Author: gregh121

I am a writer and editor who lives in New Orleans.

1999

So, I had to go to the DMV this morning to renew my driver’s license, which had expired on my birthday and I hadn’t realized it, like an idiot. The DMV is never a great experience, and yesterday was no exception to that rule. But I was able to finish reading Christopher Golden’s Ararat while I was there, which made the time pass much faster (I was there slightly less than two hours) and I did end up taking what had to be the worst driver’s license photo in history–at least my personal history of driver’s license photos. Insult to injury? My last one looked terrific. Heavy heaving sigh.

Even more insult to injury? It looks like me.

Ah, well.

You have to hate that. Anyway, I managed to finish reading Ararat, which was enjoyable, and this evening I started reading Margaret Millar’s Do Evil in Return, which is quite marvelous.

ararat

Just past eight o’clock on the last morning of November, the mountain began to shake.

Feyiz froze, breath catching in his throat as he put his hands out to steady himself, waiting for the tremor to end. Instead it worsened. His clients shouted at him in German, a language he did not speak. One of the men panicked and began to scream at the others as if the devil himself were burrowing up through the heart of the mountain to reach them. They stood on the summit, vivid blue sky rolling out forever before them, the frigid air crisp and pure. An idyllic morning on Mount Ararat, if the world had not begun to tear itself apart.

“Down!” Feyiz shouted. “Get down!”

He dropped his trekking poles and sank to his knees on the icy snowpack. Grabbing the pick that hung at his hip, he sank it into the ice and wondered if the six men and three women in this group could even hear him over the throaty roar of the rumbling mountain.

The Germans mimicked his actions.

I read an essay recently which discussed how, out of all the types of genres and subgenres in literature, that horror is the most faith-based of them all. It sounded absurd at first, but as I read the essay and thought about it more–and have, obviously, continued to think about it–that premise is pretty spot-on. Not all horror is faith-based, of course; there’s nothing about faith in films like Halloween or any number of horror novels I could think of (The Other, for example); but so many of them actually are that it’s kind of fascinating; especially when you take into consideration the way religious groups generally condemn horror books and films. The Exorcist is deeply rooted in Catholicism; and to name two, neither The Omen nor Rosemary’s Baby could have been written without knowledge of the Christian Bible. Ghost stories are predicated on the idea that there is life after death; that the soul continues to live on and needs to move on to another plane–whether that be heaven or hell, those books rarely make the distinction. The existence of the supernatural in a lot of horror proves that faith, and religion, are real and true; and after all, isn’t religion itself supernatural? I have made the offensive (to Christians) joke about Easter being a celebration of a zombie; and if you can get past the faith and look at any religion and its rituals, you can see what I mean.

I blaspheme, of course. I am an apostate heretic who would have burned not so long ago in our history.

I’ve read Christopher Golden before; I greatly enjoyed his Dead Ringers, and have Snowblind in my TBR pile. This week I took his Ararat out of the pile to read, and it again put me in mind of how so much horror fiction is dependent on religion for its existence. The opening scene quoted above, of an earthquake shaking Mount Ararat in Turkey, ends with a tremendous landslide, one which greatly changes the geography and the face of the mountain itself, long purported to be the final resting place of Noah’s Ark. The existence of the Ark, of course, would prove that the Bible is, at least in this instance, literally true (although Christianity is not the only belief system from the Middle East that tells of an ancient flood); there have been reports in the past that it has been found; but the likelihood of wood thousands of years old surviving is not great. But this landslide opens a new cave on the side of the mountain, high up; and soon the race is on to be the first to scale the mountain and see what’s inside the cave. The first section of the book has to do with one particular team racing to beat several other’s to the cave; risking their lives in the process. But the team–lead by adventurous couple David and Meryam, who explore and write books and make documentaries about their exploits–that arrives first soon discovers that the cave isn’t really a cave but the Ark itself…and there’s something else there that should have never been discovered.

To tell anymore would, of course, risk spoiling the story; there are so many twists and turns and scares and shocks that to give away anything more than is contained in the cover jacket blurb would be a disservice to future readers and to author Golden. But I couldn’t stop reading; resented having to put the book down, and was very satisfied when it was finished. Golden also includes diversity of characters in all of his books and does it casually; I also appreciate the fact that he chooses not to describe non-white characters in terms of food or drink–I could go the rest of my life without reading about “cinnamon” or “chocolate” or “cafe-au-lait” skin.

