Capricorn (Jezza Smilez)

Feel it? (Sacha)

"Hi, I'm really a sweet guy, and even though something is wrong with the horizon, I, too, read Michael Ampersant's outrageous new novel Green Eyes!"  

(Artwork by Bob Bienpensant)

Skyfallen (3)

The never-ending story continues, so go here for the previous installment.

Hi, I'm Ralph Fiennes, a somewhat unusual addition to the story in the role of Gareth Mallory, the Chairman of the parliamentary Intelligence and Security Committee. I will needle Judy ceaselessly with my perfect accent until (a) her final defenestration, (b) my taking her job ("M") and (c) reappointing her absurdly moderno-style office along the traditional lines of a Whitehall mandarin who gets high on sherry, not whiskey.

"Shit. Where did I leave my copy of Michael Ampersant's outrageous new novel Green Eyes?"

Wanted

Michael Ampersant is around since barely 4 months, having been invented as the author of our Green Eyes, but his star is rising fast, and the FBI (Fbi) is already in hot pursuit:

Screen shot of the StatsCounter page following this blog (Dec. 14, 2012)

The spy who trusted Gmail? That's so yesterday, folks, now it's the Agency that trusted Bing.



It wouldn't be us if we wouldn't have a fitting quote from our prodigious literary production, this time not from the Green Eyes, but from the Freedom Fries, our first, and so far unfinished novel. Here it is, from Chapter 5 of said novel (we are at Chapel Hill Farm, George W. Bush's country seat in Texas):

Freedom Fries --- Chapter 2: "The President is on the line for you!" (Part 1)

Previously, there have been hints that George W. Bush may experience a change of heart post-retirement, that Samuel Fisher, founder and CEO of the Lynx (LYNX) channel, is concerned about the ratings, and that  George Lukacs, the charismatic hedge-fund titan, can't handle fair-and-balanced news. We're now in Berkeley, at the law school of Berkeley U. where John Yoo, author of the famous torture memos, teaches constitutional law.

John Yoo, professor of constitutional law, Boalt School of Law, Berkeley University

The classroom with its white tables, whiteboards, and overhead projector conveys the so-so appearance of a better UC campus, yet the carpet reveals that California’s university system has basically run out of money since Proposition Thirteen in 1978. Jim feels slightly awkward in this bluish overall, but he has come solely for the purpose of today’s happening, and so he is sitting nervously next to Liz, who has made him do this.

Liz is obsessed with Yoo because she loves constitutional law. She would sit up in bed at night and read Supreme Court opinions like other girls of her bend would read Jane Austen — not to study really, no, to relish an outdated language with pointers to a distant, politer past. She is the only con law student in America who doesn’t dream of the Supreme bench; she wants a humbler job and become Reporter of Decisions. The reporter is charged with the syllabus, an introduction to court opinions that supposedly elucidate the decision for the larger public, and the syllabus usually does its best to compete with the arcane language of the opinion itself. She would write more language for the record of the court than any individual judge. It’s a nice position, fairly well paid, and you work closely with the Justices. Reporter of decisions under Chief Justice Pamela Nachtrieb Timbers, that is her ambition. Timbers, her aunt twice removed, is actually serving as dean of Berkeley’s law school at the moment, but she was clearly destined for higher things, and Liz would follow her to the Supreme Court. Liz was mesmerized by Pamela, infatuated with Pamela, captivated by Pamela. It wasn’t sexual — let’s hope — but that is the only thing it wasn’t. Pamela and Liz are so close; it isn’t even clear whether today’s happening wasn’t Pamela’s idea.

Vermeer, dude, Vermeer. What's Michael Ampersant's take on Vermeer in his new novel Green Eyes?

(Artwork by Wes Hempel)

(Gotcha, Gotcha, we haven't pronounced on Vermeer in the Green Eyes, so you'll have to wait for Part II, which will be titled "The End of the World.")

