Sunday matinée

The grass is always greener on the other side...

You'll figure this out yourself

And while we are at it, behold this:

And you know what? Chris Christie had been Roger Ailes' dream candidate for the US presidential election. Roger Ailes? Yes, the founding CEO of FOX News.

And the corresponding fragment from the Green Eyes? We don't have much there, but here it is (Ch. 9 Part II):

The fifth candidate is also blond, but female, with a horsy, consent-demanding face that stares right at you, and a lot of hands and fingernails attached to her extremities, hot in a fashioned way (she), pure anchor nouveau, she could host any show, especially on FOX, especially about Christmas decoration (I have to explain to Maurice about FOX’s War on Christmas). She survives while casting a malevolent regard at the defeated fish underneath, it’s so subtle.


More of this, context? We'll here's a teaser for the corresponding chapter in part II of the Green eyes.

The pitcher goes to the well until it breaks

Westboro Baptist Church

The hate group, normally obsessed with homosexuality, has accepted the offer of free tickets to Irak and stage their show in ISIS territory. That should solve a few problems.

Rick Santorum is back...

...and so are we. We don't have to explain, we guess, just click on the picture. 

In Switzerland --- The fountain of Geneva (teaser)

  

So we arrived, and went almost immediately for a hike around the Stand, a fairly flat hill structure situated above Bürchen, our home here in CH. And Chang takes pictures for his Facebook page. So here are two of them---this was a fabulous day---the first picture showing the imposing Dom, the third-highest mountain of the Alps (4545 m), and the second showing the Saas Valley, right next to it (to the left):

Dom, with the Hohberg, the main glacier, nestling a bit off to the right under the main peak

Saas Valley

And the teaser? What happened to the Green Eyes? Don't you worry, the Green Eyes are back in business with Alex on John on honeymoon traveling through Europe and being told the back story of the Fountain of Geneva, a tale of 2000 years involving the Roman emperor Hadrian and a ravaging nordic tribe, the Muttoni, which has settled in---yes---the Saas Valley. And the Dom? Well, the Dom hosts the Hohberg, its main glacier, which provides the water for the thirsty fountain. Hadrian is visiting Geneva, is asked to deal with the Muttoni, and has the brilliant idea of assembling an erotic SWAT team, named the Guard of Antinous after his deceased lover.

Okay, here's a fragment with narrator Richard Zugabe, librarian of the municipal archives of Geneva (Hadrian leads his team up the Valais valley into Muttoni territory):

“Late-August, the eternally-snow-topped Alps to the south, the gentle slopes of the Jura to the north, the deep-blue water of the lake glittering in the sunlight, a touch of gossamer in the air, the Antinousians holding hands and sharing the sights---quite a few of romantic liaisons had been formed in the meantime, you can imagine. There was an upset, though, literally, during the crossing, in that the passengers felt a sudden surge of the lake, and then heard the desperate cries of a galley slave who had just lost his penis. Yes, two galley slaves had somehow managed to abandon their oars and engage in a sexual act and the sudden swell had led to a regrettable jaw movement of the receiving partner. Snap. Galley slaves were not supposed to leave their position on punishment by death, but Hadrian was in upper-best mood and pardoned the penis-loser.

Off to Switzerland

Yesterday morning...

...today.

There's a gay boy in the closet

Tuesday matinée --- checking out at the local supermarket

And he had a wide smile for us!

(We're off to Switzerland on Thursday, when blogging will resume (hopefully); we had a very rough time the last couple of months)

German for beginners

"Macht doch wenigstens das Licht aus."

Did you know?

"My friends who live in the area, let me know! Is there some sort of zombie apocalypse hitting town?" --- Seattle 8)

 "My friends who live in the area, let me know! Is there some sort of zombie apocalypse hitting town"... 

The walk along the water front --- Seattle (7)

We're on 81 Vine Street, two blocks from the water front, which was remodeled during the 80's to provide the ideal outdoor experience of city living. We go for a stroll every day in the afternoon, especially now, with the weather picture perfect.

The Alaskan Way, on the water front, in Northern direction

400 meters into this (Americans are learning about meters), past Pier 69, where the Elliot Bay Trail begins.

Forks (2) --- Seattle (6)

"Forks (2) --- Seattle (6)"---we stay true to form with this incomprehensible title. Almost as incomprehensible as this sign...

...yes, YES, that's why we had to visit Forks, because the place is the purported hub of the Twilight franchise:

(This picture is mildly misleading...)

Forks --- Seattle (5)

Forks. Forks? Bear with us, we'll explain later (next post). For the time being, let's note that Forks is the most precipitous town in the continental United States, rain-wise. Precipitatous, as it were. It's perched between the Olympic Mountains and the Pacific Ocean. 150 miles to the west of Seattle. We must visit.

150 miles. That's a long drive. We must get up early and catch the 8:25 AM ferry to Bainbridge. That's the view this morning, from our apartment, of Mount Fuji Rainier.

