Journal d'une jeune fille dérangée

Two Week Notice (bye bye)

2008-02-06T04:57:00.001-06:00

Dear Friends, neighbors, and valuable customers (sic),

With this letter I officially present you my 2 week notice, starting last Tuesday. On Feb 12th (yes, next week), I will fly out of the country, thus resuming my previous status as a "NYC F***ing tourist." I will move out of the US, to the UK.
Some of you already know and can stop reading here. For the others still on a lunch break, here is my 2 cent semi-introspective goodbye note, so it looks like I've actually been doing some thinking, for a change...

It all began 6 something years ago, the day I set foot on the Land of the Free. That night, I took a carriage to the remote lands of Dutchess County and started sprinkling proper French grammar over the unwilling heads of under aged Vassar students. The following year, memories of Washington D.C. piled on top of my teaching experiment, above which layered flashes of Puerto Rico, Italy, France and Mexico. In 2003, 2 years after I had started exploring the beauties of American suburbia lifeforms, I left for the Big Apple.
Dec 10, 10.45 am: I stepped out of kick boxing class with a dismantled jaw and a phone number. Catherine Price, former Brooklynite and social hub emeritus, had just punched hard enough for me to draw 2 life changing lessons:

a. no matter how weak your hook and how bad your English, there were friends to be made out there.
b. when the instructor shouts "DUCK !" he doesn't necessarily mean you should take a pause to admire flocks of birds flying by the window.

From that day on, I started to befriend people in the most random locations/ situations. Be it on a subway platform at 5 am, at the wrong house warming party (I've splurged on an agenda and written down proper addresses since,) in a night club while reading a book, or while browsing online for a dentist (although that day I ended up meeting a nitrogen cook.) Then there were friends of friends, people it took 6 month to realize I had actually met when I was 15, and whose parents had met mine when they where 15. And whose mom randomly met my granpa' on a public bench last summer outside of Paris.
All these people, or rather all of you people, are the reason why it is now so hard to leave. But let's face it: lots of you have already fled the country and with my family growing on the other side of the Pond, time has come to move back closer to "home." (I hate to sound cheesy, but sometimes Blood calls louder than you think.) So for now I will settle in London, a city conveniently located near Paris (but not too close to Parisians,) Vienna (so I can watch my nephew grow) and near lots of little islands and tiny countries at I have yet to discover. It is also where my chéri lives, so I figured it couldn't be THAT bad...

As Laurent Voulzy sang the definition of Love in his oh so cheesy-romantic melodic charade, here is to six something years in Wonderland, and to the friends made while living there.

Mon 1er, c'est Désir
Mon 2eme, du Plaisir,
Mon 3eme, fait Souffrir.
Et mon tout fait des souvenirs...

I will drink away my sorrow -and my fear of flying- this Friday night with whoever is around/ in need of an excuse to binge.
Bye bye, and hope to see you all again soon !!

Xo,Maïa

Le Chic, le Choc, le Chèque

2007-10-26T10:47:00.009-06:00

Something that could be translated by "the Class, the Clash, the Cash." This was the title of a documentary about famous soccer player's wives I had seen on French public TV a while ago. ie: something that had probably been made in 1981, bought by the public channel in 87 from the "on sale/ useless" department of a private TV channel, and broadcast in 94 to avoid paying the raging 0.2% copyrights to the film's director. In short, a great up-to-date documentary about modern day society. I remember being stricken by the lush gardens and humongous properties in which these wives lived, their latest Chanel leather hats à la YMCA (aaaah the 80's), and their complete lack of interest for the world outside their husband's press clips and wallets. In those days, it seemed that happiness rhymed with the much sought-after "double C" insignia, according to your gender alternatively taking the shape of entwined gold letters on a sweater or announcing some promising full cup size underneath.

The unemployed women would meet up to shop on any given day of the week, batting their electric-blue lashes at the high-end department store's windows. They talked constantly, babbled, and sometimes even screeched at a fur coat on sale. Besides bearing similar half tamed S&M outfits, they also all yapped with a strong southern tint in their voice, bearing the very same accent I once sported, before moving to Paris and being regularly bullied by cruel junior-high morrons until it eventually disappeared.

But anyways, these women had everything they had always dreamed of: according to their standards they were classy, vicariously part of the media clash thanks to their husbands' glorious careers, and, well, full of the latter's cash as well. Bliss was their companion. Still, I remember feeling that somehow, something was off with this Stepford Wives picture. I really did not care that none of them had gotten an education, nor that they proudly declared "re-heated plain pasta" their best recipe by far. Rather, what made me uncomfortable was that they seemed to struggle to find a way to spend this huge amount of wealth they had done nothing to deserve. Past its capacity to grant almost every wish, the flow of cash had not sparked their imagination enough to open it to a world of newly accessible wonders -I mean really, how many leather Chanel hats can one own anyway? Basically, they had a thick check book and no idea what to do with it. The simple fact that it was there made them happy, and so passed the days of the famous busy husbands and their overwhelmingly rich simple wives.

Fast forward 20 something years later in present day New York City. Chanel leather hats are thankfully out of style, and soccer players now date strong independent women such as models and former teen pop singers (see Adriana Karembeu, Posh Spice or Elsa.) The almost endearing southern soccer player's wife and her overcooked pastas have been eradicated and replaced by a much more dangerous kind of symbiotic form: the Investment banker and the Mishkin Double D (ie "Gold Digger" in the hip Yiddish language used in NY these days. DD bra cup just marking the CC inflation since the 80's) One day, our kids will bump into a TV documentary about today's society that might look like this -granted of course that public TV still exists, which is actually quite doubtful:

Opening credits. Title. Addictive poppy music playing. A group of well groomed girls sip litchi cucumber martinis in a posh bar. They wear high heels, a t-shirt barely reaching the thighs and a Colgate smile. Scattered all over, a fauna of badly cut Brooks Brothers suits (sorry for the pleonasm and the Eurocentric comment here. I had too.) The girls look at the guys. The guys look at the pantless legs.

- Hi. (him)
- Hiiiii. Hihihihihi (her)
- What's up?
- Hihihihih

The story looks as old as Humanity itself. Until this. Our post post-modern era(tum):
- You come here often? (him. chances of getting laid 1/10)
- What job do you do? (her)
- I'm an investment banker. (chances of getting laid 7.8/10)
- What bank? (uncrossing her legs. Crossing again)
- Super Rich Bank (chances of getting laid 9.2/10)
- Where do you live? (pouting)
- Chinatown (chances of getting laid 3.1/10)
- …
- but this is only until the brand new condo I bought in Chelsea is finished (chances of getting laid 11/10)
- Hi, what's you name? hihihihiihihih

Ahhh… love.
But don't get me wrong, this is of course something only seen in a certain type of NYC bars. For other types, just replace the Him/Her conversation by a more straight forward questionnaire and a Him/Him interaction. Let the one who claims to have truly never witnessed this join me for a party with business school students where people literally walk away in the middle of your sentence the moment they realize you are of no apparent use to them. Even immediate lust for sex seems to have become a secondary concern after the color of your credit card. Call it racism of the 21st century.

Now, I made plenty of friends in this city, and obviously I do not recognize any of them in this stereotype. And there are million's of people I have not -yet- met who would rather go on a nightly hunt for dead animals in Chinatown to make beautiful sculptures than spend their Sunday calculating their bonus or let Dr. 90210 implant the "Xtra Volume" package. A lot of these guys even genuinely like trading credits, stocks, socks, or pistachios by the ton. The psycho artist (who really does exist) offers to sew found dead animals with a thread and a needle to make new ones while the M&A banker less offensively only merges companies. I know. But these belong to the estranged minority (thank god for the dead rat artist.) What I have been painfully witnessing is the complete disappearance of sheer spontaneity to the advantage of a practical fact-checking exercise turned into a high profile job interview. Being fair, let's not only blame the mishkin blond air-head for running after the Gold membership card. The banker gets a trophy DD to listen to his stories, including a recent speedboat trip and other heavy-set devices. Big Engines she will hopefully mount soon, they both think.

So, when I offered my friend to join me for a night out to celebrate her short stay in the Big Apple, I knew what I was getting into.

First, there was a formal upscale invitation under someone else's name that miraculously became mine on the guest list. An open bar with top shelf liquor, and that newly symbiotic combination abounding like mold on blue cheese. "Why am here then?" one might ask. Free champagne, friends, stunning venues, good music, and people too busy making sure they don't leave sweat stains on their silky outfit to overcrowd the dancefloor. I admittedly enjoy this display of the proper-crowd luxury because I am not part of it. I can freely be who I am, empty my mind without fear of staining my non-existing reputation. The ultimate freedom sometimes lies in strange places.

After the third glass of champagne -a record while still standing in my case-, what appears like a male mutters something about the fireplace, and some 1974 classical piece being butchered by the DJ. He could be in his early thirties, but I could also be drunk. Tall, blond, blue eyes, and claims he's a pilot who always flies his private jet to go to work. I take a pause and consider this vision. I then look down at my empty glass and politely excuse myself. Back at the bar I order a champagne of glass, with which the barman graciously suggests a plate of food as well. I return to my seat with a drink, cheese, grapes and a full steak filet before resuming the conversation. Because of where we are, and probably of who we are too, the topic quickly reaches the surrounding wealth and its implied rules.

Well, I was raised to become an independent woman, only spending what she earns herself and worked somewhat honestly for it. But in this City when you meet someone, where is the line between letting a gentleman treat you and being labelled a "free loader" (or alternatively a "hardcore feminist hippie who can't relax")? How often can we insist on splitting the bill before looking ungraceful, or agreeing to be taken out before looking ungrateful? What if one has a gold credit card and the other doesn't even qualify for the Ivory free Frequent Flyer Miles membership? How does one balances things out then?

This might sounds like details to some, but it became quite a hot topic among what I would subjectively call "properly raised" people. One could also decide to only date within his/her social circle, but that calls for another debate altogether. So let's face it, New York's young active male population we are likely to bump into is for the most part in finance -this is not a coincidence, this is the very reason why they chose to live here- and if you aren't part of this world you can quickly find yourself facing a dangerous lifestyle gap. Also, even after dating a couple of successful idiots, one has to admit there might be others in finance who inconveniently do not apply as "despicable beings," so we, semi-proud members of the not-for-profit non-sense, should be prepared to face the issue one day. The "Chic Choc Chèque" attitude can evaporate any dilemma and our self-esteem. Our self-consciousness can spoil a treat because of a favour we cannot return. After many pros and cons, theses and anti-thesis, we come to the conclusion that when it's right, things will fall into place. Eternal dating can be a pain anyway and when you are involved and you care, there are other ways of showing it than signing for expensive bills.

