c'est la langue d'amour, n'est-ce pas?

Spaz-Tastic and I have been on a pretty awesome French kick lately. Today, at the Fillin’ Station, the barista was playing Carla Bruni, a French/Italian model/singer – wonderful voice. Check out the video Spaz posted (voila les Belles Parasites). As for me, I have another gem. D33p showed this to me and Gangles in the office the other day – it’s beautiful. Bonnie and Clyde, by Serge Gainsbourg, performed by him and Brigitte Bardot. The song, the style, the poses – I love it. Here it is, and following it is a semi-good translation (I did what I could and then had Gangles help me with the rest). Enjoy!



You have read the history
Of Jesse James
How he lived
How he died
You liked it, yes?
You ask for more?
So, all right:
Listen to the story
Of Bonnie and Clyde

So here it goes:
Clyde has a girlfriend
She is beautiful, and her first name
Is Bonnie
The two of them, they form
The Barrow gang
Their names:
Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow

Bonnie and Clyde
Bonnie and Clyde

(Bonnie:) Me, when I knew Clyde
in another time, back in the day
He was a loyal guy
Honest and straight
(Clyde:) You have to believe
That it is society
That has definitely damaged me

Bonnie and Clyde
Bonnie and Clyde

That which has not yet been written
About her and me:
They pretend that we kill
in cold blood
This is not funny,
But it is of course necessary
To shut up
The one who starts talking out of his ass

Bonnie and Clyde
Bonnie and Clyde

Every time that a policeman
gets offed,
That a garage or that a bank
Is broken into,
For the police,
There is no mystery
It is signed Clyde Barrow
Bonnie Parker

Bonnie and Clyde
Bonnie and Clyde

Now, every time
That we try to pull ourselves together,
to move in, nice and cool, take it easy
In a new apartment,
Within three days
Comes the tap tap tap
Of the automatic rifles
That have taken up the attack again

Bonnie and Clyde
Bonnie and Clyde

Soon,
We fall together
Me, I don’t give a shit
It is for Bonnie that I tremble.
What does it matter
If I’ll lose my skin?
Me, Bonnie,
I tremble for Clyde Barrow.

Bonnie and Clyde
Bonnie and Clyde

In any case,
They could no longer gracefully escape the mess
The only solution
Was to die
But more than one man followed them
To hell
When died
Barrow and Bonnie Parker

Bonnie and Clyde
Bonnie and Clyde


I checked with Gangles - that last "when died" is a really high-falutin' Frenchy-style construction where they flip the subject and verb; I might also translate it "When they died: Barrow . . . " Quelle romance, non?

Plagiarist!

I wish I could remember where I first saw these - I'd give credit where it's due.

But, plagiarism aside, here are two of my all-time favorite valentines.

First, for all the nihilists in my life, especially those of you busy burning down Flintown -

Nihilists never say yes. Jerks. But here's the best, straight from the Old Testament:

What a cute little tail. No, not you - the pig.

Happy VD (it hurts to pee)

Last night, Spaz and I were headed over to the Sugar Room to meet the Philosopher-King, who had finally gotten back his photos of Spaz. We had just made it downtown when Spaz got a call from Farm Boy: where are you and Lizard? Stay in your car and wait for me. We complied, and a few minutes later, Farm Boy picked us up in a LIMO! LIMO LIMO LIMO!!!!! !!! !! ! !

Yes, the exclamation points (in reverse Fibonacci) are worth it – the inside of a limousine is fantastic. Farm Boy even had on a suit (that he owns, no less) and a chauffeur’s cap (he was, after all, the driver). He came out into the cold and opened the door for Spaz and me. Spiffy. Then the fun started. Imagine, if you have the stamina, the two of us swimming in the back of a limo, breathing in leather, bouncing from window to window, figuring out what all the controls do. We had an intercom, mood lighting, TV/VCR/DVD, mints, ice – everything one might need for a night on the town. Get this: there’s even a strobe light control! It would have been so romantic – if only we were dating. Pictures may be forthcoming.

After that, Farm Boy dropped us off, and we glowed our way into the Sugar Room. Then it was whiskey, limericks again (yay!), and more heavy breathing from the Philosopher-King (ergh). And tonight: HORRIFYING LINGERIE! We may get to see an interactive alligator (crocodile?) thong and Farm Boy in a boa.

Rock.

How much better? So much better.

I moved a lot as a young person. Lots and lots and lots. Well, not like an army brat, but I had lived in something near eleven places before college – most of these within a seven-year span. So for much of my early life, I was alone but for my family. Not to knock my family – they’re great – but I assumed that, having always been pretty much alone, I would always be pretty much alone. My pre-Flint life was a litany of towns and names to remember but never to return to. That’s why it came as a shock when I started to make friends. I didn’t really trust much of the initial approach/retreat (think of a golden retriever puppy faced with a balloon), but I eventually made some lasting friends. Overall, I decided, friendship was worth it – was worth the changed living patterns and the lack of family time, was worth even the ache of distance.

