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Wednesday, April 14th, 2004
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7:18 am - Am I dead? Oh, wait. This blood is tasty, though.
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You know... I woke up this morning covered in a sticky red mess. I thought that perhaps I had killed a man. With my bare hands. Okay. The gun would have helped a bit. Then I tasted the mess I was in and discovered that I had fallen asleep in the spilled contents of a bottle of cassis. Why would I do such a thing? Well, because last night was Tuesday, obviously. And Tuesday is La Nuit de Cassis. More importantly, it was ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) cinemama's birthday.
Alors! Bon anniversaire, ma chere! If I wasn't stuck in this La Brea Cassis Pit, I would raise my glass to you. I'm sure I did many times last night, but I remember blacking out around the time the other guests were arriving. It seems that I must lick myself clean of this cassis. Oh, such a present! A gift for me! Not like that dumb wireless Playstation2 game controller burkean gave you for your birthday. What a useless gift! It cannot even hold champagne!
What is that I see? Two empty bottles of champagne on the floor? Did I get to drink those? I do hope so. I see there is cake left over. It looks Italian, though, and what do I have to do with Italians? Oh, yes. Their alcohol.
I'm going to go lick myself now.
Au revoir.
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| Wednesday, August 20th, 2003
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1:34 pm - Ma Maison Nouveaux
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| Tuesday, July 15th, 2003
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3:13 pm
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So, today I do not feel so good. Perhaps, I had a little too much fun last night, eh? It was Bastille Day, after all. Cannot a French monkey drink a toast or two to his country? I have not felt like writing lately. It is not that I am unable to physically move myself to the keyboard, but that I have been utterly oppressed by the sheer boredom of burkean's life. I refuse to understand how his internal organs continue to function for him. It is an utter waste. If I had internal organs, they would at least have une raison to revolt. I would hope my liver would lead the charge... if it had strength to move. And that is what Bastille Day is about, yes? Revolt! Tres forte! Ah! But I digress.
cinemama has been quite pleased with herself ever since she saw that puerile pirate movie with its faux swashbuckling and all that Hollywood rubbish. She told me that there was a handsome monkey named Jacques in it as well. I do not care. What does that monkey have on me? I can drink. That monkey canNOT! Stupid sell-out monkey. Too many of our monkey youth try to seek fame and fortune in that California l'etat. But they all end up the same way. Next time you go to California, look on the street corner. There will be the monkeys selling themselves for their next fixe. Pauvre monkey. Slave to the magic. How do you like that organ music and little hat, maintenant, eh?! Not like us Left Bank monkeys. Non! Where was I?
Oh, yes. Drinking!
So we gathered together with branvanfan and his German boyfriend (*ptui*) last nightand had some pain au chocolat and champagne (ha ha! I stole the bottle!) and watched le film, A Man and A Woman. Do not ask me what it was about. I fell asleep on the bookcase after stealing the bottle (ha ha! I stole the bottle! I am SUCH the monkey!). I am funny, no? Shut up! I am not funny.
Merde.
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| Tuesday, May 6th, 2003
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12:20 pm - La Nuit Dernier
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I like parties. sometimes. i wish i were invited to more salons, though. that is a sort of party, is it not? wine? cheese? stimulating intellectual conversation? a low-flying invective which quietly offends one's host here and there? this is the sort of thing that brings me happiness.
but birthday parties for the deceased seem a little strange to me, no? what is so happy? they're DEAD! they cannot eat the birthday cake. they cannot unwrap their birthday gifts. It seems so depressing. All we can end up doing is drinking and feeling sorry for ourselves that this birthday person is no longer here.
.
Well, what's wrong with THAT?!
burkean insisted on celebrating his precious "Soren's" birthday last night. How melodramatic he is! Wearing his black turtleneck sweater, carrying around his "Kierkegaard's Journals" all around the house, that pathetic wistful smile on his face. Comment gauche! Quelle pathetique! I tolerate his behavior, though. But he is German and I am a French monkey so I can not like him too much. I have heard too many tales of German tourists taunting unfortunate caged monkeys at the zoo. Bah. German tourists.