Seattle (4) (Chang)

The Puget Sound with the ferry for Bainbridge (picture taken from our apartment on Vine Street)

Collateral effects

Sakura-Con --- Seattle (3) (with Alfred Hitchcock in a cameo appearance (the yellow pants))

かなまら祭り

The Shinto Kanamara Matsuri (かなまら祭り, "Festival of the Steel Phallus") is held each spring at the Kanayama Shrine (金山神社 Kanayama-jinja) in Kawasaki, Japan. The phallus, as the central theme of the event, is reflected in illustrations, candy, carved vegetables, decorations, and a mikoshi parade.

The Kanamara Matsuri is centered around a local phallus-venerating shrine once popular among prostitutes who prayed for protection from sexually transmitted diseases. In addition, there are sundry protections regarding prosperity, easy delivery, and marriage harmony. There is also a legend of a sharp-toothed demon (vagina dentata) that hid inside the vagina of a young woman and castrated two young men on their wedding nights. The young woman sought help from a blacksmith, who fashioned an iron phallus to break the demon's teeth, which led to the enshrinement of the item.

The festival has become something of a tourist attraction and is used to raise money for HIV research.  

Interstellar --- Seattle (2)

We're late with this review because we're always late---plus, we're early in the sense that the movie hasn't yet been released world wide.

Unfortunately, the sound through the Delta Airline ear plugs on Flight 467 from London-Heathrow to Seattle-Tacoma is so bad that we have trouble following the plot---although, wait---now having read the flick's Wikipedia entry we're realizing we somehow did manage to follow the plot but failed to appreciate the redeeming influence of Caltech professor Kip Thorne, the only excuse for this movie ("highly accurate, the movie, scientifically, highly accurate," reviewers rave). Kip Thorne is a real physicist and knows everything about black holes and wormholes and Einstein ("gravitational waves"), and he's listed as executive producer of this sci-fi production set in the year 2060.

What is it? You normally know inside 60 seconds whether you're watching a bad movie, right? Is it because the titles stink? That's oft the case, but not now. No, its something about the Midwestern accent of Texas-born Matthew McConaughey. It's like when you drive past this sex worker and you need to look no further, there's one layer of makeup too many. There has been one script conference too many for this movie, and Christopher Nolan, the director knows, knows deep inside...

Seattle (1)

Yesterday

Today

And in between

Yes, we're swapping houses with a family in Seattle, WA, for a month.

The view for a few days

We are renting the house for a few days, staying with friends in the meantime. This is the view (we're on the other side of the Esterel park).

Always on the right side of the issue

Shades of grey (2) (Maud)

Gallery (28) --- Ken Monkman

"Cree Master," Kent Monkman

(right, you need a close-up; here it is:)

(more art on the Gallery page)

Welcome to the Year of the Goat (Jezza Smilez)

(Glenn sent this)

Shades of grey (1) --- Am I hard enough?

Yes, we're going to do it. We have a little feuilleton on the Grey thing. And we start with something nice, the soundtrack. This is from the soundtrack:

I'll never be your beast of burden

My back is broad but it's a hurting

All I want is for you to make love to me

I'll never be your beast of burden

I've walked for miles my feet are hurting

All I want, for you to make love to me

Am I hard enough

Am I rough enough

Am I rich enough

I'm not too blind to see

I'll never be your beast of burden

So let's go home and draw the curtains

Music on the radio

Come on baby make sweet love to me

Am I hard enough

Am I rough enough

Am I rich enough

I'm not too blind to see

Oh little sister

Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, girl

Such a pretty, pretty, pretty girl

Come on baby please, please, please

I'll tell ya

You can put me out

On the street

Put me out

With no shoes on my feet

But, put me out, put me out

Put me out of misery

Yeah, all your sickness

I can suck it up

Throw it all at me

I can shrug it off

There's one thing baby

That I don't understand

You keep on telling me

I ain't your kind of man

Ain't I rough enough, ooh baby

Ain't I tough enough

Ain't I rich enough, in love enough

Ooh! Ooh! Please

I'll never be your beast of burden

I'll never be your beast of burden

Never, never, never, never, never, never, never be

I'll never be your beast of burden

I've walked for miles, my feet are hurting
All I want is for you to make love to me

"Dear Diary" ---- Quantum learning (teaser)

Yes, folks, we have been goofing off. It's a bit more complicated, though, but the net effect is that we have no new teasers for This Is Heaven. It's not exactly a writers block (we're at 2/3 of the manuscript already), but there's the need for a creative break. So we started writing on a new---and very old project. It's prose, it's fiction, and it's YA. That's all we can tell in this era of ubiquitous spoiler angst:

(Date?)

Dear Diary :

I can’t really tell you how pleased I am to hold you in my hands, or, more precisely, have you lain out open like a “book” from the old days while sitting on an office contraption that looks modernistic but was described by Xato as an antique heirloom of “the family” when rolled into the room. Xato, who at that point had known me for several hours already, sensed my reservations and looked around for alternative sitting options, but I (who had know him for several hours already), hurried to agree and said: “It will do, Xato.”

“Whatever your preferences,” Xato replied.

