Sometimes the life of a monsieur is fraught with difficulties, vagueness and downright obfuscation. At least, thats what it seems like anyway.
Being the very epitome of a monsieur, and also being named after one by my creators, I admit to feeling a certain sense of Monsieurness every time I open my eyes in the evening and lay my head down the next time I choose to do the thing they call "sleep". And being a Monsieur, this is the perfect weather to indulge in some like activities. The future, it seems is spray painted in bright neon taggers letters "Here". That is, it's happening as we speak and being gobbled up by the monster they call Past as we stand. After this last month of busyness in my Monsieur like grind house of creativity and salty sweat, I must say that being busy really is the key to self fulfillment in these days of economic uncertainty. Well, it's always been the way to self fulfillment, and sometimes I find it's best not to know what is going on in the world outside and concentrate on your own existence for a while.
This month has been very similar to a crash course in seasonal disorders, with ideas and concepts flying backwards and forwards around my cranium like a poltergeists bar brawl. Feels good, too, to be creative and busy. Some would argue that the difference between creativity and actual work is the clean needle supplier in your neighborhood, and they'd be wrong. If you apply yourself well enough, creativity can become an avenue to prosperity and freedom. Every Monsieur knows this to be a fact, and tries to be true to themselves and their latent creativity. In Paris, it's called being French, and everywhere else it has different meanings entirely. But in my world it's called being a Monsieur.
Le Monsieur
Saturday 30 January 2010
Friday 1 January 2010
A Pessimistic New Year.
Le Monsieur wants to say Happy New Year to you all, but pessimism is overtaking his nsul like Triffids in London .
My friend Seba Rashii, he's so cheerful, so people tell me. "Why can't you be like him?" People say to me. "Sacre bleu!" I spit into these people's faces, and say "I am a Monsieur! Le Monsieur is not a cheerful person, he is a culturally over sensitive critic with a hate for everything modern. How you can expect me to be cheerful when the world is drowning in balloons and fireworks?" This Seba Rashii, my friend, he write often they say for his loyal readers, and "why you not do that?" they ask me as if I am Le President of the world. If Seba Rashii has the time for writing so much, I say he should write my blog for me!
Yes, whilst I'm out at art galleries snorting over my coffin nails and sipping wine less than delicately, the unrelenting pessimism of the art critic can never be seen to lapse. The imperative points are that nothing is original and wine is the only thing of importance, because it's that which gets the pained critique through the galleries corridors in the first place. Yes, when you hear us praise the fearless individualism of a painting or work, we are in fact saying this about everything we see. Art critics are cunts, you see. Their noses are bent from turning them up all the time. Unless it's Van Gogh, you may as well give up trying to impress these classically trained soul vacuums.
I hear this Seba is an artisan with words and I must go now now to criticize his work before he reads this and sends his Sebalitia over to my studio to arrest me for treason. You think it's Seba World? Is more like Seba Dictatorship! I have heard that listening to The Beatles will get you executed..
Happy New Year,
Le Monsieur.
My friend Seba Rashii, he's so cheerful, so people tell me. "Why can't you be like him?" People say to me. "Sacre bleu!" I spit into these people's faces, and say "I am a Monsieur! Le Monsieur is not a cheerful person, he is a culturally over sensitive critic with a hate for everything modern. How you can expect me to be cheerful when the world is drowning in balloons and fireworks?" This Seba Rashii, my friend, he write often they say for his loyal readers, and "why you not do that?" they ask me as if I am Le President of the world. If Seba Rashii has the time for writing so much, I say he should write my blog for me!
Yes, whilst I'm out at art galleries snorting over my coffin nails and sipping wine less than delicately, the unrelenting pessimism of the art critic can never be seen to lapse. The imperative points are that nothing is original and wine is the only thing of importance, because it's that which gets the pained critique through the galleries corridors in the first place. Yes, when you hear us praise the fearless individualism of a painting or work, we are in fact saying this about everything we see. Art critics are cunts, you see. Their noses are bent from turning them up all the time. Unless it's Van Gogh, you may as well give up trying to impress these classically trained soul vacuums.
I hear this Seba is an artisan with words and I must go now now to criticize his work before he reads this and sends his Sebalitia over to my studio to arrest me for treason. You think it's Seba World? Is more like Seba Dictatorship! I have heard that listening to The Beatles will get you executed..
Happy New Year,
Le Monsieur.
Sunday 13 December 2009
Le Monsieur Says...Oui, I Know.
You know, much as I keep starting a post I can never seem to get it finished or beyond the first paragraph. And it's not because I'm lazy, unsophisticated or pissing away my existence on drinking expensive wine in dark rooms...hic... not at all, this Monsieur has been exploring avenues of culture that he hasn't explored before and possibly won't explore ever again. Were they scary festivals of intense desire and rage? No, they were just plain uncultural to this here Monsieur. Now I never usually turn my already quite well re-angled nose up at anything - because too much of that stuff just fucks up your nose completely - but the things I have seen recently have just disgusted me to the core of soul. (I think it's still there unless I sold it for something in my misspent Masterhood...) But enough of those hideous unmentionable things that shame the concept of high culture, this gens has things to discuss.
