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.

"a reformed rake"

The lovely indie-chic romantic comedy, 500 Days of Summer, tells the story of a male 20-something phenomenon: the guy who is desperate to settle down to one woman and only one woman. He is the prince in this modern Los Angeles anti-fairy-tale, instead of the emotionally unavailable wanker so prevalent in popular films and everyday life. Unfortunately, the boy falls for the female twenty-something phenomenon: the girl who is desperate to remain "casual" and never commit to one guy. She is the princess in flight.

The disarmingly disgruntled leading man realizes that he is not the prince to his princess. Romantic relationships are so often littered with this imbalance of expectations -- one person wants to have a baby, and the other person just wants to go to happy hour at a karaoke bar. You could call it "bad timing." But for the ones who want to have a baby, it's more like an extended mourning period of bleak wandering in streets that are haunted by the girl who liked to sing karaoke.

40 Thieves & An Engagement!

On a recent trip to Venice, my sister and I found ourselves eating one of the most delicious meals of our lives at Osteria Ai 40 Ladroni, or The Forty Thieves. It is an exceptional restaurant not only for its to-die-for squid ink pasta dish but also for the fact that it's where my sister got married.

There was a charming and virile-looking Italian waiter serving us. And my sister is famous for her Strega-Nona-like love of pasta, so she turned to me midway through the meal and said, "This waiter is cute, right? And he could serve me the most delicious homemade pasta, and he lives in Venice, a beautiful city." Since her horoscope had recently informed her that she would meet the love of her life that day, one thing led to another ... and before we knew it, Maurizio (as he was called) was announcing to the packed room of Italian families: "I present to you my wife!" Everyone was clapping and laughing and drinking limoncello.

Enough with the emotionally unavailable men -- here's to Italian princes bearing plates of pasta and seafood delicacies. Though Maurizio doesn't have an email address, he promised to do some email writing to my sister by way of the restaurant's office. After all, unfulfilled love affairs are usually more romantic.

Film Review: He's Just Not That Into You

The recent romantic comedy, He's Just Not That Into You, was an unexpected burst of truth on contemporary dating in an age of Facebook, email writing, and text message disasters. Gigi (played by the adorable Ginnifer Goodwin) waits at the phone every night for her crush to call her. She fails to see the difference between a. men who are flirting with her at a bar because they are drunk, b. men who want to date her, and c. men who never want to see her again.

The manager at Gigi's local bar lets her in on some heterosexual man insight: "If a guy is into a girl, then he will make it happen, so if he hasn't called her or asked her on another date, he's just not that into her." Women often give bad advice to other women: for example, if a girl is desperately in love with a guy for a period of many years, then her female friend might say to her, "He's definitely gay, and that's why he's dating that incredibly masculine girl." Alternatively, she might say, "Men are like pears -- they have to ripen in a brown paper bag before they are ready to commit to the one they really love. He just needs another 2-12 years to really ripen!"

Gigi ends up converting the wanker-commitment-phobic-barman to a prince who is ready for a real relationship. Moral of the story: miracles can happen in fictitious versions of Baltimore that are populated by incredibly attractive people.

Amtrak Routes

As an expatriate lurking in the snowy streets of Moscow and sporting ridiculous fur hats, my friend recently met an older Russian man who was selling his book of poems on the sidewalk. She apologized to the poet for not being able to buy his book, saying that she did not understand enough Russian. But he gave her some sage advice: "If you just keep on reading and reading you will someday understand!" She ended up buying the book.

The young American girl and the old school Russian poet hit it off, and soon they were exchanging email addresses. He exclaimed to her, "I hope you find a great man to love you very much!" She said, "I hope so too." He intuited that she played piano as a child and urged her to take up the instrument again because it would lead her to a great man who would love her. The elderly poet also told her that he loves his wife very much. A real prince in the Russian night, spreading love to warm the wayward American girl in the frigid Moscow air.

"Promise me you'll never cut your hair."

My friend recently had an unfortunate evening in Moscow that involved "a charming cocktail of vodka beer rum wine baiileys rum and our old friend jager" (according to her latest email). And at that point she left her purse in the "cab" (which was actually a civilian car, since proper taxis don't really exist in Moscow). She returned back to her boyfriend's apartment with nothing but a few kopecks and a stick of gum. The lost purse was filled with vital items (like credit cards, and passports, and prescription meds, and reading glasses, and the visa permitting her to stay in said semi-sinister Eastern European country).

