Oct 16, 2013
Oct 15, 2013
More or less --- read all about it
You've probably seen this, on Amazon, the opening lines of a book description, next to the image of the book cover with a Read more link underneath that yields a few more lines when clicked. So you click and read the rest of the description, perhaps 15 lines in total. And when you've reached the end, the end of the text, there's another link, which says...
"Read less"
(Just trying)
Oct 14, 2013
"Looks like someone out of Kenya" --- the Tea Party protesting at the White House during the weekend
And while we are at it, here's a fitting fragment from the Green Eyes, Ch. 27: I'll charge 100 dollars but am willing to negotiate:
"We're dressed, ready to roll, Ben's got hold of an inch of the fliers, how do we get hold of my father? He has a cell-phone, right? Let's hope he’s not behind on the payments. Technology works, so I tell my father my truck is broken, I need to borrow his car, right now, to drive a friend to the Greyhound terminal in Ocean View. I'll be at the parking lot in two minutes. As we exit the main entrance his back is turned to us, he's expecting us coming down the ramp, he isn't even aware we're coming from upstairs. I won't call him out of course, from behind, or touch his shoulder, I never touch him, save sometimes on the third day, when I throw him out. So I just walk around him in a semi-circle, perimeter of 20 feet, Ben-John next to me, Ben proudly holding his stack of fliers, grinning. Let a little mystery prevail. Ben is born in Kenya, right? I just extend my hand, say nothing, until it holds the car keys, hand father the apartment key (the spare one, of whose existence he's unaware) we get into his crappy, reddish, dirty, misparked Chevy, Ben waves with his hands to my father, still holding the fliers. We've not said hello, we've not said goodbye, we're good."
Oct 12, 2013
It's cold outside
A tiny reptile (I think it's a salamander, not a lizard (Jacki, what's your take on this?)) on the inside of the widow pane of the bedroom, before sunrise. Real tiny, tinier than it looks on the picture, with large, bulgy peepers, eying me suspiciously as I take the shot. Coldest morning so far this autumn.
Update: I's a gecko, Jacki and Muad write in unison! (Thanks, Ladies!) And then Maud adds ominously in her email: "You're lucky, you don't have cats." It's a Hobbesian world out there, folks, even on a Sunday morning (at least higher up the hill, where Maud lives).
Oct 9, 2013
Back in the house
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| The view yesterday, Oct 8, around 7 PM |
(The rental season is finally over; we moved back into the house yesterday)
Sep 29, 2013
Defcom, defcom (Maud)
This chainmail joke has made the rounds at least three times --- that's the number of times we received it, Maud was the last to send it. It's perhaps a bit dated now with the tension over Syria easing, but was composed by John Cleese of Monty Python fame. It's not necessarily his best joke but Cleese's so good, even his routine jokes are still worth it. So lets kill it, the joke, by trying to explain.
It starts thus:
The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent events in Syria and have therefore raised their security level from “Miffed” to “Peeved.” Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to “Irritated” or even “A Bit Cross.” The English have not been “A Bit Cross” since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies nearly ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from “Tiresome” to “A Bloody Nuisance.” The last time the British issued a “Bloody Nuisance” warning level was in 1588, when threatened by the Spanish Armada.
Why is this paragraph funny? Well, because, (a) it reinforces common prejudice about the English as understated and stiff-upperlipped people (most jokes derive their fun from prejudice), (b) it reaches its aim by displacing the hierarchy of defcoms alert levels with a more fundamental ordering on the (purported) English character.
We've created a schema for fun. Whom else is around to apply it to? Let's start nearby, one step at a time. The Scots, right:
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| John Cleese |
It starts thus:
The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent events in Syria and have therefore raised their security level from “Miffed” to “Peeved.” Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to “Irritated” or even “A Bit Cross.” The English have not been “A Bit Cross” since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies nearly ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from “Tiresome” to “A Bloody Nuisance.” The last time the British issued a “Bloody Nuisance” warning level was in 1588, when threatened by the Spanish Armada.
Why is this paragraph funny? Well, because, (a) it reinforces common prejudice about the English as understated and stiff-upperlipped people (most jokes derive their fun from prejudice), (b) it reaches its aim by displacing the hierarchy of defcoms alert levels with a more fundamental ordering on the (purported) English character.
We've created a schema for fun. Whom else is around to apply it to? Let's start nearby, one step at a time. The Scots, right:
Sep 28, 2013
"Always the same" --- reblogged (Lokfire)
From Lokfire's brilliant site Hollywood hates me, here's another reblog:
Lately, I've noticed a local business has a sign on their marquee that says: "Always the Same." I think it's supposed to be reassuring, but I find it rather depressing.
