the 941

You can kill me now or later, but I decided to take pretty much my only vacation of the year early, after little more than one official month on the job.

Here�s what happened: while I was interning a bit here and freelancing a bit there (and freelancing a bit more there, there, and there), my girlfriend was squirreling away her time off. So by the time Max got around to hiring me, Elena�d amassed over two free weeks of vacation.

At her work � or at least this was her argument � you lose your chance at a vacation if the year ends before you�ve gotten around to buying those plane tickets or booking that cruise. According to her, that left us with one of two options. The ensuing dialogue went something like this:

Scene: Elena�s antechamber
[The following to be played in the highfallutin� style of French farce, something by Moli�re, or Sardou, or perhaps Marivaux. You know, the kind of thing Asolo would rob three banks to purchase rights for.]

Her: Come to Paris with me?
Joel: I can�t, baby. I just got hired.
Her [pouting]: Fine. I�ll go it alone. Your fault, though, if I get knocked up by a baguette.
J [with the kind of eye-winking smugness usually reserved for 18th-century phallic puns]: French bread? I thought you were happy enough with your American rye.
Her: I�ve no time for your humor, cretin! I need a companion for my trip to Paree.
[A sad French dirge starts to play in the background. I�m thinking, �Castle on a Cloud,� from Les Mis�rables?]
J: Oh, but I can�t, cherie. Really, I�d love to go. But I can�t.
Her: Surely there�s something that can convince you to try, at least?
J: I can�t think of anything.
Her: The splendor of the Louvre? The sumptuous siren call of Versailles?
J: Nothing!
Her: I read that Christina Aguilera is jumpstarting her �Back to Basics� Tour in November. December 6, she plays Paris.

Three days later, we�d booked our flight. Max was easier to placate than I�d have anticipated (surprisingly, the deal was sealed for the mere price of ONE Eiffel Tower-emblazoned travel mug and ONE licensing contract to my soul). And yet, despite the mid-November arrival of a suspicious-looking package marked �pour Monsieur Jo�l Rozen� and holding two tickets embossed �BACK 2 BASIiCS AVEC MADAME (Madame!) XTIiNA AGUIiLERA,� it didn�t really hit me that I�d be Paris-bound within the month until literally the day before my trip.

***

In Paris, you can buy beer at all the major subway terminals. Not in bottles. Heineken in cans.

This was a fact I exploited to the full the night of the concert, when I decided it would be a fabulous idea to drink my way to the Palais Omnisports de Paris-Bercy.

It�s the French way.

Situated north of the river Seine and sprawling out from the city�s eastern side like a modernist appendage, Bercy has distinguished itself as one of the French capital�s most up-and-coming quartiers. Today, locals know it for two things: 1) The Ministre de l�Economie, a mess of a finance building that plunges into the Seine (a.k.a. the 1980s� major architectural contribution to the cityscape), and 2) the Palais Omnisports, essentially a sports stadium, but large enough to host those who simply cannot perform without their usual orgy of garishly decadent pyrotechnics, movable stages, backup dancers, quick-change wardrobes, mics, lighting, scenes, confetti, animals.

It�s a must-stop for some of the world�s biggest headliners. To give you a sense, here�s a roll call of some of the Euro-tours that have moonlighted at Bercy over the past five years:

Iron Maiden
Cher
Tina Turner
Madonna
Britney Spears
Guns N� Roses
R.E.M.
Justin Timberlake

In addition, the Palais has lent its thousands-upon-thousands seating capacity to French sports fanatics, who flock to the 12th arrondissement for annual gymnastics, figure skating, and basketball tourneys.

This was slated to be Christina�s third appearance at the stadium � �Genie Gets Her Wish� and �Stripped� tours rounding out her first and second, respectively.

Not all of the already-screaming fans filing into the arena for their third dose of the enchantress were intoxicated when we arrived. Neither was Elena.

I, however:

But I was on a mission, and it was all I could do to keep my nerves in check. For years, it had been my project to propose marriage to the golden-piped goddess who calls herself �Xtina.� Perhaps I�ll save it for another article, but there really are so many things to love about her.

This was going to be my second of two failed attempts. Two years ago, on her Stripped tour, I even made it pretty close to the stage. Never, however, close enough to get down to my knees. But this, this was going to mark my success.

(It should be noted that, yes, Xtina is married. I know. But Jordan Bratman has nothing on me. Plus, how awesome is it that we now know that �what a girl wants� is actually a Jew from the Northeast? Which means: I have a chance, dammit!)

Jordan Bratman:

Me:

You be the judge.

Our tickets may have been the cheapest offered, but this was strategic: �Standing room only� meant we got to shake our thangs right up to the stage.

(She’s singing something about a “Sweet-talkin’ suga-lovin’ Candy Man.” Very patriotic!)

The French were really into glow sticks.

And then, this happened: Christina asked her male dancers to find a MAN IN THE AUDIENCE so �she and her girls could show him something.�

Me: �Quick, Elena, get me my ring!�

Christina�s thugs chose some other lame-ass, instead. Someone named, �Oliver.�

Oliver. �Oh-lee-ver.�

With that horrible guttural sound only the French and your not-really-from-France-and-actually-from-Brussels-but-close-enough French teacher can reproduce. This is what they did.

All to the tune of �Nasty, Naughty Boy,� from Disc Two of her latest album. (This was, not entirely a coincidence, supposed to be our wedding march.)

“You�ve been a bad, bad boy
I�m gonna take my time so enjoy.
There�s no need to feel no pain,
Relax and sip upon my champagne
�Cuz I�m gonna give you a little taste
Of the sugar below my waist
You nasty boy.
(Nasty, naughty boy)

“Gimme that �Ooh, la-la,’
‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?’ [The French, needless to say, freaked out over this]
Got you breaking into a sweat,
Got you hot, bothered and wet,
You nasty boy.

“Baby for what it�s worth,
I swear I�ll be the first
To blow. Your. Mind.
Now if you�re ready come and get me,
I�ll give you that hot, sweet, nasty
Loooovin�!
(Now give me a little spankin�.)”

They cracked whips over him.

The rest of the concert was a sad blur of studded corsets, voices strained, and Christina transmitting various suggestions erotiques. Sad, because I had no chance to propose. Sad because it�s official that I�m now internationally creepy. Sad because I�m leaving France in two days, still without the bride of my dreams, and with only a Tour posteur to my name.

Cry for me.

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