Quiet Days in Clichy (Stille dage i Clichy)

Clichy is one of those rare movies that made it into one of my DVD binders without me ever having watched it. When I finally did watch it a few days ago, I was surprised by how little dialogue there was, and that what dialogue there was happened to be in English. I was also shocked by the pornographic sex scenes, reminiscent of Baise-moi (I know this movie came decades later), that dominated the first part of the film. When I say pornographic, I mean close ups of vaginal penetration. My friend and his girlfriend just happened to come back to the house when I put in the Clichy DVD and I felt compelled to text him “No, I’m not watching loud porn” and “I think the technical term is ‘experimental artsy fuck film from the 70s’” because of all the loud moaning I imagined coming from my bedroom.

Clichy is almost a slight perversion of what I imagined my life being like after graduating from NYU, save for double teaming prostitutes and turning a retarded 15 year old into my domesticated sex slave, and spoke to my inner misogynist. I still have the theme song stuck in my head and am jealous I didn’t come up with the phrase “she's got all her brains in her cunt.” It amazes me that I still have romantic dreams of living as a starving artist abroad, considering my current circumstances and career path. As an uncelebrated painter or fledgling radio man, I’m still starving in the end, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t rather be starving with paint on my clothes.

If the makers of Clichy concentrated more on the story that developed towards the end of the movie instead of focusing on being provocative or experimental it would have resulted in something enjoyable. They could have even further explored the strange concubine scheme and I would have been content to watch it unravel. As it stands, Clichy is either a bad drama or a bad porno, take your pick. I don’t imagine myself watching it again, except to hear the song again, and that’s only assuming I can’t find it on You Tube.

There were two girls from the café
We picked both of them up one day
We took both of them to our flat
And the red-headed one gave Carl the clap

The dark-haired girl took off her shoe
She smiled at Joey and then she was through
He tried everything but just as luck
The one from Jamaica just wouldn't fuck

Oh quiet days in Clichy
Oh quiet days in Clichy

Little Colette she has no sense
Serving the breakfast without her pants
Spoiling the coffee, burning the eggs
All of her brains are between her legs

Baby Colette she's all grown up
Sweeping the floor and washing the tub
Cleaning the dishes and ironing the clothes
What she's thinking, God only knows

Oh quiet days in Clichy
Oh quiet days in Clichy

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDI456BsBuU

I was watching the latest episode of The Big Bang Theory the other day and the weirdest thing happened to me.  When Leonard got out of bed to investigate a sound that ended up being Sheldon playing bongo drums in the middle of the night, my first thought was “don’t forget to unplug from the wall.” The LVAD has officially infected my thought process. I sometimes catch myself watching TV or a movie and trying to find out where the actor or actress is hiding their LVAD under their costume.

On Thursday I have my next monthly LVAD appointment. I don’t know which I dislike more, the monthly appointments in Dallas or the weekly blood draws in Denton. Even assuming that the techs don’t fuck up my echocardiogram again, I’m not expecting any improvement. Why? Because they don’t actually work on strengthening my heart at UT Southwestern. They only work on maintaining the purgatory that is my time with the pump. I haven’t worked out in weeks because of my recent blood pressure/med issues and my recent weight loss and insomnia aren’t exactly indicators of increasing health.