Lately, I've noticed a local business has a sign on their marquee that says: "Always the Same." I think it's supposed to be reassuring, but I find it rather depressing.
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| Look, I know nothing wonderful is ever going to happen to me, but do you have to rub it in? |
Sep 27, 2013
Freedom Fries --- Chapter 4, Part I ("We didn't keep America safe")
Previously, George W. Bush has retired, and a change of heart. Events ensue, involving John Yoo, professor at Berkeley law school and author of the infamous torture memos of the Bush administration, Pamela Nachtrieb Timbers, dean of said law school, George Lukacs, who was Pamela's lover in the distant past and has invented hedge funds in the meantime, a certain President Hu, another of Pamela's (very former) lovers, and Samuel Fisher, Founder of LYNX, a TV network of fair and balanced repute (who was never Pamela's lover and possibly never will be because he's gay). Fisher isn't happy with the ratings and experiments with new people meters that measure a TV-audience's reaction by telepathic means.
Pamela wants to get rid of Yoo, and Lukacs has promised to help. But for now, we are back at Chapel Hill, Bush's farm, where the change of heart continues.
Pamela wants to get rid of Yoo, and Lukacs has promised to help. But for now, we are back at Chapel Hill, Bush's farm, where the change of heart continues.
Laura studies the mirror next to the fridge. She had just dismissed George for getting into another tussle with the silverware. He had offered to help with the dishes, and she had turned him down again, but he had insisted this time and followed her to the kitchen and started to load the dishwasher. She persisted, he persisted. She had won, however.
Ninety percent of Americans marry at least once, and twenty percent of all marriages are distressed at any point in time, statistically. Ours isn’t distressed, statistically, she thinks. Not at all, it’s not going downhill. Texas is flat.
What are the signs? You know what the signs are. Well, she had always corrected his malapropisms and his grammar, even during their engagement period, and Doubya had always gleefully accepted her advice — not that it made any difference, but still. Yes, she has monitored his email correspondence lately, and Doubya had, in fact, ordered a luxury edition of Darwin’s Origin of Species, and, yes, she was concerned. Not that she has any problem with evolution herself, but why Darwin now? Well, it’s only a luxury edition, perhaps it’s meant as a practical joke for the coffee table. Doubya’s grin, it could be so sweet. Darwin as a pocket book would be more serious. But he had also ordered a set of magnetic poetry for the fridge. He had always been proud of not being a poet. Leaving messages on the fridge? What kind of messages?
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| Chapel Hill, G.W. Bush's farm in Crawford, Texas |
What are the signs? You know what the signs are. Well, she had always corrected his malapropisms and his grammar, even during their engagement period, and Doubya had always gleefully accepted her advice — not that it made any difference, but still. Yes, she has monitored his email correspondence lately, and Doubya had, in fact, ordered a luxury edition of Darwin’s Origin of Species, and, yes, she was concerned. Not that she has any problem with evolution herself, but why Darwin now? Well, it’s only a luxury edition, perhaps it’s meant as a practical joke for the coffee table. Doubya’s grin, it could be so sweet. Darwin as a pocket book would be more serious. But he had also ordered a set of magnetic poetry for the fridge. He had always been proud of not being a poet. Leaving messages on the fridge? What kind of messages?
Sep 24, 2013
Poolside visit
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| Not a walking stick (around 15:30 today) |
Update: we sent the link of this post to a few friends with a mistaken allsion to walking sticks. Our friend Jacki (last post) from Arizona reacted vividly, pointing out in various ways, eg. by sending the pictures below, that ours is really, really, a praying mantis, and nothing else.
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| praying mantis |
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| walking stick |
We apologize for any offense caused, or taken.
Sep 22, 2013
Libber-Ace
The book “Behind the candelabra: My life with Liberace” appeared in 1988 and had a good title and a co-author. The movie-idea came to Steven Häagen-Dasz in 2000 during the production of his best movie, Traffic, which also uses Michael Douglas. It took Soderbergh (right, that’s the name), it took him so long because he couldn’t quite figure out “an angle that would differentiate it from a traditional biopic” (according to his own testimony (Wikipedia)). Well, he didn't, or hasn't. This is a traditional biopic with a very traditional story of a very young man being picked up by a very famous one. There is love of some kind (also sex, at one point 4 times per day); there are euphoria, disappointments, drugs, rock-n-roll --- no, actually not, there’s no rock-n-roll because the very famous man is an entertainment pianist from the lounge-lizard school of entertainment pianists --- but there is strife and separation, followed by animosity and reconciliation right before Lee (that’s apparently Liberace’s first name, I always wondered) is carried off by AIDS. AIDS's a kikker for this story, the pianist's HIV-induced death rounds out the plot nicely.
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| Liberace and Scott Thorson (Damon's character) |
Aug 8, 2013
This town...