Sirrr --- a letter to Frank Rich

Like most posts involving Frank Rich, this post will  start with the obligatory statement that he is our true hero, even more so than Paul Krugman, our other true hero. To general despair, Frank left his perch at the New York Times for calmer waters at the New York Magazine, where he now writes a monthly column. And the last column, two days old or so, is about Petraeus, the ex-general, and other fallen American heros, how could they fall and why.

The world's leading I-told-you-so artiste

We haven't posted a Sirrr post for two years or so, but here it is.

(Sirrr:)

Frank --- your dressing-down of Petraeus is beautiful, but your analysis of America's adulation-addiction falls short; it's basically tautological: America adulates heros because Americans love a good hero. Who doesn't?

The spy who trusted g-mail

I don't have the answer either, but I have a question. And it invokes Holden Caulfield, another American hero, this one the prime example of a literary anti-hero who suffers as much under the "phoniness" of modern American culture as you, Frank, and us, your readers, tend to do. OK, Holden Caulfield of the Catcher in the Rye. He has his own Wikipedia entry, of course (bear with me), and it runs, quote:

I read Michael Ampersant's Green Eyes even though it's winter and I have other things to do.

(Artwork by Bob Bienpensant)

Skyfallen (2)

The never-ending story continues, so go here for the first installment.

Hi, I'm Ben Whishaw, the new-new Q, or quartermaster (we never knew that, or did we). I'm glad to combine the old donnish eccentricity of Desmond Llewelyn with the new donnish eccentricity of mainstream nerdism (computers), while discarding any pretense to step into the shoes of John Cleese, who took over from Desmond in the Bond-brand makeover that also brought about Judy Dench. It's a complete miracle what got into John's head when he got into Q's character --- he wasn't funny, he wasn't eccentric, he wasn't British, he wasn't spy-ish --- anyhow, he did so poorly that they had to ditch him and complete a few Q-less Bond installments.  Is the pun intended? --- I haven't made up my mind yet, sorry. Well, I'm here to stay.

It gets funnier and funnier --- the more often you see it

(Hat tip: Andrew Sullivan)

French for beginning poets (1) --- On se fout de nous

(lyrics)

Et passent [pass], passent, passent, passent, passent, passent les jours [days (as in journal)],
Et rien [nothing], non rien, rien ne change [changes] sur le parcours [parcours],
Ce sont les mêmes [same] pages [pages] qui défilent,
Les mêmes vers [verse] qu'on récite,
Le même vieux [old]  film [film] que depuis cent [hundred] fois [times] on rembobine, [replay, sort of]
Et on s'accroche [acroach] et on s'acharne [acharne], et on s'abime [abime] et on se gâche [spoil], on s'épuise [epuise] et on s'entame [entame], on s'enlise [enlise] et on s'éloigne [eloin],
Et on s'accroche et on s'acharne, on se brise et on s'attarde, ne soyez pas si cons.

Skyfallen (1)

The name is Craig, Daniel Craig. You know me from the Bond movies, and you are looking at me in the opening sequence of Skyfall, the latest installment, n° 24, to be precise (if you include the '67 non-Broccoli production of "Never say  never again"), opening worldwide this year to commemorate the 50th birthday of our franchise. Sorry, I got this wrong, this is not from the opening sequence, the paneling is all wrong, and the bullet hole is wrong too, since we won't start shooting until we've left this tacky place where a disk (disk!) of all the names of all MI6 agents was stolen needlessly and several good men have lost their lives already, so that they are now dumpling in their own blood on the ground. Fairly icky. One colleague wasn't completely dead but M, my boss, Judy Dench (or Drench, I always get the spelling wrong) ordered me via satellite and internet and ear piece (the connectivity we know so well from the Bourne franchise) to abort all resuscitation efforts and go after the disk pronto. My dying colleague rolled his eyes. The disk! 

