Archive for the ‘Sickness’ Category

In which The Chaos Detective goes to Munich. Click through for “hi-quality” on YouTube or watch on Facebook. Stay tuned for the fifth and final installment of “City of Dreams.” THE CHAOS DETECTIVE City of Dreams (Part 1) City of Dreams (Part 2) City of Dreams (Part 3) Advertisements


In which The Gay Recluse watches teevee. There are times when we cannot believe how long we’ve been alive, and concurrently, how long — assuming a regular life span — we still have to go. Though admittedly it’s a thought that most often arrives during an afternoon meeting at work, it also crosses our mind […]


In which The Gay Recluse reads Roberto Bolaño in stages. In the third book of Roberto Bolaño’s epic 2666, we leave behind the maybe-psychotic descent into madness of Professor Amalfitano for a broader type of madness known as the fringes of modern/capitalistic civilization. Bolaño does this by way of a Harlem-based reporter who goes by […]


In which The Gay Recluse orders Sachertorte. In the United States — except for the rare exception — there is a well-documented dearth of hot gay statues. Occasionally you’ll see a statue and think, “hmm, he’s a lil gay.” (Or she, obv.) Or: “Why is that guy’s head between that other guy’s legs? It’s not […]


In which The Gay Recluse dreams of decorating garden walls and office spaces. While in Vienna, we visited the Secession Building. According to Wikipedia: “The Vienna Secession was founded on 3 April 1897 by artists Gustav Klimt, Koloman Moser, Josef Hoffmann, Joseph Maria Olbrich, Max Kurzweil, Otto Wagner, and others…In 1898, the group’s exhibition house […]


In which The Gay Recluse holds a contest. But not really. Today we received the above (and well, below) photograph from Eric Patton of Sore Afraid. (Which btw we recommend for anyone — like us! — interested in refreshingly unrelenting pessimism, literary angst, truthful travel writing and related rumination.) This statue, obv one of the […]


In which The Gay Recluse files a book report. After we read Keith Banner’s The Smallest People Alive, we could not have imagined a more fucked-up society/culture than the low-class Midwest (US) described so effectively by Banner; imagine our surprise then, when we turned to another set of short stories — The Scent of Cinnamon […]