Suffer the Little Children

Monday morning and it’s raining–there was a flash of lightning as I got up. I’m not sure how long it’s been raining already, but I suspect the deep sleep had something to do with it, as well as how comfortable the bed felt this morning. It looks like it’s going to rain most of the day, too, and more all week. Huzzah! I love rain, even if it makes me sleepy and want to curl up under blankets all the time. But we’re not in a flood warning or watch (the city did flood the other day, in all the usual places), so getting to and from work shouldn’t be an issue. I need to stop on the way home to pick up a couple of things, too. But I feel good and rested this morning, which is a very good thing. I did some more picking up and so forth yesterday while Paul watched the Wimbledon final, so the place looks decent this morning–always a nice way to start the week.

I read more of Rough Pages yesterday, and it’s really quite excellent. Lev’s work is very important, and this book focuses on gay literature and books at a time when they were considered obscene and unpublishable, educating while entertaining. It’s easy to forget that when I first came out, my sex life was a crime–punishable with a prison sentence if convicted. Homophobic cops, as Lev depicts in his work, loved raiding gay bars and breaking heads and ruining lives (bars in New Orleans continued to be raided for “public indecency” even after Lawrence v. Texas ended sodomy laws nation-wide). It’s also true that often times gay bars were owned by the mob and used to launder money, as well as pay off the cops. Cops, there to protect and serve ostensibly, requiring bribes to leave the queers alone. It’s not like this is a secret–I guess people just always assume cops are there to do good, and that’s the default we’re all trained to fall back on, when the truth is you have no idea how sideways an interaction with a cop can go at any time…and it’s worse, far far worse, for Black people.

It was another peaceful day around here yesterday. Sparky adapted to us both being home and went back to being his occasionally aloof self–not needing constant attention, but needing some every once in a great while–but that will definitely change while I am gone today. Paul continues to improve even more with every passing day; he really should be the poster child for rapid recovery.

Not only did Lindsey Graham pass from this mortal coil Saturday (give Satan a big hug for me once you’re all processed and assigned to a fire pit, Lindsey!) but rapist Conor McGregor got his ass beat that same night and blew out his knee, praise be. The world seems to be healing. One of those bigoted Giant pitchers got sent down to the minors, too. Aw, gee, bigot, maybe your God also thinks you’re a piece of shit and need to learn some humility…after all, it’s not your place to judge, is it? You’re not god, and you even suck at your job. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, bitch. May you never play another major league game–and never forget you achieved your dream before you threw it away happily with both hands. Pray harder, pig.

I also worked on the book. I’ve been stuck a bit with Chapter Two, so moved on to three and that went very well, and am quite pleased. We also finished watching The American Experiment, which did such a marvelous job of depicting what we are in the process of throwing away that I can’t help but recommend it; it was also very honest in reminding everyone that these liberiies and ideals were meant for white men only at the time.

Sigh. And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. I haven’t driven in rain in a while, so this drive to the office this morning should be interesting. Hope you have a lovely Monday wherever you may be, Constant Reader, and I will be back tomorrow morning. See you then!

The thing about walking around your neighborhood that’s so great in New Orleans is you will always be shown poetic and inspirational images. This, for me, is a great story prompt.

Wide Awake in Dreamland

Sunday and wide awake, perhaps not in Dreamland per se, but definitely the Lost Apartment. Yesterday was a lovely day, really. I got up around seven and checked the news, put away the dishes, and pottered around in the morning over my coffee. As it turned out, Paul had plans for nearly the entire day from before noon until the mid evening, leaving me to my own devices for the day. I read some, puttered around a bit, wrote some, put some things on while I rearranged and reorganized during the day while he was gone, and kind of enjoyed the peace and quiet of a little alone time. It’s nice periodically to have a day that is entirely mine to do with as I pleased, you know? It would get old very quickly, I suspect, but as I said, it’s nice every once in a while. The thunderstorm also arrived just before one, too–at least that’s when the sky started darkening and I heard thunder in the distance. It was the proverbial New Orleans gully-washer with flash flooding alerts and so forth. Paul wasn’t home, so Sparky wanted to sleep in my lap all afternoon and I was frankly happy to allow him to; it was very cozy with the chilly damp in the air and the sound of rain pouring out of the sky and rushing along the walk to the lower level of the street. I watched the last two episodes of House of the Dragon, which were quite enthralling. It did pick up in episode two, after all, and these episodes I watched yesterday were very gripping and moved very quickly.

