Monday, April 28, 2003

I can't wash you off my skin. I was hoping that I'd be able to offer a lovely retrospective of the French films I've viewed this semester, replete with voluptuous scenes of courtly life in the 18th century and gorgeously erotic sex scenes. Instead, I offer an examination of decent into crappiness.

We begin with the most spine-tingling scene that has ever been filmed, complete with red velvet, candlelight and orgasms. The movie itself leaves much to be desired, but see it just for Madame de Montespan's obvious joy.

Le roi danse. Parfait.

Next, we descend into mediocrity with an oafish Gerard Depardieu and Uma Thurman attempting to portray a marquise. Riiiiight. Nevertheless, this movie is positively sumptuous and made me very hungry. It also made me wish I was king.

Vatel. Belle.

Last, we encounter a movie with absolutely no redeeming value. A cryptic plot, an ugly actress (who I did not want to see washing her genitals after sex or bathing in blood), self-flagellation, and nuns. Don't forget the pretty blond chick who dies and her crazy friend with piercing blue eyes who can't ride a horse to save her life (literally). I wished I could have married the 73-year-old like the busty chick to escape this horror of a film.
Saint-Cyr. Terrible.

All in all, see them for the scenery, not for the substance.

Not a chill to the window but a little to the air. My hair barette has acquired the obnoxious habit of popping open unexpectedly, smacking me in the back of the head, and scaring the fuck out of me in the process. Bah. Just what I need.

I'm in the process of furiously pounding out a draft for WOST at 1:30 p.m. Dear lord, my head just might explode. I am very nervous.

I have to watch a movie for French at 6:30 p.m. If it's anything like Le roi danse there will be lovely photos to accompany it. Perhaps I shall do an entire retrospective of erotic Louis XIV-themed films, although Vatel was sorely lacking in this department. Uma Thurman is just not arousing.

Rediscover Sublime's 40 oz. to Freedom. You'll thank yourself.

Friday, April 25, 2003

My sweetest friend. On an adorable note:

I love when I wake up and you are beside me

Tuesday, April 22, 2003

Shake up your bones. Because I got very carried away with myself, I'm tempted to excerpt part of an e-mail I just wrote. It's quite amusing.

I suppose that finals aren't compatible with happiness, you know? If they were, they'd call them...Joyals or Funals. Yes, funals would be a definite improvement. The professors would hand out ice cream that would make you lose weight and there'd be a carnival with wiener dogs as prizes and there would be one question: "2+2=?" And then you'd be dismissed with a guaranteed A. And then we could make love for the rest of the day in a big, canopy bed with beautiful white cotton sheets in Paris with French doors that opened out to a balcony with a view of the Tour Eiffel. And I'd be wearing a white, silk slip that made me look sinuous yet smooth and I'd be so beautiful. You'd just be naked (It's my fantasy, I say you're naked). and it would be very breezy and the air would smell fresh. Mmmm.....

I'm nothing if not romantic. But you have to admit, that's a truly fantastic reverie.

Monday, April 21, 2003

Waiting for the eastern glow. Such a nice goodbye:
Grunge: Sweet dreams then sweet lady.
Me: Thank you. That was rather lovely.
Grunge: Then it was appropriate.

Sunday, April 20, 2003

Send me on my way. I've been informed by a certain someone that my blog sucks. I shall thus try to amend this horrible offense.

G. Ba and I took a walk around the lake today. I finally got a picture of myself in front of one of the topiaries. I now feel complete. We stumbled upon this very strange "sculpture" in the woods that from far away looked like the foundation for a small shack, but contained a mixture of shaped stone and metal. It's absolutely indescribable and very strange. We can't figure out why it's there. Anyone know? We also walked around the rejuvinated wetlands, which has this channeled, fast-flowing stream running along side it. I think it should be turned into a log flume, myself. I think that W. would be infinitely better with a log flume, don't you?

And now, time to keep aliens away from my fishand then to read about sexual harassment. I lead quite the thrilling life, you know?

Sunday, April 13, 2003

Joy to the fishies in the deep blue sea.
Le Poisson: Pourquoi est-ce que tu m'aime?
Le Sel: Tu as une jolie tu es jolie quand tu joues dans la mer avec tous les autres poissons.

Tuesday, April 08, 2003

For crap's sake! It's April! It shouldn't be snowing. Didn't God get the memo?

Dear lord. Tori Amos is covering Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit"...*shiver*

Monday, April 07, 2003

Acceptance. I am a sugar junky. There's no use trying to deny it any longer. It is the truth. As a result of this revelation, I'm actively trying to cut back and eventually ween myself completely off of all sweets. As you might have guessed, I am subsequently going through severe withdrawl. I got the shakes, man... well no, not that serious. But I am craving chocolate like nobody's business, and I have a feeling it's directly contributing to my intense sleepiness at the moment.

Consequently, I shall now become a caffeine addict like the rest of America. Why can't I just be a sex addict like a normal person? It'd be a much more enjoyable activity to pursue, and I'd burn calories in the process ;-)

Phrase of the day: "Sweet Lucifer's fistula." I stumbled upon it while wasting time on the Institute of Official Cheer's website. Descriptive, no? Try to use it in a sentence today. I'm sure you'll make some very special new friends if you do.

In passing, the minute I read the word "fistula" I immediately thought of Lous XIV. I am such a Frenchie.

Thursday, April 03, 2003

Hilarity. I've been meaning to post this photograph for ages. I think it's absolutely hysterical. Check out the Institute of Official Cheer for more vintage ridiculousness.

FutureDog! Dog of The Future! One of those dreadful 60s glimpses into the world to come, when bouffanted women would stuff Asta in a plastic crypt when they were off slamming MaiTais and smoking Silva Thins. The poor dog is even wearing a cape, which is even more mortifying. Dogs do not want to wear capes. Dogs are not interested in the future.

The writing on the bottom of the cage, incidentally, says "Patent Pending." What possible patent could they have for this device? A new way of making dogs find it impossible to get comfortable?