I see you baby

When I listen to Mozart, I feel like I'm full of little splinters I'd forgotten about that are being painlessly pulled out. The concert was a series of pieces he'd written for specific singers, sang by three Canadian singers with similar strengths. Karina Gauvin, the soprano, was fucking divine. Gigi gave me a CD of her singing Handel - listening to her sing 'Barbara' right now. So clean, so beautiful, like Handel should be. Yet not even Handel gives me that sensation of something bad being taken out.

The songs were interspersed with Colm Feore reading passages from Mozart's correspondence with his singers, his father, and his wife. Mozart wrote a pretty fucking solid dirty letter. Teasing, funny and filthy. As soon as I stopped laughing at it I got a lousy voyeuristic feeling, though. This was a unparalleled genius who could knit reality together in the most beautiful way, and suddenly a sold-out concert hall is laughing (on his 250th birthday no less) at a dirty letter he wrote to his wife? Seems hellish in a way. Perhaps he wouldn't have minded.

I wonder why we don't mind. Why are the lives of the famous open season to us? Is it a fascination with the creative process, and some instinctual or unconscious equation of celebrity with creativity? Is it cool to hear Mozart's pet name for his wife's snatch in a super-public forum because we need to understand as much as we can about a man who could do the almost supernatural things he did? And does whatever emotion that allows that have any relationship with what allows us to be interested in the marital dynamic of Spederline? Or is it just sheer nasty schadenfreude, consoling ourselves about not being rich and famous?

Hmmm. Went from dirty Austrians to dirty Americans with the late-late showing of the Scientology episode of South Park. This episode was banned in the United Kingdom and may not re-air in the United States due to the efforts of poor Tom Cruise. It was a Mormon episode style exposé of the belief system, but much less gentle. This one was one-flying-bird in the face of Scientology. Closeted-Tom-Cruise was the least of it, although that was funny enough to almost pee over. Splashing out the 'secrets' of Scientology and the dare to sue at the end. . . I bet the Tom Cruise brou-hah-hah was no more than a device to spin attention away from the Scientology exposé. Although it would be socially interesting if it really was about someone trying desperately to stop any suggestions he's gay. He may be the last A-list actor this gets to be some crazy issue with, if our society keeps evolving towards Renton's vision of 'no men, no women, just wankers' from Trainspotting. Must be frustrating for him.

But, you know, fuck him. What can I say. Both Trey Parker or Matt Stone are - what they are. Which is something I don't have words for. Something really fucking awesome. They have balls, and their balls make me laugh. Is there anything more lovable than that? Besides baby penguins and Lady's dealer.

Love notwithstanding, I'm still not getting television in my own place. My goodnight spliff last night in front of Bravo saw a video of Dolly Parton covering John Lennon's Imagine. Oh Dolly. I love you, but I think I'll just listen to Jolene again. It also saw that Il Divo's two albums are occupying the top two spots on the 'classical' charts. I can feel the bile rising in my throat. But maybe that's from having to work today to prepare for Wednesday's transfer. Oh well. Tonight should be fun.