I apparently missed the news about Lindsey Graham’s sudden death yesterday, adnd have not read any of the reporting, just seeing some social media posts about it this morning. Awful as he was, there was a little part of my brain that felt sorry for him. I always felt that the mocking of his questionable sexuality bordered on the homophobic and made me uncomfortable, even as I succumbed to the temptation of the low-hanging fruit on occasion. I guess seeing him triggered my empathy because I would always think, whenever I saw him, how easily his “path” (we don’t know anything for certain, everything is speculation and cruel gossip rooted in the homophobic ideation that you can always tell. Um, tell Rock Hudson and Tab Hunter’s fans back in the day, or Rob Halford. Hell, they didn’t think Freddie Mercury of QUEEN was, so yeah, no you can’t) could have been mine. I often wonder how I, born gay into a rural Southern family steeped in that dominant Southern culture, may have turned out had we not left Alabama when I was two, which is where my place of empathy for Graham comes from–and now that he’s dead and cannot cause any harm to non-white non-straights anymore, I can shake my head with sadness about his wasted life. Even if everyone is reading him wrong and he was just not “masculine” enough1, that’s actually even sadder. He was a horrible person and his congressional voting record and public white supremacy mean the sympathy is more along the lines of a wasted life who could have spent his entire career doing things for his constituents rather than being a MAGA mouthpiece.

He certainly was a Harkonnen beta, and that is unforgivable.

With McConnell also dead (despite the pretense and this whole Weekend at Bernie’s bullshit they’ve been pulling with his brain-dead corpse–if he didn’t die before they took him out of his home, they sure were not in a hurry for someone found unresponsive in their home. These things come in threes–dare we to hope? As someone I admire greatly once wrote–dare we have the audacity of hope? This could be the best American summer in quite a while. Although in this shitty timeline, Anne Widdecombe probably counted as the other vile politician death in this glorious triumvirate.

Seriously, live your life so the world isn’t better off when you’ve died.

I slept late this morning and feel good and rested this morning, if a bit hungry. I do have to order some things for delivery and I’ll have to stop on my way home from the office tomorrow to pick up a few things. Today I am hoping to read and write and do some picking up around here. Paul slept on the couch last night (he said it’s easier sometimes for his knee when it hurts) so I can’t catch up on the news, so I will have no choice other than to read and write this morning. We watched a documentary last night on Netflix, Breakdown: 1975, which was a pivotal year culturally–this focused on politics and films, and that in wake of government distrust that permeated the country after all the scandals, how films became more cynical rather than optimistic and good didn’t always win in the end–and the good guy himself was not entirely a good guy either, unless he was an innocent pulled into something beyond both his knowledge and control, like Marathon Man. My Cynical 70s Film Festival that I did during the shutdown really emphasized how gritty and realistic the decade’s “serious” films by the auteur directors that rose in the 1970s were…and how Spielberg and Lucas changed the industry into the summer blockbuster mess it’s been ever since.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. My book is calling to me, and I need to read some other things for research purposes before I dig back into my own book and short stories and essays. Hope you have a lovely Sunday however you choose to spend it, Constant Reader, and I will see you again bright and early at six am again tomorrow!

Sure, whatever you say, there’s absolutely nothing homoerotic about professional wrestling. Uh huh. Nice ass, anyway.
  1. This would make a marvelous introduction to one of my essays about masculinity, wouldn’t it? ↩︎

The Art of Letting Go

Saturday morning, and a top o’ the morning to you, me pretties. Yesterday wasn’t too terrible, actually; I always make such a big deal out of things that aren’t big deals and I really need to break that really bad habit at some point before I die. I got up before the alarm, but hit snooze a couple of times before Sparky realized the alarm was mysteriously going off a fifth day in a row, which meant I’d be getting up soon which means breakfast for the kitty! And wasn’t it sweet of him to try to let me sleep in? I feel good and rested this morning; I was tired and sleepy last night when bed time rolled around, and I slept like a stone (how things that aren’t sentient are supposed to sleep has always mystified me) last night, and woke up relatively early this morning. Once again there’s supposed to be some serious thunderstorms in the late afternoon, which would be lovely and a nice time to curl up and read some more of the book I am currently reading and need to finish.

I was tired, though, when I left the office to run my errands before heading home to finish the chores. They didn’t have Creole tomatoes, which was enormously disappointing; I really wanted one of my grilled cheese sandwiches, which I need to rename because it’s not just a grilled cheese sandwich. I usually will put bacon, guacamole and Creole tomatoes on them, too; they are so amazingly good, and when you use Maldon salt and fresh ground pepper? My word. I’m going to have to go to the store again over this weekend to look for Creole tomatoes, which is the only thing I actually need to get. I was a bit brain dead when I got back home, and then worked on the laundry and other chores. I do feel like this is going to be a productive weekend, and I feel good about that. I really straightened up the books in the living room as a first step to making it look less like a FEMA zone, and also couldn’t find a copy of a book I was looking for, which means I’ll have to buy another copy. Oh well. I did also locate my copies of Dancer from the Dance and Faggots while going through the books, which was a bit of a relief. I can revisit them now, at some point. It’ll be interesting to see them again through a modern lens, remembering the first time I read both and what I thought of them then and how they hold up now. I really need to get back to my reading.

We watched an episode of Sugar and I had the end of an episode of Monarch: Legacy of Monsters (not enough monsters) on while I was straightening and picking things up last night. I also baked potatoe sbecause I didn’t feel like making ravioli or…anything, really. I also kept thinking it was Thursday all afternoon, and being confused by how early it was before remembering oh yes, you put in six hours at the office. Next Friday is Staff Development Day, also mandatory, and also all day. Hurray. Not loving this, honestly. I’ll survive though–at least, I hope so and if I don’t, well, I could use the rest and not aging anymore isn’t a bad thing.

