Oh la la mon petit pomme de terre

I miss Paris. I had a good time there in some ways, a bloody lousy time in alot of other ways, but these days my principal sentiment about the whole experience is 'if I knew then what I know now . . .' DON'T go to school there. DON'T not go to the opera because the madman you're sickly involved with has an opinion of the institution based on La Castafiore from the Tintin comics. DON'T get sickly involved with madmen, when it comes to that. DON'T trust good intentions - but appreciate them.

I think about going back, a triumphant return, with a huge paycheque, a backbone, and the new abililty I seem to have to not give a shit. Bringing my drug addict cat to eat some of the kabillions of mice that town is rotten with. I think about going to a different opera every week and seeing everybody I would love to hear at the Bataclan.

And then I think fuck it, I want to move to the sea.

I'm getting a haircut. Suggestions?

Love Handel

Rodelinda was awesome. Two counter-tenors, one of whom was Daniel Taylor. One of the attractions of Heaven might be a great big hammock, with just enough room to lie down and snuggle comfortably with Daniel Taylor on one side of me and Paolo Szot on the other. Under a gentle midsummer sky we would lazily swing in a warm breeze coming off a clean, clear river, carrying the scent of pine needles. I could file my nails and hum. When I felt like hearing something sexy and deep, I'd point at Mr. Szot, and he'd start and I'd listen for a little while, and then when I felt like hearing an angel sing I'd turn over, point at Mr. Taylor, and listen to him for awhile. And pretty little birds would flit through the forest and across the azure sky, and they'd be made out of fine Finnish milk chocolate, and I'd eat them and say 'oooh! I'm so glad God was a good sport about all those things'. And then I'd make love to Laurence Olivier, who would be straight and adoring.

The soprano was also very good, the title chick. Danielle de Niese. The programme (which the COC really needs to get a proofreader for, especially since they use the same one with different pictures on the cover for half their series) made the point that Handel went for this unbelievable story because he had a soprano who was very good at pathetic scenes; the maximum amount of them had to be contrived in the context of a basically happy storyline. The soprano last night did such a nice job with that. Her last pathetic scene, when she is erroneously convinced her husband has been killed for, I believe, the third time - well, the dumbfuck audience laughed at it, because it was so very, very contrived. But then when she got singing - oh, her clear but tremulous voice on the long notes in that last song - the dumbfuck audience shut the fuck up.

Born to trouble

. . . as the sparks fly upwards. Last night Mr. F and Mlle. B came over for a little while and as it does the lousiness of relationships came up (in token of which, here's a pretty picture of Abelard and Ëloise's tomb, which I used to live around the corner from). I don't even remember relationships. Just a series of blurs of good sex and bad communication that spun out way too long. Although I'm still not %100 I want to get into that again, all the lousiness talk is starting to bother me. People seem to look for problems - can't mesh their bitchiness anymore, and they take each other's personalities as personal insults. Enough of such shit. I'm still drinking too much. Tonight I'm going to see Rodelinda with a non-drinker. Tenterhooks of joy!

Paul, Paolo, Paul, Paul, Paolo

I realize Paolo Szot is the fifth Pauly-named person I've been somehow hot for. Out of those five I've been involved with three. The other one is not the Saint Paul being converted in the picture. It is, of course, Paul McCartney. Obviously. Poor Paul McCartney. I read in the Italian press that Yoko Ono is picking on him again. Stick to hawking your dead husband's cartoons, Ms. Ono. Maybe poor Mr. McCartney hasn't done anything all that good for 35 years, but helping revolutionize popular music is still a massive fuckload more than you'll ever manage, and at least he tried to write an opera while you just wail and annoy people.

My tummy hurts. I've been drinking too much.

Zorro . . . you got a little something . . . under your nose

Yesterday one of our Clients (and yes, the Clients get a Capital C when they give us Gratuities) handed out passes to an advance screening of the new Zorro movie. I remembered the divine Monsieur M, the only person in my acquaintance finding Antonio Banderas as bitable as me. After work, off we went. No time to go home and get snaked, but plenty of time to get liquored up before we hit the Varsity.

I'm used to good movies and Zorro was crap. Not a shocker - just making the point I'd been spoiled, especially by the fucking sweet-ass Denys Arcand flicks the divine Monsieur F has been showing me, particularly Barbarian Invasions (with Stéphane Rousseau, whose babies I’d love to make, if anyone can set that up). Thus I was let down by the explosive mexploitation crap and the Europhobe, let's-all-be-Americans-together propaganda thrown in to break up shots of Antonio Banderas's bum and Catherine Zeta-Jones' bosom - as if those things needed breaking up. STOP TRYING TO TEACH US, HOLLYWOOD. SHOW US PRETTY PEOPLE BEING NAKED. WE'VE HAD A LONG, LONG DAY.

I think what really disappointed me was not being snaked. But perhaps because I wasn't snaked, I discovered Zorro's secret identity. Crystal. It explains it all. The frenetic dancing; the casual disregard for the laws of gravity and physics; the balletic yet horrific violence; the way he chews on Catherine Zeta-Jones' face when they mack. You don't need to suspend your disbelief; just tell yourself that every time Zorro is off the screen he's hiding behind a cactus doing bumps off a rock. I'm pretty sure now that 'swashbuckle' is an archaic way to say 'snort some crystal'. The most disturbing part of this movie was that his horse and ten year old son also seemed to be on crystal, which I don't morally hold with. But at least it gave the film some emotional depth.

Dead guys

I went to a Tafelmusik performance last Wednesday at a United church. Does anyone know what the United Church is anyways? I get the feeling it's the gumdrops and rainbows and God-sees-the-little-sparrow-fall sort of religion all the other Christians think is for girls. Anyways, the concert was good, except for the wobbly soprano. Rodelinda next week has a famous counter-tenor singing, Daniel Taylor, that will be fun.

And I realized that not only haven't I been to a show that didn't feature music written by guys who have been dead for a long, long time (unless Berg isn't dead yet, which would leave me indifferent), but also I haven't been listening to anything that wasn't written by dead guys or ladies. When someone asked me yesterday if I was going to the Roots concert yesterday, all I could answer was 'uhhmmm - the Roots - with that drummer, yeah - no, early Italian sacred Baroque'. What the hell? The Roots are awesome.

Anyways, I went to Tafelmusik and I'm not sorry. But I think today everything that goes on my iShuffle or whatever the fuck you call that thing will be by people who aren't dead yet. Except Marvin Gaye. He was gorgeous.