Nothing makes sense, we know.

So, why should this picture (make sense)?

What we have to say about Donald Trump

Well, we're too stunned to say anything about Donald Trump at this point, so let's revert to Franz Kafka, the obvious choice under the circumstances. Here, the opening paragraph of Kafka's best-known novella, The Metamorphosis (scroll down): 

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked.


(And the rainbow colors? That's sheer coincidence, of course, but we do have a fragment---written last week---before the elections---written a few days ago, from Chapter 43 of our hopeless novel This is Heaven:) 


There’s a short story by Franz Kafka about Gregor, a traveling salesman waking up one fine morning mysteriously transformed into a “humongous bug,” “monstrous vermin,” or “giant insect” (depending on the translation from the German ungeheures Ungeziefer). This gets him into a lot of trouble, but the dude had at least the good fortune never to visit Georgia Beach, GA, and wake up there in the hospital’s emergency room under the merciless eyes of Dr. Alice Sandeman, a person who absolutely despises bugs, vermin, and insects, especially large ones.

Are you still there? Still clinging to your sense of extremely dark humor in these trumpled times? Then you may like the GREEN EYES. The first part is out, available as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:

"click"

Back home

Find a caption

Dressed for the occasion

The rising tide lifts all boats (2)

What you could do to Donald Trump

The best Trump comb-over you'll ever see (updated)

(Update:) Und hier das Buch zur Frisur:

Hat tip: Michael Brown

We're In Schwangau, Bavaria

(All pictures by Chang)

Michael went to Bavaria to visit Neuschwanstein (pictured), the fairytale castle built by King Ludwig II of Ludwig fame (Visconti). Ludwig was crazy, but also gay, and a few other things.  

Michael has this idea about a Sherlock Holmes story involving  blackmail of said Ludwig. 

There will be a happy ending, as always.

Telepathy (Maud)

(And the GREEN EYES, anything they have to say about this? Sure, lots of stuff, we're like the Blues Brothers, we have Country and Western. Here, from Ch 11 of This Is Heaven, in which John has his first interview with Detective-Inspector LaStrada (very short):) 


Let me interrupt myself and talk about James Bond again. It doesn’t matter which movie, so let’s talk about the last one, Skyfall. Daniel Craig introduces himself to Dr. No or one of No’s co-workers, like Bérénice Marlohe, say, and says “The name is Bond, James Bond.” And while any other person on the planet would now go, like, ‘Great,’ or ‘Can you give me an autograph,’ Bérénice has apparently never heard of the super-hero of popular culture, grimaces distantly, and shakes the stranger’s hand. 



(We also have stuff about telepathy; we'll do that next time, we're in a hurry, departing for Bavaria)

Find a caption (Glenn)

Fragment, fragment...sure, here, from Chapter 30 ("The Knights of Malta") of This Is Heaven:


The debate has apparently started since Godehart is lying supine on the floor while the FOX-woman---one knee on his chest, one hand in mud-wrestling style locked between his legs---slaps his face and yells: “Liar, loser, liar, loser, liar, loser.” There’s a iambic rhythm to her thrusts that’s really catching on and the crowd is inspired---clapping, jeering, gesticulating, honing in: Liar, loser, liar, loser, liar, loser. Somebody has managed to program a decibel dial onto the LED scoreboard above the proscenium which is moving off the charts as we speak (the dial). Harrell up there in the control box must be getting help from somebody (Jack Horn, we’ll learn later). Godehart has apparently tried to be his old-school self and let the FOX-woman do her thing, but the situation is getting out of hand with blood potentially flowing and the FOX-woman about to turn her plastic fangs to good use on Godehart’s neck. “Hilfe, Hilfe, Hilfe,” yells the Wagner---choking and crying---and the scoreboard flips to asci code and translates, as if this were an opera house: “Help, help, help.” 

________________________

The foreign candidate asking for welfare---that really hits a chord with an audience steeped in self-reliance

________________________

The foreign candidate asking for welfare---that really hits a chord with an audience steeped in self-reliance, and we have to fear for the survival of the bleachers squeaking under the pulsing stampede of too many real Americans. The mayor, ever responsible, gets up and makes a token attempt to becalm the crowd. Eventually he succeeds, however, because Elsa---who has also been on the stage, idling in the wings for unclear reasons---Elsa is courageously taking Godehart’s side by rushing to the scene of rational discourse and pulling on the blond anchor hair and other parts of the FOX-woman’s body. And now female solidarity kicks in and Vivian Leigh, or whatever her name, has joined and---having failed to pull on Godehart’s feet---undertakes to restrain the FOX-woman in ways that defy any political correctness---if you’ve ever seen a classical production of a Wagner opera with all-blond Valkyries fighting mano-a-mano for Das Rheingold while intoning the high C and the audience going nuts---along those lines.


