The famous tourist destination --- Korea (6)

The venue is located nearby, between our village and Seogi-po, the second-largest town here on Jeju Island, on the coast. A popular tourist destination, we have to go see it. Parking lots, tour buses, people. Lots.

 We ask where "it" is. Somebody points down. We descend past this charming tea house into an over-designed park.  

Waiting for you...

...to finish Michael Ampersant's outrageous new novel "Green Eyes," and finally come to bed.

(Artwork by Bob Bienpensant)

Connubial Bliss --- Korea (5)

By sheer serendipity we find ourselves climbing the road hugging Mount Halla, Korea's highest mountain at 1,900 meters, a somewhat listless volcano that hasn't harmed anybody in quite some time and defines Jeju Island in a sort of materialistic way, almost vulgar-marxistically so --- Jeju wouldn't be there without the volcano, Jeju in fact is the volcano in geological terms --- so we climb Road 1139 and have already reached an altitude of 1,000 m when Michael has the idea that Chang could get carsick on this sinuous path across the high altitude forest, and we U-turn and descend again. Mentioning car-sickness wasn't perhaps the best idea, Chang is starting to think about his stomach and the stomach thinks back and new, or slightly altered, thoughts feel provoked by each turn. Thought-provoking, that's what this road feels, thought-provoking.

Mount Halla

Anyhow, the worst is over when we hit a stretch of road marked by red cross-stripes. They are well-done, these stripes, each marking is slightly raised, creating a bump per mark and accentuating our downward glide in this floating American-suspension car in unmistakable ways, warning us of impending danger. We wonder which danger we're facing, no stripes mark the upward leg of the road. We cross perhaps 5-10 marks per second, thus reverberating downward in a three-dimensional alert space, visual (red stripes), proprioceptive (the position of our limbs) and auricular (vibratory humming). This goes on for a while. After two kilometers or so you would assume we've been warned enough, but the stripes won't go away, one stripe following the next with unrelenting stamina, stripe for stripe for stripe. Ever tried to count to 100,000?

"You could have invented these stripes," Michael finally says to Chang.

Aries (Jezza Smilez)

So you think you’re trapped in a poorly-written fan fiction: A modern teen’s guide (reblogged)

Lokfire has this cool post on her website Hollywood Hates Me we've been allowed to reblog:


Lately, you've noticed your life is filled with grammatical errors, punctuation mistakes, poor spelling and way more deviant fetishes than you're used to. Does that mean you're trapped in a poorly-written fan fiction? Almost certainly! But to find out for sure, please use this handy guide as a reference.

1. Do you often get the feeling you're a Mary-Sue type stand-in for someone else? Like, maybe you're just an average girl with the character trait of "clumsiness" so people won't think you're perfect, but all the hot boys in town love you.

 "You killed my father, prepare to die?"

2.When people around you talk, do they often resort to overblown romantic cliches? Perhaps they say things like "You are my life now" or "I can't live in a world where you don't exist."

Trick question! This just means you're hanging out with a sparkly vampire.

How about Jeju? --- Korea (4)

(Christine, our friend from Switzerland writes:)

I found time to read your manuscript [Green Eyes]... It is very interesting and easy to understand. I even can understand more about gay's reactions and sexual practices. Well, the story is captivating and we always want to know more. Important is that you don't get bored with it.

We wonder if you are OK in Jeju and how is the weather and temperature? Are you in a hotel? How does Chang feel?

 We have very cold weather. Lot of snow was falling in France and England. Here in Solothurn we had -6° this morning and 1° during the day. We have almost enough and wait for spring.

How many hours do you have more in Korea?

 (We answer:) 

Thanks, Christine. Yes, we are very OK in Jeju, even though the promises by Der Spiegel haven't materialized yet. How do we mean? Well, Der Spiegel, you know, every reader of Infinite Jest knows it, the German news magazine, they had a recent story on Jeju where they write about

(a) fertility rites with phallic stone statues on which we so far missed out (the rites) and

Jeju haru bang, (local stone statue, judge yourself)

Bureaucratology

Good Morning!

