I'm listening to the Charlotte Gainsbourg album written for her by Air and Jarvis Cocker. It's pretty, but her voice hasn't come a long way since "Zeste de Citron." I like the sorts of albums French actresses release but apparently I don't like them enough to buy them, since I resent her voice's presence on an otherwise honestly good album. Lucky ho, except she got to be Serge Gainsbourg's daughter, which isn't really a fate I would wish on anybody. Well, maybe in private he was a really nice, even-keeled guy. Who knows, when it comes to people who end off their lives famous for being famous.
Did I mention I stopped looking at gossip sites? There were two on one day that made fun of a girl actress my neice's age so I just couldn't rationalize my own voyeurism anymore.
Gah . . . instead I'm ploughing through Robert Hughes' memoirs, Things I Didn't Know, and I must say it's craptastic. He finds something nasty to say about anyone, including people he otherwise claims are inoffensive or well-loved, and unlike in his art criticism seems incapable of giving it a context or placing it in a coherent structre - so many fucking textual loopdy-loops which add nothing - makes Katherine Hepburn's Me look like Jane Eyre. I thought asking for a review copy of this book would be like asking for a steak dinner at Boba's; what I've been delivered on a plate are new uppers for my Blundstones made out of rancid, bitter whale blubber.
And if that sounds over the top - my god - you should read this man discuss his sexual life. According to photographic evidence he was attractive when he was young, and hopefully a little less hard-boiled then, because his discussion of what he's sure living in a homo-erotic boarding school DIDN'T do to him is enough to pull the plug on a bathtub full of female sexuality. After reading about 150 pages of him last night, it took me fuckin' minutes to get into the mood.
Anyways, I'll finish it off and try not to hate it. Maybe he'll magically pull everything together when he starts writing about not being in Australia anymore. I doubt it though. He started these memoirs in a spirit of bitterness and - textually and stylistically - it shows. Not in a fun way, either.