Amazing what anti-anxiety medication can do for a person, isn’t it?

Paul is going to something tonight–he told me, but I forgot; some kind of art show he’s attending with his board president–so they’re having an early dinner first, which will leave me here alone with Sparky for a few hours later on–probably around the time the thunderstorms are predicted to hit the hood. I also want to do some more deep cleaning on the place; I need to move some furniture around, but getting all the shit various cats over the years have knocked behind or underneath them out. (I told you, I have not been as thorough with the housecleaning chores this decade as I used to be, and I wasn’t joking at all!) I also would like to work on a newsletter some more this weekend, maybe even get it sent out later today or tomorrow (I kind of went overboard with them over the holiday weekend and need to space the next ones out some more), and I do want to work on the book and some short stories today, too–we’ll see how it all goes, though, won’t we?

Okay, on that note I am heading into the spice mines. I am going to take my coffee into the living room and watch some news before I get cleaned up and going on this fine day. It looks beautiful outside my windows, and it’s not that humid because the windows aren’t covered in condensation. So, out with the trash and the recycling, too!

See you tomorrow morning!

Il Duomo in Florence from the air. I love Florence.

Invincible

Friday morning and I have a mandatory in-person meeting at the office this morning, so I am going to just stay there and do my hours at the office today. I can leave in the early afternoon and run some errands, too, so I can get things under control for the weekend before the weekend. The goal is to only go outside to either cook or take out trash/recycling, and work on the book, cleaning the house, and getting my body rested and recharged for another week of work. I was dragging a bit yesterday morning, but this new thing of “don’t have to be there till eight” (a long and not interesting tale I won’t bore you with) actually is working better. I get up at the same time, but I don’t have to rush–and rushing is when I will forget something or not do something and makes me feel off for the morning until I wake up completely. Yesterday afternoon I was fine, only a little mentally fried, and when I left work I came home and did some chores and some writing. Boo-ya!

There’s rain in today’s forecast this afternoon, but it shouldn’t be starting before I get home. I need to run uptown to get the mail after work, and I may make a grocery run as well (minor); depends on how I feel because I also am aware I can simply have things delivered. Having things delivered has so simplified my life, and I really don’t miss going to the grocery store, but I am fresh out of Creole tomatoes, and I need to pick those out in person. Paul is changing his eating habits, and I really need to change mine too–but it’s hard to be motivated to make significant changes to our bodies when you’re almost sixty-five. It’s still hard sometimes to understand or wrap my mind around the fact that I’ve lived so fucking long.

I feel good and rested this morning, which is a pleasant surprise. I worried about getting up at six an extra day, but it hasn’t phased me this morning in the least. MY mind is very alert and I don’t feel physically tired, which is great. Last night we caught up on Maximum Pleasure Guaranteed, which we are loving, and caught another episode of Sugar. I didn’t get any reading done last night, alas, nor did I do any chores last night. The good news is this doing them all week has me ahead on the chores, so the kitchen doesn’t look like a disaster area this morning, which is also nice.

A name I hadn’t heard in a while is trending on social media this morning because the hateful old bitch is dead. Yes, Anne Widdecombe has apparently died; I assume from choking to death on her own bile. She has always been a massive ally to the patriarchy, homophobic to her rotted and wizened soul and felt men had a right to women’s bodies without consent. I hope her death was horrifically painful, just as I hope Mitch McConnell is still alive but suffering deeply right now. “Don’t wish ill”? FUCK the people who wished me and my entire worldwide community ill, and actively worked to make our lives as miserable and marginalized as possible. No, I don’t have sympathy for her family because they love a monster, and sat by while she spewed vile putrescence and did as much damage as she possibly could…like McConnell. Anyway, here’s hoping for a pleasant day, right? I don’t mind being reminded of these vicious pieces of shit because they’ve died. I hope she’s enjoying roasting in hell.

Miss me with your high horse and moral superiority. I have about as much sympathy for these monsters as they have for me and people like me, so yeah, fuck off. I have no desire to give trash grace.

And on that note, it’s off to the office and my meeting and the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back in the morning, never fear!

Yes, gays will makes passes at pretty men who wear glasses!