So to try to explain this post, the last few hours have given me enough of something – I can't define what – to endure another few weeks of Monday night class. I have become a social(ish) person; I know people now whom I want to know for the rest of my life. I don’t know quite how to deal with this, but I’ll figure it out. I’m glad to no longer live in relative isolation. It is a strange new thing, and I still get pretty awkward at times. I suppose this is one of those times: an official thank-you to everyone who’s been there at the bar, be it Paddy McGee’s (bonjour, Indiana Dribbler and Puppet-Master), The Torch (Bionda, Boxer, Welshman, Jesus with a Toothpick), McGoff’s (tonight’s shout goes to Quest, D33p, and Penguin, but so many of you are missing - Atalanta, Baller), or elsewhere; at the apartment, whether the attic, the house (like the new sink, Gangles?), or the quad on Third; in the office (Casey, Spaz, and Speardane, I just found a picture of the fly-swatted fairy), the roadie room, or the booth at UMF (Tommy, I hope Wayne State is treating you well). Plus, more of you who aren’t named here – maybe I forgot, maybe I don’t have a nickname for you yet, but please don’t be offended. All of you I miss or will miss more than I can explain even to myself; to some of you I owe more than my life. Maybe tomorrow I’ll look at this post, decide it’s too maudlin, and kill it, but for now, I don’t know how I would make it through this world without these connections, no matter how strained by time and distance. I know I can make it on my own, but I no longer want to. Thanks to everyone who’s ever laughed or complained with me. For those of you who have left or who are about to leave, I hope we meet again.

And I'm not drunk.

Venice is Doomed.

Thanks to global warming, Venice will soon no longer be made of canals and islands – it will be made of water. Penguins are also doomed. While I was home for Christmas, my dad and I heard about an ice shelf the size of Jamaica that had broken off of Antarctica and floated out to sea. Then the currents, winds, whatever shifted, and the ice shelf slammed back into the continent, throwing up a range of ice mountains and opening huge crevasses. The penguins that were in the interior at the time were trapped there and couldn’t get to food; the penguins that were out to sea couldn’t get back to the colony. All these penguins kept trying to get from one side to another and falling in the crevasses and dying. The penguin bodies were just piling up and piling up, filling these crevasses. The scientists think this will be an extinction event. Goodbye, Antarctic emperor penguins.

Strange Bedfellows (or, Compromised Integrity)

When I stumbled home on Thursday night, the indoor temperature was 58 and dropping. My first thoughts were Bastards! I thought it was illegal to shut the gas off in winter. I realized it was February and wondered if the law only held through January. I was pretty perturbed, I tell you. Thursday and Friday nights were spent huddling under the covers with a dog on the right and an ex on the left. It was the only way. I feel a little weird and on edge today. Dirty.

We did find out, though, that our gas was not turned off after all (and now that we’ve been paid, we’re in no danger of that – see, at our old apartment gas wasn’t a separate bill, so we didn’t realize we were missing one, so it never was put in our names, so we ended up with a $300 bill and a letter saying if you don’t pay this, they will shut your gas off, but it’s all better now) – it appears that something in our furnace shorted out and blew a fuse, so the guy showed up, fiddled around for a while, replaced something, and HEAT AGAIN! SWEET ZEPHYRS OF SPRING! I CAN FEEL MY TOES!

In the “Even Better” file, our sink fell off the wall yesterday. I was woken up by muffled yells. I thought, What does Ivan have in his mouth? I rushed to the bathroom to find him, toothbrush clenched between his teeth, holding the sink up as the water glooshed out the missing drainpipe and onto the floor. Then it was time to play the what do we have that will fit under the sink? game – the laundry hamper was too tall, the stool was too short – because the two water feeds were still connected, and if they’d broken, it would have been water eeeerrrrrvrywhere. It turns out that our sink was connected to the wall only by glue. Glue! No screws or bolts or brackets. I’m as big a fan of glue as anyone – perhaps bigger – but I’d try something a little more substantial. My theory? The drainpipe was an integral part of the sink’s support system, and when the plumber replaced the old pipe about two months ago, he put in a new pipe that was a few millimeters shorter, thus weakening the substructure. This compromised integrity put undue strain on the glue until it eventually gave out, dropping the sink into Ivan’s surprised lap. I finally busted into the Ganglebot’s room and found an adjustable office chair – this is now holding up the defunct sink.

Speaking of compromised integrity . . . I may have miscalculated (simple addition! I used to be a math major, I swear!) my credits. I might be able to pick something up this late, but it’s possible that I would be required to do another semester. If this is so, I think I’ll just stop. Not do the program any more. Maybe they’ll still let me teach my class – maybe not. I really don’t care at this point. Time to wait till tomorrow to think about things – otherwise, life looks a little too bleak right now.

Plus, there weren’t any good commercials last night. Though Prince was mesmerizing. Well, mesmerizing-ish. I didn’t stick around to see the big white sheet/Purple Rain/phallic guitar thing – phooey. I hear it was fantastic. Fabulous, even.

Anyone for a drink?

Wait – I did see the Tim Malloys (“We’re just a comedy act. But with moustaches.”) on Friday night. Yay! Sweet memory. This is my happy place.