Dec 31, 2014
Last words of the year --- This is heaven
Just writing (last words of the year in the This-Is-Heaven manuscript, we're in Chapter 29, the boys prepping Godehart for the debate of the third day of the festival):
“Where did you get these undies?” Maurice asks.
Ben wears different briefs today, not the muchacho graffiti, but a pattern-repeat design of naked men in celibate poses printed Delft-blue on a white background. “Oohh,” Ben says, walks stiffly up to the counter. Godehart follows his every movement, the tight procession of the bubble butt, the spiel of Ben’s triceps as he works the percolator can, a stray ray of sun meandering on his skin (not to mention the effortless stretch of his abs under the band of the wallpaper briefs).
“Where did you get these undies?” Maurice repeats.
“Bonus payment,” Ben answers.
He disappears in my chamber, returns with a slip of paper, check-size, hands it to me. "Three thousand dollars," I read. "Name field blank. We can cash it immediately."
"Oohh," Ben says.
These were a few words from the second part of the GREEN EYES. And you know what? Part I is available as ebook now, here, under this link:
“Where did you get these undies?” Maurice asks.
Ben wears different briefs today, not the muchacho graffiti, but a pattern-repeat design of naked men in celibate poses printed Delft-blue on a white background. “Oohh,” Ben says, walks stiffly up to the counter. Godehart follows his every movement, the tight procession of the bubble butt, the spiel of Ben’s triceps as he works the percolator can, a stray ray of sun meandering on his skin (not to mention the effortless stretch of his abs under the band of the wallpaper briefs).
“Where did you get these undies?” Maurice repeats.
“Bonus payment,” Ben answers.
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| Design by Alessio Slonimsky |
He disappears in my chamber, returns with a slip of paper, check-size, hands it to me. "Three thousand dollars," I read. "Name field blank. We can cash it immediately."
"Oohh," Ben says.
These were a few words from the second part of the GREEN EYES. And you know what? Part I is available as ebook now, here, under this link:
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 25, 2014
Find a caption
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| "That has to be the smallest I've seen in my life." |
"Bacchus and Ariadne," (1621) Guido Reni (1575-1642)
Dec 24, 2014
Jamie 1.0 (teaser)
Today, our new flash story appeared on the pages of Gay Flash Fiction. Here's a teaser:
“I’m married to this gentleman,” I say to the immigration officer on SFO and point at Chang behind the yellow line. She beams at us and waves him forward. Some court has just overturned California’s ban on gay marriage.
“You’ll be staying in the city, right?”
“The first few days.”
“If you like go places, you must have lunch at the River’s End. You know the Russian River? She draws a map on a sheet of immigration paper.
We rent a cheap place in Guerneville (on the Russian River), an hour and a half north of the city. I’m working on my book, Chang is tending to the kitchen garden we inherited from previous tenants.
The weather is California-perfect and I’m sitting on the porch. I get up at 4 AM to write and can’t concentrate in the afternoon. The place next door is (even) more run-down than ours. And makes angry noises. It moans and cusses with the voice of a middle-aged woman---about---Jamie. A boy sits on a camping chair outside. His face is blank. He gets up and disappears.
Repeat, basically, for several days or weeks. We’ve met the woman in the meantime. We talked once, which was a mistake, we’re her enemies too, now.
“Jamie is a sweet name,” I say to Chang, “she must have loved him once.”
For the full story, follow the link. NB: The first paragraph is true-true. This really happened to us on our arrival in San Francisco this spring.
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| Jamie |
“I’m married to this gentleman,” I say to the immigration officer on SFO and point at Chang behind the yellow line. She beams at us and waves him forward. Some court has just overturned California’s ban on gay marriage.
“You’ll be staying in the city, right?”
“The first few days.”
“If you like go places, you must have lunch at the River’s End. You know the Russian River? She draws a map on a sheet of immigration paper.
*°*
We rent a cheap place in Guerneville (on the Russian River), an hour and a half north of the city. I’m working on my book, Chang is tending to the kitchen garden we inherited from previous tenants.
*°*
The weather is California-perfect and I’m sitting on the porch. I get up at 4 AM to write and can’t concentrate in the afternoon. The place next door is (even) more run-down than ours. And makes angry noises. It moans and cusses with the voice of a middle-aged woman---about---Jamie. A boy sits on a camping chair outside. His face is blank. He gets up and disappears.