Where was I?
oh yes. So, I cannot stand his whining. And he DARES to pick me up from my shelf where I was just pondering the limits of French patience and plops me down on cinemama's new "Modern" couch that she just oohs and aahs over all the day long. Not only THAT, but he then puts his arm around me and begins to pontificate upon Kierkegaard's "Three Spheres" of existence. Bah. There are two spheres in my world: drunk and getting drunk. And I could tell burkean was already in the first sphere, the damn lush. If there's one thing an alcoholic sockmonkey can tell is another drunk.
But that I looked into his muddied and weepy eyes and - dare I say - I took pity on him. Yes... it was pity for poor burkean. He actually seem affected by some loss I could never know. And then my gaze shifted from his sullen face to his shaking hand.
Absinthe! I felt my lips become parched.
"My deeeeeeearrrrrrrr burkean!" I exclaimed. "I am so sorry for your loss! Let us celebrate la vie de Kierkegaard together! Comme bon amis! Poor me some of that elixer of existentialisme and we will take that leap of faith into oblivion together."
So we sat together and he filled my glass. And upon tasting the devilishly green ambrosia, I realized that it was that faux absinthe, Absente! Blech. It's not called Absent without raison! Bah! Like cheap American BEER, it is!
But I endured in that stoic way we French sockmonkeys do. And I gave him a consoling word and an occasional smile and reassuring nod to keep him thinking that I was paying attention.
Finally, after many drinks, he stumbled off to bed. and left me in peace. Merci Dieu! That confounded burkean and his precious Dane. Do you see the things I endure?
ah, well. we all have our passions and our inspirations. Bon anniversaire, mon ami Kierkegaard! I have you to thank for something in Sartre, at least.
current mood: soused. of course.
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| Monday, February 10th, 2003
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4:43 pm
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If there is one thing that fascinates me, it is how that man who gave the State of the Union Address on the television is able to stand there, in one place, for an hour, without throwing poo at everyone. He talks and talks but seems to say nothing and what he does say seems to make people from Massachusetts very sleepy. Who is this man, you ask? Well, stupid American, YOU picked him! Did you not? Ohhhh. I see, you say that FLORIDA picked him. He is not some orange you pick from a TREE! He is not some piece of tasty fruit you might find in your lunch bowl! Well, you don't have to be nasty about it. It's YOUR judicial system.
Now. I must be French philosopher monkey. *ahem* I SNEER at your politics. It is so... American and gauche. Tocqueville would be ashamed of you. Where are my galloises? So you're going to go to war again, eh? You are like a brutish tourist who decides, instead of taking a picture of Versailles, comes back and tries to BUY it. Why don't you go drive your SUV back to the small backwards Texas town you came from? I am not even going to begin to tell you about your Monsieur Rooomsfeld. He is an, how do you say? IDGIT!
What troubles me is your president and I'll tell you why. No, I'LL tell you why! I am annoyed that people make comparisons of Le President and us monkeys. Well, I'll let you know he's a LIAR! He is no monkey. He is a farce, un faux, a flake! Do you not understand? He is a PARODY of a monkey. A Baudrillardian residue of a monkey! That clever man. He looks harmless. STUPID, even! He takes everything that is intelligent, noble, and cultured about monkeys and rubs his pooey bottom in it. He makes us the laughing stock of the animal kingdom!
But I am not deceived, you see. I know the fascist game that he plays with us. Because he is not his own master. This so-called "leader of the free world" is merely a PUPPET! A PUNCHINELLO! With a masterful hand plugged firmly up his sweaty rectal parts! Come closer. CLOSER! Ack! Not so close. That's better. Listen carefully. I must whisper what I am about to tell you: this president of yours. he is working for the lemurs. SHHHH! Do not laugh! Do you not see, silly American? It’s the EYES! I have it from a reliable source so do not mock me! I cannot reveal who told me this. Only that she is part of Le Resistance! Mon Dieu! I’ve said too much already! You see, the lemurs are against us, we monkeys. Lemurs are the… how did she say it “Le singe du homme pauvre.” Oh, come on. Learn some French, dammeet! The poor man’s monkey!