It is now late in the bar. I say thank you for the talk and proceed to reach the coat check and leave the party. On the way, a slightly inebriated night owl in a tight business suit looks my way and mumbles: "hey...could I get your number by any chance? You look like a nice person in this ocean of strange behaviours. I would love to take you out to dinner sometimes." Gasp. Blood rushed to my temples. My mouth was ready to speak faster than my brain could control, but I wanted to enjoy the moment. I wanted to relish these 6 little words as they would pass my lips. Beyond many fears, there was this sentence I had been dying to pronounce, getting a sweet revenge on the City's daily toll. "Thanks, but I have a boyfriend."
Yes, he's in finance and he's certainly not of the "despicable" kind.

The barman snaps me out of my thoughts:
"- One last glass of champagne Miss M.?"
"- Sure, the same please. No reason to change what feels right, right?"
"- Of course. One glass of Henriot, coming right up."

Garbage Tour 2007

2007-10-17T05:43:00.003-06:00

Who said NY had been fully overtaken by glamorous snots and overpaid underaged bankers? Com'on now, Who's in??

See the post I found below.
Maïa

THIS THURSDAY New York City Chinatown Garbage Tour
You're invited on a free tour of the New York City Chinatown Garbage.Did you know you could make art out of dead animals? Yes. I am going to show you how to collect dead animals from the garbage in Chinatownto make your own personal taxidermy. This is the first NYC ChinatownGarbage Taxidermy Tour. You will learn how to dig in the garbage fordead animals. You can make art out of these animals. It's reallycool. I've found everything from sharks to frogs to plain oldunidentifiable crap. Sometimes I find nothing interesting, but thatis what makes it fun. You never know. RSVP is appreciated but not required. Rain or shine.
My name is Nate Hill, a Brooklyn artist who makes new animals fromdead animal parts. I sew together random animal parts to make a newanimal that doesn't really exist. Many of the parts I have used over the years have come from Chinatown's garbage.

I suggest wearing clothes you don't mind getting dirty. Long-sleeveshirts are also good to keep your arms clean. Also fully enclosedshoes are recommended. The following items will be provided: latex gloves, first aid kit, wet wipes, and antibacterial gel. You may wantto bring a plastic bag if you want to take a souvenir with you. Youmay also want to bring a flashlight, though I've never used one. Isearch by feel. After the tour is finished, I invite you to drinks atthe bar Home Sweet Home (a taxidermy themed bar).

Southeast Corner of Canal and Lafayette Street, Manhattan9-10p; $free

ooohhh, the self-promotion! (Artforum)

2007-08-04T05:51:00.001-06:00

ARTFORUM 08.03.07
Animal Farm
Long Island

At last Saturday’s summer benefit for the Watermill Center—the annual Hamptons bash thrown by the institution’s founder, Robert Wilson—art and corporate sponsorship dovetailed with unusual ease, all the way down to the evening’s animal theme: “VOOM Zoo” (a not-so-subtle nod to the HD-TV provider).
(...) Reeds and torches lined the steps leading up to the Watermill’s main hall, through which guests had to pass in order to reach the party. (...) Of course, the evening’s theme wouldn’t be complete without a dress code, in this case “Wild Chic.” Getups ranged from arts patron Christophe de Menil’s understated snake brooch to AOL executive Tatiana Platt's stunning yellow-feathered concoction of a dress, whose saliency nearly outstripped the giant corporate logos that adorned the mural overlooking the center's plaza.

“This year’s sale will be through the roof,” promised Watermill arts and auction manager Maïa Morgensztern, as she monitored her staff’s last-minute preparations. “This time, we decided to go with hot, edgy art.” Her lush French accent at first made me think she’d said “hot, hedgy art,” which might have been equally apt, given the inclusion of crowd-pleasing pieces by the likes of Anselm Kiefer and Robert Mapplethorpe. Soon, though, the unflappable Morgensztern was called away by an urgent plea: Where’s the fish artist? Alfred Taubman’s asking about the fish.” The reference was to Wonjung Choi’s ichthyological mobiles, which hung in a corner of the tent near Robert Wilson’s video portrait of a panther.

Performances punctuated cocktail hour—here a Taiwanese drum troupe, there a woman sitting covered in red paint, as staged by artist William Pope.L. At last, everyone was called into the dining tent, where guests were greeted by a stunning tableau vivant: the burlesque star Dita von Teese, in pasties and garter belt, perched on a swing hung high from metal rafters. It was a re-creation of the scene in Wilson's video up for auction. As von Teese posed, one collector remarked, “It’s nice, but I wouldn’t put it in my house.”

“Your cars have been shipped to Mexico, to be auctioned off for charity,” joked Wilson, joined onstage by Abramovic. Wilson then spoke about the trick to filming a panther: “The most important thing is you listen, listen like an animal. When we shot this video portrait of the panther in the studio, no one moved. We animals listen.” He ended his speech by imitating the cries of an indeterminate species: “Woa woa woahahah.” His yelps made Lisa Dennison’s opening remarks positively sober in comparison, as she pondered, “Could [the Watermill] become one of the most significant artist colonies of all time?” The stage was then turned over to Bartenev and his cast, who performed an “animal competition” replete with people wearing foam chicken suits and wings.
Left: Actress Julia Stiles with artist Jonathan Cramer. Right: Dita von Teese. (Photos: Tyler Coburn)
While the performers cavorted, auctioneer Simon de Pury kicked off the evening’s sale with VIP tickets to Rufus Wainwright’s Judy Garland show at the Hollywood Bowl. Next up was a Nan Goldin photograph of model James King. Acknowledging the cognitive dissonance intrinsic to all art auctions, de Pury proclaimed, “The piece is invaluable . . . and we start it at two thousand dollars.” Throughout the evening, de Pury continued his mix of praise, strong-arming, and enthusiasm, saying to one participant, “I love the underbidder, especially when as beautiful as you.”
As the auction continued, I caught up with Dennis Oppenheim and White Box's Martin Liu, sitting near Dennison and Ilya Kabakov. Several seats away was none other than the kindly Bill Paxton (most recently starring as the polygamist patriarch in HBO’s Big Love), who talked a bit about his father’s art collection. Then, as I stared agog at the foam chickens’ antics in the auction ring, Paxton remarked, Zen-like: “Just enjoy it. You don’t have to define it.”
Those impatient for a dance party rushed center stage as soon as de Pury wrapped up, and several of us took a break outside, including Wilson administrator (and rumored Wainwright beau) Jörn Weisbrodt and writer/model (and Ryan Adams beau) Jessica Joffe. Collectors keen on acquiring more art made their way to the silent-auction tent, where a Sol LeWitt aquatint and a photo by Hunter S. Thompson made me dream of buying. In the meantime, Wilson’s crew turned their attention toward the after-party at the “Big House,” though many attendees debated moving on to a nearby Russell Simmons soiree.
So while twenty stalwart guests held down the dance floor, others began trickling off into the night. Artist Cory Arcangel, whose Warhol video game was on display, plotted to clear the dance floor, once and for all, by playing Journey’s power ballad “Don’t Stop Believing.” And had he actually been given permission to DJ? “I’ve reached the point in my career where I get to do anything I want,” he said. “Though it’ll probably only last for a month.”
—Dawn Chan

July 24, 2007

2007-07-24T12:19:00.000-06:00

July 24, 2007

- Does it hurt?
- What?
- Does leaving your heart unattended on the table hurts?
- I don't know. Not yet.

Flashes, flashes, flashes, stop. Run. Trip. Catch. Flashes, flashes, flashes. 23 is the new black.

Lately, it seems that everyone is hunting for a share of Youth to hold the glimpse of a careless haven. Parties, drinks, tinting, brushing hands, smell, touch. Mid-life crisis midway through mid-life. Whether he comes from South Africa, an Internet café in Italy or a capoeira class in Rio, 23 year old boys are the latest gotta-haves. They come in every size and walk of life, horny Red Bull(s) sans the bad after taste. An electronic gadget everyone craves. They are hot, fast, playful toys and delivered with the shelf life of one: after a month it is bound to get old. We try, we dare and we bounce all our rebounds from entertainment to uncertainties. Truth is, we stopped believing in the possibility of a meaningful connection that would stick longer than a dial up session.

Now, when Reality bridges over for all to see -but us; when he leaves himself out there simply for us to take, can we really let go of the fears and stop?

Max and Shina's wedding: 20 000 Leagues Under the Sea

2007-06-25T23:04:00.000-06:00

7 liters of water = almost 2 gallons. This is, according to a poll taken among the semi-conscious survivors who attended Max and Shina's wedding in Canada this past week-end, the amount of chlorine water individually swallowed during the 3 day-0 night event (for fermented beverages equivalent, please multiply results by 1.7 per child, by 7.8 per French/US/ Korean citizen, by 14.03 per Canadian and by 49.2 if you lost your shoes, a reading glasses lens, stole someone else's underwear and returned to New York wearing nothing but a heavily scratched forehead and a white towel –also stolen. Same for those who swam in the Jacuzzi in their birthday suit. If you happen to be the person who did both, you're my hero.)

Staring at the official report I also finally grasped the deeper meaning behind dressing butt-white bridesmaid in green dresses: so that they –we- would nicely match the stunning chlorophyll patches on the backdrop mountains during photo shoots, and fully blend in when sitting at the bottom of a pool. Or Jacuzzi. Shower? Heck, as long as you drank your requested 7 liters, you could try to swim in the kitchen sink if you wanted.

The ceremony itself was nothing less than unforgettable. We had the most beautiful bride and groom, drunk people galore and a plethora and good Samaritans willing to befriend just about anyone –hereby acknowledging that the last two might strongly be related. We danced, we hugged, we cried, we changed clothe and got pushed in the Jacuzzi again, from where we gazed at a rising sun. I also vaguely remember attempting to give a speech during diner, but by that time I was too scared, too intoxicated, and too incapable of articulating for anyone to understand. Writing part of the speech in Korean didn't seem to help. This pathetic public appearance was met by the rather open-minded public the way it deserved to be: its creator thrown into the pool, green dress and all. 2.5 liters down, 4.5 liters to go.

Besides deciding to Google and copy/paste "wedding speeches" next time I am asked to speak my mind - if ever-, I have also learned that sometimes, it is best to communicate in English with a Québécois... thus avoiding to laugh hysterically at their accent when one cries out for help, drowning.
As I told both families before leaving the party: "Best Barmitsva ever!!!"

Watery eyes on the horizon, we drove back from Mont-Tremblant last night, the air filled with nostalgia and the acrid smell coming from my highly hangover neighbor.
3 miles to the US-Canadian border, a car filled with what resembled a team of Ultimate Super Mario Bros. contestants pulled next to our lane, getting ready to wait an extra 2 hours to return to their cherished land. Alcohol, exhaustion and embedded stupidity probably helping, I scrambled a "What's your number?" at the back of the wedding invitation and handed it over to Laurent, my very drunk but very serviceable passenger. He flashed it through the window and quickly proceeded to return to hibernation. The dashing appearance apparently gave them enough time to decipher, process, and kick the brave out of the car so he could walk over to ours, in the middle of a clogged highway. As we exchanged digits I sank while adding a name to the number: Justin. With a J.