I Write Like ... David Foster Wallace (Infinite Jest 1)

Cool, folks, cool. We blogged about the I Write Like web page two years ago when it compared a simple blogpost of ours to William Shakespeare --- well this sentence already tells you something must be wrong with said app, but we didn't push the issue since the corresponding link had soured in the meantime.

Today, rummaging through Infinite-Jest-blogs in search of pictures, we rediscovered the link under a new web address, and tested it on more pertinent material from the Green Eyes. The app works as expected, there's a window where you paste your text and click a button. An analyzer compares your text to its data base (Bayesian statistics, neural networks, you name it), and returns the name of the author you resemble most (it always comes back with an answer, it never says "Go Away," or "Bah," or uses similar expressions you know so well from your correspondence with the leading publishing houses).

OK, so, we start with the Prologue of the Green Eyes. Not Shakespeare this time, but...

I write like
H. P. Lovecraft

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

 ...Horribile dictu, we never read H. P. Lovecraft, can't even properly place her/him. It must be Wahlverwandschaft, then. We taught Artificial Intelligence so we know a thing or two about neural networks. How stable might the application be, we wonder,  what would be the outcome for the next piece of text, Chapter 2 (you know, Chapter 1 has been relegated to an appendix)? And the answer is...

The price of vengeance --- Korea (3)

So we’re on this BA flight to Seoul and grab the Daily Mail, the British tabloid.

“The Price of Vengeance” --- that's the boldface headline of the Mail today and we don’t recognize the faces. “Vicky Price is shell-shocked,” though, and “Chris Huhne may receive a lighter sentence for pleading guilty.” Expressions like "Hell hath no fury," and the Greek saying "a woman and the sea are the same in danger," dance before your lying eyes (Vicky is Greek).

All this has little to do with Korea, except that’s eternal and universal and we have to write it down so we can use it in the next part of the Green Eyes. The entire first 11 pages of the tabloid are about Vicky & Chris & collateral damage & even the boobs on Page 3 have to defer to pictures of a Greek wedding “where Huhne gave his stepdaughter away [although] the MP had already begun a fateful affair with his bisexual aide.”

The view --- Korea (2)

(We've arrived on Jeju Island:)

Thesis

Antithesis

Synthesis

 (People who've followed the 2002 worldcup may recall a venue being located on Jeju; we're located right next to it) 

Touché

Fewer people would listen if his name were Adam Smith, but here it is what he has to say, Tyler Brûlé, the well-named editor of the Monocle Magazine and columnist of the Financial Times:

HOW ABOUT SUBSTANCE?

And the occasion? Well, anything could be the occasion, because nothing, nothing has ever ruled the world as much as marketing in all its ugly emanations does these days.

Tyler Brûlé

In Brûlé's case --- not sure he would like us to call him Tyler --- in Brûlé's case it's  --- and now we are interrupted by a chain of events reported under Connubial Bliss  --- in Brûlé's case it's  --- and now we could dwell on the fact that it wasn't so much an event as the absence thereof, like, like Conan Doyle's dog not barking in the night --- in Brûlé's case it's  --- it's perhaps a lucky coincidence that we're not writing a column in the FT but a simple blogpost  ---  in Brûlé's case it's a conversation with a friend who has started writing for this "large-ish news organization," finished her first story, and is now spending her time on getting the message of its publication across via "a media channel" (Facebook, probably). And then he asks:

Invariant under rotation?

(A friend from the East Coast sent this picture:)

(He didn't actually, he sent this one:)

(Well, you know us.)

Who of you is the man? --- Korea (1)

We didn’t have a fight for a few minutes, so it’s not really something for the Connubial Bliss, plus, we’re in Heathrow, changing planes for our trip to JeJu, Korea. South Korea, that is, the place nobody dares to visit since the North is reiterating its prediction that it will throw “small nukes” if feeling annoyed by is ethnic neighbor much longer.

