in my life is that I managed to leave Francoise Hardy circa 1968, Debbie Harry circa Parallel Lines, Betty Bacall circa Key Largo, Brigitte Bardot circa 1955, and Ione Skye in Say Anything… off my list of fictional/similarly impossible crushes. I would hold a boombox issuing forth Peter Gabriel aloft for any one of these gals.
I think I’ve got a really nice sense of cultural connotation, but Francoise Hardy is one of those icons who, along with Brigitte Bardot and (embarrassingly) Audrey Hepburn, managed to slip past my radar until this year. While not quite impossibly beautiful—there she is, after all—she’s pretty damned improbable, even miraculous. Oh, and cool, too, enough for David Bowie to say about her that
"I was for a very long time passionately in love with her, as I’m sure she’s guessed. Every male in the world, and a number of females also were, and we all still are."
We’re lucky that they never mated, because we’d be speaking whatever hybrid version of French, demotic Egyptian and telepathic Esperanto their universe-conquering spawn forced on us. Then again, as dystopian futures of indentured mental servitude go, things could be worse.
P.S. Jennifer Carpenter (Deb Morgan from Dexter) resembles Hardy a little bit, but I bet Francoise Hardy could figure out her brother was a serial killer after two seasons, tops.
P.P.S. That Deb Morgan. What a dummy!
n. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to...
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When I find the perfect rock on the ground to add to my rock collection