Note to whoever is setting my life up and getting a kick out of it: could we go down the alphabet just for a change, or am I being punished because I figured out I was running on fiscal year (hence the 2006 –April 2007 "J" recurrence, for those who followed) and haven't actually paid my taxes yet?

Ouvrez ouvrez la cage aux oiseauuuux

2007-04-28T17:01:00.000-06:00

Suitcase, check. Passport, check. Foreign currency, check. Plane tickets. Plane tickets?

I find them scattered in my left drawer. I look at the dates again, as if to make sure nothing has changed since I last looked 20 minutes ago. Flight AF019, from JFK to CDG. I have, had, 1 hour left.
In a moment I will go up to my unfinished rooftop above my Brooklyn apartment, take a deep breath and gaze at my empty Air France seat fly away in the horizon. Tonight, I will watch the plane take other passengers to the City of Lights. Then I will climb down the precarious emergency ladder and search in the fridge for an answer.

The answer is quite simple though: I booked a trip home to Paris, my boss booked a trip home to NY. At the "War" game, the King beat my Queen and I lost my plane ticket in the battle; I will stay here to attend to his Highness.
As most of you might not know since I only brag about my Ô so entertaining social life, I do spend quite a few hours a day dealing with matters only remotely related to sexual intercourse: I too have a job. (I will briefly admit here that I am the vile servant of an acclaimed artist who likes his loft clean and his subjects silent. Needless to say that even Yenta has plotted better matches.)

As a preemptive gesture, I put the plane tickets back in the drawer and accepted an invitation for tonight's wild party in Harlem. The fiesta promises to be one of these bday bash that should keep me hangover -and therefore quiet- for at least the duration of my boss' stay. In the meantime, I will call Sam to spread the "good news" and cry myself to sleep using that new long distance phone plan of mine.

Aphone Sex

2007-04-09T16:30:00.000-06:00

My close friend Van' was leaving on a business trip to sunny Panama, and jokingly suggested the World Wide Web as a substitute for my ever growing need of motherly love. Within 5 hours after her departure, I was online on the website she had suggested and offered my A.D.D need for attention and care to the first stranger who had taken interest in my almost empty/photo-free profile. Two weeks later, my phone bill was on its way to vie with the French social security debt thanks to one click of the mouse.

My new phonepal -yes, I gave my cell number to a total stranger. Sue me- lives far away from Brooklyn -in France- because getting along so well would mean too much if we could actually stop playing tea and go out for real coffee. Oblivious of that "detail," we would voice everything and nothing for hours in the evening, until it would get so late that I could gradually feel dawn light up another day through his windows. Our long wired encounters also provided us with the forced decision to alternatively miss the wake-up call to work. I had not only pulverized my phone bill; I also became very good at imagining lame stories for showing up to the office 2 hours past the inexcusable. As for him, I later found out that he never worked before 6pm... -but since he was the one staying on the phone until 4 or 5am, I guess that evened things out a bit.

Sam, since this is his non-pseudo name, is a nice guy and, according to his picture, a 6'2 feet sun-tanned blue eyed tennis teacher who would make any story start like a bad Club Med prank. But I didn't care: with him I was temporarily escaping the "J" debacle, listening to his own promiscuous misfortunes while waiting on the couch for my friend to return. Life on the phone had no real drama to offer and everyone was pleased to see me quiet for a change.

But Van' eventually came back, and the phone kept ringing. 3 weeks in the process and hanging up from a 2.30 hour conversation, I felt I had somehow included the recurrent talks in my daily routine: get up, shower, eat, work, eat, work, go home, eat, talk to Sam, go to bed.

Wednesday before last, it probably hit him that the likelihood of us spending chat time towards some balance for sex time was as close to zero as this improbable freezing weather, and his msn avatar remained in the red. For an interminable 4 days, I stayed put and started to blame myself for talking to strangers, giving too much to fast –intellectually, that is. I was experiencing the Post-coitum blues of a phone sex that had never taken place. Aphone sex in the city (or so I concluded, and started yet another self pitying entry. )

Then I got sick. Hallucinating things sick. And the higher my fever got, the less likely I was to get my phone fix if I couldn't even go online to signify my presence. Then he called, without any warning. And from then on he would check-in up to 3 times a day to see if I was still feeling ill, if I had gone to a doctor, and how cute exactly were the imaginary people in my living room. With that last joke we also officially became long distance buddys who had never met, just like these far-away penpals in elementary school: one had been designated among millions to become your friend, and with the help of a blurry picture and respective broken languages it was our duty to learn how to make it happen.

Today saw our first month anniversary. I changed my phone plan to one more suitable to my new usage and hang up after a record of 2h48 min on the phone. He still sleeps around more often than they are available nights, (swearing that he will keep doing so until he finds again someone who will make him want to stop.) And on my table lays the remains of a home-sick driven fever: a plane ticket to Paris (via Barcelona) for the end of the month. Mom, dad, Sam, here I come.

Hug HERE

2007-03-30T18:18:00.000-06:00

In my opinion, there are 2 words American society will always be able to rightfully claim its own: "Hugs" and "Free." Seating in Union Square on this sunny spring afternoon -and on my first day out since my week long high-fever spree spent hallucinating gigantic alphabet letters in my living room- I took my so-called organic lunch box and sat across a couple of college kids in the park.

The bunch was gathered in the middle of the way, bearing high big cardboard signs. I wondered what the claim was. Money for their basketball team? An educational school trip to Cancun in April? To protest the percentage of squirrel in the park or the price of Diesel jeans? After spending a good 30 seconds trying to guess, I turned around to find out which of my assumptions was right. "Free Hugs" it said.
What!? "Free Hugs?"

"Free" I understood: provided that you can pay for the plane ticket to get here and a $1000/ month for the boiler room - I mean, the "vintage" looking bedroom- everything else in this city can be found for free: food samples at every corner, totally usable furniture on recycle night, "medical" stress check up on the 42nd street subway stop, books, classes, car and good karma on craigslist, and free potential STD in every club.

"Hugs" seemed pretty clear by now as well: as you might know, when meeting a fellow friend French nationals kiss on the cheek - 2, 3, or even 4 times depending on the region we're from. Yes, it can take forever to say high to everyone, so you start choosing your friends more carefully. Live and learn (alternatively the handshake is used when introduced to a professional contact, an older person, or a tax representative.) The first person who ever hugged me in this country was Anne Hathaway -I can't believe she's so famous now... She had showed up at my house on the second day of school begging for some ice, when she realized I did not have any, nor did I have a fridge, a kitchen table, chair, or anything else for that matter. Fresh off the boat and relocated in a build-it-yourself-recyclable-paper-house to be a French T.A. as Vassar College for a year, I surely wasn't expected to be greeted with such a close body contact without at least some sort of fair warning. But there it was, my very first hug, and with it my understanding of countless law suits for sexual harassment. I later learned to reciprocate while being less personal and give the sometimes well deserved icy tap tap on the back. Moving to the big Apple I also learned you could hug people you had just met, people whose name you'll never know or have never been able to pronounce.

But back to my college kids' banner. While I understood both the "Free" and the "Hug" concepts separately, it felt off when put together, just like mayo with hot chocolate sauce: it's sounded a bit much. So I sat there and watched.
Here a fellow student, there a mom. A kid, a dog, a grandpa. Everyone crossing their path and responding to the "freeeeeeeeeeeee Hug! Spread the love!" chant would be welcomed with opened arms. No political or religious message behind, just the pleasure of giving with nothing in return. I even saw a busy banker-type mouthing a "why????" while on a conference call, and who ended up dropping the blackberry for a brief second to get his due when simply answered "because." It was almost moving to see. It also gave me hope that socially awkward nerds don't only rally up to chat in Klingon at night; they also use their time for the smaller greater good -the one within the planet, not the galaxy.

Recharged and filled with silly joy I took a picture of these "Happy days" providers, quickly but firmly told the girl who was approaching me arms wide open to stay away as I was recovering from a bad case of strep throat, and went back to work. I [heart] you too, New York.

Aftermath

2007-02-26T16:52:00.000-06:00

The pillow fight this past Saturday welcomingly unleashed the surplus of energy I had stocked while dreaming about smashing my new boss with a heavy duty frying pan. Dreaming is one thing but it doesn’t quite require the amount of energy fulfilling the dream would. So off I went with my roommate’s pillow (hitting strangers with a pillow is fun, sleeping on a concoction of 600 people’s drool unwillingly left while being attacked in the mouth is probably less fun, I thought.)

Union Square, 1.40pm. Who are these people? Don’t you guys have a life? The amount of strangers getting ready to beat each other up doubled from last year, and we hadn’t been given the start off signal yet. 1400 military time. I hear a faint whistle, immediately followed by a ringing in my ear: the first noise indicated the fight had started; the 2nd that someone had followed the order and celebrated with me. Note to organizers for next year: participant need to please use DOWN pillows. “As Seen on TV” memory foam pillows that remember the shape of your body while sleeping suddenly feels like a 2-volume encyclopedia when thrown form a distance before your head finally rests on it.

Well into the fight, I spotted what from afar seemed to be a horde of female Eastern-European swimmers, and to what from up close turned out to only be a bunch of frat boys with women’s underwear. Convinced that this was screaming for action, I decided to team up with Vanessa, Nalielli and Yasmina and clean the plaza from the Alpha-Epsilon vision. You might think it was stupid for 3 women to challenge 20 something guys with more powdered hormones in their body than a shelf of Creatine, but I was confident: like the Ninja Turtles we were fighters with a strategy, and just like them, we were sissies with specialty moves.

First there was Nalielli, the one with the memory foam pillow (see above.) Then there was Yasmina, a real Ninja per se in the sense that although her weapon was the size of a big Kleenex she still managed to confuse people by the speed at which she would attack them with it. Then we had Vanessa, the Splinter of the group: the wise Master who barely moved or attacked, but saved your life every time with her right-on-time comments. And then there was me, distracting the opponent with tricks and juggling bits that would keep them entertained until Nalielli would sneak behind and demolish them one by one. We were rocking the place, people in circle around us to cheer whatever side they saw fit. I kept fighting, boosted by the fact that my friends were busy somewhere close doing the same. For a second I stopped to catch my breath and overheard someone yelling in a cell “you should see that. This one girl is fighting 3 guys at once, she’s nuts!” I barely had the time to realize she was pitting me when I looked up and saw a pack of three muscular pinkish shirts with bras on top run for me at once, no allies in sight.

After a full hour of brave fighting, I collapsed to the ground, happy. Had I been a smoker, I would have burnt one down of fulfillment.
I picked up the pillow and left for the Containers, a Video Art show spread throughout Chelsea streets. 8pm, pillow back on the roommate’s bed, shower, an hour to rest, and I was ready to head back into the city. It’s was Saturday night after all.