But instead of suffering through twelve years of standing in line to obtain her new passport and documents (not to mention the numerous mean Russian ladies who would yell at her in the process), it turns out that the bad-drinking-etiquette-silly-American-girl-traveling-in-cold-climates fairy was watching over her that night. The "cab" driver found her purse and handed her documents over to the Russian militia, after stealing her camera, cash, and iPod. She was so delighted to get her passport and papers back that she felt the "cab" driver deserved all the other stuff as a reward. Let's just call it karma.

A Bulldog Shot

One of the most endearing ways to pass a Sunday afternoon is at the guignol theatre in the Luxembourg Gardens, where Parisian children become entranced by tranny-looking marionettes beating each other on the heads with sticks, brooms, feather dusters, and other phallic objects.

On this particular Sunday there was a brawl between a woman and the portly owner of the theatre. He wanted her to move to a back row to make more room in front for the children. During the dispute a mysterious mustached man stood up and called the room to order.

The curtain finally rose to reveal a magical land where Prince Charming underwent various metamorphoses, the Pretty Princess fainted frequently, and the Evil Witch tried to spoil everyone else's chance at happiness. Maybe she had a traumatic childhood. Or maybe she was just born that way.

"Light On His Feet"

Today a semi-sinister man dropped a bundle of business cards on the street in front of me. I picked them up and tried to give them back to him, but he was walking too quickly. And then he dropped an orange Louis Vuitton card case. I picked that up too. And then I realized that he had recently mugged some elegant, unsuspecting Parisian woman and was merely discarding the non-valuables (the Louis Vuitton wallet was scratched and had a small hole in it, so was worthless for re-sale).

I recently heard a story about a French man en route to the airport in New York City to return home. He left a rolled-up poster in the taxi cab, and the cab driver went all the way back to the hotel and asked around for the address of "the French man." The selfless cabbie shipped the poster to France, without leaving his name or address, or asking for any money in return.

For every Wanker of the Week, there is a prince trotting close behind...

Cut-Out Gliders That Really Fly

There is just something about young boys; I met a pure and beautiful one on a random Parisian street corner. At first I took him for a creeper and didn't want to remove my sunglasses to look him in the eyes. But then I realized he had a genuine interest in cinema, a flair for languages, and might even be the first prince I have come across in Paris.

On the other hand, I recently encountered a bon chic bon genre (sort of the French version of preppies) boy who dabbles in the world of art galleries, feigns academic studies, and spends his parents' money. He turned to my girlfriend (who is known for dating older men) and said something to the effect of: "It reassures me to know that when I'm old and wrinkled, there will still be stupid young girls like you who will want to date me ... and you'll be their mother." I think we've found our Wanker of the Week, and he's chock-full of spoiled-son wisdom.

Big Subtle Macadamia Nut

Let's just say for the sake of argument that my friend was dating a boy named Dick Inwood. He was a prince with a roving eye and without vertebrae. He was fond of nights out in Shanghai, girls who wear Uggs, SKEX, and the law—not necessarily in that order. Dick Inwood makes the Wanker of the Week award, because after months of smothering his girlfriend in possessive love, one night he drank too much, had a fatal indiscretion, and promptly broke up with her. Did I mention that Dick Inwood pulled this mimbo move not once but twice? The second break-up took place via Skype, so he gets an extra special Wanker of the Week Gold Star Award for his creative use of technology.

Moral of the story: once a wanker, twice a wanker. Let's just hope that my friend doesn't go crawling back to Dick Inwood after he makes his inevitable puppy-dog plea for sympathy over the fact that he can't hold his liquor without falling for some random girl's line.

Taffy Pull

A thunderstorm and a marathon of David Lynch's surreal-sinister TV series, Twin Peaks, devolved into an afternoon receiving wisdom from a psychic named Stacey in the Leather District. When a Parisian pop start receives a tarot card reading at the start of Agnès Varda's Cléo de 5 à 7, she learns that she is going to die of cancer. My psychic told me that I have a sickness, but she also told me that she could "cure me with crystals and candles and medications, and whatever was necessary...in 9 days...for 300 dollars." Sounds like a deal to me.