Roll Out The Red Carpet

Macavity Nominations 2026 (for works published in 2025)

Best Mystery Novel

Crooks by Lou Berney (William Morrow)

King of Ashes by S.A. Cosby (Flatiron Books)

Clown Town by Mick Herron (Soho Crime)

River of Lies by James L’Etoile (Oceanview Publishing)

The White Crow by Michael Robotham (Scribner)

All This Could Be Yours by Hank Phillippi Ryan (Minotaur Books)

Best First Mystery 

Savvy Summers and the Sweet Potato Crimes by Sandra Jackson-Opoku (Minotaur Books)

Dead Money by Jakob Kerr (Bantam Books)

Voices of the Elysian Fields by Michael Rigg (Level Best Books)

Stillwater by Tanya Scott (Grove Atlantic)

History Lessons by Zoe B. Wallbrook (Soho Press)

Best Mystery Nonfiction

Vacations Can Be Murder: A True Crime Lover’s Travel Guide to New England by Dawn M. Barclay (Level Best Books)

Blood and the Badge: The Mafia, Two Killer Cops, and a Scandal That Shocked the Nation by Michael Cannell (Minotaur Books)

Murderland: Crime and Bloodlust in the Time of Serial Killers by Caroline Fraser (Penguin Press)

V Is for Venom: Agatha Christie’s Chemicals of Death by Kathryn Harkup (Bloomsbury Sigma)

Edgar Allan Poe: A Life by Richard Kopley (University of Virginia Press)

Cooler than Cool: The Life and Work of Elmore Leonard by C.M. Kushins (Mariner Books)

Best Mystery Short Story

“Six-Armed Robbery” by Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier (in Donna Andrews Presents Malice Domestic: Mystery Most Humorous, edited by John Betancourt, Carla Coupe, and Michael Bracken, Wildside Press)

“Hollywood Prometheus” by Christa Faust (in Crime Ink: Iconic: An Anthology of Crime Fiction Inspired by Queer Icons, edited by John Copenhaver and Salem West, Bywater Books)

“Finding Jimmy Baldwin” by Cheryl Head (in Crime Ink: Iconic: An Anthology of Crime Fiction Inspired by Queer Icons, edited by John Copenhaver and Salem West, Bywater Books)

“The Devil Himself” by Vaseem Khan (in Double Crossing Van Dine, edited by Donna Andrews, Greg Herren, and Art Taylor, Crippen & Landru Publishers)

“The Skies Are Red” by Richie Narvaez (in On Fire and Under Water: A Climate Change Crime Fiction Anthology, edited by Curtis Ippolito, Rock and a Hard Place Press)

“Julius Katz Draws a Straight Flush” by Dave Zeltserman (Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Sept/Oct 2025)

Sue Feder Memorial Historical Mystery

Bye Bye Blackbird by Elizabeth Crowens (Level Best Books)

A Daughter’s Guide to Mothers and Murder by Dianne Freeman (Kensington Books)

City Lights by Claire M. Johnson (Level Best Books)

The Case of the Christie Conspiracy by Kelly Oliver (Boldwood Books)

The Case of the Missing Maid by Rob Osler (Kensington Books)

No. 10 Doyers Street by Radha Vatsal (Level Best Books)

***

Macavity: The Mystery Cat by T.S. Eliot

Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!

Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!

He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair—
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless to investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
‘It must have been Macavity!’—but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs;
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

Macavity!!!

All Fired Up

Well, it may be Thursday morning, but this is not my last day in the office for the week. We have an in-person department meeting on Friday, so I have to get up and come in. That’s fine, really, I don’t mind putting my time in at the office tomorrow. I won’t have to stay past two, and then I can run some errands on the way home from work and hopefully, get everything I may need so I don’t have to leave again over the weekend and can just stay inside. In the cool. Out of the heat. One of the nice things about doing chores every night and in the morning before I leave for work is that all the cleaning I used to let accumulate in the sink, laundry room and on the counters no longer has to be done first thing on Saturday morning….so I can maybe do some other cleaning that I never get to–like the floors and the stairs. The laundry room shelves need organizing and straightening, too–and I should also go through all the kitchen cabinets and throw away everything that has expired without being used.

And I can also spend some more time writing and reading on the weekends, too.

I slept well last night again, but this morning I hit snooze one more time than usual (to Sparky’s chagrin), but it was more about being comfortable than wanting more sleep. I have the most comfortable bed, and of course my incredibly soft and heavy pile of blankets. It’s supposed to rain again today–it did at the office during the day, but today’s rain is forecast for this late afternoon/earaly evening, which means coming home during a torrential rain (potentially; New Orleans weather forecasts in the summer are completely unreliable), but that’s fine. I don’t even mind having to go into the office tomorrow, either.

Paul didn’t get home until it was too late to watch anything (board meeting), so I did some chores when I got home yesterday before providing a very needy Sparky with a lap/bed for him so he could feel safe and secure again. I did work on the book again yesterday, writing a thousand words and getting a very strong first draft of the first chapter done, which needs a further polish but for now I am content to let it stand as is and move on to finishing a strong draft of chapter two. I’m not writing at my old break-neck pace; I can’t remember the last time I did three thousand words or more in a single day. But that’s also okay; I’m not on any deadline outside of my personal goal of solid first draft by Labor Day, and being able to take my time instead of rushing through a draft is eminently more satisfying, too, and I do think I like this way of writing better. I have more free time than I have had in almost sixteen years, and my body seems to be, if not completely recovered from everything, at least I feel better physically than I have in years. I also like this going into the office a little later every morning thing I’ve been doing this week. I feel more awake and alive and motivated getting there at eight rather than seven thirty, and in the afternoons I don’t feel exhausted…and the days seem to pass much faster than they used to.