..is the title of a new book by Mark Leibovitch, chief correspondent of the NYT Magazine, about Washington DC.
 |
| Mark Leibovich |
More specifically, the book is about Washington's political culture,
and
of people who
who
who
Jul 25, 2013
The word is mightier than the sword
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| "Just sayin'!" |
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 7, 2013
Sunday matinée
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| "Green eyes, you say, you mean the novel?" |
(Artwork by Bob Bienpensant based on a photo by MalosoHDP on DeviantArt; this picture got 177 page views inside one week, it must be the lack of focus)
Jun 21, 2013
The mice of the world are meeting to invent a worser mouse trap
Emma Thompson recommended it as compulsory literature for all politicians.
It's set in the Okefenokee swamp, only a few miles from Waycross (where the offices of Doyle-Roy Hunnsbruck are located).
And only a few miles from Monroeville, where Ben's parents live.
We knew nothing about it, of course, it never traveled to Europe.
Pogo Possum, the comic strip by Walt Kelly
These are a few lines gleaned from the strip
We'd love to use the dialect as well, if we only could learn it...
...perhaps after living a few month in Georgia, somewhere in a rural community...
...where people are eager to share their vernacular with strangers?
Forget it.
Here are a few more lines:
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| Walt Kelly |
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 14, 2013
Subliminal (Sacha)
This is us, folks, look at this picture, this is us...
...no, it's Sacha, actually, who sent this picture and writes: "Maybe just my homophobic look on things, but there is a hidden message in this image somewhere..." (he added this grinning emoticon that we can't reproduce here, sadly)
...no, it's Sacha, actually, who sent this picture and writes: "Maybe just my homophobic look on things, but there is a hidden message in this image somewhere..." (he added this grinning emoticon that we can't reproduce here, sadly)
The view...
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| ...yesterday evening... |
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| ...and this morning... |
Jun 2, 2013
Green Eyes --- Chapter 25: The hitchhiker's guide to gay sex
Previously --- well, basically we fell in love with Alex. That's actually the most important thing. But other events interfere, and the last such event involves the first autonomous Google vehicle licensed in Georgia ("Isolde" is its name), which is driving us home as we speak. Otherwise, the chapter's title speaks for itself. Watch out!
There's this black guy standing on the sidewalk....wait, not yet, give it two paragraphs (here's his picture already):
Godehart evoked this spy rule that secrets are best hidden in public view; perhaps he’s a spy himself and the Wagner thing is just a hoax, how could he otherwise have Isolde painted in, what, “cerulean blue,” I've never seen this on any vehicle, let alone on an SUV, which, through its premium size, multiplies the hue's effect to obscene proportions.
We've backed out of Godehart's driveway, and Isolde has already shown her autonomous mettle by coasting down Atlanta Avenue's rows of antebellum miniatures and Victorian ladies. This is so beautiful, folks, the care-free proportions, the windows talking to you like the eyes of a trustful dog. Fluted columns, ornamental pediments, occasional gingerbread, muted colors, daring colors that speak to the neighbors, manicured lawns (green), comely hedges planted at the base of creaky porches decked with patient rocking chairs, the dwellings lined up along the street like invitees at a banquet. This is America at its best.
We've coasted down Atlanta Street, and then turned left on Second without a hitch, and then turned right on Georgia Avenue where we meet the rush-hour back-up around the downtown traffic circle. Isolde takes note and eases neatly into the file of slowly-crawling afternoon vehicles. This could take some time, the jam may continue all the way up to the junction of Church and Route One. We're passing Lupo di Mare, the smarter Italian restaurant, and there's this black guy standing on the sidewalk, facing the traffic, raising his right arm with an extended hand, the thumb pointing forward. What’s this guy doing? Hailing a taxi? No, you would do that differently, you wouldn't use your thumb. We haven't seen this since I was born, he is hitch-hiking. He must be hitchhiking, he's holding a chain saw. No, he’s not holding a chainsaw, he's unencumbered, but he wants a ride.
Isolde is crawling, so we have time to study him. He's slender, but in the solid way of someone with perfect proportions. Long legs, long arms, he is long, but not too long, just ectomorphic. And his butt, folks. I learned this expression from my racist French mother, cul de nègre. It's as round as the half-moon, his butt under the snug jeans that he wears despite the tropical heat. Fortunately, his light shirt is wide open, and we get a glimpse of the perfect torso, including the washboard tummy and other definitions. The short sleeves can't hide his biceps—it’s not the gym, nothing in the way of prison meat, but something else. His features are very symmetric; the nose is from Michelangelo, the eyes, too. And the lips! You need serious painters to do those lips justice. They are jababa, of course, with a touch of Angelina Jolie thrown in, and they would leave perfect hickeys on your neck, but they hide nothing of his perfect teeth. He's smiling shyly, he's not at ease, it's a criminal offense not to own a car, many people are in prison.