But just think about it for a moment–if the story of Noah is actually true, the flood changed the world and refreshed it; a reboot by God, as it were, and there are some verses in Genesis that show how different the original world was before it was cleansed–the one that readily comes to mind is There were giants in those days.

I look forward to reading more of Mr. Golden’s work.

 

One on One

Thursday morning, and there’re storms out there putting lots of people and property in jeopardy. Best wishes, everyone–best to batten down those hatches and get the hell out of Dodge. A New Orleans evacuation would be troubling–usually there’s the options of either going west to Houston or north. This time, obviously, the only option is to go north. I will, of course, be making certain that the car is filled with gas at all times now; I filled it up yesterday morning just to be on the safe side; New Orleans still was in the Cone of Uncertainty for Irma, but as the day went on the model shifted completely and we appear to be in the clear–for this one, at least. Jose is out there, though, behind Irma, and Katia may be forming along the Mexican Coast near the Yucatan. Oy.

I did manage to get Chapter Four of the Scotty finished, and started Chapter Five.  I’ve also input another chapter or so of edits into the WIP as well. Pretty cool. I’ve also had some ideas for some new short stories over the last couple of days, but as always Labor Day weekend has sort of disrupted my life and I need to get my bearings back a bit. I did manage to get the bills paid today, and I have to head over to the West Bank to get my driver’s license renewed tomorrow–YAY–and then I have to work Saturday for a few hours, which is fine. I don’t mind working Saturdays that much, as long as I’m home in time to watch the LSU game. (yes, it’s Tennessee-Chattanooga, but what kind of fan would I be if I didn’t watch their games? Although going to see It in the theater is kind of sounding good…)

It’s also very exciting that four American women are all that are left in the draw for the US Open: four American women in the semi-finals. This hasn’t happened since 2002, I think they said–back when the US women were the juggernaut of Venus Williams, Serena Williams, Lindsay Davenport, Jennifer Capriati, and Monica Seles. Venus’ first trip to the semi-finals was twenty years ago. Seriously, the Williams Sisters are without question two of the greatest women tennis players of all time; if not for her sister, Venus would probably have the record for most majors won. So, we are assured an American woman will win the US Open this year, which is very coo. We watched Juan Martin del Potro knock Roger Federer out of the tournament last night; his semi-final with Rafa Nadal should be a final, really.

I do love tennis.

I had a major breakthrough about the WIP this week; long overdue, but better late than never. I realized that my underlying theme wasn’t what I originally thought it was, but rather, something else. It means some more tweaking–but I was going to do some more anyway once these line edits are put in, but knowing what the theme is will  make the query letter writing ever so much easier. I also realized that the crime that’s driving the narrative isn’t necessarily what the story is about; which will make it a trickier sale. But I am very very pleased, and very very excited.

And now, off to the spice mines.

Your Throwback Thursday hunk today–ME! LOL. From a photoshoot I did back in 2004, looking rough and tough. 😉

usafolded

 

You Can’t Hurry Love

I read a lot this weekend! I did work on the writing a little bit, but not nearly as much as I could/should have. I finished reading the Highsmith, reread The Exorcist, and finally got to Ross MacDonald’s The Drowning Pool, which I read yesterday afternoon, and then last night while watching the US Open I started reading Christopher Golden’s Ararat (which is great fun so far; I’m a little less than halfway through and having a great time reading it).

It might interest you to know, Constant Reader, that I’d never read Ross MacDonald until I was on a panel somewhere with Christopher Rice, either in 2002or 2003, and Chris mentioned MacDonald as one of his favorite writers/greatest influences. I’d read John D. MacDonald and Gregory McDonald; but had somehow never gotten around to Ross. I knew of the Lew Archer series, of course, but had never read any of them, nor any of his standalones. Based on Chris’ recommendation, I started reading them, and never looked back–although I have been slowly doling them out, as there is a limited amount of them and no new ones coming anytime soon. I was a little surprised, after finishing The Exorcist, to pick up The Drowning Pool and realize it was one I hadn’t read.

