Late yesterday or early this morning on a Facebook thread I was called a dipstick or a cretin or a clueless lame-o (or something along those lines) for drawing a blank on the absolutely mythic Sylvie Vartan, the ye-ye pop singer and actress who was partnered with the late Johnny Hallyday during most of the ’60s and all of the ’70s.

I hereby apologize to everyone for his unforgivable oversight, but I was unable to show contrition to Glenn Kenny, who delivered the Facebook assault. Here’s how I replied:

“Good for Sylvie’s singing career and general impact during the ‘60s and ‘70s. Good for each and every gifted or at least earnestly committed artist whose work has failed (through no glaring fault of their own) to penetrate my consciousness.

“But at the same time I’ll wager there are dozens if not hundreds of artists, artisans and people of merit and consequence whom I know of and respect but whom Glenn Kenny has somehow overlooked.

“The difference is that I take life as it comes while Kenny is a rancid curdling life form who lives to sneer and demean in order to elevate his own fragile sense of self-worth.

“Cheers to Vartan, 78, and now, if you guys will permit me, I’m going to continue on my long journey without her radiant and dazzling creations making much of a dent in my head or, no offense, having all that much impact upon the cosmic scheme of things.

“Alas, asi es la vida. Nobody gets out alive. That said, I wish Sylvie a long and happy continuance.

“I’m wondering, in all candor, if the song stylings of Sylvie Vartan have penetrated penetrated Kenny’s cranial membrane were it not for her 15-year marriage and general association with Johnny “wolf eyes” Hallyday.

Innocent question: In Patrice Leconte’s The Man on the Train, why is Johnny ‘go fuck yourself’ Hallyday ALWAYS smoking an unfiltered Gitanes in every last fucking scene?”