Hi, me again. I'm in hot pursuit of the bad guy (not Dr. No or Goldfinger, just some lowly operative) who had the bad idea to steal the disk (disk!) with all the names and so on that somebody had the bad idea to take to Istanbul for no particular reason.

I heart you

Sunday morning gif picture

"Let me help you!"

I read Michael Ampersant's Green Eyes because I like to dream

Green Eyes --- Chapter 12: Badfuck

Previously, we had a rough day, meeting new friends in familiar places. We're now off to a midnight party at the house of Godehard Wagner (family), dragged along by one of our new friends. Charles is back from the bathroom, where he had a difficult time (he was defecating a lot of blood, as he tells John).



As Maurice is saying this he's grabbing my shoulder. His knees fold, his body folds. He's falling to the ground, now he's just lying there, eyes shut. I touch his shoulder,
"Maurice, Maurice," I say. No reaction. I slap his cheeks. No reaction. He's unconscious.

"He's unconscious," Neill observes, "a bad fuck probably." This will be the last time that anybody uses those words at the party.
"Gohard," I shout, "we need an ambulance."
"We need an ambulance," Godehart answers.
"Somebody must call an ambulance," he continues.
"What's the number?" the rent waiter asks. Godehart doesn't know, of course.
"Nine-one-one," somebody suggests helpfully.
"No, no," I plead, “that's the police, we need an ambulance. Call them directly, that's faster."

The party that isn't going to happen

The police would take Maurice directly to the landfill, better still, they would take his unconscious body to the hospital, with RapeDick in the back blocking Maurice’s neck artery expertly with his thumb, leaving no marks. We’ve seen this in the movies. Maurice will arrive dead on arrival at the hospital, having died of badfuck, a contagious disease, and the night shift directs the body to the morgue where it can chill forever.

I am thinking this very quickly. "Please call an ambulance," I plead in Neill's direction while squatting next to Maurice; I'm trying to feel his pulse. Neill must have been through this before as a restaurant owner, not to mention bad fucks in the upstairs department, he must know how to avoid the police.

Jezza Smilez

This blog is currently #4, or even #3 on the Google search for Jezza Smilez, so let's tell everybody how inventive, imaginative, inspired, informative we think this guy really is. Here's an example, his drawing for the Sagittarius sign:

We love you, Jezza, we love you.

Can you read this? (2) (Jacki)

7H15 M3554G3
53RV35 7O PR0V3
H0W 0UR M1ND5 C4N
D0 4M4Z1NG 7H1NG5!
1MPR3551V3 7H1NG5!
1N 7H3 B3G1NN1NG
17 WA5 H4RD BU7
N0W, 0N 7H15 LIN3
Y0UR M1ND 1S
R34D1NG 17
4U70M471C4LLY
W17H 0U7 3V3N
7H1NK1NG 4B0U7 17,
B3 PROUD! 0NLY
C3R741N P30PL3 C4N
R3AD 7H15.
PL3453 F0RW4RD 1F
U C4N R34D 7H15.

(Yes, we actually mean it, can you read this?)

(Only 55 out of 100 people can!)

"I will continue reading Michael Ampersant's Green Eyes as soon as I'm done!"

Skyfall

(lyrics:)

This is the end
Hold your breath and count to ten
Feel the earth move and then
Hear my heart burst again
For this is the end
I've drowned and dreamt this moment
So overdue I owe them
Swept away, I'm stolen

[And here we get interrupted by an eager blogger who has to tell us that this is great folks, we have't seen the movie yet but this is great, it reminds us of Shirley Bassey, whom you possibly won't remember because you are too young, Shirley, the greatest singer of James Bond. Goldfinger, can you still hear it, Goldfinger, he's the man...OK, the Goldfinger song was still better than this one, but still...]

Good Morning!

"Now I get it!"

