Well, actually, downtown LA. This is where I’m mixing my record. We’ve started working on it and it already sounds great—I’m very excited!
It’s been almost two years since I’ve been in LA and coming from Paris now, I really see the difference between East and West Coast. People generally are more open here, friendlier, than they are in either NYC or Paris. It’s kind of a relief, actually, because nobody’s guard seems to automatically be up—like they are in my former and current hometowns. I think the sunshine just makes people a little more relaxed. (I mean, it fries their brains in other ways, too, I know.)
So yay LA! I’m happy to be here for the moment, though it’s not like I’m touring the sites or anything (you know, the Walk of Fame, Fred Segal, the Grove, Kitson’s, etc and so on… Hey, strip mall culture abounds here.) I am going to try a yoga class today and I’m thrilled about all the great Mexican food I can eat while I’m here, not to mention, In-N-Out burgers!!
Funny how life catches up with you and then you believe there’s no time for the important things—like blogging!
Just landed in NYC last night and am jetlagged so up at 6 am. Plus I’m staying at a friend’s place which is wall-to-wall windows so I imagine the break-of-dawn wakeup is inevitable.
What’s been going on…
1) Show at La Fleche D’Or was fantastic. The place is really cool. Definitely has a New York vibe (more Brooklyn than Manhattan) and the way they support musicians is amazing! A super-long soundcheck, all the beverages you want, a free dinner, etc and so on… I mean, they give you a rider, for Pete’s sake… So I’d say that was definitely NOT New York-like, but much appreciated! I’ll blog more about the musical aspect of the night on my Myspace. I’m definitely planning on going back there, though, to listen and play.
2) I’m mad for Velib. With the weather being just gorgeous in Paris last week/weekend, I Velib-ed all over the place. I even braved the Place de la Concorde on the bike, which perhaps was not the smartest thing, as it’s rather treacherous over there. But see, I’ve lived to tell the tale… and Velib another day.
3) My French lessons are great. I love my prof, Olivier, who teaches models, mainly. But he teaches me, too! My level of French is rather particular after studying it in school—very buttoned up. So Olivier teaches me all the argots (slang) I need to know to follow a regular conversation. Everyone talks in argots ALL THE TIME. So if you don’t know the word, it’s like, “huh?” So I’m following much better now. This is Olivier’s site should you ever need a fantastic French tutor.
I am in NYC for just a few days before I head to LA to finish this record!! I’m excited to be back. New York will always be home for me. But LA will be a nice break, too. I haven’t been back since I shot my last music video there.
I promise to blog more and better when I’m not in such a jetlagged state…
I haven’t posted because I’ve been rehearsing for this show next Tuesday. My first gig in Paris! I’ll mainly be on bass but will be singing a few things. It’s for a new project of my very talented friend Miro called either “Le Garage Miro Meet Maggie” or “Garage Booster” (I think that’s the latest invocation.)
In any case, it should be fun. I’m excited to play at this venue which is supposed to be rather cool and branché as they say here.
But rehearsing everyday is cutting into my blogging time!
Here’s all the info for the gig:
Tuesday, April 22 La Fleche D’Or
102 rue de Bagnolet
Paris, Ile-de-France 75020
9:00 PM
I had another one of my weirdo dreams last night. This time, I was staying at a friend’s house for some reason and this friend had a 17-year-old son. A gorgeous, virginal 17-year-old son. And I had to be about forty-five or something in this dream. This was one of those dreams where you’re not really you, you’re someone else.
Anyway, over the course of the week I was staying there, it became obvious that this son (who was heading off to college soon) had a crush on me. So my last night there, I decided to go out with another girlfriend of mine and had the boy sneak out and meet us. Then we both proceeded to seduce him! Whoa… How’s that for your first time? A threesome with a couple of cougars.
Then the dream turned rather stressful because we had to keep his mother, my friend, from finding out what happened and she was quite suspicious to begin with. So that was my dream (with a lot of the sordid details faded to fuzzy memory.)