*°*
Repeat, basically, for several days or weeks. We’ve met the woman in the meantime. We talked once, which was a mistake, we’re her enemies too, now.
*°*
“Jamie is a sweet name,” I say to Chang, “she must have loved him once.”
For the full story, follow the link. NB: The first paragraph is true-true. This really happened to us on our arrival in San Francisco this spring.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 19, 2014
The view this evening (Glenn)
(No, actually---not the view this evening. This is a sky picture showing how the Andromeda Galaxy, the nearest galaxy outside the Milky Way, would appear to our eyes if it were bright enough. It's roughly 1 million light years away and ca. 100,000 light years across, almost twice as large as the Milky Way, our own galaxy.)
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 12, 2014
Gallery (23) (Sadao Hasegawa)
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| Sadao Hasegawa (1996) |
(We discovered Sadao Hasegawa today; it's an incredibly intense Japanese artist, who committed suicide in 1999)
(More art on the Gallery Page)
(More art on the Gallery Page)
Dec 8, 2014
Arresting Justin Bieber --- Write a novel see the world (1)
(Update: and while we are at it, here's Justin's lastest picture:)
Anything more we have to say about Justin, a fragment perhaps? We mention him once in the Green Eyes, but in our first novel, Freedom Fries, he gets a serious literary treatment. Here it is:
Context: Pamela Woods, the Dean of Berkeley Law school is busy conspiring against one of her faculty member, John Yoo, the author of the Bush-era torture memos. And Justin Bieber jr? That's her vice dean. And---spoiler alert---the scene is set on the day of Justin Bieber's breakthrough:
She collects the secret phone---Zack could call any minute now---hides it in her bag, and leaves the office. She will take up position in the lobby, where she will play the Populist Dean. The populist dean is expected of her anyhow, occasionally, and her performance is not without merit (despite mixed reviews), especially on Friday afternoons when people want to go home early, an inclination she applauds with one hand and dismisses with the other. Anyhow, there she stands, expansive as always (not always, only since twenty years), dispensing kisses, Hi’s, compliments (“you look great”), compliments (“you look great”), feedback (“we missed you at the budget meeting, where were you”), more compliments (“where did you get that tan?”), as her academic subjects are drifting toward TGI weekend.
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| Berkeley Law School, west side |
Meanwhile, in a parallel universe, Pamela is waiting for Yoo to go home to his wife and two children, his wife the estranged daughter of the Pulitzer prize winning face of the first gulf war, Peter Arnett, his children the estranged grandchildren of the Pulitzer prize winning face of the first gulf war, at least, that’s how she assumes Yoo’s family works. But perhaps she is wrong, Arnett looms large in her own life since it had been him, the CNN correspondent in Baghdad, who had watched over her final fall from svelteness during one month of uninterrupted couch attendance in the run-up to the war. Tragically, she was on sabbatical leave at that time; planning to write another law book, she had turned down visiting appointments elsewhere and was stuck in front of the TV with an excessive supply of macaroons and productive procrastination. She had gained twenty additional pounds when the war was over, twenty pounds that had tipped the balance of her life.
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| Parking garage of Berkeley Law |
She has already sent six faculty, twelve students, and three staff into the weekend when Vice Dean Bieber descends the stairs. A small, middle-aged man of nondescript appearance, Justin Bieber Jr. is the son of Justin Bieber Sr. and the father of Justin Bieber III. She opens her arms wide---he is scared of big women and will keep a certain distance. “How’s going,” she cheers, “haven’t seen you in fifteen minutes.”
“Great, Pamela, great going,” Bieber replies, “I’ve just taken a few minutes off my vice-deanly obligations to check on my blog.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t have a chance to catch up with your blog recently, but I promise.”
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 5, 2014
Writers (Cathy Ulrich)
I've never understood why some writers write stories about writers because if we're really that interesting, why are we going around making up stories all the time?
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| "And then I picked up my quill pen and began to write this phrase: 'And then I picked up my quill pen...'." |
(reblogged from Cathy's blog Hollywood Hates Me)
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 2, 2014
The Golden Century --- Connubial bliss
Prologue. The Golden Century is an all-you-can-eat oriental restaurant located right next to the landing strip of the Cannes-Mandelieu airfield. If there's any magic to proximity, and if there's any proximity to Hollywood, it’s here. From Brad Pitt to George Clooney to Benedict Cumberbatch, they’ve all been dozens of time inside a two hundred yard circle centered upon the main buffet of the Golden Century. This is the spot where private-jet celebrities touch down on their way to the Festival de Cannes.
