To some it was an exposition of the culture of the common man. To others it was nothing more than a rowdy music hall. To me it was home. I grew up there among the acrobats and burlesque dancers at the knee of my mother who could turn any piece of scrap fabric into the colorful costumes that adorned the misfit cast of entertainers. It was at her hand that I learned the art of the needle and thread.
Le Chat Noir was also the setting of my first conquest. She was a dancer and the sumptuous curve of her tibialis anterior was a temptation for all men. Though temptress she may have been, faithful she remained. Her lover died quite suddenly in an accident involving a piano and a lion tamer. She had nothing more than his night shirt to remember him by. Even at the tender age of nine and one half years I understood the needs of women and made the dead man's shirt into quilt that would warm the beautiful dancer on the coldest of Paris winter nights when the embrace of her dead lover could no longer do so. For my trouble I was rewarded with a kiss. It was a kiss from an angel, planted squarely on my forehead intended for my heart.
-SMQ
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