Isolde is still crawling, some progress has been made moving forward, ten yards are left between us and the African looker. Is Google gay? Isolde exits the file of backed-up cars and finds a space right in front of our man. The passenger window lowers itself, I have to bend across a few miles of SUV space to make eye contact.
"Where're you headed?" I ask.
"Ocean View," he says.
That's to the south of Georgia Beach. You have to turn left on Route One, cross the canal bridge next to my condo, and continue for a few miles through the Georgia Seashore State Park. It's in my direction, but only for a mile or so, he would have to catch another ride pretty soon.
You know, I have my moments. So I explain to him where I live, where my place is located with respect to the canal bridge, where I would have to drop him off, and so on. He's not from the neighborhood, he says. It's freakin’ hot, tiny, shiny beads of sweat are conspiring on his perfect forehead, he mounts Isolde and is seated on the passenger throne next to me. He must be thinking I'm rich.
Let's talk probabilities. You know, we are discussing this all the time. How many gays, what's the percentage, isn't it unfair. Ten percent, or less? Let's be optimistic. Ten percent. Provided that he is gay, what would be the probability that he is interested in my latest Prolog program? Or my frozen blog, or my father, who fell asleep on the couch. Your father, I think.
Does he want to have a look at my father? “Father,” is that another euphemism? My God, I have an erection already. The pendulous organ, it must be the most euphemized object on the planet, and only in part because it has to do with sex. The thing is so funny all by itself, its erratic behavior, its willfulness, it’s like an unruly pet always ready to get its owner into trouble. It’s getting me into trouble now.
"My name is John," I tell him, "What's yours."
"John," he replies. Good move, perfect. We have a subject of conversation now, name-sharing. A touch of intimacy. In China, you can't have sex with a person who shares your last name, at least you can't marry. It would be an interesting research question, perhaps I could get a grant from the sociology department and investigate whether sex-having is biased name-wise, in the sense that your probability of having sex with a person of the same name is higher than … (will somebody please interrupt me).
Let’s sort this out. Assume he's gay and has an hour to spare. What's the probability that he'll follow me upstairs for a ride? High, very high. What else can he do, he has an empty hour to fill, he's young, hormones flow, glands fire. It's eighty percent at least, ninety percent perhaps that we'll end up in a quick embrace, let's leave the remaining percentage to idiosyncrasies, perhaps he doesn't like gray eyes. Duh, duh, duh. Ooh point one times ooh point eight, it's eight percent we'll end up in my bed pronto, provided we can overcome the father-hurdle. My father is in the way. Or he is at the beach, where he usually stays until six o'clock. We have one hour, almost two, even. Perhaps John is in a hurry and has no time for sex. Yet if you are in a hurry, you don't hitchhike. OK, we’ve narrowed this down, we own eight percent of his probability space already, how about the remaining 92 percent? Does it matter? He wasn't promised to you the way Alex was, no offense taken, you drop him off at the bridge, or he accepts a glass of fresh orange juice at your place because that's a good idea, and he's thirsty, and then he's off, and if he's world-wise he has you down already, but he's a modern metrosexual man, he drinks your juice like David Beckham poses for gay magazines. He might even give you his number, or his email address, because you've discovered a common interest in orange juice, and chess, and people.
Traffic is still backed up, all the way to the junction on the Coastal Highway, that gives us time to think. We can offer him Prolog, but that's not drinkable, so we have to hit Luke's store for the second time today, for the perfect orange juice. So we have to explain the excursion to the convenience store. And if he's not interested in juice? In fact, I don't have to ask him about the juice, I'll just tell him whether he minds the detour via the convenience store. No hitchhiker in the world would mind.
We will detour, I will shop, and then return with this juicy, fresh orange juice, and a bottle of wine. Like in most states, convenience stores cannot sell real booze in Georgia, which is a pity, because it's more effective. You never know, perhaps he's alcoholic, he really needs a drink, so when I return from the shop, he's waiting in the Google-SUV, I turn the bottle this way and that way when I mount Isolde, he's game, even if he's not gay, he’ll follow his addiction up into my place where I feed him the whiskey that I can't buy until he loses all inhibitions. His sexual preference joins the other sexual preference, they melt, they unite, like natural forces at very high energy states, they discovered the god-particle yesterday, remember, which will also get in on the act. He's drunk, but not too smashed, three quarter of a bottle say. He no longer cares, and I suck cock, or he's still up to it, completely loose now, and I show him some porn, and perhaps pictures of prison cells and muscles, and he wants to fuck now, fuck, and there's no pussy, save mine. John doesn't look alcoholic, though. Perhaps that's even better, even wine may do the trick. Trick a non-trick into a trick—duh, duh, duh.