You probably all wondered where I've been these past few weeks, hanging on tenterhooks in your collective digital lounges awaiting my next dispatch from the world of Le Monsieur. Well, if I told you I'd be lynched and Kim-Jong Il would kill me next time I set foot over the border, so I'll not risk my Monsieurhood for such a minor transgression. But the one thing I can say is that life is not the same without a glass of something and a pen and parchment. Shakespeare had it right when he *possibly* said that writing is the best thing ever to happen to mankind besides coffee beans, and being a Monsieur like him I can only concur lest the hounds come and consume me again. However, to explain the babble that the caffeine makes me pour out like a verbal kettle (I know, good!) I really have to say that I envy that lucky fucker Seba, a friend of mine so you're not confused, in that he can write so many posts and throw so many away to be able to post almost every other day. In all honesty, I'm sure he's on drugs the stuff he writes about. But I still love him like an almost twin brother who is extremely anti-social to boot.
It just goes to show that people really are people and the world is a truly bizarre place. There is a theory that if you meet your double you will surely die a horrible death soon after. Well, that means that one of us is bound to die very soon. In the advent that it's me, I think I'll sign off. I need to pay that bill...they find you whereever you go, I've heard!
Le Monsieur.
Thursday 19 November 2009
Le Monsieur à Noël.
Greetings mes readers,
Lately I have been a little distracted by things to say the least. - The neighbors playing Thriller until all hours thinking that a tribute concert is excusable when in fact Michael Jackson would probably have eaten him were he really a zombie in the video that accompanies it. The colder weather making the skin on my hands feel very much like inverting itself and running amok like some bizarre Robbie Williams tribute act. Finally, there's the impending event of sorts that is Christmas.
Lately I have been a little distracted by things to say the least. - The neighbors playing Thriller until all hours thinking that a tribute concert is excusable when in fact Michael Jackson would probably have eaten him were he really a zombie in the video that accompanies it. The colder weather making the skin on my hands feel very much like inverting itself and running amok like some bizarre Robbie Williams tribute act. Finally, there's the impending event of sorts that is Christmas.
The thing that irks this Monsieur the most is the fact Christmas is the season of dutiful entertainment. There is few and far between anything of anything truly, spectacularly culturally rewarding. Of course, culture depends entirely on your definition of the indefinable. For a Monsieur like myself, it involves jazz, wine, cheese and maybe - though entirely optional - a few orgies. Of course, we all know that orgies are so out of fashion that they make The Stones look like Kate Moss. So these orgies are ironic orgies. At an ironic orgy, people don't actually fuck, they talk about the possibility, laugh at the idea of an actual orgy and then go home with the strange sensation they just wasted their time when they could have been doing something far more useful, such as looking for The Stig in his new Where's Wally style book, that is actually quite entertaining in traffic jams, but not in all jams.
The idea behind my supposition that Christmas is a sullied event has something to do with the feeling of cultural loss I have every Boxing Day when I look around my house and think to myself "Hmm". It's not an Osama bin Laden style despising festival against the seasonal spirit, more a mounting sense of unease at the earlier arrival of brain squishing compilations of Xmas music and chocolate that screams out at me in Satanic tones to "buy me buy me buy me". Honestly, where is the culture in that? Alors, that's the way it is and that's the way it'll stay until the hairs in Santa's beard fall out from overwork and he quits citing long hours and reindeer maintenance. But despite my pessimism I do want to say that I'm looking forward to celebrating the real meaning of this allegedly festive season. Before you ask, that's not the guy who came back to life and got arrested for being a nut, it's time with one's family.
You may think a Monsieur is a cold hearted, monosyllabic individual who threatens pigeons with his brooding Parisian masculinity just by breathing out, but you'd be wronger than a food porn movie. No, a Monsieur can love as well. And this Monsieur can be loving when he absolutely needs to be. So despite the screaming Christmas songs, the raging gifts and presents, the tinsel burning around me and the trees flashing at me more than I'd normally tolerate I will resolutely try and enjoy the festivities this Christmas. I shall make it my sworn mission to have a cultural jihad. There will be wine, cheese, coffee beans, jazz and fine art flying from every orifice of the sky. An apocalypse of sorts, for a lack of any real apocalypse. And hopefully, I'll have a bonne Noël.