NYC Pillow Fight, 2007 edition

2007-02-22T17:32:00.000-06:00

Because some of you found out about it too late, because most of you laughed at me thinking they were above these childish considerations, and because all of you were secretly jealous you did not get to kick a stranger for no reasons, let alone a New Yorker.

THE NYC PUBLIC PILLOW FIGHT IS BACK!!!

As hard as it is to believe one year has passed, and judging by my memories of it there is NO WAY I am going to miss this...

Plus, I ended up dating a guy I met right after crushing his face with some heavy duty pillow (while in retrospective that might not have been the smartest move I’ve made, you might get luckier and meet a normal person. I will not be offended.)

Unlike the city train schedule, fights always start on time. Meet me at 1.40pm at Union Square on the Plaza, south side. Let me know if you can make it… I am of looking forward to kicking your butt. (Bring a pillow)

See you Saturday!

Maïa

Bring a pillow to Union Square and wait for the signal. Pillow fight!

Pillow Fight NYC
Saturday, February 24th, 2007
Union Square @ 2:00 PM

Bring a pillow :) Rain or shine.

The Rules
Soft pillows only! Swing lightly, many people will be swinging at once. Do not swing at people without pillows or with cameras. Remove glasses beforehand! The event is FREE and appropriate for ALL AGES. Wait until the signal to begin. This event is more fun with feathers!

shameless self-praise, PADDLE PUSHERS

2007-02-20T03:16:00.001-06:00

from http://www.bizbash.com/newyork/content/editorial/e9934.php

BIZBASH, EVENT INTELLIGENCE 02.19.07 11:30 AM

Paddle Pushers

The choice of an auctioneer can determine the success of a benefit and how much money it raises. So how do you choose?
Sharon Stone served as auctioneer for Amfar's Cinema Against AIDS fund-raiser in Rome.

As event professionals well know, one of the key aspects of producing a successful live auction occurs months out, as staffers, board members, and friends of the organization secure (read: often beg for) items so unique, so desirable, that attendees (with the added bonus of helping a good cause) will open up their wallets to get them. Let’s say you’ve scored walk-on roles on Grey’s Anatomy and The Office, a private performance by Hannah Montana, and the guitar on which Bruce Springsteen wrote “Born to Run.” Your work is done: This stuff sells itself, right?

Unfortunately, no. On the night of an event, the duty of moving live auction items, ideally for impressive sums, falls to the person taking—and, hopefully, nudging up—the bids. So what makes an effective auctioneer, and how much can your choice affect the success of an auction—and ultimately, the bottom line?

“Some of the universal characteristics are that they should have personality, charisma, confidence, and a booming voice,” says Louis Webre, director of marketing and media for auction house Doyle New York. “And they have to be able to spontaneously launch into commentary. It’s a little like being a talk-show host. Once you read an item’s description, you enter into nonscripted territory.”

Other major factors that influence an auction’s success (as measured in both the fun for guests and the funds for the organization) are an auctioneer’s chemistry with the audience and ability to finesse money out of potential bidders, either by cajoling them gracefully or knowing how high to push bid amounts.

As Patti Glover, director of special events and travel at the Greater Los Angeles Zoo Association, has learned the hard way, the two are often intertwined. “You can tell immediately if an auctioneer is clicking with an audience or if they’re very flat,” she says. “If they’re flat, you don’t have much hope that they can draw money out of the crowd.” She describes witnessing a less-than- effective auctioneer at one of her events as “not pleasant at all. It’s very painful for me to stand on the side and see them almost pleading with the audience. I’m hoping it’s over soon and I’ll never have to relive it.”

“The choice of an auctioneer absolutely impacts the success of an auction,” says Laurie Fabiano, senior vice president of events, marketing, and communications for the Robin Hood Foundation, the nonprofit that stages arguably the biggest fund-raising auction in New York. (Last year’s benefit raised $71.2 million to fight poverty in the city.) “I’ve seen auctions fall flat because the auctioneer started too high, didn’t move quickly enough, or didn’t understand what would motivate the audience.”

One of the natural places to look for a skilled auctioneer is an auction house. Not surprisingly, auctioneers from industry stalwarts Sotheby’s and Christie’s preside over some of the highest-profile benefits. “The key to a successful auction is to move through the lots as quickly as possible, and to know when to close them out, and that takes a seasoned auctioneer,” says Ellen Delsener, president of New York-based benefit specialist Event Associates, who claims that the experience these professionals bring is essential.

Merle Kailis, executive director of the New York-based Samuel Waxman Cancer Research Foundation (its 2006 benefit brought in $4 million), swears by Sotheby’s executive vice president and senior auctioneer Hugh Hildesley’s ability to produce enthusiasm in a crowd. “He drives it; he really drives it. His very presence commands attention. He’s an amazing force,” she says. “He makes people very excited, and the items attractive, [in] combination [with] reminding people why they’re there, and it’s all seamlessly interwoven.”

Another pro who garners equally effusive reviews is Simon de Pury of New York’s Phillips de Pury & Company. “He raises the excitement level. He’s a great talker—he tells stories and anec dotes about the items and creates a feeling of goodwill,” says Angela Nevarez, special events director at the New Museum of Contemporary Art. “He makes people want to be a part of it.”

De Pury conducts the live auction at the Byrd Hoffman Watermill Foundation’s annual benefit, and Maia Morgensztern, the organization’s art and auction manager, says de Pury’s artistry goes beyond pure charisma. “He really understands what piece should go when, who would be interested in buying what and why, and he understands signs when it’s someone he doesn’t know,” she says, adding that de Pury will often influence the order in which items are presented to achieve the best rhythm (and financial results). “He’ll do something major, followed by something quick. It’s basically like DJing: You build up the tension and withdraw, and then you’re coming back,” she says.

But a seasoned auctioneer is far from the only effective option. “Often a very charismatic and well-known person involved with the organization can actually be more successful than an outside auctioneer with no affiliation,” Webre says. But the key to these laypeople’s success is training—he has seen items go for far less than they should have due to an auctioneer’s inexperience. “It’s important to know what natural [bidding] increments are; if bidding stalls, how to get it started; and how to make eye contact,” Webre says.

Felice Jones, assistant vice president of special events at the Washington, D.C.-based sports marketing company NFL Players, agrees that using someone other than a trained auctioneer can cause trouble. “If the people aren’t accustomed to doing that type of thing, it could really backfire,” she says. “They have to be able to get the job done. Otherwise you end up missing your opportunity [to raise the most money for the organization].”

Still another strategy: Book a celebrity. “Our last auctioneer was Sharon Stone [for a Lupus L.A. event]. She could sell ice cream to Eskimos,” says Pam Sharp, owner of Los Angeles company Sharp & Associates. “People want to watch celebrities move. When you’re at a charity event in Los Angeles, it’s about having fun and making a real show. That’s the challenge.” She cites a benefit she attended as an example: “The crowd was very young, and the auctioneer was from a professional auction house but had no sense of humor. The room didn’t jibe.” (Sharp concedes, however, that a pretty face alone won’t move items, saying humor, wit, and speed are also crucial to an auctioneer’s success—although too: “You can’t just have them up there telling jokes.”) But as Nevarez points out, it’s key to match an auctioneer’s style with that of the crowd: “A dry sense of humor that’s perfect for one group falls flat with the next,” she says.

Sometimes you can split the difference, using a well-known, public personality who also has ties to your organization. At the Shakespeare Theatre Company’s Will Awards benefit last March, local D.C. news anchor Kathleen Matthews, also a benefit co-chair, took to the stage to oversee the bidding. “She’s very used to being in a position of speaking in public, so it seemed like a natural choice,” says Joanne Coutts, the company’s associate director of special events. “I think it was more like a peer thing for the audience. She knew the people attending and could connect with them more than someone who didn’t know the audience.” Matthews’s familiarity with the crowd also enabled her to tailor ad-libs to specific bidders.

A tag-team approach can allow a professional auctioneer to command the logistical proceedings while enlisting a celebrity to provide extra entertainment. At the November 2 Make-a-Wish of Greater Los Angeles Wish Night gala, the organization’s director of special events, Tessa Bowser, had Ed Beardsley, general manager of the Los Angeles auction house Bonhams & Butterfields, conduct the night’s auction as TV star Brad Garrett playfully goaded the audience.

Regardless of your choice, one thing virtually all the event professionals we spoke to stressed was the need to prep an auctioneer beforehand. “They should know about the charity and why everyone is there,” says Jones, who sent talking points to her auctioneer before the event and reiterated them that night. Perhaps not surprisingly, one of the key traits planners described is the ability to deftly, but persistently, remind bidders why they’re there.

Making sure your auctioneer knows the lots—and what’s most attractive about them—is also important. “You need to have a coaching portion as to what the key points are and what you want them to address,” says Jen Poyer, special events supervisor for the Catalina Island Conservancy in California. When her organization offered a weekend stay at the island’s luxe Inn on Mt. Ada, with helicopter transportation to and from the destination, the auctioneer hyped the helicopter aspect, not the exclusive property. (The item ended up going for more than its value, but not as much as organizers had expected.)

Delsener, too, has watched some mistakes: “I’ve seen some auctioneers who’ve had a few too many cocktails and are not focused. I’ve seen some who, if the sound isn’t good, get belligerent.”

As Kailis attests, the difference between a compelling auctioneer and someone who leaves the crowd uninspired can very well appear on your bottom line. “[Your auctioneer] makes an important difference,” she says, recalling a live auction she attended that was conducted by a prominent news personality, where a walk-on role on an Emmy-winning, top-rated show was up for grabs. “It went for $2,500,” she says, sounding somewhat appalled. “If that same item was at my event, it would go for $30,000 to $40,000 at the very least. Having someone like [Hildesley] really affects your ability to make money.”

Or how about hearing a patron say this, as Glover, from the L.A. Zoo Association, once did: “You know, I had $50,000 I was going to spend. I would have bid higher.” Now that’s gotta hurt.

—Mimi O'Connor

So this is me?

2007-01-31T13:28:00.000-06:00

So this is me? Fresh off a flying boat from the distant shores of Cheeseland. I planted baguette trees, raised a couple of pooddles and cows that only make Camembert, living the happy life of the expats' in my ersatz of community, now re-baptised New-Paris. But who knows for how long? So heck, I take advantage of the poor natives by offering them whisky in exchange of pretty pearls and spicy nights... One day maybe, the flying boat will have to go back home. So I keep a journal while I am here, a testimony of my journey abroad to recount how peculiar the trip has been. Something that will be published as a local history book with a soon yellowing tag. Once in a blue moon some ethnology students will flip through it to try to envision how life must have been on that side on the Ocean, back in the day when France had kings. Or was that later on ? (Ethnology students always got bad grades in History.)
And maybe this is a One way ticket. Either because I will miss the boat or because I will chose to mingle and disappear among the weak and innocent natives. Who knows ? Then I just write to remember, for myself, and share with my friends how hard I tried to fit while preserving what is left of my identity. Nothing ever serious about what I write, I guess what I really have to say is barely hidden between each line.

