What would Serge say?

Driving at 100 top down on the freeway past midnight.  Serge would have approved.  He would probably have said non to the late night sugar coated doughnut that's currently gracing my ass, but so what, he's dead; let's live for the moment.

Talking of which, can we discuss the pleasure that were the people we were surrounded by at the Hollywood Bowl tonight?  The Serge Gainsbourg tribute concert (what else?) provided a spectrum of emotions generally confined to "The Real Houswives of Somewhere Real Estate Prices are Currently Falling".  To my left, a woman so obsessed by personal space that she rudely forced Frenetic out of his seat and onto my lap because we were crowding her.  No one's 'crowded" her since 1976, and that's her problem.  To Jill's left, a woman that frankly inspires one to set up a charity for the good rogering of human kind.  I know you want to listen to the music, so do I, but when it's being masacrered by an American singing a language she doesn't understand any wise man would defer to the cheese, wine and conversation.  This is an hommage to France, after all. (FYI, this was only one artist who will remain nameless, the rest were exceptional, especially Sean, Charlotte and Mike)

Anyway Jill's charming neighbour must have died a death when the entire population of women and gay men vocally threw their knickers at the stage in honour of Joseph Gordon-Levitt who sang in a French that would make the infamous interview with Bradley Cooper seem somewhat schoolboy.

Of course, this begs the question:  who was the Frenchest of them all?  She who man-handled a pre-game three shags in an afternoon whilst roasting a picnic chicken of course.  Serge would have said oui...