Relax, we'll cross the bridge when we get there. You explain the detour to him. Sure.
Shall we have him wait in the SUV? Maybe I should drag him along, he's never seen a convenience store before, not one with a toy sex department annex vampire section. So I will mention our common interest in vampires that we'll discover as we speak, and take him into the store, because it's another opportunity for interaction, five more minutes to change his sexual orientation. He's shy, and sweet, and intelligent, if I spring the sex department on him he wouldn't say no. Would he be embarrassed? No, he's too young, he's seen too much internet porn, regardless, even if he's the religious type. Context rules, the more we talk about sex the more we want to have it, porn provides an instantaneous stimulus for everybody, the dildos will give him more ideas, he's suddenly feeling horny, and he's thirsty, and he's a metrosexual, as usual, and I ask him whether he's metrosexual, and he says yes, and then I put the gun to his head and ask whether he means it. Everybody does it, including David Beckham, I explain, and I will have a terrible erection at that moment, even worse than now…
We've reached the junction now, one minute to Luke's store, no traffic jam on Route One. I'll spring the sex toys on him when we arrive at the parking lot. He laughs obligingly. Cool, man.
We enter the store. Should I go first, or, in a display of Southern etiquette, open the door for him—it would also be a reverence from a white guy for a black guy. I'm always polite when it doesn't matter, so I usher him through the swinging glass doors into Luke’s ice room. Luke is behind the counter and sees us coming. I think he's a bit jealous now. Anyhow, there is only one thing I can do. I put a bright smile on my face. And there's only one thing that Luke can do, put a bright smile on his own. He's seen it all, and he's happy to see me again.
Another twist comes to mind, I will introduce them to each other. So, I say: "This is Luke, he's the vampire." Luke is always happy when somebody brings up his immortality, and he would be welcome to hand his moonlight vampire agency card to John (birthdays, church functions, funerals). However, I won't tell Luke that this is John. We have some sort of vacuum now that nature abhors. Luke chooses the easy way out and asks him: "You're from here?" No, John is not. He doesn't explain, however, which is perhaps a good thing because Luke, in the absence of further information, must conclude that John is a trick, the first one he’s seen me with, which will induce some suggestive familiarity in his behavior which may help things along. John is politely interested in vampires, tells about a party at his sister's, vampire-themed, it was hilarious. Luke hands his card, finally, "What's your name?" John. So, we know each other really well now, a reunion of the Iliad clan, will somebody please tell John our family name. "Got any new toys?" I ask Luke suggestively, who is hands-on when it comes to sex shop terminology, Ben Wa balls, Butt plugs, docking sleeves, and so on, words which might loosen our John further, if he understands what they mean. I try to move the conversation into comprehensive territory. “How about the Siamese dildo's,” I ask, “anything new.” Luke flashes his vampire smile and takes us to the sex department. Explanations of the graphical kind flow, John is politely impressed and asks a funny question about “frictional coefficients.” Luke asks whether he should wrap it up, for us, the last frictional dildo on the shelf. I decline gently. We don't need it today, (we, today), another time perhaps (another time), I say it lightly, John has a sense of humor, today we need orange juice, because we (we) are thirsty. And a bottle of chardonnay, because we are frictional. Make that three bottles.
What's the chance John is alcoholic, one percent? Zero, I guess. You like chardonnay, I ask him as we leave the store. He may never have heard of the grape of white Burgundy wine, an excellent opportunity to explain, to taste, to imbibe, in particular if he doesn't drink, three, four glasses, and he is the mood. And if he does (drink), I will point out that Luke's chardonnay is real good, which is almost true, I'm drinking too much of the stuff myself.
So, now, we're back in the Google cruiser. You must be thirsty, I tell him, how about a glass of orange juice? I'm not talking about drinks. These are shifting sands, folks, until we sink into the ground and make love. "Orange juice," I say again, "a drink, you know my place isn't far" (a drink, my place). The wording, the ambivalence. We reach the next decision node now. It would be for me to push the brakes and drop him off, just before we arrive at the ramp to my apartment down next to the canal. What if I don't stop, what can he do? And it's not me, it's the autonomous cruiser that knows what to do, because Isolde is gay, although he doesn't know because it's a secret, I pretend I'm driving myself. He can't be aware of the spot, the decision point, he doesn't know the place, he'll find out when he drinks my orange juice, so Isolde dives down the ramp to the parking lot. We're parked already, I grab the bag with the wine and the juice. Come on, you must be thirsty. What he doesn't see, fortunately, Isolde has already turned around and is on her autonomous way back to the Wagners.