January night (Birthday resolutions)

2007-01-29T22:59:00.000-06:00

Just how many jests does one need to justify to turn jejune jabber January nights into jubilant juggernaut of joy?
Exiting last year's chimeras - and while I might still josh around...dare I say sometimes literally too?- as part of the traditional January gestures I hereby officially renounce gents and jerks with jaunty attitudes, checkered shirts jinxes and anyone jumbling frantic juggling with shabby cheating. (I'm not even sure that meant anything at all)

As my biological clock still seem to be running under 2006 (or maybe I just have fiscal year cycles?) I will then pray for consistent chummy jousts, one J at the time. And maybe one day, and just for grandpa, I will even come back from shul with a jovial jew-ish journalist?

Happy Bday to me.

Curtain Call, New year' Eve 2006

2007-01-02T15:38:00.000-06:00

Jan 2, 2007

11.30am , swimming in the turquoise water near Cancun , Mexico.

2.14pm. boarding on a plane for Philadelphia , PA.

7.01pm boarding on 3 different trains to reach NY , NY.

9.55pm on our way to a New Year's party in Brooklyn .

Why am I telling you all that? It's not like it was a really complicated trek –granted a gruesome one- nor that I am about to rave about attending the party of the year. But I still would like to share with you what I called my 2006 New Year's Eve bash…

The thing is, I'm not really into parties that are more packed than a Sunday at Wallmart and that cost $150 for the all-you-can-drink, especially because in my case, all I can drink is half a glass of wine before looking deeply intoxicated. I then naturally planned on crashing a private party, the kind with less people to push on your way to the temporary bar made out of four chairs and the bathroom door. And as far as meeting the host, well, just backtrack a couple of pages...

The problem with online dating is that you are as soon forgotten as a deleted email. It is a bit like warming up your food in the microwave: it gets hot pretty fast, and cold even faster. With that in mind, try to imagine His face when He opened the door: We hadn't spoken in 3 weeks, I had flown to Paris, Miami and Mexico and had told Him I would not be reachable during these trips. But who cares about what I say anyway? So back to the party I was "sort of invited to." Passed the surprised He seemed genuinely happy, and genuinely drunk too. We lingered there for a bit, staring at each other by the entrance wondering who should start to feel uncomfortable first. And then She saved us all, walking towards Him and looking like she had just sipped a whole bathtub worth of homemade whiskey. She stumbled and pushed Him somewhere between the couch and the Ikea frame, deciding it was time for a well deserved make out session.

I took advantage of this brief clearance of the entrance door and eased my way into the apartment, straight to the bar/bathroom door.

11.25pm. 35 minutes to go and I don't know anyone besides my two friends.

11.35pm and a vodka tonic later we're dancing in the living room to some poppy sound. It's funny how Americans don't seem to dance at parties and Europeans never seem capable of talking without convulsing to the beat of whatever they recognize first. You don't believe me? Gather a room full of Italians or French, blast out some 80's music and watch them all joyfully jump up and down, shout all the words out of tune with tears of pride in their eyes, holding each other like they were already friends when that song came out. Now they are ready to meet each other. But this is an American party and we're only 3 French shaking it on the dance floor, soon followed by a Turkish couple (…see?)

11.48pm , everyone is sent to the roof when I get held back by some hairy hand and quickly sent sitting down on a chair. A guy called Conan, (thank God his name is not spelled with a K) jumps in and proceeds to what his buddies call a lap dance but what to me resembles more an epileptic attack. As the guitar solo kicks in, he bends over and whispers in my ear "don't be afraid, we both know we'll end up together before the end of the night." I'd laugh but I am scared that if I open my mouth something that has not been invited will sneak in.

11.56pm someone I will never thank enough puts me out of my misery and drags all the belated guests to the roof so we can admire the fireworks. My lap-dancer, whom I now gather is also throwing the party, starts the countdown for everyone. 10…9….8…(let go of my shoulder, please)…7… 6….(hands off my waist too if you actually want to make it to 2007)…5…4…(look up! A flying snowman! Escape missed) …3…(closer)....2…(closer)….1 (too close)

Happy New Year!!!!

His starts with an elbow in his gums, mine with a missing elbow and a partial view of the fireworks hidden behind the building across the street.

"2006, Year of the Shit" had said the Chinatown psychic. "2007, Very-Very-Lucky-give me-5-dollars-even-more-lucky" now started to feel like a rip off. Although granted that he had been sort of right for the first part. 12.32am, January 1st, 2007. I am walking home under the rain, repeating to myself that it can only go up from here.

Last Day in Mexico

2007-01-01T21:29:00.000-06:00

Dec 30th. One more day in the Caribbean. One more morning of hot sun tanning on our originally green skins now beautifully turned pale yellow after a full week of deep exposure. One more Scrabble night to go. In a common effort to keep this trip memorable, we agreed we would splurge on a nice hotel room for the last night, away from the rusty/bloody/dead buggy sheets of Tulum. We decided to set camp in Puerto Morelos, because it was a fisherman’s village that wasn’t yet welcoming its springs with wet t-shirt contests on the Zócalo, so said the French Routard. When we got there, we were famished so we sat down in a nice little café and ate tortillas, listening to a jazzy elevator tune on a loop. The idea of going to bed in a genuine place where modern civilization and X-boxes had not yet reached the shores was delightful. Our eyes were sleepy, our heads heavy with scrambled memories of the past week.

Barely carrying ourselves, we walked to the first pensión and asked for a room. Lleno. Ah. On to the next… Lleno. And the next and the next were all Llenos. God damn tourist guide! After the 7th attempt, I asked the owner, desperate, where we could go. He said that so close to New Year’s eve everything would be fully booked and that there would not be anything here, or anywhere along the coast included our dreaded Cancun. He was even renting rooms that were not fully built yet: business was that good and our planning that bad. I asked again if there was anyway, anywhere besides in our car where we could spend the night. “Well” he said, there is a Motel on the highway between here and Cancun, a kilometer after the airport. Turn around on the Southbound and here it is. It is on the highway but it is clean, secure, and nicely done. I believe you will find a room there.”

It was past 10pm, meaning way past our bedtime, and anything else than taking turns to sleep in the half sized car would have done. The instructions where pretty straight forward and it didn’t take long before we spotted our shelter. Indeed it was secured: 2 guards were standing at the entrance asking for our room number. We said we were looking for a place and he lifted the gate. The owner of the cute hostel was right, empty rooms they had… to the point that it started to look suspicious. But who has time to be suspicious when you’re about to get the only vacancy on the whole coast? I visited a room before agreeing to anything as we would always do. It was indeed very clean, the king size bed big enough to fit four people and elegantly placed on a… hem, podium with purple dimmer lights. As I got out, I told Emmanuelle and Vanessa what I had seen. We laughed at our tacky Vegas style room with a private garage embellished with African statues, and opted for a more traditional bedroom with 2 large beds. Asking about the price, the receptionist inquired “¿la noche entera?” “What do you mean, the whole night?” “can we take it for, say, half a night? Ahaha” I replied. Funny me. “Yes,” she said “3 hours, 8 hours or la noche intera.” Ah. Well, the full night please. Hem.” We unloaded our bags, still unsure of where we had landed. As I walked into the über bleached room, Vanessa worded our unexpected concern “this can’t be a brothel.” (well, “hôtel de passe” in French, where rooms can be rented by the hour. But maybe the Victorian English language I have learned has conveniently chosen to elude a translation and the question altogether.) “This can’t be a brothel,” she said, “or there would at least be condoms.” “Point taken,” I shouted from the other room, “I just found them!”

J date. part Deux

2007-01-01T15:31:00.000-06:00

After seriously believing I had exhausted the list of "Js" in my social network last month, I was ready to move on to the next letter. As "K" had already been tried the day Zinedine Zidane headbutted that cocky Italian soccer player, I figured I could directly tackle 'L." maybe I was finally about to meet Love?
In the meantime, I would stop pretending being a New Yorker and really try online dating, chatting the night away. (i am only revealing this now because the one month trial is over and my profile taken down...eheheh)

So, after filling out some kind of profile, I logged into a virtual world of happiness. First there was James -I guess I had not exhausted the J's after all- to whom I explained that SanFran was the first US city I had been to right after high school. I had gone there for 5 weeks to learn English, but everyone in my class being a foreigner as well I had came back speaking Italian. He replied within the regulatory 2.3 days by saying he was a recent Vet. school grad, and how he would totally try reading novels if the right person asked him to.

I felt like I was back in the whole set of implied house rules one had to decipher, ingest and integrate, just like in the (sur)real New York life. But being oblivious to the fact that I should probably wait for another email 1 1/2, plus 2-3 business days between replies and another 5 hours just to be safe, I offered him to skip it all and meet up in a bar after he was done handing out prescriptions to horses with pounding headaches. From our online delayed -or maybe just jet-lagged- conversations it seemed at the time that we could get along rather easily (and if I were wrong, one one us can always fake a sudden doctor's appointment in the middle of diner...) He had said he liked to watch Star Trek re-runs and I was sure I could find something to do in this city to make him feel we actually did meet on the set of a Sci-Fi novella. So it was set, Thursday night, 8.30pm.
And strangely enough that was all that ever happened as far as my last J went. His horses got the flu, and I got an autograph from Peter Graves instead.

2 pints of therapeutic Hagendaaz and 3 bags of Oreos later, I came back online, determined to do a little bit of homework before voluntarily exposing myself to yet another disaster: I would read what the other women wrote about themselves and take lessons from what the sum of Miss Perfect had to say. According to these profiles, the wonder girl was voluptuously pretty -of course-, loved to have fun, deeply loved her family and friends, would go out to diner but also stay home sometimes, played hard worked hard, and, yes, loved to laugh. Basically, if I were to fit in I had to revised my profile a bit, as none of the above keywords appeared in the section I had filled under "My ideal relationship." Instead, mine read:
"My long term goal is to meet people who will not denounce me, adventurous nerds, people who like absurd stories and pillow fights. I do not wish to meet anyone related to celery or fennel."
Browsing through, I carefully read Amato profile (backtrack in the alphabet...) and decided to do my best to adapt to the norm while personalizing the message as much as possible:

"I thought I would drop you a note, because I think you're the perfect man. I mean, yeah. You're blond and you read comics. I mean. What's not to like? I also think that men who bowl for a living are hot. Or at least popular, but isn't it the same?
Since you might ask, I am not blond, but as I mentioned in my profile I am French, so it helps. I lived in D.C for a year and offered a co-worker to fly to Vegas to marry me, just because we had nothing else to do that morning. Unfortunately, he turned around before entering the subway. I want to meet someone that will actually make it to the airport with me. I have no manners, no plan on getting any, but I don't have a goatee so it's not all bad I guess. I'd love to hear more about you, your dreams in life, and how they got shattered so you ended up on Jdate.
I mean.
yeah.
best regards.
M."

