Gotcha

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

Beaujolais, Chang, vineyard in the morning

The nadir of American Conservativism

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

(you need to click on it for enlargement)

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

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

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

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

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

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

The real real America --- reblogged

Paul Krugman writes on his blog:

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

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

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

Straight victory lap

Bring out the vote

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

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

Fucking noodle soup --- reblogged

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Variations on a theme

"Let's stay in touch!"

(click to enlarge)

Shakespeare for beginners

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

Cloud Atlas --- reblogged

Lokfire from Hollywood Hates Me writes:

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

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

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

 Does he at least keep his clothes on?

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

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

 

Hans-Werner Henze died (1926 - 2012)

Hans-Werner Henze, 1926 - 2012

He was 86 years old.

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

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


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

"click"

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

(Click to enlarge)

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

Cum (Handsheets for the erotic writer (1))

Bob Bienpensant --- Wet Dreams (1)

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

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

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

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

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

The caption as punch line

We borrowed this from our sister-blog, but we have an excuse, since it's also about writing techniques (see header).

Here goes:  Pinocchio is fed up with the complaints from his wife --- "every time we make love, I get splinters" --- so he goes to see Gipetto the Carpenter, his maker, for advice.
"Sandpaper," says the carpenter, "sandpaper, that's what you need," and hands Pinocchio some sandpaper.

A few weeks later, they bump into each other. "How are you getting along with the girls now?" Gipetto asks.

"Who needs girls," Pinocchio replies

Les voiles de St. Tropez

Sacha sends an email asking whether we would know a way to get on a boat and watch Les voiles de St. Tropez closeup. We suggest to rent a powerboat, but before anything clicks he has already found somebody else. We sit at home and cry, cry like John Lee always cries when he has lost Alex again. And then, the next morning, Sacha calls and re-iterates the rental idea --- it was so great yesterday, and he really needs to get closer to the tall ships with his professional camera than the sailing millionaires would let him who gave him a sail yesterday (don't worry, just read the sentence a few more times). So there we are, with Sacha's official picture of the event:

Creole, Hamilton

I haven't left my house in days

Bette Midler

I haven't left my house in days,

I watch the news channels incessantly,

All the news stories are about the election,

All the commercials are for Viagra and Cialis,

Election - erection - election - erection,

Either way we're going to get screwed!"

(We wrote the Pamela Woods part in the Freedom Fries for her; sadly, she doesn't know)

I'm a bad boy (re-blogged)

(Hat tip: a site on Tumblr with "Bad Boy" in the name that we failed to retrieve afterwards)