It's hot as we climb the stairs. Now what? It's unlikely, but not impossible that my father is around, that he fell asleep, too lazy to drive to the beach, or he came back early and has somehow managed to get inside without key. Only the sturdiest trick, some real hard-core rainbow supremacist would be able to handle my father. We march through the kitchen den into the bedroom and close the door (slam it). The mattress squeaks alarmingly, more noises (“uurghh,” “ooohh,”), less noise, the door swings open, I march my man back to the exit, a last sturdy kiss, then he's off, father is upset, that's modern life at the end of the rainbow. Let’s face it, even if John is a straight gay with nothing to hide, my father's presence would mean the end of our lust. He would drink a glass of juice and flee the scene at his earliest convenience. I should have killed my father long ago. I should kill him now. Do we hear anything snoring, sounds crossing the door? Perhaps a squeaking mattress, somebody getting off? No, the place is as quiet as father is when he sits at the kitchen table lost in admiration of the water tower. I unlock the door, and the place is…
(That's a cliffhanger, right?)
Are you still there? Then you'll possibly like the GREEN EYES. Need to know what happens next? Chapter 26 will tell. The book is out now as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:
Go here for more.
There's this black guy standing on the sidewalk....wait, not yet, give it two paragraphs (here's his picture already):
Godehart evoked this spy rule that secrets are best hidden in public view; perhaps he’s a spy himself and the Wagner thing is just a hoax, how could he otherwise have Isolde painted in, what, “cerulean blue,” I've never seen this on any vehicle, let alone on an SUV, which, through its premium size, multiplies the hue's effect to obscene proportions.
We've backed out of Godehart's driveway, and Isolde has already shown her autonomous mettle by coasting down Atlanta Avenue's rows of antebellum miniatures and Victorian ladies. This is so beautiful, folks, the care-free proportions, the windows talking to you like the eyes of a trustful dog. Fluted columns, ornamental pediments, occasional gingerbread, muted colors, daring colors that speak to the neighbors, manicured lawns (green), comely hedges planted at the base of creaky porches decked with patient rocking chairs, the dwellings lined up along the street like invitees at a banquet. This is America at its best.
We've coasted down Atlanta Street, and then turned left on Second without a hitch, and then turned right on Georgia Avenue where we meet the rush-hour back-up around the downtown traffic circle. Isolde takes note and eases neatly into the file of slowly-crawling afternoon vehicles. This could take some time, the jam may continue all the way up to the junction of Church and Route One. We're passing Lupo di Mare, the smarter Italian restaurant, and there's this black guy standing on the sidewalk, facing the traffic, raising his right arm with an extended hand, the thumb pointing forward. What’s this guy doing? Hailing a taxi? No, you would do that differently, you wouldn't use your thumb. We haven't seen this since I was born, he is hitch-hiking. He must be hitchhiking, he's holding a chain saw. No, he’s not holding a chainsaw, he's unencumbered, but he wants a ride.
Isolde is crawling, so we have time to study him. He's slender, but in the solid way of someone with perfect proportions. Long legs, long arms, he is long, but not too long, just ectomorphic. And his butt, folks. I learned this expression from my racist French mother, cul de nègre. It's as round as the half-moon, his butt under the snug jeans that he wears despite the tropical heat. Fortunately, his light shirt is wide open, and we get a glimpse of the perfect torso, including the washboard tummy and other definitions. The short sleeves can't hide his biceps—it’s not the gym, nothing in the way of prison meat, but something else. His features are very symmetric; the nose is from Michelangelo, the eyes, too. And the lips! You need serious painters to do those lips justice. They are jababa, of course, with a touch of Angelina Jolie thrown in, and they would leave perfect hickeys on your neck, but they hide nothing of his perfect teeth. He's smiling shyly, he's not at ease, it's a criminal offense not to own a car, many people are in prison.
Isolde is still crawling, some progress has been made moving forward, ten yards are left between us and the African looker. Is Google gay? Isolde exits the file of backed-up cars and finds a space right in front of our man. The passenger window lowers itself, I have to bend across a few miles of SUV space to make eye contact.
"Where're you headed?" I ask.
"Ocean View," he says.
That's to the south of Georgia Beach. You have to turn left on Route One, cross the canal bridge next to my condo, and continue for a few miles through the Georgia Seashore State Park. It's in my direction, but only for a mile or so, he would have to catch another ride pretty soon.
You know, I have my moments. So I explain to him where I live, where my place is located with respect to the canal bridge, where I would have to drop him off, and so on. He's not from the neighborhood, he says. It's freakin’ hot, tiny, shiny beads of sweat are conspiring on his perfect forehead, he mounts Isolde and is seated on the passenger throne next to me. He must be thinking I'm rich.