Looking back at this email now, I guess I can sort of understand why he never replied, and that switching to DSL would not fix the problem. I signed off -or so I thought- and started another journal entry at 3am.

J Date jam for Jena

2006-12-20T14:35:00.000-06:00

So this is an email I just sent in reply to a Fwd from a friend. She belongs to this list where people post concerns, questions et al... I included the original posting first for clarity. I guess...

Dear QFers,
This is a posting for amusement and interest.

It suddenly dawned on me the other day, that my boyfriend is called
Alfred, my three best girlfriends are called Annie, Antonia and
Aarona, my business partner is called Alex, my loyal web designer
Alegria, the architect of my up and coming center called Aya, my
administrative assistant Angie and one of the holistic health
counselors on my staff also called Angela. That's nine names
beginning with A within my closest personal and business circles.
That is quite an unusual occurrence. I can't say I've ever before
noticed such an example of alliteration of names of the important
people in my life. Have you?

So, here's my question, intended to elicit your imagination as I seek
a different kind of QF recommendation - not for where to find a great
meal or perfect pilates class, but how to analyze life at large.

What does it mean? Is there a meaning inferred by this case of the
reoccurring A's.

If you have any interpretations, I'd love to hear

thanks in advance,
Jena

Dear Qters,

As I was quietly sitting at my desk at work, reading personal emails and taking care of other unrelated work matters such as Holidays Greetings and the true meaning of calories in chocolate chips cookies, I opened Jena’s message and my breath started to shorten. No, I was not dying of a heart attack, but rather choking down my own singularity, painfully swallowing what was left of my identity.

While most of my friends are already highly amused by this, let me here explain: every single guy I have –attempted?- to date this year (it is NY after all, and finding a decent guy has proven slightly harder than applying for a job you seem eternally under qualified for…), every single date, I was saying, shared the strange similarity of bearing a first name starting with a ”J”.

All of them you might ask? Well, every time the disturbing sequence seemed to end, it was only to be broken by the letter “A”. First there was Justin the dancer, then Alexandre the UN activist testing his thick French accent against my newly adopted Brooklyn attitude, one vowel at the time. Then came Josh, Josh and Josh (I also have series of 3’s that engender letters + numbers, but that would call for another posting altogether.) Respectively the broker, writer and web designer. Jason the real estate extatic, Jan the Investment Fund Foreigner, Andrès the Argentinean artist turned into a JP Morgan sell out, Juan-ma the scientist measuring up the stress in NYorkers’ blood stream by quantifying the level of adrenaline in mice exposed to famished wild cats. Adam the way-too-young to be declared, Angelo the Italian mobster (no kidding), and again Alexandre (maybe I should stop hanging out in my ersatz of French community. But then again, I have one Alexandre to go and I don’t fly back home that often…) and Jeff, whatever that one was doing.
That’s about it for this year and that’s probably more than enough. Well, that’s counting without the friends in my close circle: Judith, Javi, Jesse, Joel, James, Jonathan, Jean-Philippe, and Jérémie, who just sent an invitation for his birthday party this morning although I am not even sure we have actually met.

So, Jena, what can I make out of all that, besides the fact that you also have an “A” recurrence and your name starts with a J? I really don’t know. Last year went by with a cycle of “D’s” and that only ended on New Years Eve with, well, you know, Justin. My take on this? I am on my way to Mexico this Sunday and 2006 has another good 10 days to go. Juan, José, Jaime, I’m ready.

Maïa

Erratum

2006-11-14T21:28:00.000-06:00

As per my conversation with the Imdb geek (Internet Movie Database,
for the non-geeks in the room), please note that I actually did "meet"
Mr. Crunch guy AFTER his encounter with "Sex and the City" Miranda. (the episode dates '01. I dated in '02)

Now, reflecting on it, is it better to lose a guy to fame or to be a celebrity's rebound?

D.C. Heritage Week

2006-11-12T05:45:00.000-06:00

I know I know. it is too late to still be up and too early to be up yet, but it seems that the demons of the past have decided to all knock at the same time.

So there I was, 1.5 weeks ago, contemplating the idea of actually working at work, when my email box clicked to announce a message untitled "what about maia's life?"
What about it, in fact? It was a reply to a note left years before to a Smithsonian Museum fellow, back in the day where I lived the unhappy life in Washington D.C. (that exact life I had spent the last 3 years to forget.) As it turned out, my Spanish friend Gilberto was inquiring about my health and whether or not I finally got kicked out of America. As good as it felt to hear from him, it also brought back feelings of war, anthrax, sniper, anti-French protests, death and a fair amount of anxiety. But I just figured the thoughts would vanish again with sunrise.
3 days later, another mail popped from the forgotten D.C life: Josh was on his way to visit the Big Apple and wanted to meet up. Sipping on my decaf last Wednesday, we both happily evoked our attempts to survive in the conservative museum setting, and how we almost got fired for showing up dressed as a fat French Q-Tip and a balding bureaucrat 2 weeks before Halloween. No matter how fun the catch up night had been -his name starts with a "J", after all,- memories of a broken engagement with some NYC actor were brought back to life with it. The D.C Heritage Week had to come to an end. Sure, but who was I to decide?
The next day, I received an invitation for Jesse's housewarming party. Not only Jesse - another Smithsonian fellow- still had my email address, but he was requesting my presence to celebrate his move to New York.

Tonight, after a couple of hours trying to recognize Jesse's features hidden under a wild beard, it finally hit me: the only way to escape D.C. memories was to fully immerse myself into NYC nightlife and create new ones. I was too exhausted to live it, so I would just go home, put on "Sex and the City" and call it a Saturday night.
It is now 3.50am, and I am still trying to grasp what happened. How is it that I just watched an episode I had never seen, terrified at the sight of a hot Crunch gym guy hooking up with Miranda? Half a second, that's all it took. I had kissed that guy too, long before Miranda, talking to him every day for 3 month until he moved out of the city. Washington D.C., that is.

Now, don't expect me to go to bed at normal hours and stop sending journal-like emails after this. You are the guardians of what's left of my sanity.

Agent de Change

2006-10-20T17:47:00.000-06:00

Austrian Consulate, Wednesday October 18, 6.30pm.
3 strudels, 1 1/5 cappuccino. 2 blue eyes barely awake emerge from a sea of hyperventilating and over-perfumed hairdos. “You look like your brother” the blue eyes say. Someone else turns to me and probably recognizes a familiar smile: “you must be Maïa. Very nice to meet you. Please send your borther our warmest regards when you see him next.” Then, whispering in the loving ear nearby: “her brother is that amazing guy who helps run the Center from Vienna. The business man who speaks 5 languages and is a star in the city basketball team. A wonderful man.”

The Words linger in the air, holding their breath for a second so the sound travels faster than the meaning.

Are they talking about my brother? The one wearing faded promotional tee’s and run down 1990’s Michael Jordan basketball shoes? What business man? What tie and suit? I mean yes, he does speak 5 languages, comes to think of it. Yes, he’s always been very good at sports, gentle and smart and soft spoken and funny. I already knew that. But I never experienced him summed up with words, and strangers’ words at that. I am stunned by this new and yet accurate description. “It’s about time you realize” says the full page of the company’s annual report, bearing his picture and a laudatory note form its President. I am chocked, I am proud, I miss him. For the first time, I feel like a mother who did not see her child grow. That child just happens to be my older brother.

The blues eyes say it’s time to go home. They wave good bye and vanish around the corner at the bottom of the strairs, leaving behind a soothing smell of spring.

Decaf, caf, caf

2006-10-16T14:29:00.000-06:00

We all have our moments when we know we crossed the line. My line gets pushed over by caffeine and white wine. And neither of them help me understand the world better; I just look with wider opened eyes. Last night I was sitting –vegetating- in front of the TV (sue me), and despite the high dosage of nothingness around, I was somewhat listening to what was going on. In the name of Almighty Commercials, is it OK for Fat Actress Kirstie Alley to feed diet chocolate bars to 6 year olds as a Halloween treat? Someone got paid (A LOT) to come up with ideas like this. Is it really worth all the Four Seasons meals, the hour long team debates, the business flight to LA so some A.D. (Artistic Director) can get approved by a board of half baked Romeo and Juliet cigars? Things are far from being perfect in Cheeseland (we do sell mashed goose liver macerated in fungus as one of the highest New Year's delicacy; a treat for your body that no Maalox or hand sanitizer will ever defeat. And I do support that.) But diet chocolate bars for kids?

Small talk

2006-10-08T16:17:00.000-06:00

I can't beleive I found this piece of text from over a year ago. I guess I entered the city love/hate relationship long before realizing it. I am a New Yorker now.

January 24th, 2005

Hey, how are you? –Good thanks. You? –Good. –Cold huh? –Yeah. Freezing. Can’t wait for summer. –Me too. –How’s work? –Good. You? –Still looking for a new job… –Cool. I have to go. Nice talking to you. –Yeah, bye. –Bye.

Small talk.
What exactly pushes us to be eternally dull, boring and dangerously persistent? You meet friends of friends, hoping for nothing but a nice conversation. It happens you’re happy; it doesn’t you get over it. So why do we keep re-enacting those uncomfortable simulacra of interest? What good does it do to engage a conversation that is indubitably heading towards a dead end?
Like anyone, I grew up meeting my neighbors and their families knowing these bribes of conversations would never digress into a late night at Jenny’s Coffee Shop. But those are people I did not choose, just like my own family -you love them unconditionally (as I do) or you spend your life figuring how to. So outside of the immediate surrounding, why do we authorize ourselves to deliver automated speeches?

I am tired of pretending, wasting my time on shallow acquaintances, tired of expecting a punch line for a joke that doesn’t exist. Live and let die. Time to move on, eradicate the plethora of individuals who are welcoming hosts only if you promise not to stay. Exit overrated ones that label you “clinging type” when you show interest, and that call you back once they understand the inferior being that you are was not mesmerized by their outstanding wits.

Random people vanish with the last call of the bar. Let those empty shells vanish with them.

Gradually Reduced Eskimo

2006-09-19T00:14:00.000-06:00

Leaning against the 10th Edition of the GRE book, I am resolving the last equation of the day: if x= 0, √x= 0. When you're lame, you're lame, and that's easy math right there.

Today, my friends, I took my first GRE class and learned... how to make a division! Yeah, and let me tell you this was a painful experience. If I hadn't already had a brake down this afternoon because the Austrian Consultate left its doors shut despite my insistent knocking, paper invitation for tonight's cocktail in hand (the paper read: Sturdel party. I had brand new dentures on, ready to mingle with the 70 something years old nobility's finest veterans) I would have cried a river of embarrassment.