Green Eyes --- Chapter 18: Agatha Cristie (teaser)

First watch this:



and now read this (the opening lines of Chapter 18):

Alex had already left his perch as a grand horizontal when I woke up. Better even, or worse, the sheer fact that I could fall asleep testifies to his untimely departure, since nobody, not even straight people, would be able to fall asleep with the Green Eyes on top of you. And I slept, because I had my usual morning glory, and I was alone, as outlined already, no external stimuli present, only my sleep, and sweet dreams perhaps that I don't remember. I'm too old for spontaneous erections, it's either sexual or it's sleep (not quite true, I remember now, I had one just yesterday, but still). Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep, and sometimes I don't know whether I did actually fall asleep before awaking in the middle of the night, but then I feel my boner, and know I slept, realizing that my sleeping is better than feared, and thus comforted fall asleep again (only to wake up at a later time with another boner (I think I should stop now)).

For selected chapters of the Green Eyes, go here.

(lyrics:)

I threw a wish in the well,
Don't ask me, I'll never tell
I looked to you as it fell,
And now you're in my way

I'd trade my soul for a wish,
Pennies and dimes for a kiss
I wasn't looking for this,
But now you're in my way

If the shoe fits

No shit (Will.I.Am ft. Eva Simons)

(and the lyrics:)

if you love it like i love it
and you feel what i feel inside
if you want it like i want it
then baby let's get it tonight

if you feel it say hell yeah
(hell yeah)
say hell yeah
(hell yeah)
and say hell yeah
(hell yeah)
this is love, this is love, this is love

Second draft

"We must have mislaid the copy of Michael Ampersant's Green Eyes."

(Artwork by Alessandro Bavari)

Freedom Fries --- Chapter 1: Lynx news (part 2)

Previously: George W. Bush, retired, is watching a show about his presidency on LYNX news, and is about to develop second thoughts about his achievements. Betty Bartholomeo is the show's anchor,Samuel Fisher is LYNX's founder and CEO.

Meanwhile, back at Prairie Chapel Ranch, Bush swings his gun — not his gun, Hussein’s gun — and Bartholomeo continues: “The President’s ratings soared again, deservedly, to precedented heights, although the liberal media were never able to forgive the president his success, and carped about the alleged absence of weapons of mass destruction, the casualties of Iraqi civilians in the ensuing civil war, the cost of the war, the casualties on the American side, the manipulation of war-supporting intelligence, and the Abu Ghraib prison event, when a few inappropriate pictures of prisoners were leaked to the media in detriment to the security of our troops…”

Betty gives way to a photograph of a figure tiptoeing on top of a tiny box, covered by a soiled bluish sheet ragged at the hem, the arms half-stretched sideways, the open palms turned to the camera, gnarled wires connected to both hands and liaised back to some cabling on the wall, the head covered with a pointed black hood. There is an eerie composition to the photograph; it balances the suggestion of an electrocution with the floppiness of a practical joke.

The retired first couple knows this picture, of course; the entire world knows it, it has served as an icon of resistance against the War in Iraq. Even the mainstream Economist, a supporter of the war, has put it on its cover with the cry: “Resign, Rumsfeld.”

"We read Michael Ampersant's Green Eyes because J.K. Rowlings last novel was a bummer"

(Artwork by Michael Kirwan)

What's the angle?

The Anna Karenina movie is out, folks, with Keira Knightley as Anna,
Joe Wrigth as director, and Tom Stoppard as script author.

"It's an advantage of shredded relationships that you no longer have to care about conventions. Happy families are all alike and will answer the buzzer either immediately, or not at all (if they are too happy right this moment). Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way, and answers the buzzer as they see fit. I've gotten up now, I've put another kiss on John's forehead to maintain the bond, closed the bedroom door, standing in the kitchen den, and the doorbell has died. Father always rings three times." (Green Eyes, Chapter 27: I charge 100 dollars but am willing to negotiate)

And while we are at it:

"I’m trying," he replies, interrupting himself: "You know," he says, "there's something about casual artistic activity, if that's the word, I'm not talking Shakespeare here but, you know, a Westend play, or off-Broadway, you know, or Spielberg, a lot of it is just context, changing context. A dialogue that worked 50 years ago does not work any longer because people have changed, they talk differently, they're smarter."