Let's talk probabilities. You know, we are discussing this all the time. How many gays, what's the percentage, isn't it unfair. Ten percent, or less? Let's be optimistic. Ten percent. Provided that he is gay, what would be the probability that he is interested in my latest Prolog program? Or my frozen blog, or my father, who fell asleep on the couch. Your father, I think.
Does he want to have a look at my father? “Father,” is that another euphemism? My God, I have an erection already. The pendulous organ, it must be the most euphemized object on the planet, and only in part because it has to do with sex. The thing is so funny all by itself, its erratic behavior, its willfulness, it’s like an unruly pet always ready to get its owner into trouble. It’s getting me into trouble now.
"My name is John," I tell him, "What's yours."
"John," he replies. Good move, perfect. We have a subject of conversation now, name-sharing. A touch of intimacy. In China, you can't have sex with a person who shares your last name, at least you can't marry. It would be an interesting research question, perhaps I could get a grant from the sociology department and investigate whether sex-having is biased name-wise, in the sense that your probability of having sex with a person of the same name is higher than … (will somebody please interrupt me).
Let’s sort this out. Assume he's gay and has an hour to spare. What's the probability that he'll follow me upstairs for a ride? High, very high. What else can he do, he has an empty hour to fill, he's young, hormones flow, glands fire. It's eighty percent at least, ninety percent perhaps that we'll end up in a quick embrace, let's leave the remaining percentage to idiosyncrasies, perhaps he doesn't like gray eyes. Duh, duh, duh. Ooh point one times ooh point eight, it's eight percent we'll end up in my bed pronto, provided we can overcome the father-hurdle. My father is in the way. Or he is at the beach, where he usually stays until six o'clock. We have one hour, almost two, even. Perhaps John is in a hurry and has no time for sex. Yet if you are in a hurry, you don't hitchhike. OK, we’ve narrowed this down, we own eight percent of his probability space already, how about the remaining 92 percent? Does it matter? He wasn't promised to you the way Alex was, no offense taken, you drop him off at the bridge, or he accepts a glass of fresh orange juice at your place because that's a good idea, and he's thirsty, and then he's off, and if he's world-wise he has you down already, but he's a modern metrosexual man, he drinks your juice like David Beckham poses for gay magazines. He might even give you his number, or his email address, because you've discovered a common interest in orange juice, and chess, and people.
Traffic is still backed up, all the way to the junction on the Coastal Highway, that gives us time to think. We can offer him Prolog, but that's not drinkable, so we have to hit Luke's store for the second time today, for the perfect orange juice. So we have to explain the excursion to the convenience store. And if he's not interested in juice? In fact, I don't have to ask him about the juice, I'll just tell him whether he minds the detour via the convenience store. No hitchhiker in the world would mind.
We will detour, I will shop, and then return with this juicy, fresh orange juice, and a bottle of wine. Like in most states, convenience stores cannot sell real booze in Georgia, which is a pity, because it's more effective. You never know, perhaps he's alcoholic, he really needs a drink, so when I return from the shop, he's waiting in the Google-SUV, I turn the bottle this way and that way when I mount Isolde, he's game, even if he's not gay, he’ll follow his addiction up into my place where I feed him the whiskey that I can't buy until he loses all inhibitions. His sexual preference joins the other sexual preference, they melt, they unite, like natural forces at very high energy states, they discovered the god-particle yesterday, remember, which will also get in on the act. He's drunk, but not too smashed, three quarter of a bottle say. He no longer cares, and I suck cock, or he's still up to it, completely loose now, and I show him some porn, and perhaps pictures of prison cells and muscles, and he wants to fuck now, fuck, and there's no pussy, save mine. John doesn't look alcoholic, though. Perhaps that's even better, even wine may do the trick. Trick a non-trick into a trick—duh, duh, duh.
Relax, we'll cross the bridge when we get there. You explain the detour to him. Sure.
Shall we have him wait in the SUV? Maybe I should drag him along, he's never seen a convenience store before, not one with a toy sex department annex vampire section. So I will mention our common interest in vampires that we'll discover as we speak, and take him into the store, because it's another opportunity for interaction, five more minutes to change his sexual orientation. He's shy, and sweet, and intelligent, if I spring the sex department on him he wouldn't say no. Would he be embarrassed? No, he's too young, he's seen too much internet porn, regardless, even if he's the religious type. Context rules, the more we talk about sex the more we want to have it, porn provides an instantaneous stimulus for everybody, the dildos will give him more ideas, he's suddenly feeling horny, and he's thirsty, and he's a metrosexual, as usual, and I ask him whether he's metrosexual, and he says yes, and then I put the gun to his head and ask whether he means it. Everybody does it, including David Beckham, I explain, and I will have a terrible erection at that moment, even worse than now…
We've reached the junction now, one minute to Luke's store, no traffic jam on Route One. I'll spring the sex toys on him when we arrive at the parking lot. He laughs obligingly. Cool, man.