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| The main buffet of the Golden Century |
Act I. I had been there once, by sheer coincidence, a few minutes before the place opened for the first time at 7 PM on a nondescript weekday. The doors were already unlocked, I entered unsuspectingly. The place was empty, except for a few nervous waiters and an interior design so intense in its lacquered combination of Formica wood and red lanterns that I fainted.
Dec 1, 2014
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 27, 2014
“I can almost write like Mr. Johann Sebastian Bach” --- seven things we knew about Ernest Hemingway
The New Yorker sends a link to an article by Lillian Ross about Ernest Hemingway (H.), published in 1950.
We’re curious, we don’t know much about H., having read him when everybody else read him, The Old Man and the Sea in our case, in a German translation. We’ve been to Key West, FL, where everything is H., and got fed up with Sloppy Joe, his watering hole there, so decided to get drunk somewhere else (we’re possibly not the first to mention tourism and locust in the same sentence).
So, what we knew about him was
(0) writer of short sentences, user of simple language, herald of Huckleberry Finn (Mark Twain’s novel), in-quote: “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn. American writing comes from that. There was nothing before. There has been nothing as good since.”
(1) macho,
(2) Nobel Prize,
(3) lookalike contests,
(4) big game hunting,
(5) drink,
(6) serial husband, perhaps something of a womanizer.
We’re curious, we don’t know much about H., having read him when everybody else read him, The Old Man and the Sea in our case, in a German translation. We’ve been to Key West, FL, where everything is H., and got fed up with Sloppy Joe, his watering hole there, so decided to get drunk somewhere else (we’re possibly not the first to mention tourism and locust in the same sentence).
So, what we knew about him was
(0) writer of short sentences, user of simple language, herald of Huckleberry Finn (Mark Twain’s novel), in-quote: “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn. American writing comes from that. There was nothing before. There has been nothing as good since.”
(1) macho,
(2) Nobel Prize,
(3) lookalike contests,
(4) big game hunting,
(5) drink,
(6) serial husband, perhaps something of a womanizer.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 24, 2014
Palais de Justice
We're in litigation with our wayward bank and today we'll finally have our day in court, in Grasse, Alpes-Maritimes, way station on Napoleon's Route Napoleon during the "100 days" that ended in Waterloo. Grasse is the world capital of fragrances and the locale of Patrick Süskind's The Perfume, the story of a hypersensitive nose attached to Ben Whishaw who needs the bodily fluids of 12 virgins to complete his mission as the greatest perfume-maker of all time. Grasse is also the seat of The Tribunal de Grande Instance, our court.
Grasse is set on the flanks of the Alpes and built around hair needle turns devoid of any spacial logic, so you're sure to lose your way, especially when you're told by your lawyer that the directions are "bien indiquées," meaning that you're directed off the main road long before you reach the town, arrows pointing this way and that way until they stop pointing and you're on your own in the middle of a Mediterranean jungle of gas stations, low-grow brush ("marais"), utilities, perfume makers, quarries, and the urgent need to pass watersince (you got up too early and drank coffee too much).[1]
Grasse is set on the flanks of the Alpes and built around hair needle turns devoid of any spacial logic, so you're sure to lose your way, especially when you're told by your lawyer that the directions are "bien indiquées," meaning that you're directed off the main road long before you reach the town, arrows pointing this way and that way until they stop pointing and you're on your own in the middle of a Mediterranean jungle of gas stations, low-grow brush ("marais"), utilities, perfume makers, quarries, and the urgent need to pass water
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 9, 2014
Lord Byron, Bill Clinton, etc --- Venice (4)
It's been a year since we've been in Venice, and now we've hit upon this beautiful picture by Hannes Steinert, depicting,
you know of course ...
... depicting the Lido of Venice. All this while we are excerpting a biography about Lord Byron providing deeper insight into his sex life, including his life in Venice (spoiler alert: self-serving ellipsis ahead)---Byron will feature in the second part of our episodic novella "The Grand Tour"---John and Alex from the Green Eyes finally marry and are off to Europe where they end up at the feet of the Fountain of Geneva whose story they learn from Richard Zugabe, librarian of the Geneva City Archives and owner of an apartment in the Villa Diodati nearby. Right, that's the first chapter of "The Grand Tour" which segues into a tryst at Zugabe's place and evokes the narrative material about Byron who had rented the villa in 1816 & who looked EXACTLY like Bill Clinton & who had apparently left a cache of manuscripts behind the wood paneling of his bedroom---for Richard Zugabe to discover.