My analysis? I actually have met a college-bound teenager recently who’s definitely gorgeous (though I can’t say if he’s virginal) and I think it’s making me feel rather like a dirty old married lady to admire his brand of youthful beauty. And I think I’m rather shocked to find myself in this position, rather than the one where I’m being admired by dirty old men. But hey, things change… and there’s no harm in looking, right?
I’m a lackadaisical yogini. I probably took my first yoga class ten years ago and have been dabbling in it since, but never too seriously. I loved it but preferred my workouts more hardcore: Radu, bootcamp, boxing…
But now that I’m older (ahem), I’m just not that interested in punishing my body so much and since my various accidents (surfing, motorcycle), I’ve been nursing a neck injury and really can’t take the rough stuff as much. So, back to yoga.
New York, of course, is filled with every type of yoga anyone could ever want or dream of. Paris, on the other hand, seems to have embraced it a little more slowly.
I took a couple yoga classes at L’Usine, but found the teacher to be more interested in showing off how strong and flexible she was than actually helping out her stiffer and less-fit students. Granted, it’s a gym so you can’t expect the whole mind-body connection thing to happen there, but you also can’t expected newbie French yogis to do flying crow the first time they come to class!
I did a little online research, though, and recently found two yoga studios which were very nice in their own ways.
The first is the Centre de Yoga du Marais. It has the advantage of being right near my hood and the teacher is also American, a New Yorker, in fact! I arrived for class in a small, cozy studio with two other students and Michelle, the instructor, was very welcoming. Especially when she turned to me and asked, “So when’s your baby due?” Yep, I’d stumbled into a prenatal yoga class—the class schedule hadn’t yet been updated online. But I stayed and the class was plenty challenging and the vibe was intimate and friendly. Michelle also sold me a yoga mat that she’d brought back from the States (of course) and promised me it’d be the last yoga mat I’d ever need. She’s right, the mat is awesome.
I then went to Rasa on the Left Bank, right by Notre Dame. This place is like a Zen retreat: white, peaceful and minimal with a large studio that has a huge skylight. It’s honestly a beautiful place. The first class I tried there was in the Anusara style which isn’t necessarily my favorite. But the teacher was intense (yet patient) and I wound up feeling amazing at the end of class. I decided to try another class, this time a Vinyasa class, with an incredible teacher called Mika. He’s one of those very generous and shimmery yogis that make you feel good just being around them. (Oh, and for non-French speakers, it seems like all the teachers are bilingual.)
So Rasa is where I’m laying my mat down, for the next month, anyway. There’s also an Ashtanga yoga place I want to try near Bastille, but for now, I’m a perfectly content yogini.
P.S. One thing I’ve noticed is that here in Paris, the majority of teachers seem to be male (at Rasa, anyway), which is such a change from NYC, where 85% of my yoga teachers were women. Just something I noticed…
ADDRESSES:
Centre de Yoga du Marais
72 rue du Vertbois
Paris 75003
Tel +33 01.42.74.24.92
Rasa
21 rue Saint Jacques
Paris 75005
Tel +33 01.43.54.14.59
There was an article in the New York Times this weekend about the latest crop of Carrie Bradshaw-wannabes, who chronicle their dating lives and hope to land their own Mr. Big. The article made me smile because for as long as Sex and the City has been around, so have a slew of “real-life” Carries, who went to fabulous parties, wore fabulous clothes, dated fabulous men and most importantly, wrote about it.
Including me.
Yep. I, too, detailed my love life, disasters, dramas, one-night stands and all, for everyone from Cosmopolitan to MSN to my own blog(s). And like Julia Allison and Alyssa Shelasky from the Times piece, I suffered the various consequences of living what should have been my private life in public—including guys whose primary interest in dating me was so they could get a mention in my column to men who didn’t like how they were portrayed (”muppet-mouth kisser”; “penny-pinching narcissist”) and would send me huffy and hurt emails afterward. No surprise that the former and latter were usually the same guys.