The Macavity Award nominations have been released, and was delighted to see three of the short story nominees I have a connection to; Cheryl Head and Christa Faust for their marvelous stories in Crime Ink: Iconic, and from Double Crossing Van Dine, Vaseem Khan’s excellent story “The Devil Himself.” This is the second time one of our contributors from that anthology has been nominated for an award; Barb Goffman earned an Agatha nomination for her story. I am always in good company when I am in an anthology, which is always thrilling for me. Rob Osler also landed a nomination for Best Historical, which is awesome! My friend group is always well represented on awards lists, you know? #ilovemylife.

It’s a good life, isn’t it? 🙂 I also got my copy of the latest in Rob’s series in the mail. Oh, so many excellent books in my TBR pile! I really need to get back to reading seriously. Maybe an hour after work every night? I can read while Sparky dozes, after all. I think maybe unconsciously my mind has closed off answering emails and reading so I can focus entirely on writing fiction? Stranger things have happened in my fevered, chemically imbalanced brain.

And on that note, y’all, I am ending this entry and heading into the spice mines. Have yourself a merry little Thursday, Constant Reader, and no worries–I’ll be here again tomorrow morning. Till then!

Much as I love New Orleans, I love Venetian carnival costumes the most.

7 Rooms of Gloom

It’s actually quite easy to succumb to gloom, actually; the gloom affects our moods and can make us feel either blue or down or depressed from the lack of sunlight. The sun is out there this morning, but the rain from last night and the humidity have covered my windows in condensation so I can’t see out them that well. It rained yesterday while I was at work, and I came home in a break in the storm. Raindrops started hitting my windshield as I turned off St. Charles, and I managed to make it into the house before the big bold of lightning lit up the sky and the thunder that followed shook the house. And then came the gully-washing rain. I did some chores when I got home–laundry and dishes–and came down to a relatively picked up and not-messy (I won’t say clean) kitchen this morning, which is a nice feeling. Sparky certainly likes being able to get up on the counters when they’re clear. It’s nice not being completely exhausted when I get home from work, and as long as I don’t succumb to Sparky’s need for a lap (he definitely needed one last night. Paul went to the office so he was alone at home all afternoon for the first time in about four days, so he was experiencing some abandonment issues) I can get things done so I don’t have to spend an entire day cleaning the kitchen. If I don’t have a sink full of dirty dishes and cluttered counter space by the weekend, I can do a quick touch up and then work on something else that needs cleaning and organizing….and maybe I can finally get this apartment back into the kind of shape it needs to be in for me to be okay with.

I also have worked out a new system at work to be more efficient with my time and easier to stay caught up on things, which is very pleasing since we are now working the clinic short-handed for the foreseeable future. Very cool! I love making my job more efficient. I am feeling good again this week; last week felt like my batteries were on accessory, but feel like I got full recharged up over the weekend. Getting up in the morning is no longer an ordeal, and my mind is clearer when I leave the house so I am not kind of half sleep-walking through the mornings anymore. I do think a lot of this has to do with me writing again, even if the fiction just comes in dribs and drabs these days…the important thing is that I am making progress and I am very pleased with the work. I’m not going to have much of anything published this year–I have a short story in an anthology coming out this fall, but other than that I ain’t got a thing….and at the rate I am going I may have nothing again next year. Nose, attach thyself to grindstone.

Paul got home in time last night for us to finish season one of Sugar and start season two. This show is such a unique take on the hardboiled private eye trope that I enjoy every twist and turn and surprise that comes along. I went to bed fairly early and slept well–the rain, the rain–and had no trouble getting up this morning. I am not as energetic as I was on Monday, for sure, but I am not groggy-tired and wishing I didn’t have to go into the office…and now that the caffeine is hitting my bloodstream that little grogginess is clearing and I can feel my body beginning to wake up. We’re not going to be terribly busy today, so I should be able to get some more administrative stuff done around the clients.

The predictable implosion of the Graham Platner senatorial campaign over the last weekend and past few days has been pretty impressive, frankly. I never said anything publicly about Platner (or James Tallarico, either, for that matter) because I don’t trust them. For me, the homophobia put all my antennae on alert but…I also knew the “progressives” would swarm me and call me everything under the sun for not being on board with our latest iteration of the “working class blue collar straight man” savior they always try to foist on us, because no one is really interested in what we queers (if that bothers you—my use of queer, that has some crusty white gay male asses twisted–go the fuck away) or any of the “minorities” welcomed into the big tent–unless we want to run for office or actually rise to an actual position of power, in which case we “don’t have a chance” and we need to “step aside for someone (white straight cisgender male) who can win.” You see, I decided to listen to those wonderful gay commentators Bowen Yang and Matt Rogers earlier this year and not donate to campaigns with candidates I don’t think are “electable”–Platner was at the top of my list once the Nazi tattoo came out–and the usual “no responsibility white man” response of “I didn’t know what it was!” Um, in which case, you are too fucking stupid to serve in the Senate. But hey, it’s also interesting to me when the blue bros go all in on a straight white man with serious issues because…straight white man. They also never acknowledge their mistakes. I get the same spidey-sense tingle with Tallarico, too, sorry/not sorry…the same nagging instinct I had with Sinema and Fetterman…and I didn’t listen, to my bitter and everlasting disappointment.