I can recognize Ghanaian Ashanti stools, Nias Lwölö Guardian Figures, Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattvas from the Northern Qi era, or a fake Monet (by lifting the frame,) but I can't freaking divide. To that, add (not divide) the fact that I am slightly dyslexic (left/right, north/south, "b" and "p", are all the same to me.) Imagine my tutor's -and my- amazement when I struggled in the BASIC REVIEW section of the book. p.4, that is, right after the credits. Why is the remainder of a division put over the divisor? If it represents the left over, how come it comes first when you look at the whole thing? That might be a detail to you, but we, Ze French, learned it differently. The right way I believe, and I already sucked at it back then.

Why am I even taking the test, you might ask? Because I am applying to Grad school. Again. 1.5 Masters, 2 Art History theses, and I am going for another diploma (although here, in the US.) I want to feel the warm atmosphere of school again, discern the soft scratch of blue, green, purple and yellow fountain pens as they engrave on expensive paper that the "before the after-war" was a productive artistic era (did he mean "during the war" ??)
I want to rediscover the smell of rancid cold tobacco outside of the amphitheater as I leave the sweaty classroom to breathe some fresh air. I want to be transported to the Middle Ages Royal Courts again, cradled by the soft voice of a"Gothic art" tenured reciting the "Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry" in Latin, to the beat of a badly tuned mandolin. (Education is free in France and the academic selection is made by endlessly failing the students until they forfeit. So try to spot the depressed 5th year freshman playing mandolin in a room of 500+, under the glow of slides showing antique ruins long turned into Disneyworld's attractions.)

And above all, I miss cheating on my neighbor’s mid-term paper, herself looking at an outdated and therefore erroneous book barely hidden on her lap. I want to feel my heart jump again, as the examiner unseals the final exam's question taken randomly over 4000 years of art History, (the one that will determinate if you are worthy of finally becoming a Sophomore) :"Define Opus Caementicium", "-you have 4 hours."

Yes, I miss all of that. So, what am I doing instead of practicing the GRE? Another blog entry. I guess I could also just watch re-runs of "Saved by the Bell" and call it a career.

Groundhog Day

2006-09-14T17:07:00.000-06:00

Cynical is en vogue, my dear, and depression is in the air. Not in me, but my air is definitely polluted by depressed, depressing and aspartame sweetened people. How can I get away from this?

a/ Leave the job (but “love to hate themselves” people are everywhere; it’s not worth loosing the potential of the actual job. Plus, I feel I reached the highest level my current skills can get me.)

b/ Go to school. Apply now for next year x 2 ½ years enrolled x $80,000 x rent x food x reimburse school = raw pasta sans sauce nor personal life until I’m 42. Then menopause, then die. But die smarter than at 27.

c/ Move to a country where none of this matters. Eat grilled fish, mangos, guavas, freshly baked bread. Stare at colorful displays of strangely shaped veggies, wave at old man sipping on an exotic fruit blend under the neon like sun. Check out Whole Foods Market purchases through cashier n°21 and go back to work.

d/ Start a blog. Write a public diary no one will ever read (don’t we all only want to access what has been locked?) Close laptop. Start over as often as necessary.

One Way Ticket

2006-09-14T00:12:00.000-06:00

So here I am sitting down with my insomnia. 2..30 am, watching Shannon Doherty ditching love partners on behalf of mall-singers groupies who thought they could conveniently humiliate their ex AND record application materials for the next "F*** me I'm single" MTV reality show . (Yes, since I have been on the same job for over 3 month, I though I would splurge on long term commitments such as cable TV.) What happened to the quarterly "I'm getting kicked out of the country" emails some of you asked? (sorry for the ones who didn't, maybe I secretly hate you and left you on the list for that exact reason) Well, I've had the same visa since last November. 10 month of administrative stability -a record that outlasted by far any relationship I've had since I moved to this city. Truth is, the level of distress hasn't changed much. TV is as dumb as ever and my attention span has shortened to the point where I cannot read the foreword of a book without hoping the commercial break will be on soon so I can see what's in the fridge.

On a positive note, the roommate who used to parade in sports bra-sponge shorts every time she would sense male pheromones in the hallway (sales rep, boyfriend –mine-, pizzaiolo, kids trick or treating et alii) finally left, leaving me to a sweeter misery and an empty apartment. I know there's something else in life than Work Permits and relationships, but I can't seem to care about fashion that much, so I'm sorry for always going back to the same topics. So, although the "Post Coitum, animal Triste" has been widely covered by Sarah-Jessica Parker as Carrie Bradshaw and by Brigitte Rouan in her "disappointingly mediocre" 1997 feature film (says the Imdb review), claiming the talent of none I will simply ask this: what the hell is wrong with this city??

I am fascinated by how such an impersonal etiquette of love ever became the standard in this town breathing off of diversity. The Sex and the City years might be over for Carrie and friends, total strangers still come up to me in the most random places to complain about their sex life. A 50 something Lebanese male in Whole Foods last week, the 35 year old daughter of the couple who is subletting my friend's apartment this week, my boss, the Air France pilot on our way to Germany 10 days ago –that's another story all together-; even the late night cab driver: "too many girls, you know; too many girls and not enough guys. No good for people. I see bad things and I am ashamed for their families. They ask boys' name in cab, but they already all over them. Disgusting."
If I got it right, you meet Mr. STD –well yeah, you can't just multiply one type of fun- on a clear drunken night. You guys talk, dance, and let's say he's even funny. You see each other often, sometimes for a diner or a movie before going back to his place for the night... Life is good, and Mr. Considerate even offers more and more often to skip the diner-movie-talk-laugh part to directly go back to his place. In a word, you feel connected. One day, after many moving shared memories and half rent checks, he ceremoniously goes down on a knee, tears in his eyes, and pops the question: "my darling, would you like to be exclusive?"

As I sit in my first owned couch watching mind-numbing programs on my new TV and typing this stupid email on a PC I stole at work, I cannot help but wonder: now that I can finally stay, it is time to leave?

Union Square Pillow Fight

2006-02-19T23:12:00.000-06:00

February 19, 2006

VH1 vs. H1B, Part deux –last episode (?)

2005-10-05T02:24:00.000-06:00

October 2005: Sum up of the last episode:

August 17th, 2005

12 month work Visa: expired
Status of new 3-year work Visa (H1B) filled in April: unknown
Days remaining in the country: 60

60 days with no legal existence. An administrative overdue, a wandering soul. 60 days as non-being with a freshly signed lease lying on the shinny hardwood floor of a yet to be furnished apartment. What's an overdue to do? Unable to leave, forbidden to work, I opted for a two-month spree to get to know the city, get a job or get an eligible man (and not necessarily in that order, mind you.)

My nonexistent self and I, freed from the burden of having to behave like a responsible citizen, wandered from hip Manhattan to hipper Brooklyn, entering homes, dive bars and bling bling clubs unnoticed (only in this city you bump into George Clooney during a slumber party.) In the course of the summer alone, I participated in a bi-monthly reenactment of what December 31st at the Baron de Mord-moi-l'noeud must have looked like, back in the joyous days when France had Kings and people like me where fed to the pyre. The elaborate gibberish warning on the invitation "no sneakers, no jeans," once deciphered, read " in your face my Armani suit, I'm a banker." For study purposes only, I religiously attended the conveniently baptized "French Tuesdays" events, sipping special priced champagne in my yard-sale beat-up Gucci boots. Café St Bart's, Tavern on the Green, Battery Park Gardens, Boulevard… Alcohol probably helping, my fervent attendance paid off and I soon made new friends. Eager to find out more about them and especially in order to have something to do the rest of the week, I began to follow my ersatz of French community in its after-life –ie beyond Tuesdays.

It turned out that, like the succession of circles you get when you throw a stone in the water, everyone belonged to another "community." Wednesdays became Eastern Europe day. Every other Thursdays I partied with "Made in Italy," an itinerant group of Italian expat' getting seasick in the meatpacking district to the beat of electro-garage. The other "every-other Thursdays" was dedicated to a French version of "girls night out:" only women and free hard liquor cocktails allowed from 8-10 pm. Desperate guys come in at 10pm, confident that 80% of the work had already been done by Mr. Zubrowka. Friday was always filled with some type of "yes. I'm on Vero's list" event in a club or another, that a somewhat expired Press Pass always interestingly managed to back up. Then came Saturdays, with the orthodox Jews gathering in Central Park after Shabbat in hope to meet someone mom would finally approve of –if you're reading this and are interested in joining this group, avoid showing up in shorts and talking on your cell phone. I tried. On Sundays, I met with "Judios Latinos" the Latin Jews also meeting in Central Park, who discussed things I didn't get, and then translated them in several Spanish dialects. One Monday, in an everlasting quest to test my determination to remain in the country, I started to follow people outside of the relative safety net provided by organized social events.

- 22 year old chick clubbing in Chelsea in a tiny-mini skirt –belt?- and confiding everyone she is an industrial spy, check.
- 12 people naked at 2 am in a pool discussing the danger of golf cart driving in Putnam valley, check. (thanks for bringing back the bathing suit Anna…)
- Coke-heads sniffing their checking account using $50 bills in their Über West village penthouse, check.
- Pot heads sniffing beer on the roof of their rent-free squat in Brooklyn, check.
- Quebecois chum fluent in Breton (Brittany's ancestral language,) check.
- Quebecois chum fluent in Breton that blows up an air mattress with a Ziploc bag and a car ventilation but then doesn't want to sleep on it because of spiders, check.
- Plastic pearl necklaces and canoe day in an empty NJ summer camp on September 11, check.
- Karaoke night hosted by a 40 something transvestite in the middle of the projects in Brooklyn, check.
- Young cutie slightly hammered randomly throwing himself at me (who would have thought?) check.
- Handsome man totally sober and throwing himself at me… well, got to remember to check that one.
- Actually had to go to the E.R while E.R was on, stayed 4 hours, swallowed 2 pounds of pink pills, came back sicker than coming in, check.

Today, October 15, 2005, exhausted, dazed and yes, confused, NYC's tasting has come to an end: my H1B case has been approved!

What does that mean? It means than I am officially reborn. I can now theoretically come and go freely for the next 3 years. It also means, now that I no longer work for the company the visa was granted for, that I have 30 days left to find a job, transfer the papers, or get my dirty immigrant ass out of the country.

30 days? …Any one knows of a Hindu or a New Guinea group that meets on Mondays?

VH1 vs. H1B part 1

2005-04-17T04:41:00.000-06:00

April, 2005, VH1 vs. H1B

August 17th, 2005.

The date I will officially expire. Like a bowl of mayo left all afternoon on the picnic table, or that bag of party favors from the Oyster festival 03’ your forgot to throw out. On August 17th, I will go from working human being to illegal human waste.

