It is a popular French custom to tell unruly little girls that if they don't behave the ghost of Serge Gainsbourg will come and fuck them.

On the 21st of August I was supposed to fly out to Corsica and DJ a special set for French pop sensation (and unruly little girl) Alizée's 18th birthday. So on the 19th of August my 19 year-old French maid Veronique packed my suitcase while I salsa danced on the terrace to Renegade Soundwave's "Manphibian." I was headlining the event, and rumor had it that the birthday girl had a particular interest in losing her virginity to a "hot pseudo-Euro DJ guy." Life could not have been any better.

By the time I arrived at the party my crate of Eurodance had been stolen by gypsies, my polyester suit was smudged with cow pies, and I noticed that the party flyers plastered all over the patio made no mention of me, which led to some confusion at the door, which in turn led to one of Alizée's bodyguards connecting a right hook to my jaw. No worries; after a quick trip to the infirmary I snuck in. Only to find that Moby had replaced me on the decks. I never even spoke to Alizée; I just left my present (a CD of a symphony I had commissioned Per Nørgård to write for her) by the bidet and slipped out. Life could not have been any worse.

I was in a dark mood--so dark that I when I returned to America I did the most shameful thing a man can do. I called up an ex-girlfriend for some medicinal sex. Hours later, actress Natalie Portman arrived via private jet. (Natalie, at the ripe old age of 21, looks like a much older version of Alizée.)

Things started well. The Gypsy Kings, who took their usual spot by the fireplace, were more or less in tune. Live turtle doves snuggled on the mantle. Then, Natalie cried out in annoyed pain (i.e. the two syllable "OW-oh!" as opposed to "AHHHH!").

"What?" I exclaimed.

"You scratched me with your toenails!"

The Gypsy Kings lowered their instruments.

"My toenails are fine!"

"They're talons! You could carry a salmon with your feet!"

"Bullshit. Because then I'd have to walk on my hands, and I can't walk on my hands!"

"Look what you did to my leg!"

"Veronique!" I shouted into the air. "Bring me one live salmon!"

"Goodbye!" Natalie said, hastily buttoning her top. "I'm flying back to Boston! This was a really stupid idea, seeing you again..."

"Natalie! Wait!" I cried.

"I mentioned the toenail thing back when we were going out!" she said, snatching her jacket from the lamp shade. "But you never listen to me! You're the most self-centered Euro-fuckwad in the universe!"

She slammed the door behind her. The Gypsy Kings packed. I lay on the couch, stunned. I had had fights with Natalie before, but these were some of the harshest words she had ever uttered to me.

As I reflected on the tragedy, Veronique dashed into the room clutching a writhing salmon.

"Non," I said.

***

When I find myself in a bit of a funk, I like to drown my sorrows in Thai food. Usually I'll go to Royal Orchid in Midtown Atlanta (then head over Après Diem for a coffee and amaretto). But that night I decided to try a new restaurant.

Ordinarily, my restaurant meals are free. This is due to my international prestige as a successful Euro DJ. I had assumed that my star was bright throughout Thaicountry, but as it turned out I had selected a restaurant managed by ignoramuses.

"Mr. Lava?!?! WHO YOU?!?!!" the manager said accusingly. Meanwhile, I couldn't help but notice, seated in a booth at the opposite end of the restaurant, DJ Encore dipping his prawns into a sauce bowl clenched firmly in the cleavage of a Thai waitress. :-(

I paid for my meal, returned to my penthouse, entered my bedroom, shut my door, and stared emptily at the vast expanse that is my king-sized bed. I flopped onto the mattress, lay face-down for a few minutes, and then propped myself up on my hands so that I might better bash my head repeatedly against the backboard.

A few seconds after I commenced with this activity, I realized that someone else was banging against the opposite side of the wall. Was Veronique trying to signal to me to keep it down? I paused and listened.

It was Veronique, all right--getting screwed. Judging from the noises she made, her stallion was either a great lover or killing her. I tried masturbating, but I was too unhappy to perform even for myself. So I pulled the sheets over my head and fell asleep pondering what Ingmar Bergman film to rent the next day.

***

If this sounds like a bad day, the next one was somewhat worse. It began with my reading an Internet blurb about how Moby was going to produce Alizée's next album. "Alizée is very wise for her age," Moby explained. "She makes me feel like a 12 year-old by comparison. It will be a great pleasure working with her, sharing and connecting."

I called Dr. Phil for a motivational talk, but his tart of a secretary explained that he was busy consulting Martha Stewart. (So much for patient confidentiality.)

"If you were an A-list celebrity Dr. Phil would talk with you now," the secretary explained to me over the telephone.

"And who am I? Shaun Cassidy?"

"Certainly not, Mr. Lava. But you are something strange, somewhere between an A-list celebrity and a private citizen."

"Hmm."

"Think of celebrities as poker hands. At the moment, Mike Myers is a royal flush. Britney Spears is a straight flush. N*sync are four aces. Backstreet Boys are two pair. Eddie Murphy is a lonely ace in a mixed hand."

"Oui, oui, but where am I in your epic metaphor?"

"Hmm . . . I'd say you're three of a kind and a joker, Mr. Lava."

"I'm insulted. How about calling me a 'wild card' instead?"

"Mmmmmaybe."

"Lulu? Remember when we made love on that Swiss ski lift?"

"I remember it well, Mr. Lava."

"You said it was the best fuck of your life."

"It was. Please. I'm going to cry."

"Get Dr. Phil on the line for me. Now."

"I can't. I'm sorry. I'd lose my job."

"This is important! Did you hear about Alizée and Moby?"

"Mr. Lava?"

"Yes?"

"Please don't call anymore."

***

I was on my way back from Intermezzo when I saw a funny looking fellow: a puppy with floppy ears and oversized paws. He was batting a rat carcass across the sidewalk. I crouched down beside him (I knew it was a "him" because he had a doggy dick).

"Hey, little guy! Do you have a home?" I asked.

I did not expect the dog to give me an answer. I did not expect him to turn his head to me and say in an upbeat voice, "Nope! Sure don't! Do ya like me? Take me home with you! YIPPEEEE!!!"

Nor did I expect, as I reached for him, that he'd roll off the sidewalk into heavy traffic. But he did. I can still see that last look of surprise flashing me over and over again as the semi's wide wheels rolled away.

***

Reader! Remember that it is not happiness that is our right, but our pursuit of it. And forgive me for saying so, but this right sometimes leaves me feeling a bit like a gerbil in a wheel. I pursue pursue pursue, but where is the happiness I am pursuing? Is it in my Moller Skycar? Nope. Is it in my complete works of Milo Manara? Nope.

I guess that in a world of crushed puppies and long toenails you can't expect the outside world to give you any loving. Happiness is not guaranteed. But it's there, hiding in the strangest places. It may even be hidden up your ass! So the best you can do is to take a look deep inside yourself.

Thanks, Dr. Phil.

***

Alizée called the other day. "Your so-called birthday present--that symphony by Per Nørgård--is completely UNLISTENABLE!" she said.

Ah, yes my little Alizée, but I hear the music. Now, more than ever...

When he is not writing for Pastiche, or scribbling poetry by the Danube, Mr. Lava tends to his Eurodance Web site at www.kingpigeon.com.