Wilbo has a Smattering of French Philosophy and Culture

Hi M,

I texted you (I didn't get your text until afternoon Thursday) something about "Vous desiree fracoise lengues. Soiree Musique la Noche", which is pidgin French for "Do you want French words? A musical evening this night." What this meant is I was going to hear Les Sans Culottes, an American band who sings French language songs in a 1970s Mod style. The band was playing at Spaceland (my gawd, what a dump, but geeze how the LA gamines outfit themselves to head-bang there. As for the carpet, I've never seen so much duct tape holding worn patches together ! You can find the lyrics with translations on the website; such good source material for my favorite French student. Let me know if I can bring you some croissants to help you study, or some vin.

http://www.lessansculotte.com/

J is the other email address on this note, and he's a transplanted Detroiter too. Alas, the Culottes didn't go on (I mean on STAGE) until 11:30 PM, and I'm a newbie on the job arising at 5:30 AM. So silly, disengaged, full-of-bad-faith me, I drove homeward. (Or in this case, hotelward).

But looking back this morning, like Jean Paul Satre, I had radical freedom to declare sleep empty and meaningless and and to nihilate my bourgeoisie concerns of earning money and paying bills. Had I evoked authenticity, I would have stayed all night to rock out to French rock and roll with J. If only you were there in the role of Simone De Beauvoir, Satre's companion and philosophical mother of feminism, who her friends called "The Beaver" because she worked so hard. But then again, I would be casting you in the role of The Other. Simone don't like it. Rocking the Sorbonne. Rocking the Sorbonne.

I want you to meet J soon (and J, every life is worth a M or a life isn't a life. M = Adorable). J has his mom out to the coast for Easter, and he was strolling the walkway of stars with her when we finally tagged up (and I was being inauthentic and driving home to sleep like the Midwestern loser I pretend to be).

And then he took her to Spaceland to rock out with all the Hollywood Hotties, his mom the foremost hottie. I've never rocked out with my mom, bummer. But that is a sign of my lack of engagement in my life, another existential criticism of my life.

J is an executive, but he is also a comedian. Sadly, he has an impediment. He has the perfect mom. Imagine setting up a joke as such, "My mom is so perfect ... Audience: "How perfect is she?"

Wilbo

We're Off to See the Beaver...