Back to work. Back to madness. Could somebody please give me a job washing oil spills off of or lobbying for cute, preferably house-broken baby seals? Are you reading, Bri-Bri? I'm a misanthrope too! And on an ideological level it doesn't bother me at all that Jane Birkin faked an orgasm way better than you on 'Je t'aime (moi non plus)'.

Serge Gainsbourg is starting to freak me out, by the way. I heard 'Lemon Incest' for the first time this weekend (I bought a Serie Masters compilation of his in tandem with the Blossom Dearie) - his duet with Charlotte, who I believe is his daughter by Jane - and, well. Fucked-up shit. 'Love on the Beat' is also fucked up, though rather less so. It's pretty hard to tell if the noises in the background are happy or not. Man. Serge Gainsbourg.

Tonight Gigi and I are going to see an opera/dance production called Yours to Break. Looks pretty horny. Eyes on the prize, La Spliffe, eyes on the prize. You work, you get money, you can afford to go to experimental erotic opera/dance productions. Television is for the birds. Movies are too, sorta. Last night I punked out of my glossary and watched Downfall instead. It was good, but, blahhhh. How many uber-realistic movies have come out about the Third Reich now that humanize the perps? Maybe I watched this too soon after watching Conspiracy. Even though that was a good year ago. What can I say - sometimes I get the feeling certain things should remain incomprehensible to the world. That's probably naive. Yeah, that's naive. Oh well.

Work. Time. Boo.