"You know that the dialogue in the first Indiana Jones movie was written by Tom Stoppard, even though he is not credited?" I say.

"Yes, he says, "I know."

Souls meet for a split second, but Charles isn't done with his story yet. (Green Eyes, Chapter 7: Tom of Finland)

Gotcha

We're returning from Lyon, where Chang and I went to do a little Korean shopping, and from a wonderful night spent subsequently at the house of friends located in the middle of the vineyards of the Beaujolais, and are making a pit stop at a motorway restaurant, with me entering the building first, and disappearing in the rest room for the disabled on the ground floor, and Chang entering after me, descending to the basement where the main rest rooms are located, and reemerging from the basement, somewhat disoriented (because I had gone missing), while I am emerging from the disabled rest room, he looking at me, puzzled, me pointing at the door of my restroom and saying, suggestively: "It was a black guy, with a very big dick." And he believes it!

Beaujolais, Chang, vineyard in the morning

The nadir of American Conservativism

This text, written by Eric Dondero, appeared on the website LibertarianRepublican.net. We don't think it'll stay up for long, even though --- or because --- it cuts right to the chase of present-day American Conservativism. Wasn't it George W. Bush who said that "you are either for us or against us"?  Well, let's say to you: "You are either in bed with these people or not in bed with these people."

(you need to click on it for enlargement)

We think it'll gonna be a classic. People will remember it twenty years from now. Historians will cite it. This text, folks, this text marks the the moment when "conservatives," (not that this is an adequate term, better would be: "reactionaries") when they have really lost it, when they have really reached the point of no return, when they jumped off the cliff, when they hang in the air, when they crashed and shattered into thousand pieces. Many people will try to forget about this. Pretty soon. Don't let them! Remember this. Remember them (you need to click on it for readability, but just in case, here's a condensed version as plain text:)

The end of liberty in America: Only course of action now is to fight back, electoral politics not working
Time to tell any Democrats you know to fuck off and die
by Eric Dondero

[...]
Secondly, today starts a new course for my life. I've soured on electoral politics given what happened last night. I believe now the best course of action is outright revolt. What do I mean by that?
Well, to each his own. Some may choose to push secession in their state legislatures. Others may choose to leave the U.S. for good (Costa Rica, Switzerland, Italy, Argentina, Hong Kong, Israel). Still others may want to personally separate themselves from the United States here in North America while still living under communist rule' the Glenn Beck, grab your guns, food storage, build bunkers, survivalist route. I heartily endorse all these efforts.

Let's do something sexy on Saturday evening...

...like posting another picture of these Swiss boys:

Bob Bienpensant: The twain shall meet again (n° 2)

The real real America --- reblogged

Paul Krugman writes on his blog:

So, for a while there during the campaign it seemed very iffy. But in the end, discipline and being on the right side of the issues prevailed. Yes, Elizabeth Warren won! Oh, and that guy Obama too. Tomorrow — or I guess today — comes the cleanup; when thousands, perhaps millions, of right-wing heads explode, it makes quite a mess. Also, notice that the polls were right. I wonder if I can get invited when Nate Silver is sworn in as president? OK, somewhat more seriously: one big thing that just happened was that the real America trumped the “real America”. And it’s also the election that lets us ask, finally, “Who cares what’s the matter with Kansas?” For a long time, right-wingers — and some pundits — have peddled the notion that the “real America”, all that really counted, was the land of non-urban white people, to which both parties must abase themselves. Meanwhile, the actual electorate was getting racially and ethnically diverse, and increasingly tolerant too. The 2008 Obama coalition wasn’t a fluke; it was the country we are becoming. And sure enough that more diverse and, if you ask me, better nation just won big. Notice too that to the extent that social issues played in this election, they played in favor of Democrats. Gods, guns, and gays didn’t swing voters into supporting corporate interests; instead, human dignity for women swung votes the other way. A huge night for truth, justice, and the real American way.