We enter the store. Should I go first, or, in a display of Southern etiquette, open the door for him—it would also be a reverence from a white guy for a black guy. I'm always polite when it doesn't matter, so I usher him through the swinging glass doors into Luke’s ice room. Luke is behind the counter and sees us coming. I think he's a bit jealous now. Anyhow, there is only one thing I can do. I put a bright smile on my face. And there's only one thing that Luke can do, put a bright smile on his own. He's seen it all, and he's happy to see me again.
Another twist comes to mind, I will introduce them to each other. So, I say: "This is Luke, he's the vampire." Luke is always happy when somebody brings up his immortality, and he would be welcome to hand his moonlight vampire agency card to John (birthdays, church functions, funerals). However, I won't tell Luke that this is John. We have some sort of vacuum now that nature abhors. Luke chooses the easy way out and asks him: "You're from here?" No, John is not. He doesn't explain, however, which is perhaps a good thing because Luke, in the absence of further information, must conclude that John is a trick, the first one he’s seen me with, which will induce some suggestive familiarity in his behavior which may help things along. John is politely interested in vampires, tells about a party at his sister's, vampire-themed, it was hilarious. Luke hands his card, finally, "What's your name?" John. So, we know each other really well now, a reunion of the Iliad clan, will somebody please tell John our family name. "Got any new toys?" I ask Luke suggestively, who is hands-on when it comes to sex shop terminology, Ben Wa balls, Butt plugs, docking sleeves, and so on, words which might loosen our John further, if he understands what they mean. I try to move the conversation into comprehensive territory. “How about the Siamese dildo's,” I ask, “anything new.” Luke flashes his vampire smile and takes us to the sex department. Explanations of the graphical kind flow, John is politely impressed and asks a funny question about “frictional coefficients.” Luke asks whether he should wrap it up, for us, the last frictional dildo on the shelf. I decline gently. We don't need it today, (we, today), another time perhaps (another time), I say it lightly, John has a sense of humor, today we need orange juice, because we (we) are thirsty. And a bottle of chardonnay, because we are frictional. Make that three bottles.
What's the chance John is alcoholic, one percent? Zero, I guess. You like chardonnay, I ask him as we leave the store. He may never have heard of the grape of white Burgundy wine, an excellent opportunity to explain, to taste, to imbibe, in particular if he doesn't drink, three, four glasses, and he is the mood. And if he does (drink), I will point out that Luke's chardonnay is real good, which is almost true, I'm drinking too much of the stuff myself.
So, now, we're back in the Google cruiser. You must be thirsty, I tell him, how about a glass of orange juice? I'm not talking about drinks. These are shifting sands, folks, until we sink into the ground and make love. "Orange juice," I say again, "a drink, you know my place isn't far" (a drink, my place). The wording, the ambivalence. We reach the next decision node now. It would be for me to push the brakes and drop him off, just before we arrive at the ramp to my apartment down next to the canal. What if I don't stop, what can he do? And it's not me, it's the autonomous cruiser that knows what to do, because Isolde is gay, although he doesn't know because it's a secret, I pretend I'm driving myself. He can't be aware of the spot, the decision point, he doesn't know the place, he'll find out when he drinks my orange juice, so Isolde dives down the ramp to the parking lot. We're parked already, I grab the bag with the wine and the juice. Come on, you must be thirsty. What he doesn't see, fortunately, Isolde has already turned around and is on her autonomous way back to the Wagners.
It's hot as we climb the stairs. Now what? It's unlikely, but not impossible that my father is around, that he fell asleep, too lazy to drive to the beach, or he came back early and has somehow managed to get inside without key. Only the sturdiest trick, some real hard-core rainbow supremacist would be able to handle my father. We march through the kitchen den into the bedroom and close the door (slam it). The mattress squeaks alarmingly, more noises (“uurghh,” “ooohh,”), less noise, the door swings open, I march my man back to the exit, a last sturdy kiss, then he's off, father is upset, that's modern life at the end of the rainbow. Let’s face it, even if John is a straight gay with nothing to hide, my father's presence would mean the end of our lust. He would drink a glass of juice and flee the scene at his earliest convenience. I should have killed my father long ago. I should kill him now. Do we hear anything snoring, sounds crossing the door? Perhaps a squeaking mattress, somebody getting off? No, the place is as quiet as father is when he sits at the kitchen table lost in admiration of the water tower. I unlock the door, and the place is…
(That's a cliffhanger, right?)
Are you still there? Then you'll possibly like the GREEN EYES. Need to know what happens next? Chapter 26 will tell. The book is out now as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:
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