À demain,
Le Monsieur
Le Monsieur en Review: The Lights - January Blues
Maybe it's deliberate that The Lights release January Blues when it's not actually January yet, but either way, they still have a point.The song, produced by the noted Gavin Monaghan, is very pleasant and fits well into your ear with it's lush production and Indie melodies, but sometimes that can be a detractor rather than a positive aspect. With January Blues, it is the former, but only just. Whilst the song itself is pleasant enough the production is what ultimately ruins it for this reviewer. I said before the production was lush, and it is, but January Blues sounds over done when a more lighter touch would have been appreciated to enable the listener to fully immerse themselves into the songs lyrical world. Don't get me wrong, this isn't a bad single, it's just too run of the mill in the production area where something a little less processed would have suited it much better. Asides from the production issues, this is a good listen indeed and comes recommended for the B side Start Again, which is a simpler affair and showcases the vocal talents of the bands Liz Sheils to great effect, which definitely won't give you January Blues!
Le Monsieur
Le Monsieur en Review: Battlefield Band - Zama Zama...try your luck
Look at the cover art of the this release and you'd never guess what genre it was. To the casual observer it may be metal album or even a weird alternative hop hop album, but actually you'd be wrong in those suppositions.
It's a collection of gaelic songs, some instrumental, some with vocals, that is actually rather a refreshing change which, after taking a few minutes for the ears to adjust, reveals itself to be an enjoyable collection of songs about, of all things, gold. Not an untimely subject considering our current economy, the album isn't a scathing indictment of all things consumerism, merely a well recorded jam session of contemporary Scottish folk that keeps your ears alert and your mind expecting even bigger things as the tracks go by. Of particular note is the single Robber Barons which may or may not be aimed at the rich who hoard their gold and let the people go without. It's the most overtly political track on the album and is the closest thing I've heard to a modern protest song for a while, making it all the better for that. An album that is educational and refreshing, I'd recommend it to all!
Tuesday 3 November 2009
Le Monsieur on Reality AKA すみませんでした.
Well, well, well.
Apologies to the world outside the Internet -if there is such a thing- for my long absence from this page. My good friend Seba said to me the other day, chided me if I'm honest, about my lack of updatingness on the Le Monsieur Blog!
"What kind of gentleman keeps people waiting for that long for a reply to their desperate cries?!" He said.
And, he's right. If you can imagine it, I'm bowing humbly as I type, which means that I can't see the keyboard and have just dislocated my shoulder joints. But that's OK, because breaking ones own arm as an apology is perhaps a very apologetic thing to do. Selfless, passionate and above all apologetically painful. The way it should be, gens. Recently I've been busy with exploring the world of reality, and it's a bit like an injection. That is, shiny, filled with liquid and occasionally painful. (Like my synonyms, maybe.) But as a few of my compatriots iterated to me, reality is a waste of time. If you're going to live, they said, you have to work your way around the pockets of reality and play with it like a new puppy that needs to be trained. Eventually, reality will bend itself into a position that you'll desire to be wedged into and you'll be satisfied wit yourself. Wow.
Such philosophy is a akin to Yoko Ono's messages of wisdom on Facebook, but phrased slightly more oddly. If you knew my compatriots, you'll be very doubtful of their motives in handing out such dodgy advice like condoms in a red light area. But if you knew me, you'd know that I'm a typical Monsieur, who already dodges between reality and unreality like a serial killer in The X Files, and so I agree with them, kind of. What compatriots I have, readers. If you had compatriots like them, you'd be covering the world with a velvet cloth so you dance on it.
And, it'd be fun.
Le Monsieur.
Apologies to the world outside the Internet -if there is such a thing- for my long absence from this page. My good friend Seba said to me the other day, chided me if I'm honest, about my lack of updatingness on the Le Monsieur Blog!
"What kind of gentleman keeps people waiting for that long for a reply to their desperate cries?!" He said.
And, he's right. If you can imagine it, I'm bowing humbly as I type, which means that I can't see the keyboard and have just dislocated my shoulder joints. But that's OK, because breaking ones own arm as an apology is perhaps a very apologetic thing to do. Selfless, passionate and above all apologetically painful. The way it should be, gens. Recently I've been busy with exploring the world of reality, and it's a bit like an injection. That is, shiny, filled with liquid and occasionally painful. (Like my synonyms, maybe.) But as a few of my compatriots iterated to me, reality is a waste of time. If you're going to live, they said, you have to work your way around the pockets of reality and play with it like a new puppy that needs to be trained. Eventually, reality will bend itself into a position that you'll desire to be wedged into and you'll be satisfied wit yourself. Wow.
Such philosophy is a akin to Yoko Ono's messages of wisdom on Facebook, but phrased slightly more oddly. If you knew my compatriots, you'll be very doubtful of their motives in handing out such dodgy advice like condoms in a red light area. But if you knew me, you'd know that I'm a typical Monsieur, who already dodges between reality and unreality like a serial killer in The X Files, and so I agree with them, kind of. What compatriots I have, readers. If you had compatriots like them, you'd be covering the world with a velvet cloth so you dance on it.
And, it'd be fun.
Le Monsieur.
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