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If you didn’t look at her face she was less than thirty, quick-bodied and slim as a girl. Her clothing drew attention to the fact: a tailored sharkskin suit and high heels that tensed her nylon-shadowed calves. But there was a pull of worry around her eyes and drawing at her mouth. The eyes were deep blue, with a sort of double vision. They saw you clearly, took you in completely, and at the same time looked beyond you. They had years to look back on, and more things to see in the years than a girl’s eyes had. About thirty-five, I thought, and still in the running.

She stood in the doorway without speaking long enough for me to think those things. Her teeth were nibbling the inside of her upper lip, and both of her hands were clutching her black suede bag at the level of her waist. I let the silence stretch out. She had knocked and I had opened the door. Undecided or not, she couldn’t expect me to lift her over the threshold. She was a big girl now, and she had come for a reason. Her stance was awkward with urgency.

“Mr. Archer?” she said at last.

“Yes. Will you come in?”

“Thank you, Forgive me for hanging back. It must make you feel like a dentist.”

“Everybody hates detectives and dentists. We hate them back.”

The Drowning Pool is hard-boiled, borderline noir (based on the fact that Archer works as a private eye), and can’t you imagine the above scene being played, in black-and-white by either Humphrey Bogart or Robert Mitchum, talking to either Gloria Grahame or Ida Lupino or Barbara Stanwyck? The story is simple: Archer is hired by the wealthy-seeming Mrs. Slocum to find out who has written her husband a poison-pen letter accusing her of adultery; back at the time the book was written, adultery was one of the few grounds for divorce recognized in every state. But as Archer begins to investigate, turns out Mrs. Slocum and her husband don’t have money; the money belongs to her mother-in-law, and she keeps them on a tight leash. Her estate is also sitting on a lot of oil, which she refuses to allow anyone to drill for, which would in turn make them even filthier rich. The elder Mrs. Slocum winds up dead in the swimming pool during a party, and soon the case begins twisting and turning left and right–and more bodies continue to pile up as Archer tries to get to the bottom of what is going on at the Slocum estate. It’s a great, fast read–and MacDonald’s grasp of language is extraordinary.

There’s a reason why MacDonald is up there with the greats of crime fiction.

There’s also an interesting subplot–almost a throwaway–about why the second Mrs. Slocum’s marriage is an abject failure. MacDonald doesn’t spend a lot of time on this, but it’s there for the queer reader to pick up on. It would be interesting to compare and contrast this book with MacDonald’s wife, Margaret Millar’s, Beast in View, released a few years later. There’s also an interesting comparison to be made between The Drowning Pool and James M. Cain’s Double Indemnity, in the character of Mrs. Slocum’s daughter Cathy, and the daughter in Cain’s book; also, an interesting comparison between this book could be made with Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon.

Maybe someday when I have more time.

 

Mickey

My wonderful book about the classic horror novels of the 1970’s thru the 1990s, Paperbacks from Hell, attributed the boom in horror fiction to three bestselling novels that set the stage: Thomas Tryon’s The Other, Ira Levin’s Rosemary’s Baby, and William Peter Blatty’s The Exorcist. I read all three of these books when I was in junior high school; the Tryon and the Levin remain two of my favorite novels, and I reread them periodically. But after reading The Exorcist one time, I’ve never felt the need to have a copy on hand, nor have I ever felt the desire to go back and reread it. It did occur to me sometime within the past few years that I should give it another go; my primary memory of the book is, of course, the crucifix masturbation scene which everyone in the seventh grade discussed in breathless whispers whenever someone new had read the book. I may not have ever owned a copy; I may have borrowed it from someone. There were any number of paperback copies floating around my junior high school, the binding bent and broken and covers battered as they were passed around from kid to kid. It also occurred to me that many of my memories of The Exorcist were not from the book, but from the incredibly disturbing film; it was a huge hit and was nominated for ten or eleven Oscars (winning maybe one or two). Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells,” used extensively in the score, was also hugely popular. (All three of the books were made into films; The Other the only whose film version wasn’t a success–but it’s hard to see how it could have been filmed successfully; although it would be really cool if someone tried it again.) So, Labor Day morning, I took down the copy of The Exorcist that I bought recently and read it again.