Heathrow airport

Everybody hates Heathrow (queues) but the shopping is supposed to be good, so we have to buy “Polo.” Polo, among other things, is a fragrance created by Ralph Lauren and used by Chang. A spunky duty-free sales-female takes charge first of Chang and then of yours truly as the mammal bond between the two homosexual travelers transpires. We’re apparently adrift in the wrong place and should follow her to the male section and get “something for men.”

(This is a bit overwritten, apologies.)

“We’re kinda girls,” I say ...

A man is beautiful

It's perhaps a minor issue, so give it perhaps a minor thought. What's wrong with this poem:

A man is beautiful

but

you have to swing

and swing and swing

and swing like

a handkerchief in the

wind

Well, consider this one:

A woman is beautiful

but

you have to swing

and swing and swing

and swing like

a handkerchief in the

wind

That better, right? Well, it's also from Jack Kerouac, the last one. But that's not the only thing. Let's think about this some more.

Freedom Fries --- Chapter 3: "I said Hu" (part 1)

Previously. Pamela Nachtrieb Timbers, the voluminous Dean of Berkeley Law School, had been asked by President Obama to swing by for an interview --- a position at the Supreme Court is vacant --- but Pamela, regretfully, had to tell Obama about a skeleton in her closet. She will now explain to Georg Lukacs, the charsimatic hedge-fund titan (who happens to be an old friend of hers) why.

The maitre d’ is very pleased with her squeaking bag, and very kind to Pamela’s coat. George didn’t bring one, since the New Tearoom is only 6 minutes and 23 seconds from his office, which he had suggested they would walk together, for fresh air and aplomb. People would recognize him in the street, obviously, and wonder who this woman is, but he was used to this. Plus, they really didn’t look like former lovers. She looks more like his shrink, or worse, or vice versa; well, not vice versa, obviously.

Charles — as the maitre d’ is apparently known — spreads his fingers, raises his arms, and touches her breasts, almost. “We’re so pleased to have you with us, M’am,” Charles says. “Don’t worry,” George comments, “he doesn’t know you, he’s just doing his thing.” Charles laughs obligingly, then asks: “You’re famous, M’am?” Pamela can’t resist. “Yes, I’m a famous madam.” Charles laughs more obligingly. “First time you hear that reply?” Pamela asks. Now George laughs. “Her name is Pamela,” George says, “and she’ll be famous all right, starting tonight.” “Famous all right, starting tonight,” Charles comes back, “that rhymes.” All three laugh now, and George claps his hands. “Listen,” he says, “I’m a famous po-it, but nobody know-it.” General hilarity, everybody claps.

Central Park in Manhattan

Unlike other New York restaurants, the New Tearoom has been around for more than six months. This being Manhattan, the large cubic volume alone defines serious luxe, so Philip Stark could relax and contend himself with light wood, white walls, large windows, and serious art. Charles leads them to their table. Most other tables are already occupied by a hodgepodge of new New York society, like Asians with absolutely oversized, heavily rimmed glasses, or Blues Brother’s types (wasn’t that Chicago?). Times have changed, Pamela thinks. Their table, the best of course, is waiting for them in its pristine virginity at the upper level balcony with a view of the Central Park. Two waiters are in attendance to handle their chairs. Pamela and George sit down in style. Thick napkins, thin waiters, Pamela observes.

"If you have enough darkness, will you have enough light?"

(Us, folks, with Sacha, our friend, who provides the model for Jack Horn in the Green Eyes, this afternoon, in Sacha's garden in Les Adrets:) 

_____________

And here are a two corresponding tidbits from the Green Eyes:

(Opening of Chapter 43:)  Every soap has its homme à tout faire, be it James Bond ("Q"), or us ("Jack"). Talking James Bond, if you ever watched the earlier movies (there is a new-new Q now, bear with me), you must have realized that Q’s lab was too small, there was no way anybody could combine a shooting range for war heads with a workshop for poisonous pens with an assembly line for Aston Martins anywhere outside the Pinewood Studios (the newest Q holds court in the British Museum where they have more space).

