This is about all I can remember about Paris. The screening of Otto at the Palais de Tokyo was a big success, even though they could only show it on DVD. Several private dinner parties followed over the next few days, including one in which this creepy statue of an angel with human eyes lurked over my shoulder. Otherwise, I can only remember my dear friend Christophe Chemin falling, falling, falling. Under the table in his No Bra shirt (she has a song on the Otto soundtrack), tumbling, tumbling to a party at the apartment of Tomas of Tetu. Christophe told me he left Paris because it made him feel like jumping out of a window. After only three days there, I know what he means. It's true, Paris is a city for lovers - if those lovers are Karl Lagerfield and Satan. x Blab p.s. Note to the clubs of Paris: bad eighties music is over, and it's not funny anymore.