the exorcist

The Exorcist is undoubtedly an important work in the horror genre; it helped create a boom and directly resulted in a lot of really talented writers getting some great books published over the next thirty years or so. I had noticed, though, that not many people who write horror ever include it on those “Best Horror” lists, or list it as an influence. I read a book in the last year or so that was undoubtedly influenced by The Exorcist; Paul Tremblay’s A Head Full of Ghosts, which I really enjoyed and also put me in mind of a reread of Blatty’s blockbuster. The fact that Blatty is a homophobe made me a bit uncomfortable going back to the book–okay, he may not be a homophobe, but he certainly felt welcoming and admitting LGBT students at Georgetown University meant the school had betrayed its Jesuit heritage and should be stripped of its standing as a Jesuit university (you can read about that here: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/04/education/edlife/how-georgetown-became-a-gay-friendly-campus.html?mcubz=1).

So making millions of dollars about a child masturbating with a crucifix is kosher–I guess because, literally, the devil made her do it–but treating LGBT college students as human beings is a crime against Catholicism. Got it.

And to be fair to Mr. Blatty, I only vaguely remembered the above incident; and wasn’t 100% sure I was correct, so that didn’t play into my reread of the book (I didn’t go looking into it until this morning, while actually writing this entry).

Part of the issue with The Exorcist is that once you are aware of it, it’s really not that shocking anymore. This book was a shocker when it was first released; it was denounced far and wide as demonic–including by the Catholic Church (which is even more perplexing on the reread, because the book is very very Catholic), and the scares involved how shocking it was. I seem to recall Blatty based the book on an actual case of an exorcism from the early 1960’s, or perhaps the 1950’s–I don’t recall exactly. So, after forty-odd years the shocks and scares are no longer shocking or scary; my memory of the first read of the book is vague so I cannot remember if it was more pruriently shocking or if it was, indeed, scary to the twelve year old who read it all those years ago. But knowing the story, and what is coming, and knowing that the shock value has completely worn off in the intervening years, I was able to read it and evaluate it simply as a novel.

And it doesn’t, sadly, hold up very well.

I was torn about blogging about The Exorcist, because I generally don’t like to criticize other writers and other books publicly; but it’s an old book, and the author has made a fortune off it. There’s also the suspicion that knowing how homophobic the author is might have played into my disappointment in the reread, but let me give you some sentences:

Looking down at the pain in those sensitive eyes, Chris surrendered; couldn’t tell her what she really believed. Which was nothing.

In fact, Chris had smelled nothing, but had made up her mind she would temporize, at least until the appointment with the doctor. She was also preoccupied with a number of other concerns.

She seemed to be thinking, and still in this posture, she stepped outside and joined her son, who was waiting on the stoop.

Her eyes still on her notes, Sharon probed at the silence in a strained, low voice.

Chris looked at him appraisingly, with gratitude and even with hope.

There are lots more examples; weird analogies, and strange character behavior. It’s also really hard to tell who is the main character. Chris MacNeil, the mother, is a divorced atheist actress; her marriage failed, according to the book, because her husband couldn’t bear being Mr. Chris MacNeil; his wife’s success and fame was too much for his ego to handle, and Chris not only understands but doesn’t blame him. He is a neglectful father to Regan, which also doesn’t bother her too much. She is renting the house in Georgetown because she’s appearing in a movie being filmed there, a musical remake of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington which has an added subplot about campus unrest and protests (which sounds absolutely terrible) shoe-horned in; her main home is in LA. Yet once her role in the movie is finished, she stays in Georgetown inexplicably; Regan is being home-schooled by Chris’ secretary, who does double duty as Regan’s teacher–so there’s no reason for them to stay other than the fact that it’s necessary to the plot for her to remain in close proximity to Georgetown University’s campus. The filming is over before the possession truly gets going; so…

There are also some bizarre behaviors exhibited by Chris as well–she will have an encounter with her strangely acting daughter, be terribly upset, and then go downstairs and have a pleasant conversation with her housekeepers about the film they went to see. It becomes very difficult to have sympathy for her, because she isn’t really fleshed out as a character. The book is also told from an omniscient point of view, so the reader has a very hard time engaging with the characters or feeling deep sympathy for them; certainly it’s hard to identify with any of them. Sharon, the secretary, is a complete cipher; as are the Swiss couple who work as housekeepers. Burke Demmings, the director of the film and a friend of Chris’, is a vicious and cruel drunk who openly mocks her servants; which she just dismisses as “oh, that’s just Burke.”