Your president, this lemur spy will undo everything we monkeys have sought to create over the last sixty years. Out of a desolate and broken Europe, monkey and man came together to rebuild this great European Union. From Gibralter to Germany, we monkeys came forward and created a new society! And now this cheap mockery of a monkey wants to destroy it all for his SUVs and his so-called War on Terror. What is terror? I’ll tell you what is terror! It is that man on the television who is all mouth and no mind of his own! Do not be deceived. He is a scoundrel who is smelly and has poor diction. Have you ever heard a lemur with proper diction? No. And that is why. They are all lies and bad grammar. We must resist! Join the resistance, mes copains! Fight the lemurs and stand up in your café for all that is good and magical! All that is MONKEY!
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| Friday, November 8th, 2002
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3:15 pm - Oh, it's a Pirate's life for me
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 What a beautiful fall day in New Haven. Today I am going out for a bit of a stroll. Except that I can't work up the strength to get off this damned shelf! I stole burkean's Yale ID out of his Badtz Maru wallet this morning while he was listening to New Order in another room. Like taking candy from a baby. With his ID, I can ride the Yale shuttle to the main campus.
Why? You ask.
Because I am on my way to see Dr. Bloom! His first name escapes me... Leopold? Alan? What does it matter! How many Blooms can there be during the autumn in New England? Ha ha. I made a little pun! Was that not funny? Well, then SHUT UP! And listen to my tale.
I have heard that this famed man, Dr. Bloom, has written about this extraordinary thing called "the Western Cannon." Everyone seems to either love or hate him about what he says. I have always wanted to be a pirate on the high seas! Leaping from the crow's nest across the masts of a stolen galleon! The treasure! The lassies! The bananas!
But this one question burns a hole in my squishy brain... Why is called the Western Cannon if it's here on the Eastern Coast? No matter, New Haven has such a LARGE harbor that there is plenty of room for a big pirate ship with its famous cannon.
Now where can I find this man? Where's that blasted school directory?
Yarrrr!
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| Tuesday, October 29th, 2002
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11:40 am - Preparations.
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Finally! It seems that INS has finally deemed in possible that I can leave this shelf. My ass is so sore. This morning, I am packing to leave this place. The cats are driving me nuts. And it's getting oh so cold! burkean leaves the heat off while he's at work. Bastard! I wish that woman had knitted me un anorak. This beret is just not going to cut it.
So I'm gathering things together for my trip. I have heard of this place, "Nouveau Orleans". Perhaps it is a place where I can find other French monkeys. Oo la la! I overheard cinemama say that they serve absinthe there. Enough! I must go.
Tell me, s'il vous plait, where are the places that a handsome sockmonkey such as myself would find a good time in this city? I am no common simian! I expect quality!
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| Tuesday, October 22nd, 2002
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5:48 pm - At the Movies
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It seems that the powers can hardly believe that a sockmonkey such as I would actually request a visa. They keep asking for more proof that I'm a sockmonkey. Patriot Act be damned! I am a citizen sockmonkey! How dare they treat me this way. Bah. It would appear that my traveling has been put on hold.
I recently decided to bide my time and join cinemama in seeing a movie that burkean and some of my many female admirers have been recommending to me. Burkean is an illiterate bastard who not only failed to read my fan mail aloud to me properly, but also clearly knows nothing at all about the world of fine films. We all love a little scary movie occasionally to clean the mental palate, even Monkeydoo. So when burkean tells to me that Wheat Fangs is a movie I would appreciate, I found myself desiring sticky, salty popcorn, vaguely clad nymphs running about screaming for their lives, and lots of my fellow monkeys leaping, pillaging, and killing through midwestern fields of wheat. But NO! Burkean cannot pronounce his French worth a tinker's dam! Not Wheat Fangs, you insipid asshole! 8 Femmes!!!
While 8 Femmes is NOT the scene of simian debauchery I had been hoping for, I was lulled from my anger (enflamed by the horrid little usherman’s refusal to allow me to enter the theater with a beloved bottle of Absinthe) by the dulcet tones of my native France. Ahhh, Catherine, how many years have I longed for you?