Or maybe I should just use the money towards a summer getaway discount. The options on the website include "big cities," "romance," and "sunny spots." Stacey-the-psychic also asked me if I wanted to know the age of my death.

What would you do if you knew how many years you had left to live? Healing crystals, big cities, romance, or sunny spots? Or maybe just watch more Twin Peaks. Kyle MacLachlan as Agent Cooper is pretty hot—sort of a pimp-prince-mimbo fusion.

Freudian Field Day

What happens if you are finally lucky enough to find your Prince, and he makes you feel so happy and settled in yourself that you no longer want to be a princess in flight? Usually, couples refer to this moment as: "the decision to cohabit." Some say that living together before marriage leads to no marriage at all. But then, wouldn't it just be a rational step towards avoiding divorce?

A girl I know has been living happily in an apartment with her boyfriend of five years. The realities of her domestic communal existence mystified me, since I have never met my own Prince and I could never imagine folding a Wanker's underwear with any feelings but spite. But just as this laundress-slash-girlfriend was daydreaming about her upcoming anniversary plans, her boyfriend reported that he was no longer in love with her. All it took was a "boys' weekend" away playing field games with balls and mallets for her Prince to devolve into a class A Wanker of the Week. He told her that the only thing that kept him from cheating on her was the fact that there were no available women on the playing field. I guess there were only balls and mallets.

"A kind of a genius"

On a rainy day in Manhattan there's no better thing to do than to watch an Andy Warhol film. Luckily, the MoMA was showing Harlot, which consists of one very long (67-minute) shot of a transvestite in a white ballgown, ratty blonde wig, and diamond jewels. 'She' reclines on a couch, nestled in with a voluptuous woman who clutches a beer in one hand and a white cat in the other. There are two creepers perched behind the sofa, one disguised as a prince and one disguised as Marlon Brando. None of the actors speak during the entire 67 minutes. The only movements in the lethargic eroticized black and white tableau: the tuxedoed man smoking cigarettes; the transvestite peeling and eating bananas (at least 4 of them).

One by one the MoMA visitors trickled out of the theatre, ill at ease from Andy Warhol's suggestive banana monologue voice over. The audience dwindled down to a smattering of straggling artists, some hipsters who had brought pastrami sandwiches to enjoy with the show (I overheard them saying: "I'm going to blog about this..."), and a couple New York City creepers.

Tchotchkes

I want to believe that prince-like things still exist in this age of doomed chivalry and philandering father figures—that terrifying Austrian man who kept his daughter locked in a cellar for 24 years being an extreme example.

It is hard to find the right type of romance, that makes your heart beat faster—but not so fast that you have a coronary. In the French movie Priceless, the pretty Parisian poupée, Audrey Tautou, plays the emotionally bankrupt girl who wants nothing more than to marry a pimpish elderly creepazoid. But the penniless young bartender/bellman manages to steal her heart, and they ride barefoot across the sunny Côte d'Azur on his scooter.

My friend's boyfriend had to move to the UK just as they started dating. Two weeks into their relationship, he flew back and surprised her for a visit. She is a poet, and he is an impoverished graduate student, but princes find ways to cross oceans, even when they're paupers.

A Man Named Gerald

"Spring Fling." Such telling words? During the sultry early-summer day I contemplated the issue of virginity. If you are a girl about to graduate from university, and you have not had that first 'struggle between the sheets' with a mimbo, wanker, pimp, or ever-elusive prince, then should you keep waiting? Should you hold out for the ideal romantic scenario to emerge? Or should you merely turn to a guy friend, or the local man at the wine shop, and move from virginity to...well, post-virginity?

"To lose one's virginity" has always struck me as a problematic expression. What is lost? For me, the only thing that was lost when I lost my virginity was the battery on my boyfriend's parents' Volvo. There is an irrational sense that this event is a "rite of passage." But sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. And sometimes a Bat Mitzvah is just an awkward thirteen-year-old girl receiving too many over-priced Tiffany heart tag necklaces. And sometimes even Volvos run out of batteries.