Because her housekeepers aren’t people who should at least be treated with a modicum of respect as human beings?

The police detective who becomes involved in the case–Burke ends up dead at the foot of the steep staircase down to M Street behind the house–is incredibly annoying; he never gets to the point and dances around the subject and is one of the most unbelievable cops I’ve ever encountered in fiction; he seems a bit like Columbo, but at least the viewer knew that Columbo was actually incredibly smart and that was his method. You never get that sense with Detective Wilderman; he’s just annoying.

Father Karras is by far the most likable and interesting character in the book; and I suppose the reason it’s called The Exorcist. Damien Karras (it’s funny; at the time the book was published the name was unusual but interesting; of course The Omen has forever altered the perception of that name) is having a crisis of faith; his own homosexuality is hinted at but subtextually; his ‘friendship’ with Father Dyer is hinted at, they have a lightly teasing homoerotic kind of friendship but it’s never really gotten into; although one of the insults the demon throws at Karras is an accusation of homosexuality, which rattles him. There’s also a scene where Father Dyer mentions that ‘the gays are leaving the priesthood in droves.’

But the underlying premise, and theme that drives the book, is that Catholicism is real, the one true Faith; even though the demon is apparently an old Babylonian god named Puzuzu–who predates Catholicism and Jesus–the power and faith can defeat him. The ultimate sacrifice of Father Karras in taking in the demon and then killing himself–what happened to the demon? What happened to his soul? Does he redeem himself with this act?

Father Karras was interesting to me (he is constantly described, not just in the text but by characters, as ‘looking like a boxer’–whatever that means: “they told me you looked like a boxer”.) as a character, and I would have loved to have seen the entire story through his eyes; the loss of faith, his struggle with choosing the church over his mother; the relationship with Father Dyer; his doubt that Regan is actually possessed and the slow dawning that demons, and therefore, his faith, are real; and why he would make that ultimate, final sacrifice.

I’m glad I reread the book, even though it was kind of disappointing. I greatly enjoyed the television series, which was recently renewed for a second season (yay!), and it is an important book in the genre; no matter what quibbles I have with it, its importance cannot be denied, and I think horror aficionados should read it.

The Safety Dance

Labor Day.

Paul and I went out for a while yesterday–the first time we’ve “done” Southern Decadence in years–because it was one of my co-worker’s birthdays and we ended up staying out WAY later than I’d thought we would. I was a little sick at first–I took a Claritin-D before leaving the house and then drank a beer on top of it and felt really nauseous and had to sit down for about an hour, but it was entertaining seeing the passing spectacle and then meeting my co-workers later. I’d never actually spent time at the 700 Club; a gay bar that opened in the twilight of the going out portion of my life. It’s a nice bar, if small, and of course they were playing some fun music–you can never go wrong with either classic Madonna or Gladys Knight & The Pips–and it was nice. I enjoyed myself tremendously, but also don’t feel the need to go out again anytime soon. It was…different, I suppose, in a way that I can’t truly explain. I guess the easiest way to say it is that I’m in a different place now, if that makes sense. There’s probably an essay in this; one that right now is amorphous and ethereal, dancing just outside my conscious self and perhaps will come to me so that I can write it down.

But for now, it just is, and I can leave it as I had a lovely time, and I am quite fond of my co-workers, and it was lovely to spend time with them outside the confines of the office and work.

Before we went out yesterday, I spent the morning finishing reading Patricia Highsmith’s The Cry of the Owl.

the cry of the owl

Robert worked nearly an hour after quitting time at five. He had nothing to hurry home for and by staying on at his desk he avoided the chaos of employees’ cars that left the Langley Aeronautics parking lot between five and five-thirty. Jack Nielson was also working late, Robert noticed, and so was old Benson, who was usually the last. Robert turned off his fluorescent lamp.