Talking Jack Horn, if you ever had a look at Jack's barn—he lives in a rumbling farm house outside Georgia Beach with a large garden and a big barn where he “works”—in fact, you don't have to enter the barn, you only have to look at it from miles away—it's like Q's (old) universe, and then some. There are machines, gadgets, toy helicopters, pianos, coloring books of his three lovely daughters, the original camera of Toulouse-Lautrec, teddy bears, the screen wall from Startreck, tennis rackets, entire hardware shops, books even, some of his friends write books. It's like the firm of Clutter, Clutter & Clutter. There it is, climbing the stairs, climbing the walls and climbing into the basement where antique premium cars await urgent repairment: clutter. There’s no way you could spend a minute in this chaos and not come away with the idea that Jack is your man when it comes to hair-brained schemes.

Spelling reform (Sacha)

(We've posted on this before, but here's Mark Twain's version:)

For example, in Year 1 that useless letter c would be dropped to be replased either by k or s, and likewise x would no longer be part of the alphabet. The only kase in which c would be retained would be the ch formation, which will be dealt with later.
Year 2 might reform w spelling, so that which and one would take the same konsonant, wile Year 3 might well abolish y replasing it with i and Iear 4 might fiks the g/j anomali wonse and for all.
Jenerally, then, the improvement would kontinue iear bai iear with Iear 5 doing awai with useless double konsonants, and Iears 6-12 or so modifaiing vowlz and the rimeining voist and unvoist konsonants.
Bai Iear 15 or sou, it wud fainali bi posibl tu meik ius ov thi ridandant letez c, y and x — bai now jast a memori in the maindz ov ould doderez — tu riplais ch, sh, and th rispektivli.
Fainali, xen, aafte sam 20 iers ov orxogrefkl riform, wi wud hev a lojikl, kohirnt speling in ius xrewawt xe Ingliy-spiking werld.

______________

OK, and now what, where's the corresponding fragment from the Green Eyes? Well, not so easy, we play with spelling only twice, when Maurice's behind is spelled "arse" since he's a Brit. Significantly, both times a beach bear gets involved. The first time because John tries to purloin a towel from said bear to help Maurice cover up his private parts following a close encounter of a certain kind that left Maurice trunk-less (in the sense that he cannot find his discarded swimsuit): 

And so, before time, a shadow falls over my feet, a hand touches my shoulder, and a voice growls: "What are you doing here?" The voice belongs to a mature man, soft in the middle and elsewhere, and it's during the next split second that I commit the next error of the day because I'm not only arrogant, I'm also slow-witted under duress. I should have risen above the suspicious context and ask the bear directly: 'Could you lend me a towel,' perhaps followed by some explanation, perhaps even the true explanation, he would possibly laugh a deep, bearish laugh, his belly shaking, and everything would be fine, and I could walk away with a lent towel to save a British arse. But I don't. "I'm admiring your towels," I say, "trying to find out about the brand, so I could order the same."

"I don't believe you," the towel-owner replies. "I think you are trying to steal something, possibly the booze." "No," I say, no, never." As opposed to me, this round man isn't slow-witted, and he's developing dubious schemes behind his round forehead as we speak. "You were trying to get hold of our champagne," he continues, "a Pommery vintage, ten years old, a bottle that George and I brought to the beach to celebrate the first week of our friendship, the bottle worth 100 bucks."

The view today

  ...Yes, this is us, this morning, the Esterel hills to the south of Le Trayas... 

...with the Mediterranean right next to it...

I've just finished reading Michael Ampersant's outrageous new novel Green Eyes.  