However, unlike these ladies, I wasn’t dating and writing during this complete glut of Internet and blogging mayhem. So I was spared snarky commentary from other blogs and could still date in relative anonymity, which was probably a blessing. I think because I was working on music as well, I tended to see these columns solely as a means to pay rent and a cross-promotional tool for my other career. They weren’t a way for me to get rich, famous and/or laid, as they seem to be for Ms. Allison. (Sorry, am I being snarky, now?)
Julia and Henry Kissinger
Me and some actor
However, the amount of times I was referred to (or even referred to myself) as a “real-life Carrie Bradshaw” was numerous and embarrassing. And the parallels I could draw between Carrie and me were eerie, including being whisked off to Paris by my own Mr. Big and subsequently being lonely, ignored and bored like Carrie was when she went to Paris with the Russian.
So okay, it’s not a total case of life imitating art, but I remember iChatting at the time with one of my best gay friends and I was complaining that I was left by myself all day and had nothing to do. “But you’re in Paris! How can you be bored?” he wrote. “OMG, you’re JUST LIKE CARRIE when she went to Paris. LOL.”
Except when you’re living it, it’s not such a LOL matter. Personal heartache, though it makes for good blogging (not to mention, songs), should have some space and privacy—not be blasted across the Internet so anonymous others can take potshots at your pain. But that’s what you sign up for when your reality becomes everyone else’s entertainment, at your own behest. And to be fair, for all the haters, there tend to be just as many fans.
I wrote a piece for MSN a year or so ago about being the Other Woman. I wrote it as a coda to a storyline that was playing out as I ended my tenure as Cosmo’s Dating Diarist but mainly, I wrote it to, again, pay the rent. (All those martinis and Manolos aren’t going to pay for themselves! Kidding…) The response to that piece was like nothing I’d ever seen before. Millions of people read the article and about 10,000 people actually emailed me their own stories, requests for advice, for dates (!) and to blast me for being a “slut,” “homewrecker,” “whore,” etc and so on.
I got one email from a 19-year-old girl who berated me for writing the piece in order to get famous. She then proceeded to tell me the sad story of her own father’s infidelity and how it tore her family apart. I felt sorry for her and her family, but at the same time, I was overwhelmed by the pain and confusion of 9,999 other people who saw me as a modern-day Hester Prynne-meets-Dear-Abby. All because I was trying to pay my landlord on time—not so my scarlet letter A would take me to some unforeseen heights of notoriety.
But like I said, those are the consequences of airing your private affairs in public, whatever your reasons for doing so.
Do I miss being “the real-life Carrie Bradshaw”? Only as much as I miss being single, which really isn’t that much. The parties were fun. The ritzy dinners with the famous dates were flattering. But the overblown dramas, the non-stop static in a 20-something’s head and the not knowing what or how to ask for what you want is just a frustrating, depressing and (usually drunk) place to be.
I can’t wait for the Sex and the City movie, though.
As an utter romantic, I hope art imitates life and Carrie winds up with her Big—whether in Paris or not—just like I did.
I came across a post on John Mayer’s blog this morning. In it, he talks about the disease of self-consciousness, although what I think he’s really talking about is the over-reaching effects of ego identification.
We live in a culture that celebrates mediocrity and he’s right when he says that we’ve all grown up being told how special we are, how talented, beautiful, intelligent and how we really can do anything. John seems to believe that we’re all rather ordinary (”beautifully unspectacular,”) but I think he misses the point.
I don’t believe anyone is ordinary. To get metaphysical, we’re all divine beings here, we just don’t seem to recognize that. Instead, we’re trapped in an endless cycle of comparison and consumption and never feeling good enough but still striving for that golden ring of success, fame, wealth. As if that is the answer to not feeling special enough.
American culture especially dangles that carrot in front of us, alternately telling us that we deserve the best of everything while also letting us know that we just don’t measure up until we reach an Oprah-level of success. It’s really where all that self-help ideology (”You can do and be anything you dream”) originated from—trying to get people to start accepting and loving themselves. Unfortunately, the dream got twisted into everyone trying to get everyone else to recognize, admire and love them. Hence, you have 5-year-olds being paraded around in makeup and satin ballgowns, all on the rocky road to fame and fortune.
