Housebound

Going out last night was a mistake. Not that it wasn't nice; much better music than the last time, much better decor, and got to see Gigi and Lady win Sexiest Couple award. But I should know by now that if I can't even speak without swigging from the Buckley's bottle, no matter how absolutely fine I feel, I shouldn't be going out. I left at 2, went to bed, and woke up an hour later incapable of breathing in without exhaling a coughing fit. When I woke up definitively, starlings were huddled for warmth outside my bedroom window. So I'm not going out at all today - going to cook something with reefer in it, play with the keyboard, but mostly continue the ongoing French immersion project, courtesy of a few loans, gifts, and purchases seperate from my thesis advisor's increasingly interesting books:

1. Food. Tortiére, to be specific. Gigi went vegetarian and gave me a tortiére someone had given him, which had been sitting in my freezer until now, since I haven't had the fucking time to stay in my apartment long enough to defrost it and make it yummy. It looks sooooooooooooo good.

2. Music. Karina Gauvin singing French songs arranged or something by Canteloube. They're traditionals from Auvergne in a pretty heady dialect, so fucked if I have any idea what she's singing about, but my oh my it's pretty. Gigi had also copied Carla Bruni's first album onto my Shuffle - lost when I decided on a soul soundtrack for last night's commuting. I'll get it again because I liked it, which surprised me. I'd thought the hugely popular title track, Quelqu'un m'a dit, was cute - she has an adorable raspy little voice - but sappy; wasn't interested in getting the album. Turns out as a whole it doesn't feel sappy. It recalls those bizarre half-hours when you're right chemically fucked up, and crawl into bed only to have an unexpected burst of clarity, creativity and emotion that usually gets murmured into your pillow or the ear of someone even more fucked up than you are because you're too physically exhausted to get up and find a pen. And considering Carla Bruni is a retired supermodel, that's probably more or less what happened. Except she was clever enough to keep a pen in arm's reach.

Anyways, I like her lyrics a lot, but maybe someone more used to French lyricism wouldn't. Who knows. The more I listen to French music the more I get the impression the lyrics dominate, but that might just be the nature of the stuff that's crossed my path or the fact that I haven't been really struck by English lyrics lately. Yesterday Mr. N told me to expect some Benjamin Biolay, which he thinks I'll like. Mr. N is usually right about me liking things.

3. Screen. Les Dangereux - I watched the first 15 minutes and it looks like complete shit. But, you know, it has Stéphane Rousseau in it. Lady also lent me a Québec series called Grande Ourse - I've watched the first of 10 episodes. It's a difficult format, going for the twee-small-town creepy, you know? Twin Peaks didn't manage it consistently and it looks like this doesn't either. But it has some nice visual gags and whatevs, it's practice.

UPDATE

Would someone please give Silvio Berlusconi something to eat? His blood sugar levels are way off again . . . the man is just fucking monumental. I'd love to set up a timeline of the dumbest things he's ever said and work out if they're conscious efforts to distract the world from some really contentious but essentially forgettable issue, like the cartoon fiasco; you know, get everybody to throw down their arms just to smack themselves exasperatedly on the forehead and mutter, 'Well, that's Silvio.' One way or the other, the man is a living joke.