I’m not ignoring that instinct anymore. I hope I’m wrong about Tallarico, but I’m not giving him a cent. Any money I donate this midterm cycle is here in Louisiana. We have a chance to beat MAGA Julia Letlow, the homophobic racist piece of shit Incompetent and Incontinent Baron Harkonnen endorsed (he calls her Yulia every now and again, but hey, Jake Tapper, write a book about Biden, quisling), and that’s what I want to focus on. Interesting how this race is on no one’s radar in the progressive world…oh, yes, that’s right. Jamie Davis is Black and thus unelectable.

Funny how that works.

And can someone take Stephen King’s phone away from him before he does even more irreparable harm to his reputation and legacy? Bad enough he’s a friend and supporter of the Chatelaine of Castle TERF–which was when my opinion began turning from admiration and fandom to I beg your pardon? Um, “they’re all rapists” isn’t the selling point you seem to think it is, sir.

The Boy With the Nazi Tattoo is doing no favors to anyone. Typical. And now he’s making demands before he drops out? Sounds about straight white man.

I’m not going to comment about the mysterious death on Horn Island over the weekend. Yes, I am very interested in the case and yes, I have theories, and yes, I don’t trust any of those other kids and especially not their parents who didn’t raise them right (you never leave someone you brought behind without making sure they have a way home, my mother drilled that inti my head as a child and she would always ask when picking me up if we’d taken someone with us). Period. But I want to be respectful to the young man’s family; it’s hard enough dealing with this kind of sudden and unexpected loss that shouldn’t have happened and then having to deal with speculation all over the internet? And the horrible things the racists are spewing? I am a crime fiction writer, not a journalist or a true crime writer, and I don’t know anything about what happened other than it stinks like three day old fish baking in the hot Louisiana sun. I also don’t trust the local law enforcement or the state of Mississippi to investigate thoroughly–this is the kind of thing that happens all too often. (Can’t imagine why that Black kid they sent to prison for life for stabbing that white kid at that track meet felt endangered.) I will follow the case, but I won’t speculate about outcomes or what happened. (I cannot say enough how much I do not trust those white kids or believe their story, at least what’s been reported.)

Sigh. We will never beat the allegations, white people.

And on that note I am heading into the spice mines for the day. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader.

Hot male bodies that haven’t removed all their body hair are unusual to see and thus sexy as fuck.

One Love

Tuesday and we somehow managed to survive Monday, did we not? It was weird for me, because I now have to go into the office later now that I am the only person working in the clinic (don’t ask), because I have to stay until five now; my other person would have taken the last client so I could get out earlier. I now have to rearrange my life to comply with the ability to stay later, but it’s not the end of the world and there are always worse things; there are always worse things possible.

I finally sent out my newsletter on Jordan Harper’s A Violent Masterpiece, which you can read by clicking the title there. It’s a most excellent book, written brilliantly and the story etches itself into your brain with acid as you read…it’s about terrible people doing terrible things and the people who help them get away with it. You know, like Hollywood itself and well, the rest of the world, too…which is a nice segue into the next paragraph.

I saw a news report Sunday about a missing eighteen-year-old Black community college football player named Nolan Wells. He’d gone on a boat trip with friends from Ocean Springs to Horn Island, one of the Alabama-Mississippi barrier islands along the coast. The picture that was shown of young Nolan showed him with three white kids about his age…and as soon as I saw that picture, my right eyebrow arched upward, my eyes narrowed and my head tilted. My initial reaction was to be very skeptical of the story being told by “his friends”–they couldn’t find him, thought he’d left with someone else (but didn’t take his cell phone…sure, Klan) and it wasn’t until later that his parents began worrying about him when he didn’t come home. I hoped I was wrong, that he had gotten off the island with someone else and forgot his phone, which happens, and he’d turn up.

Well, they found Nolan Wells’ body yesterday out there on Horn Island, which opens up a whole lot of questions and his so-called friends are looking mighty suspicious, if you ask me. Horn Island is, at best, a barrier island and at worst, a sandbar slightly above sea level with few trees, no houses or anything, really, besides sea oats, grass and white sand. I will be following this story–just as I still am following the Noah Presgrove case over in Oklahoma. Both stories involve mysterious deaths of athletic young men, and a group of people that weren’t their friends. Of course, there’s a racial component as well in Nolan’s case–and his “friends” have all lawyered up. I’ve not checked the story again yet this morning, but it saddens me that a bright young life has been silenced, and because it’s Ocean Springs, Mississippi, nothing will be done about his death. Apparently, one of his “friends” has a mom who is a local judge and another is connected to local law enforcement, so there’s no telling what these young sociopaths have already gotten away with.