This movie, as most of you know, concerns *gasp* eight women of various relations snowbound together within the confines of a luxurious farm estate. A gorgeously filmed murder mystery where, predictably, every character is suspect, and, unpredictably, each gets a song. I was first tempted by the various beautiful flowers paired with each actress's name as the movie began. What could each delicate flower mean? An orchid. A rose. All as voluptuous as the names superimposed upon them. Pivotal and archetypal actresses of France placed with their respective fleur.
But is it over the top? These exotic plants are of brilliant colors and sexual overtures. My fangs began to itch at the fleshy sight of their chewy, supple petals. I have more to say! I cannot allow myself to be tantalized by looking at the cleavage of flowers. At this point in the movie, I begin to have the doubts about the level of simian horror I will encounter. Catherine Deneuve is not far enough in le trou to be starring in a b-movie tale of killing in the midwest. I don't remember seeing her in Signs.
My question is soon answered: of course it’s over the top! The man’s quoting Douglas Sirk, that sly Brechtian, directly with his shots of chandelier crystals on a white background (a la Imitation of Life) and his ornate snow capped country house (All That Heaven Allows). My reader! Do not be soothed into thinking this movie is a mere comedy with silly French pop songs and schmaltz! It is ART and a devious sort as well. Treat this movie lightly and you will leave unsatisfied like eating cotton candy at some seedy country fair. Not that that’s a bad thing…
Beyond the clever references, this film is actively working to deconstruct the very components out of which it is created. That Sirk was a clever boy. Took them almost twenty years to figure out he’d never left Brechtian theater behind, instead translating it to the world of Melodrama. By oversaturating, overacting, overcasting, overemphasizing each element he created a new form of distanciation that takes the viewer right out of the film world into disbelief. I leaned back and smiled each time a new song began and I hear cries of confusion from the audience. Ozon knows exactly from whom he’s stealing.
On the matter of singing... Each woman has her particular number. The genres range from jaunty French pop songs to vampy chantons of seduction. The movie goes to a paricular point, then at almost a plateau where one begins to yawn, there's (of all things) a SONG! The question is were these songs written for the movie or are they old French songs? What do they do to move the movie? They reveal something about the character. Are they always truthful? Are they soliloquies? They are always sung to the audience of the other women, though. What point do they serve?
Class, gender, vice, virtue, greed, scandal. It's all there. But race and politics seem to be left out. At least explicitly. This is my major qualm with the film. Sirk used his methods to critique, whereas I was left with the impression that Ozon was overly clever but with little point. Example: Catherine Deneuve and Fanny Ardant reveal their ulterior motives against a backdrop of falling snow seen through the window behind them. Deneuve is clad in a beautiful blue dress, her white stole wrapped around her. To her right is Ardant, poured into a slinky, sexy red dress. The colors are as plain as a Kieslowski trilogy: blue, white, red. Two great bastions of French culture, two Mariannes even I think (this is a point I must check), the face of France itself. But what does it serve? How does it work with the movie! My monkey brain is full of only soft fluff! How can I fathom such thoughts?! Only one answer – I must see it again.
Wait for me Catherine, Je viens.
current mood:  contemplative
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| Thursday, October 10th, 2002
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12:05 pm - A prisoner no more!
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I'm afraid I've grown soft. A sockmonkey can only stand so much until he begins to slump. And that's exactly what I'm in. A slump. What happened to my life? I used to have it all! The parties! The drinking! Women would sweep me into their arms and press me against their beautiful bosoms. Going to salons every night. People would hang upon my every word. Heated debates over quantum physics and Process thought in the parlors of the social elite. Knowing winks across crowded ballrooms to closeted queens masquerading as ambassadors of Scandavian governments. The geishas. Ah, the geishas! Domo... DOMO arigato, my precious dears. How low can I bow my head in utter gratitude and humility?
I was a monkey of ENVY! And all I have now is a coffee cup of emptiness and soul full of yearning for - what? I cannot know! My heart suffers that soft, thick malignancy of ennui.
Days and nights. The same thing. I've chased away all my friends. My roommates avoid me. I've become bitter. Snide. Cold. Even the cats don't inspect me, sniffing the way they do. This isn't me. I used to be so full of love. So much joy!
Ye gods! Where is that love? I must find go out and find it! I must travel.
I will not let a crass culture get the best of me, Monkeydoo! I am too French for this!
Enough! We must pack
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