H4H: Helen Replies

From January 26, for those of you who haven’t seen it:

Dear Indigo:

I feel your longing, man (woman, gender-neutral term, whatever), I really do. All those nights of getting wasted together on Parisian ennui and Ligurian landscapes and Deloney’s fire escape were, as you say, loud and intense and fucking beautiful. (Oh, mi dispiace, I forgot that I was getting wasted on Ligurian landscapes with someone else. But that’s water under the ponte vecchio, right?)

Hell, you and Mali and the rest of the band are still loud and intense and fucking beautiful. No, make that loud and intense and motherfucking beautiful. But my hearing’s shot, my hair’s gone gray, and no amount of WD40 will revive this rusty machine. And I have to be careful about getting knocked on my ass—osteopenia, you know. All that’s left in me is a banal ballad that’s best left unsung, although I’m trying to sell the rights to Celine Dion.

Mi dispiace, me dispiace, mi dispiace.

(And will you stop harping over that bass already? It’s been a quarter of a century. How many times do I have to say mi dispiace? In fact, you should really be feeling dispiaced for mi because that BradPittWannabe wasn’t even that good. NOTHING like Deloney.)

Oh shit. I swore I wasn’t going to bring that up.

Mi dispiace.