And no, I am not giving spoiled young white boys the benefit of the doubt. They are very dangerous in groups.

And the World Cup dream has died for the USMNT, in what was an apparently horribly embarrassing loss to Belgium last night. I knew that once the Baron Harkonnen smeared himself all over it, they were going to lose; everything the Harkonnens touch dies. I do think it’s hilarious that evangelicals–who would be reading the augurs against Biden or Harris or Obama had they the same track record of destroying everything–aren’t seeing God’s hand in any of this–especially the horror that was Saturday on the national mall.

Sigh. But good for Belgium, and now I can pull for Norway and Erling Haalang completely guilt-free, at least. I love the big Viking!

We finished watching Sugar last night, highly recommend, and we’re going to start season 2 tonight. We also watched an episode of a documentary series The American Experiment, which again is about the lead up to the Revolutionary War and the war itself. I did do some work on the book yesterday, but I also worked on a newsletter to send out later this week, if I’ve not already overdone it with the newsletters over the holiday weekend. Three was probably a bit excessive…although I am writing a counterpoint to that disgusting homophobic op-ed from a self-loathing Christian queen; bitch, you don’t speak for any of us, quisling, and how very fucking dare you? I think that’s a theme I can work with in my Julia Sugarbaker mode.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Taco Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I will be back on mid-week Wednesday morning. Till then!

The image displays the magnificent Grand Staircase of the Palais Garnier (Opéra Garnier) in Paris, France. Designed by architect Charles Garnier, this opulent 19th-century Beaux-Arts masterpiece features a sweeping marble double staircase, gilded balconies, and grand chandeliers.

Run Between the Raindrops

Monday morning in the Lost Apartment and it’s back to work for me today. Yesterday was kind of lovely. I slept later than I’d intended, but I must have needed ten hours of sleep and yes, as a result I felt quite marvelous all day yesterday. I relaxed and took it easy in the morning, doing some organizing on my computer over my coffee, which also tasted marvelous, and had some things for breakfast. My back up hard drive and all of my storage is in such bad shape, you have no idea. Fortunately I can do searches, but that’s if the file has been named and I can remember what I named it. I have so many picture files that are unnamed…I may never sort them all. I also need to stop collecting images of hot guys because I already have so fucking many of them. Sigh. I hoard computer files, too, what a surprise.

Of course, all I need to do is disconnect the damned hard drive and plug it into my laptop, so when my mind wanders while I’m in my easy chair I can sort the files and make some progress. Du-uh. I really have quite the grasp of the obvious, don’t I? We also had the most marvelous thunderstorm yesterday afternoon while I was working on writing–a plethora of different things; from newsletters to short stories to the book itself. I am very pleased with how the book is progressing–it’s slow going, but I am also very out of practice, and am still adjusting to all of this free time I have now that I’ve stopped volunteering. I honestly had no idea how much time I was spending on it. No wonder I was so tired all the time, and that being tired had something to do with the onset of the illness, whenever it was; my system was worn down and vulnerable. I don’t regret the time spent, of course–like I ALWAYS say, I don’t live a life of regret–but it is astonishing to have time that I can actually waste guilt-free. But now that I am healthy and getting back into the groove of my life again, my sense of joy and my sense of humor are coming back stronger than they were before, too. My illness and hospitalization was actually the best thing to happen to me in quite a while. And while I certainly don’t recommend it and don’t ever want that to happen to me again (not just sick but six nights in a hospital bed), it was the kind of wake-up call I needed.

I also had to laugh at myself a bit yesterday, too, speaking of my sense of humor. I had worked on a short story Saturday afternoon; I’ve had this idea for at least five years and for some reason it started kicking around in my head again on Friday, which is why I started writing it Saturday…only to discover I’d actually started it when I originally had the idea, after all…but now I know what the story is, what the right tone for it is, and that was absolutely some good work I managed Saturday. I had also worked on the book some on Saturday, too, and that also felt good, especially since I didn’t really feel like doing any writing at the time, but managed almost a thousand words without really any drive to write or any idea of what I actually was going to type out. I suppose I could do Jami Attenberg’s A Thousand Words of Summer, couldn’t I? Note to self: order her book.

And the Giants continue to lose, speaking of joy, and what makes it even better for me is to see those bigots are now pariahs in the city where they play. I don’t follow baseball outside of LSU, but I grin every time I hear that the Giant Bigots lose yet another time. I hope those fucks are booed and hated for the rest of their shitty, unwashed crusty ass lives. Newsflash: you’re okay with every sin but homosexuality, which didn’t make your God’s top ten. Have fun in hell–God don’t like ugly, and God don’t like men who think they speak for him, either. My values and beliefs don’t allow me to suppose hateful bigots. See how that works, you punk bitches?