(Artwork by Miguel Angel Reyes)

Lübke English

Heinrich Lübke

Heinrich Lübke was the second president of postwar (West) Germany, and he is remembered for only one thing, his English. He're an example of typical Lübke English:

A: "Hello, Sir, how goes it you?"

B: "Oh, thank you for the afterquestion." 

A: "Are you already long here?"

B: "No, first a pair days. I come not out London." 

A: "Thunderweather, that overrushes me. You see not so out."

B: "That can yes beforecom. I come out Frankfurt."

A: "Das hätte ich nicht gedacht, Sie sprechen ja ausgesprochen gutes Englisch."

So, why do we bring this up? Because of Godehart, of course, the fifth generation descendant of operatic composer Richard Wagner, one of the lead characters in our outrageous novel "Green Eyes."

Spoiler alert: our attempt to dress Godehart in true Lübke English came to nothing --- it's difficult to comprehend (even for Germans), and it wouldn't be convincing given that Godehart is an educated person from an international family whose English ought to be reasonably fluent.

Anyhow, here's a fragment from the Green Eyes, from Chapter 43, "Lets have congress while I explain," where Godehart initiates John to the secrets of Manhunt advertising (Manhunt, the internet dating service):

We've reached full afterplay now, which means we are resting against the chrome grill, not the most comfortable head rests, and I don’t know what to say. Gohard is stroking his dick again. “How about a re-run,” he says as he’s pulling his foreskin in all directions.
“It was great,” I say, “but I need to save some cum for Hunnsbruck.”
“Hunnsbruck,” he exclaims, “I almost forgot. Yes, let us save some cum for Hunnsbruck. Let us get pen and paper.” He jumps off the bed and returns with a Montblanc pen and a leather-bound, Wagner-iconed notebook, this one even prettier than Howard’s lawyer’s diary.

Need a job?

(Maud sent this:)

The view this morning

Just kidding

"In truth I need the money to buy a copy of Michael Ampersant's outrageous new novel Green Eyes"

Green Eyes --- Chapter 19: Naked girls

Previously, Alex ("Green Eyes") offered to give us a ride, we took him upstairs for the same, we did it, and somehow we fell asleep. We wake up, and he's gone. We've spent the last chapter mourning him. What will we do next? 

I brew coffee without further justification. I drink a cup and don't know what to do. The sun is still at it, embracing the ugly water tower, it is almost on top of it now, what's the name of this position? I should take pictures for my blog, and mention in the post that the tower resembles—better is—is an ugly frog, how do we say, ‘in attendance,’ ‘in expectation,’ ‘in dire need of,’ what, ‘relief,’ ‘transmogrification,’ that word possible doesn't exist, ‘transcendence,’ perhaps. I could perhaps use an older trick, insinuating lightly that the tower is, in reality, a spaceship, which is now awaiting trans-whatever into an ugly frog. We're not getting anywhere. My blog, that's the blog that could have saved me if I would only have shown it to Alex, (or ‘showed’ it to Alex?) so that he could have liked it, and liked me more, and leave his number behind, I’m repeating myself.

My blog lives in the spare room, on the ambulant desk, in my computer (I'm still stuck with a PC). I leave kitchen and coffee behind and turn the switch. It takes forever, as you know, my PC is four years old (why did everything happen four years ago?).

Let me see, I don't quite remember when I posted the last post, like what, three days ago? About what? I forgot as well. This blog, confusingly named Freedom Fries, is about everything and nothing, including loose talk about the gay condition, risqué pictures of the semi-graphical kind, more soft porn, it never angles more than 35° above the ground, we're barely in erection country, not because I'm prudish, but because I want to avoid a content warning, which, I fear, would discourage the last of my regulars of whose sexuality I know little. Beyond the pendulous porn, there are posts with shots at light fun of the acridic type, political posts against slavery and the Confederacy, sometimes somebody emails a new joke, I find a fitting picture, you name it. There are millions of these blogs, perhaps more than potential visitors (some guy from the computer science department told me that 20 thousand new porn sites go on line each day, I can't believe it, but then I never believe other faculty).