“Wait for me,” Jack said. His voice sounded hollow across the empty drafting room.

Robert got his coat from his locker.

They said good night to Benson and walked toward the long, glass-enclosed reception hall, where the elevators were.

“So, you got your space shoes,” Robert said.

“Um-m.” Jack looked down at his big feet.

“You didn’t have them on at lunch, did you?”

“No, they were in my locker. You’re not supposed to wear them more than a couple of hours a day at first.”

They got into the automatic elevator.

“They look fine,” Robert said.

Jack laughed. “They look awful, but boy, they’re comfortable, I had something to ask you. Could you possibly loan me ten bucks till payday? Today happens to be–“

“Oh, sure.” Robert reached for his wallet.

“It’s Betty’s and my wedding anniversary and we’re going out to dinner, but could you come by for a drink with us? We’re going to open a bottle of champagne.”

Robert gave him the ten. “Wedding anniversaries–You and Betty out to be by yourselves.”

“Oh, come on. Just for a glass of champagne. I told Betty I’d try to get you to come over.”

“No, thanks, Jack. You’re sure that’s all you need if you’re going out to dinner?”

The book opens with this innocuous conversation between two co-workers who are friendly, but not close. Robert, as you can see, comes across as considerate and thoughtful, if a little bit unemotional. But Robert has another reason for not wanting to intrude on Jack and Betty’s wedding anniversary besides simple courtesy; he has become a bit obsessed with a young girl named Jenny, who lives in a small house out in the country. Robert is in the midst of a divorce, and has had problems with depression in the past; observing Jenny through her kitchen windows–doing dishes, making food, the little domestic chores every woman does in her kitchen–has a calming effect on him. He’s what used to be called, at least during the time the book was written, a ‘peeping Tom’; what would be called a stalker today. Jenny has a boyfriend named Greg; sometimes Robert watches the two of them interact in her kitchen. Robert knows what he’s doing is wrong, yet he is compelled to go there and risk exposure. Several times Jenny and Greg hear him make a slight noise, which concerns and worries them; but he never is caught until one night when Jenny, alone, catches him–and invites him in.

Before long, Robert is enmeshed in the troubled relationship between Jenny and Greg, as well as trying to get his own divorce from his wife settled–a wife who becomes more and more horrific as the novel continues. In fact, in a typical Highsmith switch, Robert–first seen as mentally troubled and damaged, might be the most sane person in the story. Jenny’s growing attachment to him, along with her obsession with death (a younger brother died as a child of meningitis), the equally troubled relationship with her violently dangerous fiance, Greg–continues to build in typical Highsmith fashion, using one of her favorite themes–the besieged innocent whom no one quite believes.

The book is also incredibly dark; Highsmith’s pessimism about her fellow human beings is evident on nearly every page. It’s quite wonderful, yet quite disturbing at the same time. It’s been filmed twice; one in the 1960’s, a French film (many of her works were made into French films) and an American version from 2010, with Julia Stiles.

I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve read of hers; I look forward to reading still more.

And on that note, I’d like to get some writing done today. Have a lovely Labor Day, Constant Reader!

Time (Clock of the Heart)

Good morning! ‘Tis Sunday in the Lost Apartment, and Paul is still asleep. I’m on my second cup of coffee, and my back is a little sore. I’m also dehydrated; which means I’m going to have to guzzle down water at some point–probably when I’m finished with coffee for the day. We’re supposed to meet some friends down in the Quarter later on this afternoon; so hydration is going to be key.

