, or learning how to cook for one).

In the hazy inaugural moments of 2010 a particularly convincing creeper caught my eye, and he doled out a series of pick-up lines, each one weaker than the last -- though my personal favorite was his mention of taking me shopping for bridal gowns in the coming weeks. He topped if off when he declared, "If you don't sleep with me tonight, then tomorrow you will regret it!" I was convinced that the contrary was true. It's funny how men and women can have such different impressions of the urgency of a one-night stand.

Maple Syrup Meltdown

As a way of recovering from the inevitable traumas of the holiday season, Parisian women flock to the hammams, where they can sweat out the toxins of too much wine, too many cigarettes, and too many family dynamics. I had a splendid time sweating away inside the bathhouse of the Moroccan hammam at the Mosque de Paris. It was liberating to be in a room full of semi-nude women who were bonding with their friends while rubbing each other down with special black soap that exfoliates the body.

Dizzy from the hot steam in my face, I went on to the gommage process, which involved a small Russian woman scrubbing me from head-to-toe with a bristly glove. After a massage, more awkward sweating, showering, and public nudity, I was revived -- adrift in understanding dreams and transported to a land far more exotic than grey wintry Paris.

"of indeterminate age"

While searching for a decent apple at the corner epicerie near my apartment one frostbitten Sunday night, the two overly solicitous shopkeepers asked me, "What are you looking for, young lady?" I told them I was looking for a good apple, but I was having a hard time in my search, since most of the fruit was shriveled and over-ripe.

The flirtatious men tried to sell me their bad apples, and then when I refused, they said, "Take a banana! Why don't you want a banana?" I found the symbolism too laughable to permit me any more time wasted on the sidewalk with these lurking fruit sellers. And then one of the guys exclaimed, "If you buy my banana, you have to sleep with me tonight!" It was an interesting sales technique that I would never suggest repeating if you are working on commission.

Coquelicot Boulangerie in Montmartre

In my Parisian boulangerie-hopping, I recently went to Coquelicot in Montmartre for a delicious and cozy brunch. It was the first snow this year, so my sister's croque monsieur was a perfect plate of French comfort food, made with ultra-crusty rustic bread, a hint of succulent Béchamel sauce inside, and a covering of earthy gruyere cheese. It was a Parisian's version of the morning-after eggs Benedict in Manhattan. And with our steaming bowls of café au lait, my sister and I could not have asked for more.

Coquelicot is not only my favorite purveyor of neighborhood baguettes but it is also a homey atmosphere where you can escape from the sometimes-brutal unfriendliness prevalent in the more elegant (but less authentic) neighborhoods of Paris.