Adult content

(This is Frank Sinatra, isn't it? Well, for once we are out-plussed. We have no corresponding fragment from Michael Ampersant's outrageous new novel Green Eyes)

Find a caption

"My fellow Americans, let me say to you: Stand witness to the death of the red tie!"

À propos (Doonesbury)

This is us, folks, this is us, Chang saying ""book,"" ("your hobby," "don't get obsessed about it," etc.), and Michael saying "book."  Chang carrying some laundry/garbage bag, Michael not carrying some laundry/garbage bag; der Rest ist Schweigen (we live together for 20 years).

Right, so here are two examples of such paragraphs from the Green Eyes (opening Chapter 21 and 29, respectively; it's usually the first paragraph of a chapter that's difficult):

(Chapter 21, My father and your father were fathers): I'm on my way to the convenience store now, except that I'm not, since the truck doesn't start. Father is in his box, I can forget about him, but my truck is a different box, in particular when it acts up. I never knew it was a truck until Joe, a neighbor, told me so—I thought I had bought an SUV from a stupid lemon dealer, a first generation Mercedes 320 ML from another millennium. But after a few miles it transpired that the fine line between arrogance and hubris had been crossed once again by some autonomous part of my brain in that the lemon dealer turned out to be right. It helps a bit, though, that this Joe—a wealthy oil man from Louisiana who owns the latest version of my model at some six-digit pricepoint and the entire top floor of the condo—that Joe calls his ML a truck, it makes a difference in the delusion compartment whether it's your truck that breaks down, or your premium-brand SUV with leather seats and other luxe options.

(Chapter 29, The sycamore tree): I realized too late what I had done, or not done. In the confusion of my father’s arrival I had left the cell phone behind, and then, despite all the mental notes to self, had forgotten about Alice, because it had been exactly ten PM when Gracelyn suggested, insisted, in fact, that I sleep with Ben in one bed. That must have been it, the mental notes to self, the deities of the English language took offense and punish me dearly now, (or it’s other deities with other concerns that punish me dearly now, but dearly it is).

Sirrr --- "Couldn't agree more"

More Sirrr-wise, this time as a comment on the Daily Beast (scroll down). Let us explain. Andrew Sullivan has a post on Philip Roth, who, in a NY restaurant, got accosted (if that's the word) by young, budding (and handsome) author Julian Trepper, who has just published his first novel "Balls" (balls). Trepper presents Roth with a copy of said Balls, Roth jumps up, and shoots into a tirade against writing:

“I would quit while you’re ahead. Really, it’s an awful field. Just torture. Awful. You write and write, and you have to throw almost all of it away because it’s not any good. I would say just stop now. You don’t want to do this to yourself. That’s my advice to you.”

Julian has reported on this in the Paris review and on the pages of the Daily Beast, where he's speculating about Roth's career as a bored ex-writer (Roth announced recently he had quit writing), and posits that writing is a very practical way out of boredom. 

Julian Trepper, Philip Roth

And her's our Sirrr-letter:

  Sirrr --- couldn't agree more. Boredom is the alternative to writing, or, more precisely, writing is the alternative to boredom. I'm a retired academic living in a retirement community in the south of France, and people here are bored, bored, so bored it could actually kill them. You need an inner life in order to live a good life, and while there might be other things to help you find it or live it, writing, as Julian so coyly explains, provides a practical and pragmatic way to get one, an inner life.

Folks, as an academic, I always knew about "writing," and I can tell you from experience now that there isn't much difference between writing an academic paper and writing gay pornography, especially when it’s the first draft, when the creative juices really need to flow.

OK, so. Let me tell you. The day I decided to write fiction, I found Jesus. Since I'm writing gay pornography, I'm wearing the flaccid smile of the truly reborn, my wrinkles have disappeared, my hair has grown, my penis has grown, Jesus it is. 60% of the time I'm on a high, the high people normally reach only after three glasses of champagne. And the first novel is almost finished. The first draft was finished in under five month (the first draft of my Ph.D. took two years).