Along with reading John’s post, I came across a video of Paris Hilton attempting to bellydance at the televised Miss Turkey pageant, for which she was a celebrity judge. She was awkward and uncomfortable onstage and proved how mediocre she is. At the same time, she proved that even without great talent or beauty or intelligence, she can still have a stratospheric amount of recognition and money and a bonafide successful career.
After all, I (and millions of other people) took 3 minutes out of our day to marvel at her ridiculous dancing. I’ve also read enough about Paris to know that her grandmother repeatedly told her as she was growing up, “You’re going to be more famous than Marilyn Monroe. You’re going to become the most famous woman in the world.” Granny wasn’t wrong, but couldn’t she have just given Paris some hugs and cookies?
To complete my celebrity trifecta, I then read this quote from Madonna in Q Magazine. “What else is there for me to conquer? Hopefully my ego. How will I know when I’ve succeeded? When I stop caring what anyone thinks.”
She’s right. Of course, Madonna does have the luxury of her own enormous wealth and fame to not care anymore what anyone thinks and kick her ego’s ass. She’s certainly proven that she’s conquered the system. But considering she’s stumping for her latest album, Hard Candy, by showing off how fabulous she still looks at fifty, I’d say it only gets harder to not care what people think the more successful you get.
So how do you feel special if you’re not famous or gorgeous or rich or wearing the right clothes and carrying the “It” bag or having a successful career in the public eye? How can anyone really be happy with less than 100,000 MySpace friends? If no one’s talking about you or reading your blog or paparazzi-hounding you, how can you be a vital and important part of society? If you don’t have your own reality show or sex tape, then are you really real?
To anyone who buys into any of the above bullshit and that’s exactly what is it—bullshit—I send you all my love and caring because yes, you are so fucking special, every last one of you down to every last bit of you. You don’t have to do or be or prove anything for it. And next time I see you, I’ll happily give you a hug, and maybe even if a cookie, if I could just figure out this damn French oven.
WordPress lets you track your hits, what people are searching under, so on and so forth. Now the blog I did about Mrs. Nicolas Sarkozy is still an all-time favorite, undoubtedly because there’s supermodels, nudity and scandale involved.
Today, I noticed a spike in traffic due to Carla Bruni. I didn’t know why until I came across this photo and the subsequent furor over it.
Long story short: It’s being auctioned by Christie’s in London just as the French President and First Lady are headed there for a two-day state visit. Not so seemly for the First Lady of France and apparently, Carla is just furious. She wanted to be the Gallic Lady Di. Oh well. Tant pis.
I think she should be proud of this picture. She looks gorgeous and since when are the French that pudique about nudity?
Anyway, to all you Google searchers of a “naked Carla Bruni,” here you go. Sorry it’s pixelated… perverts.
I had several errands to do today… It’s bitter cold (for Paris) right now and I lost my gloves in New York. Anyway, I walked around two opposite sides of town and got lost both times.
Paris, with its arrondissements, is built like a snail’s shell—or that’s what I read somewhere once.
The center of the shell is the 1st (where I live) and then circles around from there until you get to the 20th. Yeah, it makes no sense for people who come from gridded cities, like New York and even Philly.
So I have this theory that this town has a million wormholes that you step through, just by making a left turn instead of a right, or vice versa. There are routes I know to certain places like the back of my hand. Now, logic would make it seem that if you take the street that’s parallel to the one you’re on, you’ll still wind up at your destination at approximately the same time.
Not so, mon ami!
I have literally tripled my walking time just by taking the next parallel street over. Because that street circles around, weaves in and about some sort of Gallic space-time continuum that leaves you feeling like a fool at best (discombobulated or “bouleversée,” at worst) for even trying to venture off the narrow path that you know leads to your destination.
It’s a big French F-you to people who did not grow up in the snail’s shell. Even today, I had to ask a kind old French lady for directions and she very specifically wanted to know the address, because if I went one direction, I wouldn’t be near enough to the place I had to go. So I had to take, yep, the next parallel street over in order to get there in a more timely fashion.