And while we are at it, here are a few lines from Chapter 38 of our Green Eyes, helpfully titled "What's Paul Krugman's penis size":

I see two tables cleared next to the central window on the street side, these would be very good tables indeed, when I realize two people to my left, having replaced the fat guy in the meantime, I've seen the face of the man somewhere, on my blog, actually. We're famous in Georgia Beach, serious, folks. Will I tell Trevor? You think Trevor would be interested  in politics, or the New York Times, or economics, or Nobel prices? Possibly not --- you have other problems when you're a confirmed bachelor without a future. Trevor, in any case, who must be looking right into the eyes of Paul Krugman behind me, Trevor shows no signs of recognition what-so-ever, it's crystal-clear, he's not attracted to the fifty-nine year old Nobel laureate.

Straight victory lap

Bring out the vote

"Low-information voters may blame the President for the weather"

(Hendrik Hertzberg in The New Yorker, Nov. 6, 2012)

Fucking noodle soup --- reblogged

Mr. E. (yes, the mysterious Mr. E.) writes (from Thailand) on his blog 50 Shady Gays:

The problem with moving to Thailand is that now we have to endure hearing what Thai people think. The majority of which is not worth listening to; it’s generally something about “Som tam,” “sleeping,”or “playing facebook.”

Take my secretary for instance (please, just take him!). He doesn’t stop talking. He talks so much it has become the background cacophony of my daily life. A piercingly staccato, camp monologue about his family, boyfriends (Giks), food, and Lady-FUCKING-Gaga! He doesn’t even pause for breath, it’s incredible:

“He – say – he – my – boyfriend – why – I – not – go – to – Silom – wit – heem – I – say – cannot – he say – I – have – many – many – Giks – not – good -not – good – I say – he – not – love – me – he – look – at – other – boys – he – butterfly – he – say – he – not – butterfly – I – butterfly…”

 “He – say – he – my – boyfriend – why – I – not – go – to – Silom – wit – heem" 

At first, out of politeness, I would occasionally feign concern or even comprehension: “I think you should talk to him about it, let him know how you feel.”

Writing? ---- Don't do it (Sacha)

Thank you Sacha for sending this. We were procrastinating a bit about the pen-pen-ultimate chapter of the Green Eyes, and listened to Bukowski's advice, and then decided to "let if flow," and got 2/3 of the thing written Sunday afternoon (while we were originally planning to go see the latest James Bond).

PS: We had a chance to think a bit about this and came to the conclusion that Bukowski is a bragging old brat.
PSS: We mean, we knew Hans-Werner Henze, right, who wrote more operas than Bukowski, and Hans told us about his problems of finishing The Bassarids (the libretto of which was not written by Ingeborg Bachmann, as most obituaries have it, but by W. H. Auden (whom we met on the occasion, and who was trying to seduce us)), and how he procrastinated and had to smoke a lot of pot to get it done.
PSSS: And we haven't smoked any pot at all, better even, we gave up the booze (and the one-night-stands and settled down in a quiet little town and all that).
PSSSS: We smoke coffee now.
PSSSSS: Stay tuned until we find the gave-up-the-booze clip.

Variations on a theme

"Let's stay in touch!"

(click to enlarge)

Shakespeare for beginners

But, soft: behold! lo where it comes again!
I'll cross it, though it blast me. - Stay, illusion!
If thou hast any sound, or use a voice. Come Speak to me.
Hamlet (1.1)

Cloud Atlas --- reblogged

Lokfire from Hollywood Hates Me writes:

Cloud Atlas is a new movie by the Matrix Brothers, and it's about how everyone's lives are intertwined, past, present and future, and I don't know about you, but it seems awfully pretentious. Like, if I were to show up in the theater to watch this film, it would judge me and find me lacking. "Don't you care about the intertwinedness?" the imaginary Cloud Atlas in my head says.

"I was BASED ON A BOOK," says Cloud Atlas. "Were you BASED ON A BOOK?"

"No," I say. "Don't you want to see Tom Hanks play a variety of characters?" continues the imaginary Cloud Atlas. "Oh, God, no!"

 Does he at least keep his clothes on?

"What are you? Some kind of poser?" And then I'd have to admit that I didn't actually even like the FIRST Matrix movie, and then Cloud Atlas would never let me hang out with the cool kids while they talk philosophy ever again.

It would probably think even less of me if it knew I keep accidentally calling it "Atlas Cloud."

 

Hans-Werner Henze died (1926 - 2012)

Hans-Werner Henze, 1926 - 2012

He was 86 years old.

Instead of an obituary, a fragment from the Green Eyes (what else), written 2 month ago, from Chapter 21:

At this moment I have to think very quickly. Fortunately, the appearance of my father has reset my panic button, and I'm as calm as a cloud. And I think German Cemetery, Rome, Italy. I once met a man in unquestionable circumstances, a world-famous composer, from Europe, a composer of contemporary music, world famous, his operas would premier by default at the Met or in Covent Garden, and he had already written more symphonies than Beethoven, let's call him Hans Werner (not Wagner). Hans lived in Rome, where this cemetery is conveniently located (wait), a burial ground for German nationals since ages. The cemetery is world-famous in Germany, since it comprises the remains of Goethe's son, the one-and-only son of the German dichterfürst (the spell checker suggests "Lichtenstein"). Every German school child knows about this. What they don't know, it's also a cruisin' ground. So Hans pays an urgent visit to Goethe's grave (the son), meets new friends, and has a "quick embrace" (his words), with an American, apparently, who flips his wallet and hands the world-famous composer of serial music a 50 dollar bill. Hans accepts the money, and leaves the grounds elated, with one more anecdote to tell in his pockets. I'm not making this up, he told me this himself.


Are you still there? Then you'll possibly like the novel, the GREEN EYES. It's out now, available on Amazon under this link:

"click"

"Call me by your name" --- André Aciman (part 1) (Handsheets for the erotic writer (2))

(Click to enlarge)

(We should post a review, yes, but we're still thinking: we simply can't get over the fact that Oliver dumps Elio in the end)

Cum (Handsheets for the erotic writer (1))

Bob Bienpensant --- Wet Dreams (1)

Freedom Fries --- Chapter 1: Lynx News (part 1)

The place looks best at dusk, she thought. The oak trees across the pond outside had already turned dark, casting their black profile across the lawn, but the western sky was still alight in vivid orange. It was very quiet now around Chapel Hill Farm; she could hear the silence. The place looks best at dusk, she thought again, but when do I look best? She turned to the mirror next to the fridge and studied her reflection.

Anyhow, she was finally done with the dishes, so she picked up the tea things---already prepared---and crossed into the living room for a quiet evening with her husband. As always, he had offered to help, but tonight she had gently turned him down. There were days when the silverware disliked him, chinking and clanging in his hands as if there was a problem, and today had been one of those days, and she would not have been able to handle more clanging in her kitchen. In fact, the silverware had become increasingly argumentative lately. Her nerves? His nerves? Her nerves?

 US House of Representatives member Robert W. Ney (R-Ohio),
announcing the renaming of French fries to Freedom Fries in 2003. 

Doubya was already installed in the sateen slouch chair in front of the TV, the shiny cowboy boots resting on the matching pouf, his left hand resting on his crotch. Hussein's gun was lying next to him on the coffee table; he must have played with it while she was in the kitchen. My God, she hated this gun---the gun that Hussein had carried when being apprehended by the American forces while hiding in a hole in the ground. Didn't the piece belong to the American people? Its proper place was in a museum. How could he just take it home? She had actually raised the question with Fredo, the pliable attorney general. The Museum of the War of Choice, she had suggested helpfully, but to no avail.