Green Eyes --- teaser (Maud)

(So let's contemplate:) 

And here's a fitting clip from the Green Eyes (Chapter 20, "My father and your father were fathers," --- John is getting a phone call from the hospital (Maurice is still alive), and then father shows up prematurely; here's the beginning of the chapter, mercifully short):


The phone rings.

It's not that simple, of course, the phone doesn't ring. Instead, it speaks a pop song to me --- like your partner would in a failed marriage. I've tried everything, even phone calls (I hate phone calls, both ways), tried everything to download a ring tone like "rrringg, rrringg," a tone that nobody remembers from the analogue days. I've hit the Download ringtone now button too often, I've been charged for said tones occasionally, I've stamped on the ground like Rumpelstiltskin, I succeeded once, when my pop song was replaced by a different one that I had to learn with difficulty—it takes some time before you realize that the dahhhduhhdahh is actually yours when it happens in your pocket and not on TV—but it has happened too often now, and I love it like you love your partner during a bitter divorce.

"It’s coming back to me now," the cell sings again.

How about this illustration? Antique pederasts didn't have to bother with cell-phones, or did they? OK, here're two more paragraph from the same chapter:

How to abuse a father in the meantime? Step one, no welcome. Done. Step two, offer poison. Done. Step two-A, let him die. Fail. Step three, let him ask for the booze. Step four, there's no booze left in the fridge (Alex helped). Step five, be unpredictable. On some occasions, I go and fetch a few cans of beer from the nearest convenience store. On others, I don't, I'm off, busy, see you later, leave him key-less behind, there is no spare key, he's off to the beach, he returns, he can't get in, there are no flower pots, my cell-phone is on voice mail. The first day is almost over, two more days to go.

You wonder whether he ever raped me? No, he didn't. My mother just caught him on the wrong side of my body, when the thing stopped. Let me explain, I'm politically incorrect here in a terrible way, I know. I didn't really care. He sucked my dick, it didn't hurt. He never asked me to suck his. I wasn't hurt, or devastated, or desecrated, at least subjectively I wasn't. But I think my bipolarity has something to do with it, I learned to compartmentalize, if that's the word, or at least my brain did, the autonomous part, my father in one compartment, other things in others compartments, and myself somewhere else. These compartments are still there, I always have to think outside of some boxes, go back and forth from box to box, these boxes will possibly stay with me for the rest of my life. This back and forth all the time, it must have something to do with my mood swings, I don't know.

Sirrr --- "die menschliche Dummheit is grenzenlos"

(We did it again, we did it again. Another Sirrr letter, this time in the comment section of Paul Krugman's latest column in the NYT:)

Paul Krugman

Sirrr:  Following up on the last comment (people can't be reasoned with): why --- yes, in the end, they can. We've been there before, like the Chinese were for more than a thousand years during which time the frequent and devastating floods of the Yellow River basin were answered by raising the standards of the entry exams of the bureaucratic Mandarin elite (mostly writing poetry). Wasn't it crystal clear that the ancestors had gotten upset again about declining poetic standards and showed their anger through provoking natural disasters? Or think about the infamous earthquake of Lisbon in 1755, to which the authorities reacted by staging more autodafés --- wasn't it clear that God had shown his anger and needed to be mollified by more vigorous answers to overall sinning?

Along those lines, isn't it clear that the world will go under if we don't lower the budget deficit now, now (never mind that a significant percentage of the demographic believing this also believes that the world will come to an end anyhow soon, compliments Jesus Christ and impending Rapture proceedings). Isn't it clear that the answer to all economic problems lies in lowering taxes --- because it's the hardworking, dogged, teneacious rich that create jobs, those people that could get discouraged so easily by higher marginal taxes, even though the marginal income tax rate under Eisenhower (when the American economy really grew precipitously) was 91%, instead of 35, or 39%.

