Saturday, May 25, 2002


Sorry for the low activity on STM recently. I am studying for my finals and posting will be be sporadic until Thursday. I also turned in my Sciences-Po thesis about online journalism (and weblogs). I'll put it online once it's graded.

Sunday, May 19, 2002


Super réplique de François Fillon, ministre des affaires sociales, à Marie-Georges Buffet, ministre communiste des sports du gouvernement Jospin à France Europe Express dimanche soir:

Fillon: Nous allons continuer à privatiser les entreprises publiques

Buffet: Alors, c'est ça votre réponse sur le secteur public. Plus de privatisations?

Fillon: Oui, enfin, moins qu'avec vous, parcequ'il n'y en a plus beaucoup!


Brit blogger Tanya Headon over at I Hate Music has a late yet devastating eulogy of one of France's beloved treasures, Serge Gainsbourg, who happened to be a sad old perv constantly trying to take our tolerance to digusting behavior to new highs. Enjoy.

"Gainsbourg’s reputation as a genius rests on an endless succession of naughty pranks – getting some Eurovision poppet to sing a song about blowjobs; getting Brigitte Bardot to sing a song about shagging; getting Jane Birkin to sing a song about bum sex; getting a bunch of lounge-jazz musos to play songs about fucking a 15-year old; getting Sly and Robbie to do the national anthem in comedy dirty reggae style; getting his daughter sing a song about incest….oh, and writing a book about farting, and sexually harassing Whitney Houston. Rabelaisian? Hardly. Gainsbourg is the Benny Hill of pop.

Gainsbourg could turn his hand to any kind of music, just as long as you didn’t ask him to do it well. The clattery, clumsy rhythms of his sixties ‘rock and roll’ efforts were a pathetic, Pat Boone take on the music. “Je T’Aime” has the dishonour of sounding like twenty years of lame porno soundtracks – except, astonishingly, even less funky. The stinkiest hippie on the lowliest commune could have beaten Serge’s 70s acoustic numbers into the ground. Your phone is a better synthesizer than the ones on his 80s records.

And then he died. His influence is with us today, of course – France still turns up the odd snippet of paedo-pop in honour of the old bore (...) and Serge looms large in the memory of assorted neurotics desperate to convince themselves they’re having filthier sex than the general public. That public ignores such people and gets on with shagging like rabbits – and whatever soundtrack they choose, you can bet your life it’s not Serge Gainsbourg."