Jul 29, 2017
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 4, 2017
Jun 30, 2017
It's immoral (2) --- Trump care 66.75 times as evil as the Twin Tower attack
One brief remark regarding the pending health care legislation in the US:
According to estimates built on the evaluation of the nonpartisan Congressional Budget Office, (15 million lose their health coverage during the first year of Trump Care, etc), the Republican-sponsored legislation will cause
200 000 preventable deaths per year.
Let's quantify this. NineEleven caused 2 996 deaths. So, Trump care is 66.75 times as evil as the Twin Tower attack. Per year.
Jun 26, 2017
"It's immoral"
Our new short story is out, IT'S IMMORAL---relating a ride from our home near Cannes to Nice airport---in issue 16 of the British lit magazine Bunbury.
It's a bit complicated to get hold of the issue (here's the link:) Bunbury XVI
For your convenience, we have the story here. It's not so long. Save for the penultimate paragraph, it's true-true, the story, so don't miss the penultimate paragraph.
Let me put this upfront: the main exit of motorway A8 into Nice has been under construction for quite a while. Anybody living on the Cote d’Azur must have wondered why a ramp pointing in the direction of the downtown voie rapide, obviously meant to relieve the overworked Promenade des Anglais along the beach, had been left for decades to peter out as a useless heap of sand. Two years ago, finally, a swarm of yellow caterpillars appeared and replaced the sand with an overpass of French proportions, meandering high into the sky as if the gloire of the nation depended on it. I had followed the activity with some interest and last time I checked, on Wednesday (returning home from an exhausting interview with Inspecteur Dugeny of the criminal branch of French customs about Jyske, my wayward bank), the work was still unfinished.
I’m writing this while waiting for the Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt. I’m sitting on a two-person leather couch opposite Chang, who sits on another, identical couch. The couch table separating us holds a glass of orange juice (Chang), and three glasses of Bloody Mary (Michael) (empty). On closer inspection, the couch table consists of two plastic stools of not quite matching colors. The entire room, a small VIP lounge off the boarding area of Terminal One is stuffed with like furniture and overhung by a low, impending ceiling. The room is busy with passengers, various flights are delayed; people behave, nerves radiate. A TV screen on the wall shows a feature about Alain Juppé, mayor of Bordeaux, a once-presidential-hopeful who refuses to go away despite the time he spent in prison for the embezzlement of public funds. I’m the only one watching, everybody else plays with his i-thing.
I’m not sure Chang is aware of what has happened because he is all business i.e., very critical of the booze. I can still feel my heartbeat.
It's a bit complicated to get hold of the issue (here's the link:) Bunbury XVI
For your convenience, we have the story here. It's not so long. Save for the penultimate paragraph, it's true-true, the story, so don't miss the penultimate paragraph.
Let me put this upfront: the main exit of motorway A8 into Nice has been under construction for quite a while. Anybody living on the Cote d’Azur must have wondered why a ramp pointing in the direction of the downtown voie rapide, obviously meant to relieve the overworked Promenade des Anglais along the beach, had been left for decades to peter out as a useless heap of sand. Two years ago, finally, a swarm of yellow caterpillars appeared and replaced the sand with an overpass of French proportions, meandering high into the sky as if the gloire of the nation depended on it. I had followed the activity with some interest and last time I checked, on Wednesday (returning home from an exhausting interview with Inspecteur Dugeny of the criminal branch of French customs about Jyske, my wayward bank), the work was still unfinished.
Nice airport |
I’m writing this while waiting for the Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt. I’m sitting on a two-person leather couch opposite Chang, who sits on another, identical couch. The couch table separating us holds a glass of orange juice (Chang), and three glasses of Bloody Mary (Michael) (empty). On closer inspection, the couch table consists of two plastic stools of not quite matching colors. The entire room, a small VIP lounge off the boarding area of Terminal One is stuffed with like furniture and overhung by a low, impending ceiling. The room is busy with passengers, various flights are delayed; people behave, nerves radiate. A TV screen on the wall shows a feature about Alain Juppé, mayor of Bordeaux, a once-presidential-hopeful who refuses to go away despite the time he spent in prison for the embezzlement of public funds. I’m the only one watching, everybody else plays with his i-thing.
_____________________
I’m not sure Chang is aware of what has happened because he is all business.
_____________________
I’m not sure Chang is aware of what has happened because he is all business i.e., very critical of the booze. I can still feel my heartbeat.
Jun 25, 2017
This Is Heaven cover art --- by Joe Phillips
Here's the cover art for THIS IS HEAVEN:
As in the case of the GREEN EYES it's by Joe Phillips, the mesmerizing artist, and it features his model, the "Latino Boy", who's also our model for Alex Iglesias, the lead character of the Heaven-saga.