My father (who was German) used to say: "Die menschliche Dummheit ist grenzenlos." In this spirit.

(And while we are at it, a fitting fragment from the Green Eyes --- not the first time we're posting this fragment, but there you have it:)

Chapter 38 --- What's Paul Krugman's penis size

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. In the distant past, when penises had average size, there was some talk in some quarters that IQs would be sexy, but we have proof now (sample-of-one!) that Krugman either does not look the part or that IQs are out. What's Krugman's penis size? Krugman, I realize, is drinking sparkling water, which is actually penis-enhancing, at least in the sense that alcohol induces impotence. That's what I should do, drink sparkling water, do they award Nobel prices for French? Should I raise my voice a bit so that Krugman can hear me and admire what I have to say about the Normans and their conquest of the Anglo-Saxon tongue? Where am I now, 0.13 BAC? Did you know that French has more words for booze than English? Or vice versa?

Green Eyes --- teaser

(A friend sends this picture:)

(And the corresponding Green Eyes fragment is?)

Chapter 43 --- A surgical strike into semantic space

"Uhh huuh," he says, sipping his whiskey. "So you want a video installation?"
"In a sense."
"On your own premises."
"Yes."
"You won't have much traffic in your apartment."
"Should I?"
"Perhaps you should contact the MoMa for your work."
“You mean the Museum of Modern Art?”
“Yes, they have more traffic. In New York City.”
"I'm not famous enough," I say.
"I worked in Manhattan, once had sex with the secretary of the director. Of the MoMa. Twice. Three times. My-ooh-my. These people know what they are doing. Four times."
"Hiring secretaries?"
"Hiring secretaries." He smacks his lips, swipes his unruly black hair with his fingers. "A video installation, that could be challenging."
"You are the man."

Joining the staff of Elizabeth Warren (Doonesbury)

(We normally don't do senior citizen jokes, but there you have it:) 

(We may need glasses to read that, don't we?)

The fine art of doing nothing

Bob Bienpensant: The art of doing nothing

Public transport hazards

"This guy should read Michael Ampersant's outrageouos new novel Green Eyes

Green Eyes --- Neologism update

Armani minimum (n.phr.) Giorgio Armani's tumescence when he wears his Armani jeans. Usage (Green Eyes, Ch. 30): "Any hint of tumescence is stylishly kept to the Armani minimum."
dead-wife (n.) A female spouse, now deceased. Usage: "Alice had an affair with his dead-wife." Discouraged, cruel.
i-ding (n.) (i) Collective name for Ipads, Iphones, and similar devices. Usage (Green Eyes, Ch. 27): "He flips his I-ding, sends a text message to Google." (ii) The penis of compulsive app-users. Usage: "This I-man showed me his I-ding, but I wasn't i-impressed."
i-impressed (adv.) The state of being impressed by an I-thing or its doings. Usage: "This I-man showed me his I-ding, but I wasn't i-impressed." Awkward, won't fly (sounds like one of the lesser Urban Dictionary inventions).

Warm bodies (review) (reblogged)

Lokfire from Hollywood Hates Me writes:

So I saw Warm Bodies (the book) laying on the table at the bookstore. I picked it up and perused the back cover.

I'd've perused the front cover, but it was kind of off-putting

A zombie romance? Man, I liked zombies before they were cool. (I kind of hate myself.)  Warm Bodies, a zombie romance, has been made into a movie. Apparently, it's something like a parody of Twilight, which seems silly to me, because why bother to parody something that's already a parody of writing to begin with?

Seriously, though, it just seems like all you'd need to do is point at Twilight and laugh

Goood evening!

Advertisement

It doesn't matter what you wear... for as long as you keep reading  Michael Ampersant's Green Eyes

(Artwork by EthanMaxx)

"He said I would find the copy of Michael Ampersant's outrageous new novel Green Eyes in the top drawer."

(Artwork by Michael Breyette)