argh!

I wrote a very detailed post explaining my long absence, but the good lord took it away from me, perhaps because he resented its utter uselessness. So, here's the big mystery: during a day trip last Sunday (very early in the Feb vacation) I fucked up my knee really badly. As in, my knee cap made this nasty cracking noise and veered alarmingly to the left.

This meant that I had to live out my great fear of dealing with doctors and shit in France, made worse by the fact that I have not finalized my social security. Wheee! The best part was the doctor telling me I need to go to 20 physical therapy appointments. I, like, can't wait! He didn't even prescribe me not working, which was the main reason I fawking WENT to the doctor (that and the unimaginable pain and semi-immobilization, of course).

Not a good time to run out of that terrible hash I bought on the street.

Anyway, so this vacation sucks and I'm crabby as fuck but I have been reading a lot, which has been good. I finished Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell (awesome) at long last, as well as The Line of Beauty, which I thought was insufferable CRAP. I mean, is it SO much to ask for a really great gay novel in this century? Obviously, it was a literary affirmative action kind of a year at the Mann Booker Prize office. I really, really hated this book, seriously - it's symbollic of everything that is wrong with modern gay fiction: jejunosity and superficiality of its characters, completely un-compelling storyline, writing that tries to be showy and intellectual in all the wrong ways. Throw in silly, omnipresent British emotional restraint and presto! I knew it was over when it was revealed the the title comes from something by Hogarth. Yech! Maybe it was some kind of homage to James, but as a novel I thought it was especially bad. Or rather it came into conflict with every principle that defines good writing and good storytelling in my overly analytical opinion.

Sorry, I had to publically hate on that book. However, if you are looking for great gay novels and have not yet read Giovanni's Room or Dancer from the Dance, get thee to a bookstore toute suite!

In a totally unrelated note, I had the CRAZIEST codeine dream last night/this morning. It involved me seducing my sweet Espagnole Magui and us playing video games, small dogs eatting out of people's ears, me making out with my friend Marie's husband quite lasciviously, among other freakish details.

Anyway, now it's back to my room for a little Six Feet Under with commentary and curling up with another, hopefully better book.

strange cultural experiences...

Really, I want to hone in on just one, because it was so fucking weird I feel it deserves its own entry. I speak, naturally, of the Superbowl. Precursor: my friends from Brest paid the gentle hamlet of Morlaix a visit, which was awesome - one definitely notices the charms of one's boring town in the presence of those who have never seen it - but they invited me to come back to watch the Superbowl. And as perhaps many of you know, I have serious reservations about using the word no. Especially when I'm having fun with my out of towners, ever an experience that I have trouble terminating at an appropriate time. That is to say, at a time that allows me to be at work on time. Only I am skilled enough to skyrocket to such heights of mediocrity and unreliability. Truly, it is a gift.

Anyway, I went with my five other Americans way out into the wilds of Brest, to a hospital. In the middle of a foggy midnight. We were looking for the med student dormitory, where the Superbowl magic was scheduled to happen. This is due to the fact that another assistant's husband was a med student, so they invited us to come chill out in the superior pad. And superior it was, in its own way...

The thing that seemed bizarre from the get-go was the preponderance of pornographic murals. Large scale, sword-cocked orgies; quite crudely portrayed. We were told later that the faces were meant to be those of higher-ups at the hospital whom the interns hated. I am not really certain if this was in response to the med student strike (yeah, truly, everyone must strike here) or whether it was a normal part of the doctor/intern relationship in France. Both seem equally possible.

Also bizarre: between this event and the wine harvest I did three years ago, I have met quite a few medical students. Let's say...40 total. Of these 40, 35 smoke. 27 of those 35 smoke around the clock. Obviously, as a smoker, it is unfair for me to point fingers in accusation of my fellows, but...come on?! That's like a public defender moonlighting as a serial rapist! These lads were no exception.

So, we sat down to watch the Superbowl on Canal Plus, drinking grossly unrefridgerated kegbeer and munching on frog-chips (surely inferior to their American counterparts). And then it began.

Let me remind you of one thing: this is a homo blogging at you right now. I am not, generally, what could be described as 'someone who gives a flying fuck about football.'

So, you can imagine my reasons for watching are as follows: checking out hot pro athletes (mmmm...Tom Brady...), listening to/making fun of the professional commentators, watching the commercial and generally soaking up the spectacle.

Of course, the commentators spoke French. Even though the amount of Americans watching the Superbowl in France are probably twice the number of French people watching, especially given the hour (12:30-5:00 am).

Additionally, there were actually no commercials. At all. It was a completely commercial free affair, for four fucking hours. Phew! Unless you count the halftime show. And if by 'commercial' you really meant 'angrily flung monkey dung' I would agree with that classification of the halftime show.

So, it was pretty much a bunch of people with various degrees of French competency making fun of what was being said. For example, he kept on saying something about defensé, the defense (duh) but it sounded to me exactly like defoncé, which means high/fucked up. I giggled. One of the announcers was an American packing some crazy strong Des Moines style accent, which we all laughed at - we, who are ever freaked out by the occasional uglinesses of our accents, must have someone to tear down and feel better about ourselves. It's just how the world works!

I felt like the obstacle of trying to understand the commentary kind of brought everyone to the same level, so those of us who knew jack shit about football americain (me!) were in good company. There was one lad among us who didn't speak French, even, but methinks he understood it well enough.

It was kind of hilarious, we were fortunately free to chainsmoke without having to take leave of the building (always a pleasure) and generally the med students left us to our cultural savagery, preferring to play high-stakes foosball and/or hang out next to the porn murals.

And that completes this entry in the secret diary of weird cultural experience.

Final thought: If I can convince my excellent Welsh collegue to take my class on Friday afternoon, I will officially be on vacation. As of half an hour ago. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!