Whatever-your-preference…I really ought to call him that, were it not impractical as the name of a young guy that appears on your bedside and introduces himself as your PA (“pee aah?”---“Yes, Miss, pee aah,”---“Really?”---“Oh, excuse me, Miss, that would be ‘personal assistant’”). He then apologizes profusely for the “unscheduled void” of “the family”---and in particular for the “most unfortunate” absence of “The Senator” who had “longed” to be at my side “at this critical juncture” and who had been held back “by the most urgent business of State” but who “had not failed to send his greetings in redemption.”

We have been out to lunch in inexcusable ways, but it's not entirely our fault...

...which google-translates into...

habuimus ad prandium inexcusabili vias tantum sed non culpam

...which google-translates into...


we had lunch at the only ways inexcusable but not a fault

...which google-translates into...


non solum ad mores edimus prandium inexcusabili culpa

...which google-translates into...


not only to the character we had lunch inexcusable fault

...which google-translates into...


non solum per respectum ad indolem edimus prandium inexcusabili culpa

...which google-translates into...


not only with respect to the nature of the inexcusable fault we had lunch

...which google-translates into...


non solum quantum ad rationem culpae edimus prandium inexcusabili

...which google-translates into...


not only with respect to the notion of inexcusable fault we had lunch

...which google-translates into...


non solum quantum ad rationem culpae edimus prandium inexcusabili

...and so, folks, we've reached a fixed point, the ninth application of the translation function is idempotent, applying the function again and again doesn't change the result:

not only with respect to the notion of inexcusable fault we had lunch

There's order in madness.

One wonders whether all google-translations reach a fixed point (exercise left to the reader).

Gallery (26) --- Lambro Vassiliadis

"Enigma," Lambro Vassiliadis

(More art on our Gallery page)

French for beginners (Sacha)

(From the pages of Charlie Hebo)

And the corresponding fragment from the Green Eyes? No prob, bro. Étant donné (given that) the depiction of the auteur (self-centered film-maker) is Jean-Luc Godart, author of Pierrot le Fou, and other nouvelle vague movies.

Here goes (beginning of Ch. 23 of Part I, titled "In flagrante masterclass"):


There isn’t much left of Gohard's casual-ceremonial ways, the dildo has him in its grip, or counter grip, whatever. And while the situation is serious enough, I can’t suppress another collateral thought, this one involving the washed-up scriptwriter and an art house flick in which Gohard would try to answer the doorbell now, dildo and all, somehow haunching to the door, shifting from leg to leg, perhaps groaning. He reaches the door, opens it, and gulps “Hilfe.” (Come to think of it, didn't Godard (Jean-Luc, not Gohard) make a movie exactly like this, with Woody Allen as a peripatetic porn star and a peripatetic flower pot that’s always blotting the view of the adult parts of the unfolding drama? Did Allen survive?)

The door bell rings again. So it’s the postman. No, it’s Sunday. No, it’s Monday. It's not for nothing that us escorts are paid well—if we are paid at all—there's so much learning by doing involved. Shall we open the door? My budging A-level instincts tell me to stay put. Godehard moans softly, it's unclear whether he's praying or trying to say something. He rolls his head, that's what Buddhist monks do a lot.

We expect the echo of a failed doorbell initiative, silence followed by departing footfalls. Instead we get the clanky noise of metal on metal. There's something tentative to this, perhaps it’s a burglar who’s been pushing the bell to see whether the residents are at home and is wielding a picklock now. Godehart can't really roll his head any more. In flagrante masterclass.

I wonder whether the burglar could sue us for emotional damage done to him as he unsuspectingly tumbles upon harmful obscenity. While I thus wonder, the door swings open and clear, female eyes, enhanced by manly glasses, come into focus. Dr. Dyke.
Godehart can't speak at the moment, but Dyke can, presumably, although she doesn't. She ceases all activity whilst her medical mind assesses the situation. There she stands. It would be an understatement to say that we stared at each other (the more so because Godehart cannot really participate, his eyes left to dangle at the pond boys on the wall).

What's the washed-up scriptwriter doing in all this? He has a writer's block, I have to carry on alone. When you're in a hole, stop digging. That's perhaps a good idea, the more so since you’re in panic and can’t recall Dyke's real name, it could be a bad idea to use her moniker at this delicate hour. When we met for the first time, Dyke and I, her first words were "Your work?" That was twelve hours ago. What will she say now? Will she ever speak again?

"Your work?" she asks.
"Welcome to Godehart Wagner's home," I reply, one of my better lines today.
"I'm unsurprised," she says.
"Que sera, sera," I say—what can I say, there's no way to take this seriously. Even the dildo victim sports a smirk on his lips, a painful smirk at that, but a smirk nonetheless. Even the washed-up scriptwriter chimes in, we hear Doris Day singing in the background.

Are you still there? Then you'll possibly like the GREEN EYES. The first part is out now, available as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:

"click"

Find a caption

New Year's resolutions 

The view

This morning...

...this evening.

No, we don't post cat and dog pictures (3) --- Happy New Year

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.

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: