Fucking three-ways --- reblogged

The mysterious Mr. E. (the ex-pat in Thailand with this impossible secretary) writes on his blog 50 Shady Gays:

One of my favourite restaurants back in east London was “Les trois Garcons.” I was lucky enough to eat there several times, and I often wonder what it was that made me love it so much. Was it the richness of the food, the opulence of the design (I’ve always had a soft spot for stuffed animals wearing tiaras) or the slightly too cool for school staff? No. it was the fact that you sit in the uber-camp lounge of a big gay 3 way. You’re basically the filling in the physical manifestation of their spit roast.

It isn’t the fantasy of a perpetual daisy chain that enthralls me; I betray my working class roots here, but it’s the peculiarities of the day to day life that I find fascinating. How does it work? Do they nag in stereo? Will their collective mid life crisis result in an ever expanding wardrobe of inappropriately tight disco wear? Perhaps a 3 way would be more stable than a less conventional twosome, who knows? Perhaps I was looking for answers to my own inability to connect in a relationship?

Miguel Angel Reyes

I recently met 3 men in Bangkok who had been in a relationship for over a year.

They were from Moscow and they were painfully trendy and undeniably cute. They wore skimpy white shorts and tight T shirts. For some reason they had all decided to wear matching Mr Spock/elf ears – which contrived to make them appear all the more fabulous. They swaggered through the club, seemingly oblivious to all the attention, in a way that only beautiful men in their twenties can; consumed with the solemnities of their love. I got talking to Alex (the one with the glasses) who spoke English, he told me the history of their relationship and I was – how can I say – both fascinated and horrified. It was just so full on, heightened no doubt by the fact that they were all high. DJ station had closed, and while Alex recounted their passionately mental love story, the cleaning lady waddled past, moping up stale homo-piss from the toilet floor beneath our feet: “Sawadeeeee KaaaaAAAAAAAAAaaaAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

Handsheets for the erotic writer (4) --- Getting religious about it

(God moves in mysterious ways, doesn't he?):

Apple (Computers) --- reblogged, consolidated

Here are our Apple posts concatenated into one story (finally) (this is modern writing, so we start asynchronously):

Act II. Somewhere in 1978 or 79, the Amsterdam department store De Bijenkorff opened a new sales corner on its 4th floor, mysteriously named "huiscomputers," which featured a new product, the Apple II home computer. At that time most people, including myself, would conceive of computers as "electronic brains" (Germans called them "Elektronengehirne" before they called them "computers" before they called them "Rechner"), all built by IBM, all infinitely expensive, large, and remote.

Standard IBM Hollerith punch card

Act I. My first contact with computers had been in 1972, when I took an algebra class at the Free University of Berlin and was tasked to program matrix inversions and some such in Algol68, the programming language du jour. This was done by (1) punching Hollerith cards in the right places, on special machines located in the university's computing center, then (2) placing the cards in the intray located in the hallway outside the main operating room where the computer was located (there was only one computer), (3) waiting for an operator to appear to empty the intray (he would open a wing door, and allow you a glimpse at the electronic brain, humming and chugging along in fluorescent light, tape decks clicking back and forth), (4) then waiting another hour or so for the operator to reappear with the "output," --- folded stacks of paper in a very large format, the name of the "job" (no pun intended) printed in very large letters on the first page. If your stack was very thin (as it usually was) this could mean only one thing: something had gone wrong. You would (5) try to find the error, or try to find some help to find the error, (6) correct it, (7) resubmit your job, and repeat the correction loop as appropriate. Usually, it would take only a few days  until a program of a few lines of code would finally run properly. 

IBM mainframe, system 360 (1964 - 78)

Act II, cont'd.  So far so good. Back to the department store. What could you do with a home computer, I asked the sales person. Well, he said, you could store cooking recipes and call them up when needed. I didn't buy the Apple II.

Nazi-style

We didn't really have the scoop but were posting on Gangnam-style back in August when its YouTube tally was a tiny 27 million or so (now more than 1 billion), encouraged by the excessive oriental wisdom of our partner, the certain Chang Man Yoon. And we have been posting the Hitler parodies since years, right? So, here goes: 






What else? A suitable quote from the Green Eyes of course, from Chapter 32, The humble worm C. Elegans, the only Nazi reference in the book, by the way: 

Something has changed in that man [John's father], the tide went out, including Boston harbor, and the muddy ground of the nation is packed with naked clowns, wrapped in the flag, whose sole point is that they are angry, angry --- that's how tyrants justify blanket executions --- but their anger is not the point here, they are insulted by a black president who dares to provoke their racism, that’s it. I recall some chain email that Nick passed on last year, with a bunch of Anti-Obama cartoons, plus some language about real Americans, real Americans, and accompanied by the complaint that the nation is under siege because all these cartoons couldn't be published in the US, and when you looked closer, you could easily see that most of them were by American artists and had been published in the Washington Times, the New York Post, or the Times-Picayune, that's how they operate, claiming the high grounds of patriotism and victimhood, supported by nothing but lies and ignorance, assuming that the rest of the world is even more stupid than they are, it's exactly, EXACTLY the way the NAZIS operated on their march to power.

And while we are at it, lets contemplate a chain-mailed "joke" originating from a certain Henning and received today:

For Immediate Release: 


Effective Jan 1, 2013, aspirin will be heavily taxed under Obamacare. The only explanation given was that they are white and they work. No other reason was given, but I thought you'd want to know about it.

Funny? Yeah, right, this is funny only if there's in fact some truth to the prejudice that (1) Obama despises the white race and (2) blacks are lazy. Any evidence, anybody? That's why Obama's mother was white, right? That's why he is from Kenya, right? That's why blacks were imported as slaves, right, because they don't work. From Kenya. Right? 

Very funny. So we complain to Dirk, who sent us this "joke." Dirk mumbles something of political incorrectness in reply. Well, Dirk, political incorrectness is a derived term, derived from its antonym, political correctness (PC). PC was an attitude to language, invented sometime in the late '70s, suggesting or dictating the avoidance of verbiage supposedly hurtful to minorities, so dwarfs became "vertically challenged individuals," blacks became "Afro-Americans," and Harvard professors edited the word "nigger" out of Mark Twain's "Huckleberry Finn." That's PC. Political Incorrectness, thats pointing out the absurdities of PC. Political incorrectness neither implies nor condones  the stupid, debased racism of Henning's "joke." Dirk. So, let's be politically incorrect again. And please tell Henning.

Limerinski (Maud)

We sometimes do poetry, right? So here goes:

Monica Lewinski, former White House intern

The Washington Post runs a weekly contest in its Style section.

Ted Kaczynski, former assistant professor, dept. of mathematics, Berkeley University (possibly the best math department in the world), serving a life sentence for UNA-bombing

This week contestants had to use the two names Lewinsky and Kaczynski in the same limerick. Here are the three winning entries:

　
Third Place:

　
There once was a girl named Lewinsky
Who played on a flute like Stravinsky
Twas 'Hail to the Chief'
On this flute made of beef
That stole the front page from Kaczynski.
　
Second place:
　
Said Clinton to young Ms. Lewinsky,
We don't want to leave clues like Kaczynski,
Since you made such a mess,
Use the hem of your dress
And please wipe that stuff off your chinsky.
　
And the winning entry:
　
Lewinsky and Clinton have shown
What Kaczynski must surely have known,
That an intern is better
Than a bomb in a letter,
When deciding how best to be blown.

(Please let us know in the comment section what you think of the ranking, and, oh, Stravinsky didn't play the flute)

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)