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| Spot the anachronism |
... depicting the Lido of Venice. All this while we are excerpting a biography about Lord Byron providing deeper insight into his sex life, including his life in Venice (spoiler alert: self-serving ellipsis ahead)---Byron will feature in the second part of our episodic novella "The Grand Tour"---John and Alex from the Green Eyes finally marry and are off to Europe where they end up at the feet of the Fountain of Geneva whose story they learn from Richard Zugabe, librarian of the Geneva City Archives and owner of an apartment in the Villa Diodati nearby. Right, that's the first chapter of "The Grand Tour" which segues into a tryst at Zugabe's place and evokes the narrative material about Byron who had rented the villa in 1816 & who looked EXACTLY like Bill Clinton & who had apparently left a cache of manuscripts behind the wood paneling of his bedroom---for Richard Zugabe to discover.
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| The young Bill Clinton---sorry, just kidding, "George Gordon, 6th Lord of Byron," William Edward West, (1822) |
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 2, 2014
Monday matinée (Glenn)
Buy it, use it, break it, fix it,
Trash it, change it, mail – upgrade it,
Charge it, point it, zoom it, press it,Snap it, work it, quick – erase it,
Write it, cut it, paste it, save it,
Load it, check it, quick – rewrite it,
Plug it, play it, burn it, rip it,
Drag and drop it, zip – unzip it,
Lock it, fill it, call it, find it,
View it, code it, jam – unlock it,
Surf it, scroll it, pause it, click it,
Cross it, crack it, switch – update it,
Name it, rate it, tune it, print it,
Scan it, send it, fax – rename it,
Touch it, bring it, pay it, watch it.
Technologic.
German for beginners
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| (Hat tip: Sina DunkleWelle) |
Nov 1, 2014
Don't kill me, don't kill me
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| Artwork on an internet-posted suicide note |
Gallia divisa est in partes tres. Along those lines, there are two types of content moderation. Active moderation monitors each post on a social network; reactive moderation lets things float until somebody complains. Content moderation is important, we learn from an article on Wired, not only because we are prudish, but also because we don't wanna lose our grannies or other objectionists (spelling checker objects)---folks who are not going to share their cat-and-dog pictures or their grandchildren's likenesses amidst adult parts and other shockingness.
More than hundred thousand people are monitoring content worldwide, twice as many as are working for Google. Most of them are based in the Philippines because wages are lower there, and because the locals have a sense for American sensibilities (don't ask).
We (I mean us, Michael Ampersant and his alter egos) have been subject to content moderation two or three times on Facebook, last time with this picture...
(no, wait)
...which was taken down after a few minutes with a stern warning from the Philippines; we got blocked from posting anything for three days. Right, so we've been moderated twice exactly; the first time we've got blocked for one day only. Do the math (catchword "series"), it's frightening if you are one of these people always itching to push the envelope.
Over-sexed as we are we think about only one thing, but porn appears to be the least of the social network's concerns---it's fairly harmless, especially for the souls of content moderators. Gore is worse, not to mention ISIS clips with beheadings of nosy journalists, or suicide notes, or clips of pet torture. And there's apparently lots of that stuff going on. The average content moderator is given only a few seconds on her Stachanovist clock for each picture. That may be a lot for the active moderators who have to check all those pictures of cats and dogs and birthday cakes, but very little when we talk reactive moderation.
&-t back of the envelope: Assume that half of the moderators do reactive stuff, and that each works 40 hours a week, and each has 10 seconds per flagged post, dum dum dum, we get 144 million flagged pictures per day, except for the weekends when the moderators are off.
What else? Lets keep it short and Socratic. O reader, we ask, would you moderate this picture that we've been dying to post for quite some time:
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| (This is the picture that Facebook took down after a few minutes) |
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 23, 2014
Gallery (17) (Ron Kibble)
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| "Cropped," Ron Kibble |
(There's no Kibble link---we got his permission to post this picture, since then he has disappeared from the web. More art on the gallery page)
Oct 22, 2014
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