Fragment, fragment. Sure. Here, CH 29, "I strike a deal with Mephistopheles, I win," in which Alex tries to convince John, the narrator, that they'd rather break up because he, Alex, has lost his soul. Here's how the chapter begins:
Alex would take me to the debate in his car, and I shouldn’t worry, he’ll give me a ride back, if necessary. We didn’t have much time to talk, and he’s sorry and apologizes as usual. Perhaps we could converse in the car; he had some time to think. He needs to share a thought, just a thought.
Ambulance paramedic that he is, or was, he knows the shortcuts of Georgia Beach, and in particular the spruced-up bike path that shares the bridge with the Davis Canal and leads from the parking lot through the ghetto up to Georgia Avenue. So we are supposed to talk, but he’s sitting behind the wheel and doesn’t say a word. People sometimes do this, especially in movies when they want the audience to focus on their effortless silhouette; the low bridge of his nose mildly turned up (not enough for a snub-nose but sufficient for the boy-component in a big brother); the eyelashes which are a bit too long for big brothers; the brows, wide and elongated (each and every single brow-hair perfectly aligned (like he’s employing an invisible, yet acrobatic cat that licks them twice per hour)); the jaw, which isn’t macho but large enough to support the seamless definition of his chin lines; the lips, closed at the moment but wide and misleadingly sensual; his smooth Latino skin; the fitting ears that seem to know everything; the black hair cut short on the side according to the latest fashion (a strange feature in an α-personality usually dismissive of trendiness). Then there’s the prominent back of the head segueing into a muscular neck; the shoulders of course that do the big-brother thing all on their own, the biceps (ditto), triceps (ditto), all of this very much in evidence with him in a green tank top that would match the color of his eyes if anything on the planet could match the color of his eyes. We arrive at the precipitous drop of his torso along the pecs and abs and down into the groin where the perfect bulge in his shorts is always in evidence due to his—what he calls his anatomy. And we wrap up with his hirsute thighs and his dirty, sexy sneakers in the pedal space underneath. And don’t forget the big hands on the steering wheel.
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
“Why did you break my A/C?” he replies
[...]
And here, a bit more, only a few lines:
We’ve arrived at the Dream Creamery on the corner of Georgia Avenue and the board walk-—the ruling ice cream parlor, very popular with the confessive rainbow crowd. “Let me buy you an ice cream,” he says. He fumbles in his pockets and issues various pieces of paper, including some greenbacks. The paperwork is resorted and repacked, a medication bottle appears in cameo, a twenty-dollar bill is found.
“What do you want?”
A sheep led to the slaughterhouse, a squirrel in love with a cobra, John Lee ditched by Alexander Iglesias, what do they want?
“Banana, stracciatella, and lemon,” I say.
“Good,” he says, exhaling.
“Good, why?”
“I can’t read thoughts.”
“You were trying?”
“Yes, I was. You were telling me I could read thoughts, remember? Glad it isn’t true.”
“Well,” I say. “Actually, I don’t want ice cream.”
“Oh, shit.”
He proceeds to order anyhow-—he’s always served first, he only has to show up with his cat-licked eyebrows and is served banana, stracciatella and lemon.
[...]
Two more lines, the last:
“You play with me, Alex. You know you’re X times smarter, and you play with me.”
“We’re having an argument, ain’t we? An instance of rational discourse. Let the better man win.”
Two more lines, the last:
“You play with me, Alex. You know you’re X times smarter, and you play with me.”
“We’re having an argument, ain’t we? An instance of rational discourse. Let the better man win.”
Jun 24, 2017
From today's New York Times --- Trump's lies
T r u m p ’ s L i e s
Many Americans have become accustomed to President Trump’s lies. But as regular as they have become, the country should not allow itself to become numb to them. So we have catalogued nearly every outright lie he has told publicly since taking the oath of office.
Jun 17, 2017
Pompeii (6)
Yes, we're not yet done with Pompeii, we've got interrupted but we are not yet done. Here, the historic site, with a statue that's a contemporary addition (we forgot the name of the artist---have a look at the comment below).
Jun 13, 2017
Happyness
What you see is a myosin protein dragging an endorphin along a filament to the inner part of the brain’s parietal cortex which creates happiness. Happiness. You’re looking at happiness.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 2, 2017
May 20, 2017
Why books no longer sell
Many a literati complain that their books no longer sell. Many a theory circulate why this is so (the disappearance of gay book stores, the disappearance of attention spans, competition from other media, Trump, and so on). But yesterday---yesterday we discovered the definitive answer. Here it is:
No, wrong, this is the airport of Cannes, the main hub of the Cannes Film Festival for anything that moves about by general aviation. Ten years ago, during the Festival, this place was loaded with private jets---Learjets, Falcons, Netjets, Gulfstreams---all patiently waiting for the "talent" to be beautiful, blow insouciant kisses, sign contracts, fuck, collect awards, and then return to Hollywood. And now what? The place is practically empty---emptier, we'd say, than on a normal day of the week when we drive past to go to our discount Lidl supermarket which is just around the corner.