And I wouldn’t be throwing a lot of stones about anyone if I looked like that in a baseball uniform, bitches. You’re supposed to be professional athletes, not the “before” in a gym advertisement. Can’t you look like one? Baseball has pretty much made it clear this summer that they embrace racism and homophobia; all that’s left is for them to demean women like the misogynist pricks on the US Men’s Hockey Team to complete their trifecta of enshittification. Well done, baseball. Way to turn America’s Pastime into a bigot-fest.

Oddly, if MLB has been a horrific disappointment for a fan of sports in general, the World Cup has been incredibly refreshing and fun to watch and experience. Erling Haaland has captivated me, the big goofy Norwegian Viking golden retriever that he is, and I also fell hard for the Cabo Verde team; what an inspiring tournament story they gave the world. And of course, loved the Scots and all the fans from everywhere. The world cup has, of all things, been so heartwarming and enjoyable (I do love seeing people enjoying themselves) and it’s also been lovely seeing the fans enjoying each other as well as themselves. That has been absolutely lovely and healing to see, as well as the hope for the future such things engender. I do generally prefer to be optimistic; at heart, I like to think I am usually cheerful and hope for the best…and I don’t enjoy when people make me not feel that way…which is yet another reason to hate those trashy asswipes who like to bring other people down.

I also love the anti-Trump chants they brought with them, my favorite? Aussie boys here on a bender, Donald Trump is a sex offender! Thank you, World Cup fans, for not letting him make this about his fat shitty ass, the way he will if he makes it to the Olympics in Los Angeles next year. I can only imagine the horrors his goons will unleash on LA before the games open. Heavy heaving sigh.

We had a marvelous thunderstorm yesterday afternoon, the lights even blinked a few times. It’s been a while since we had such a great storm, so I cuddled up with my blanket in my easy chair during the downpours while I worked on my laptop. It was marvelously cozy, I have to say. I’d intended to cook out yesterday, but the rain forced me into a dinner alternative and made something I’ve not made in years–and as I was eating it thought this is good for thrown together but I can make this a lot better which is how I always end up redoing recipes all the time. Some gravy would have been nice…bell peppers. Anyway, the rain was relaxing and calming as it always is.

I am pleased with the work I got done on the book, and the character’s voice is starting to come to me a lot easier and a lot faster than it has for a very long time. We’ll take that as a good sign, won’t we?

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I will be back again tomorrow morning.

Sexy Angus O’Brien, one of the breakout stars from last summer’s Boots

Big Life

Sunday and the morning after the holiday; all is well and peaceful this morning in the Lost Apartment. I had stuff delivered yesterday, so I didn’t have to leave the house (I am getting a bit spoiled by all this delivery service, but it’s wonderful and I am not going to stop using it). I ordered everything in the morning and it was here by twelve! Ah, modern convenience. Something good that came out of the pandemic that future generations will thank us for. Who knew that horrible time had a positive impact in some ways? It made for a lovely start to the day, really. Sparky wanted me up early yesterday and rather than resisting his entreaties, I got up and started my day, which was cool. I did some filing and organizing, and I also finished and published a holiday newsletter yesterday, about the 4th of July and remembering back to the bicentennial in 1976, which was very different from what we saw yesterday and what we saw in the time leading up to yesterday. Everything he touches dies, doesn’t it?

Going outside to get the deliveries or take out trash/recycling wasn’t terrible. I may be acclimating to this summer, which might not be a terrible thing. Oh, I’ll still bitch and moan and whine and sweat and feel the humidity sucking my soul out of my body like always, but…you do get used to it. You’re aware of it, of course, there’s no escaping any of that unless you’re inside the blessed cool, but your subconscious is aware that it’s not going to kill you even if it feels as though it might.

I wasn’t able to read any yesterday morning, alas. By the time I got everything ordered and delivered, and had done some of my chores it was past noon. Paul was up and watching Wimbledon, so I broke out the laptop and did some writing on it in the living room, which was nice. There was some good energy in the apartment yesterday. I felt really good and content. I also have some things to order for delivery today, too, which I also hope to take care of this morning. I polished a newsletter that has been sitting in my drafts since late May and will probably get it sent out tomorrow morning (I’ve done two in two days already this weekend, and I am aware it could quite easily be overkill). I also started two more, about more serious subjects, that I hope to get done this month. I need to finish Lev’s book so I can write about that, too. There’s literally no end, is there? There’s also the Half Man one I need to write…where’s my to-do notebook?

I also wrote about a thousand or so words of fiction yesterday, which felt good and was absolutely marvelous. We finished The Big Conn and hey, at least he felt remorse and bad for the victims, which is more than SSA did. WE started watching Sugar which we are loving Colin Farrell yum, love the stylizations and the occasional dips into classic Hollywood, and really like the character, too. Colin Farrell is perfect for this Ross Macdonald/Raymond Chander-style detective show; why has someone not tried filming a Lew Archer with him in it? You know what else I’d like to see? Alexander Skarsgaard playing Travis McGee. We also watched some of Wimbledon yesterday, and probably will watch some more of it this afternoon.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines for the day. Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Until then!


The Golden Band from Tigerland prepares to perform “Pregame” on the field. It’s the one with THE four notes that bring every fan to their feet.