To bypass the wormholes, I mainly try to use The Force or sheer luck, turning onto a certain street because it “feels right.” So far, I’ve got about a 60% success rate using that technique. And yes, I have one of those indispensable Plan de Paris, but I’ve just misplaced mine at the moment.
I’m reading A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle (yes, I know Oprah’s big on it right now.) Anyway, I find the book rather interesting when it comes to ideas of ego, enlightenment and evolution. It’s worth picking up, if you like the whole New Age-y spiritual thing.
Yesterday, I read this sentence in the book, “The bane of being famous in this world is that who you are becomes totally obscured by a collective mental image.” (Pg. 83 in the paperback.) That struck a chord with me, for several reasons.
I’ve been accused of wanting to be famous at any cost. I’ve gained a miniscule amount of fame (like maybe some thousands of people I don’t know know who I am.) I’ve been given, and sometimes perpetuated, a certain image that isn’t necessarily who I am.
I guess I’m thinking about this idea of fame/image because of an email I got from an acquaintance recently. This is a man who doesn’t know me particularly well and undoubtedly carries around the above mental image of Maggie Roxx.
As everyone knows, I’ve been extremely, ridiculously busy in the past six months with moving to France, making an album and getting married. So acquaintances weren’t high priority for me in terms of keeping in touch. Not cool, I know, but you’ve got to draw your lines somewhere. And besides, there wasn’t much to say besides I’m making an album, moving and getting married.
Now this person chose to take the silence as pique on my part, which clearly it wasn’t. Negligence, yes; anger, no. So the email he sent reads in part as an apology for him not being a good enough friend to me (okay, whatever; I was obviously the negligent one here.)
Then he went on to make assumptions about the kind of person I was—”passionate and painful”—and how he would risk all that to be “close” to me. And also how well he knew me and how “connected” he felt to me. And of course, that if he had his druthers, he’d be “passionately making love” to me. Yuck.
And DOUBLE YUCK.
I read this email and it seriously made me want to vomit. I’d really like to know how people can (in sound mind and body) send emails like this to people they don’t know very well. Or maybe that’s precisely why. This rather sad fellow has created some sort of idea of who I am and who we are—or could be—together and god knows what he’s doing with that fantasy. I’d rather not know, actually.
Anyway, I blame the internet, Web 2.0, specifically. Before MySpace, Facebook, blogs, personal websites, etc… there was no way to feel really “close” and “connected” with your various artists and musicians. Now, you can feel like you actually have a personal connection to someone with whom you only exchange a few emails every few months. Or who you comment-reciprocate with. Or whose wall you write on. Or whose music or writing you are a fan/friend of.
There are some very wonderful things Web 2.0 has brought about, especially in terms of the dissemination of music. I don’t think any indie artist would want to go back to a time when our music couldn’t be easily heard by thousands of people. But what’s happening is that there are no clearly defined boundaries between the artist and the person.
For some artists, there is no clear boundary. Who they are onstage is who they are on the toilet.
(I love that I actually have this picture for illustration!)
But for a lot of others, including me, the performer is not who the person is. An exaggerated version or caricature of some part of their personality, maybe, but not who they really, truly are. And I think these false images and connections that people have (or think they have) with a particular artist can lead to completely inappropriate emails like the one I received. Or on the scarier/criminal level, stalking.
The music I make, the words I write, the pictures I take are only a small part of who I really am. And in this life, where it’s so hard for people to even know themselves, can anyone claim to “know” another person, especially a person whose job it is to perform?
Let me put it this way. If I actually were Maggie Roxx at all times, I’d be a boozing, slutting, over-aggressive, rather angry and perhaps slightly gender-confused and/or multi-sexually oriented singer-bassist chick who’d just as soon spit on you as she would have sex with you. Or something like that…
Instead, I’m a calm and happily-married French woman who likes her house clean and prefers to eat only organic food. Right…
So unless you’re actually living with me, sleeping with me, making music with me or writing with me (or you’re my sister), I’d say you don’t know me at all. But we can still be MySpace friends, right?
Just don’t send me delusional, vomit-inducing emails.