You get it? Nothing sells. Almost. This is not only about books, this is about media in general.
And the underlying reason? Well, a shift in the parameter values of the Power Distribution of course.
Huh? Stay tuned.
Ceci n'est pas une pipe, mais un camp de concentration Trumpien. |
No, wrong, this is the airport of Cannes, the main hub of the Cannes Film Festival for anything that moves about by general aviation. Ten years ago, during the Festival, this place was loaded with private jets---Learjets, Falcons, Netjets, Gulfstreams---all patiently waiting for the "talent" to be beautiful, blow insouciant kisses, sign contracts, fuck, collect awards, and then return to Hollywood. And now what? The place is practically empty---emptier, we'd say, than on a normal day of the week when we drive past to go to our discount Lidl supermarket which is just around the corner.
You get it? Nothing sells. Almost. This is not only about books, this is about media in general.
And the underlying reason? Well, a shift in the parameter values of the Power Distribution of course.
Huh? Stay tuned.
May 18, 2017
Pompeii (5) The Year of the Spritz --- History of the world
Yes, we're back in Positano, or we are still in Positano because Julia, our hostess, has an uncle who runs this restaurant, and they would pick us up and deliver us back safely despite the fact that the road is barely fit for mules. And this is what we get as the welcome drink: THE SPRITZ. (Henry James also used capitalisation extensively).
When we arrived in Venice in 1988 on a research assignment, our host Massimo picked us up at the airport and delivered us almost directly---we had a brief look at a Tintoretto in a nearby church first---to a small café and ordered something we surely had never heard of. "The Spritz." It's a German word introduced by the Austrians when they ruled Venice from 1815 to 1866, meaning a "dash" of something stronger into a small glass of white wine. It was great and we ordered a few more. Then.
I returned to Venice repeatedly, but it was only in 2013 that I was confronted with the NEW SPRITZ as you see it on the picture. This Spritz is made from Prosecco and a dashy new version of strong water unfortunately dubbed Aperol. The color is great, the taste is mild, and chunks of lemon and orange are added for effect. There's a Hitchcock movie where the poisonous drink is served to the unsuspecting suspect in a glass illuminated by a little light bulb hidden in a translucent olive. Along those lines.
Okay, and now, this year, THIS IS THE YEAR OF THE SPRITZ. Everywhere you go, Germany, Spain, Switzerland, and today, St. Raphael, FRANCE (not shown)---the Aperol Spritz is everywhere. We ordered white wine in St. Raphael.
May 15, 2017
May 14, 2017
Pompeii (4) --- Hotel del Sole --- "We will post a review!"
The view from the restaurant |
We booked Hotel del Sole (half-board) because of its location opposite to the Pompeii ruins. We are given the worst room---but somebody has to get the worst room, even in a hotel packed with junior travel groups.
So the sun sets and we proceed to be seated for dinner. We are NOT led to the fourth floor restaurant with a spectacular view of the excavation site but to a sort of green house where piping protrudes from dirty corners and a children's party is in loutish progress. We return to the reception desk and alert the assistant manager to the pictures of this beautiful restaurant with its view of the ruins on Booking-dot-com. Sure, no problem, there's the elevator. Arriving upstairs we're informed that---yes---they serve dinner, but not to guests on half-board. Such guest have to dine in the Green House, regrettably. We descend, informing the reception that we'd like to cancel the half-board arrangement. That's not possible---the reply is---because we've booked through Booking-dot-com and patati patata. We alert them to the fact that the nice fourth floor restaurant is shown on Booking-dot-com. Yes, they answers, because that's where breakfast is served. There's nothing on Booking-dot-com, we reply, that would alert guests to the fact that the half-board dinner is served in a greenhouse not shown anywhere (for good reasons). You can call Booking-dot-com, they say. We won't call Booking-dot-com, we say, WE WILL POST A REVIEW. "Oh...oh...oh...okay. Yes, well, if you insist"...and while we are back in the elevator accompanied by an assistant manager, she tells us that they would have to open the kitchen for us, for us alone, "but if you want...". She cites a few more reasons why life is so difficult. We inform her that there are always "reasons," and that a GOOD HOTEL---if the sad moment arrives that "reasons" have to be invoked---that a good hotel should be able to isolate its guests from said reasons. She goes on. She obviously does not understand what it means to be a GOOD HOTEL.
The dinner with a view up there was very good, by the way.
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