But as for any disease there is a cure, a Botox to repel this express aging. In this case it is called “Sponsorship.” All I have to do is explain my boss that during my 2 ½ month of attendance at the gallery, I have shown exceedingly valuable assets that are worth signing me for the next three years, paying for the $6000 H1B Visa fee, hire a lawyer and go through 7 month of pain-in-the-ass paperwork. The numerus clausus application process starts next Tuesday, first come first served basis.

Now, is it really worth it? Why do I keep fighting to stay in the US like a clinging stalker following the object of her deranged affection? I once saw a “problem solver” notebook: it had 2 columns to help sort out the pro and the cons, and a total line to count the points (I guess this is where spending my lunch breaks at the American Folk Art Museum store on 66th street comes in handy.)

Bullet proof: H1B I’m in, VH1 I’m out.

VH1 > H1B

1. VH1 / MTV
> The Sundance Channel / IFC

2. Ubiquitous non-stop commercials.
> SUV’s are cool and big and useful when shopping in Manhattan. So says my credit card company.

3. Outrageous rent prices.
> Just pay for the doorless room.

4. Food-free food, Fat-full snacks.
> Asian Cuban vegan fusion restaurants with all you can eat meat deserts.

5. Old Navy considered by most as a potential “formal” wardrobe.
> Indiscernible body underneath clothing. Allow to keep the peanut butter cups coming.

6. 6 month of freezing winter.
> Keep those stupid flies frozen and out of the house.

7. Inefficient public transportations.
>Inefficient public transportations opened after midnight.

8. George Bush.
>Away from Jacques Chirac.

9. Working with lunatics.
>Lunatics okay to work with me.

10. Surrounded by indecisive overanxious talented artists.
> Surrounded by indecisive overanxious talented artists.

11. In love with New York.

I guess I’ll talk to my boss next Tuesday. Wish me luck. (or a safe trip.)

Speedy Valentine

2005-02-15T01:43:00.000-06:00

February 14th 2005

While a lucky bunch received flowers and chocolate today, the rest of us is still wondering what could have possibly gone wrong. At what point in our life, serving the "yes, I do think that not remembering my name is a sign that I should not go home with you tonight, especially since we met an hour ago" ended up being a terrible lack of spontaneity?

I here understand my mistake and admit defeat: yes, I too will embrace the speed-dating life. But a question remains... How can one says it all in less than 5 min? Well my friends, I looked around and finally saw the light: getting a date in New York is like getting a job. So from now on I decided I would distribute a "Love resume" and pray for a call back.

So, on what's left of this joyous Valentine's Day I am calling the unlucky bunch to join me with their resume, and well, pass mine around while you're at it...

MAïA M.
Somewhere in Brooklyn, NY. USA

GOAL: Do better next time.

EDUCATION

Grammar school Sainte Cécile D’avès, Gaillac, (village) Southern France. 1983-1984
-Crush on Alexandre, aka “golden locks.” 20 years later, he turned into the nicest albino pot head.
-Crush on Sébastien, kid who lives on the other side of the hill. (Still lives there, with the pot head)

Grammar school Eugénie de Guérin, Gaillac, (village) Southern France. 1984-1985
-(Catholic convent/ school.) People ask if I speak ‘Jewish;’ no love interest in my school.
-Crush on David, who lives on the same hill as Sébastien; his brother actually.
-Crush on ALL the Japanese cartoons male characters. (Astro Boy is still hot.)

Grammar School Calvignac, Toulouse, Southern France. 1985-1989
-Crush on Cédric, a pretty normal kid for once Unfortunately, Cédric’s in love with my best friend.

Junior High Michelet, Southern Toulouse, France. 1989-1991
-First puppy love that appears to be shared. Plan on waiting the following year to ask him out.

Junior High Beaumarchais, Paris, France. 1991-1993
-Move to Paris, city of all crimes. No love interest, just a strong desire to stay alive.

High School Edgar Quinet, Paris, France. 1993-1994
-The concept of love is somehow disturbed by a) the fact that most guys there can’t sing the “alphabetsong” properly, b) the proximity of prostitutes/ sex shops in the neighborhood.
-First kiss with a boy from “Molière High School.” Moments later, love at first sight with hisclassmate.

High School Molière, Paris, France. 1994-1996
-“Saved by the Bell” meets The Discovery Channel: Romanian refugee, depressed singer, videogamechampion wannabee, Japanese cartoon voice over…
-Cédric, from Bréval (Parisian suburban village.)After break up, Cédric joins the army.
-Barnabus, karate champion, from Bréval.
[Score: Big Jim: 1, Barnabus: 0.]
Knowledge acquired: there are 38.851 other villages in France.
-Sébastien (the name got popular in the 1970’s.) Village 9 miles from Bréval.
-Ezekiel. Knowledge acquired: a man, in the Biblical sense.
Additional knowledge acquired: next time, stick to reading the book.
-Platonic relationship with Alexis. Kundera is in the air –and so is Alexis’ girlfriend.

La Sorbonne Paris IV, Paris, France. 1996-2004
-David, from Bréval. First long -love?- story (4 years.)
Knowledge acquired: French villages are all the same anyway.

Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, NY. USA. 2001-2002 (Teaching Assistantship)
-Erik, a drama student. After the 3rd wedding proposal, consider getting engaged the following year.

Smithsonian American Art, Washington DC. 2002-2003
-First time living with a boyfriend. First nervous breakdown. Also first time asking a boyfriend tobuy his own make up – Exit the drama queen.
-Summer in Europe: hook up with my pre-K crush Sébastien.

City University of New York (CUNY), The Graduate Center, New York, NY. 2003-2004
-Jean-Paul Sartre meets Candace Bushnell: British broker, Hindu engineer, gay guy, politician.
-Pierce, a friend.
-Brendan, his friend.
-Xander, Brendan’s roommate.
Knowledge acquired: check date’s background connections FIRST.

Sorbonne doctoral student on the run, hiding in NYC. 2004
-Ragnagna, 33 years old. Loves Iron Maiden underwear, French puddles, and himself. Hates planning, soft-boiled eggs and anyone who’s not him –especially me, I think.
-Today: Seeking a more selective taste in men.

PROFESSIONAL EXPERIENCE
Fortunately none.

SKILLS
Languages: Fluent: French, English. Proficient Spanish. Basic Rumanian and Hindi
Other:Valid US Work Permit.

NOTE. To emphasize the progression in my social life and of my mental health, this resume asbeen edited chronologically. No causality should be established between my dates, or lack of, andthe constant school change.

Thief on the Run legalized (Part 2)

2004-12-21T17:41:00.000-06:00

FOX NEWS presents

a 20th CENTURY FOX production:

Breaking News. Morning Edition.

Psycho with hatchet still on the run…………........p.3
War on Terror: Rats doomed to eat us all………...p.4
Chocolate mousse recipe for Christmas……….....p.5
Let it Snow (Weather forecast)…………….……p.6-10
Thief on the Run legalized (Part 2)……………....p.11
Classified………………………………………..........p.12
- Jobs
- Green Card seekers
- K Food coupons

P.11 Thief on the Run legalized (Part 2)
On Tuesday afternoon, December 14th 2004, Foreign Citizen Maïa Morgensztern left her rent-free apartment and headed towards the Manhattan bound “Q” Train. After a long and strenuous hour spent in the office of the Director of an upscale art organization, Ms Morgenstein was finally granted one of her deepest wish: the right to steal an American citizen’s job. Ms Morgensnitz will legally start her art related career in the Land of the Free at the beginning of January. Questions remain as to whether her future superior, himself a citizen of some Foreign Country, was aware of the Laws and Regulations of the recently approved “Patriot Act” (ie “Thou shalt not Kill […] Thou shalt not hire a Foreign Citizen without my permission.”)
At press time, the exact nature of her position was not known. Rumors have circulated that she will become the “Assistant Director” at Pace Primitive.
“- I am delighted to join Pace Primitive as the Assistant Director.” She said. “It will be a wonderful opportunity for me to work while finally being paid for it. […] I would like to thank God, the President, and my Mother. My long term goal is to bring World Peace to the country.”

Ms. Morge is under investigation by the Foreign Country Secret Services for the theft of a public stapler and failure to complete the mandatory doctoral dissertation she promised her school when she left for New York in 2003. Unfortunately, Foreign Country representatives holding the warrant have not yet been allowed to cross customs at the airport (they refuse to submit to the bag search, claiming that Napoleon never had to go through such a hassle when he first visited the country. ndlr)

Whether or not the art gallery made the right decision in hiring Maia Morgnesbaum will have to be further researched in the near future.

Merry Christmas to you all.

-Reporter Carter, for FOX NEWS.

Thief on the Run legalized; breaches in the American judiciary system

2004-06-08T15:54:00.000-06:00

I know, I know, another mass email. And it’s not even to give any vital information, offer something free or give you the pleasure of announcing an anticipated departure. But hey, it could be worse, like a forward of a 10 year old girl who has cancer and will die if you do not send the message to 134 friends by tomorrow and clap 3 times in your hands while chanting your bank account number. No. This email is a statement, the public acknowledgment of my “let’s invade the country” plan.

As many of you might know, I originally came to America to hide from my school. Probably due to a fatal error in their data processing system, I managed to finish my Master's and get into the Ph.D program –rerouting meriting student number 1912034 towards a life of whisky swallowing behind the stacks of her new job at the “history of combs and toothbrushes” museum in Reykjavik. The first draft of my “Art theft” proposal indubitably helped shed light on the terrible mistake. My criminal record also indicated that I stole the list of the admitted candidates embossed with the “Sorbonne” seal, and my name on it. I argued it was just to prove my family they hadn’t fed me all those years in vain -I might still end up poor but I would be an EDUCATED poor. It didn't matter. Stealing the list was considered a national offense, especially since the fund allocated to the French Educational system did not allow the use of scrap paper to print out a second copy.

Since my escape, I have discovered scenic landscapes and its fauna in Poughkeepsie, survived a stunning recreation of “Apocalypse Now” in Washington DC and even landed with a family as nuts as mine in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Now, time for another change has arrived. I will, in the end, fill up the poll of enemies trying to legally steal your well deserved jobs. And by that, I don’t mean that I finally found a decent boyfriend or even an old man ready to marry me so I can get a Green Card. I’m only fighting for ATTAINABLE goals, after all. The news is the INS just sent me my very first “Work Permit” this morning!!! Valid a year to work in the Arts , starting August. And they want me SO much that it seems I am not allowed to re-enter the US if I ever go home during these 12 month. If that’s not love, what is. Veni, Vidi, Vinci

Maïa

PS: I'll probably be going out to celebrate this week end. Feel free to join! -although I'll understand if you'd rather be mourning.

PPS: if you send this email – or rather, my resume- to at least 5 influent people in the Art world to get me a job, your life will shine all through this week. Between 5 and 10 people, you will get a huge surprise on the 17th, and to 10 or more people, your deepest wish will be granted – unless it has something to do with me leaving the country and forgetting your email address. THIS IS REAL. I’ve tried it. Really.