One little comment: Trump's position is often defended by tweets with spelling mistakes pointing out that nobody's respecting America and that Trump will make the world respect her again. One wonders how, and on which terms.

Vampire trivia --- This is heaven --- Teaser (14)

The vampire kids that we met earlier show up again. Main characters here are John (narrator), Alex (Main object of desire), Maurice (the third musketeer), and Taylor, a vampire kid & nerd & homophobic to boot. Maurice has been charged thinking up questions for today's criterion of the Festival, which is about vampire trivia. Let's see where this leads us.


The cell-phone rang.

It’s Maurice. He’s stuck. Writer’s block. He can’t think of anything decent, trivia-wise. Nothing with a snap-your-finger feel. “Does it matter?” I ask.

“Certainly,” he says, “that’s why we are in the business of writing, isn’t it, to feel inspired, and by feeling inspired becoming more inspired.”
“You sound like an expensive graduate course of something,” I say.

He falls silent.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I apologize. I went too far.”
“Indeed,” he says.
“The trivia,” I say. “Think of it as a commission. Quick and dirty. Deadline approaching, copy editor leering over your shoulder.”
“Well, nobody is leering over my shoulder.”
“Ben still asleep?”
“Indeed.”
“Hold the line,” I say.

Robert Pattinson in Twilight

‘Hold the line,’ I said, because Juliette’s friends are upon us, the children of vampire trivia. “We missed you yesterday,” Alex has said to them in the meantime.

Michael in Mein schwules Auge 13

The first chapter of the Green Eyes---the chapter Michael didn't dare to include in his book, the account of a cruisin' encounter he feared would "discomfort or even harm" some readers---appears in the German yearbook Mein Schwules Auge 13, which is out today. It's beautifully illustrated with work by  Piotr Urbaniak, here's one example:

Charming, isn't it? 

Our contribution is in English, by the way, not German. Teaser? Okay:

A shadow enters my periphery of vision. Anybody who cares? Yes, a lank, blond, crew-cut guy. Perhaps he’s heard my screams and got interested. He’s shocked. No, he isn’t, he’s just curious. A tumescence builds in his trunks and develops its own life...

You can order the volume here.

"The Old New World" (Photo-based animation project) from seccovan on Vimeo.

Silence of the lambs (Glenn)

The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain

Yes, we've been off to Spain for a few days. This picture was taken in Zahara de los Antunes, on the Atlantic coast.

(And while we are at it (picture taken in the same location):)

Italian for beginners

"Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!"

Hillary, can you hear us?... (reposted)

After disappointing debate performance, Trump "threatens" to make Bill Clinton's marital infidelity a campaign issue. So, let's re-post this:

We're keenly following the US election campaign, including Hillary Clinton's preparations for the televised debates between her and Donald Trump. The communis opinio appears to be that Trump will throw any conceivable dirt at her, including Bill Clinton's affair with Monica Levinsky. What should be her answer? 

Flame-red and wind-tossed are always the preferred color --- This is heaven --- teaser (12)

So, Ben has been tricked by Alex into answering this outcall, and the next morning we're told by Brigittå Haagen Dasz, the erotic writer, what happened next. Hold on: this fragment also has the first authentic description of John's looks. Enjoy:   


“So, let me tell you the story,” she say when she’s back. “Yesterday evening, we return to the hotel, the Lupo di Mare, the auberge of Italianate style nestled squarely near the central traffic circle of this charming seaside town. My Håågen feels exhausted, the good man and husband, but he’s so kind to offer me a spousal refreshment at the bar. I know my Håågen and send him off to bed where sweet dreams will soon engulf him and/or usher him into Morpheus’s arms.”

Cover of a book by Susan Johnson,
the writer who provided the model
for Brigitta Haagen-Dasz

She interrupts herself. “No, drop the ‘and/or,’ let’s say 'will soon engulf him and take him into Morpheus's arms.' Be this as it may, I am content to spend a few minutes alone with the drink and my poetic musings, yet find myself soon distracted by a current of lush air wafting into the room. The patio door flung open and there comes a woman, the hair flame red, the curls wind-tossed, the striding apparition of a true equestrian gliding on eloquent thighs through the late-night crowd. She alights on the bar stool next to yours truly. Her voice is lazy with provocation as she speaks more to me than to the tender of the bar when she says: ‘I would fancy something stiff and strong and tonight.”
‘Amaretto,’ I reply instinctively, feeling a sudden craving for the sweet-night liqueur of carnal reputation. She giggles knowingly. 
‘Not exactly a drink one would think of as stiff, but the best aphrodisiac know to sisters,’ she answers. She orders two glasses of the amber-colored stimulant. It transpires presently that her name is Jane.”

Sorry to disturb you

What does it mean in the age of Donald Trump, "ethically?"

Watch yourself