We went to the LSU-BYU game last night in the Superdome, relocated from Texas because, well, in case you aren’t aware of it, there’s been a major flooding issue in Houston thanks to that rat-bastard Hurricane Harvey. It was the first time we’ve been to an LSU game outside of Tiger Stadium, which also felt kind of weird; it was also weird to go to an LSU game we could have to and from. The game wasn’t sold out; the tickets only went on sale Wednesday and of course, being Labor Day people probably already had made plans, weren’t planning on going to Houston for the game. Still, there were about 53,000 people or so in the Dome–which gets really loud–and I’d say probably about 90% of the people in attendance were LSU fans. (Reading a write-up on the game from the Salt Lake newspaper this morning, I laughed when the reporter said Apparently there’s a side split canyon to Death Valley in New Orleans.  So, while the crowd was partisan Tiger fans primarily it still wasn’t a home game and that seemed weird when you’re used to Tiger Stadium. They also had the Dome at an arctic climate so I was cold, and by the fourth quarter I had goosebumps from the cold that wouldn’t go away. All the reports I read of the game was that it was a dominating performance by LSU, and it kind of was; the defense smothered the Cougar offense which never crossed the fifty yard line, and limited them to maybe four or five, at most, first downs. They also got an amazing interception that was just beautifully played. The LSU offense was…well, it got the job done but wasn’t particularly exciting other than a long pass from Danny Etling that set up the second LSU touchdown in the second quarter after the interception. (LSU scored two touchdowns quickly; after an initial drive, they kicked off and on BYU’s first play after that came the interception.) But we also missed a field goal, and didn’t make a 4th and 1 from the one-yard line.

I’m not sure how confident I am that this is going to be a great season. But it’ll be fun to watch–it always is–and there were some terrific plays in the game last night. Afterward Paul and I walked home from the Superdome. We got home shortly after midnight, and I read for a while before going to bed.

This morning, I’m going to relax and rest and gird my loiB57D1D19-BE70-4E9F-BAC5-D5AF8D7314C6s for going down to the Quarter. I still have tomorrow off–my back is a little sore from doing Outreach last night and the walking last night–so hopefully tomorrow I can sleep in, get some good rest, let my back stop hurting, and get some writing down. I’ll probably try to get Chapter 4 finished today, and maybe even start Chapter 5. We shall see.

And here’s a nice shot of the Tiger band from last night.

 

(Keep Feeling) Fascination

Saturday! Tonight is the LSU-BYU game at the Superdome, and I am so excited I can hardly wait for the kick-off at eight thirty tonight!

I am exhausted this morning from four hours of condom distribution in the Quarter last night for Decadence. Our team gave away 2500 condom packs last night, and a good (if exhausting) time was had by all. This morning every muscle and joint in my body aches, and my lower back is sore. I need to go get groceries this morning, and tonight’s game isn’t until eight thirty, so I have all day to do some writing, input some line edits, watch some football games on television, and clean. The Lost Apartment is, as always, a pigsty. I have a lot of filing to do, and I want to do the floors. Paul and I have committed to celebrating a co-worker’s birthday tomorrow in the Quarter–oh dear–so there’s that. If I am not too tired at some point this weekend, I may even do the windows.

Yeah, living large, right?

I also found out yesterday that the reason my car insurance has been so expensive is because I was paying for two cars. Yes, they never took the Buick off the policy after I traded it in for the new Honda. Lovely. Somehow, I managed to not completely lose my shit on the agent I spoke to on the phone yesterday (it wasn’t her fault, after all; something to remember when you’re frustrated with the service from a company–there’s no point in taking your frustrations out on the person helping you solve the problem because they didn’t create it). I also realized, while talking to her, that hey, didn’t my driver’s license expire on my birthday this year? I fetched my wallet and yes, I was right about that. Great. So Tuesday, when I have a late night, I get to spend the morning at the DMV. Hurray. I scheduled myself late so I could write that morning. Heavy heaving sigh.

I really have been undisciplined. I need to stop that right now.

And on that note, I’m going to get back to the spice mines right now.

Here’s a Saturday hunk for you, Gerard Butler from 300:

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Sexual Healing

Friday, the cusp of a three day weekend. Southern Decadence gets into full swing today, and I shall be out on condom duty with my wonderful and young co-workers, standing at the corner of St. Ann and Bourbon. I shall be taking lots of photos of the crowd; it’s always kind of a fun time, if a bit exhausting to stand that long in the heat without the benefit of alcoholic beverages. It’s hard to believe this is my (sigh) twenty-second Southern Decadence. Yikes.

Southern Decadence was one of my favorite times of the year; I still enjoy it, but not quite to the extent that I used to, of course; being older and wiser in theory, the truth simply being that my body cannot bear the wear and tear of a Southern Decadence the way it used to. There are few things my body can handle the wear and tear of these days. But I don’t mind it, please don’t think that I am pining for my past, misspent youth (or middle age, really). I even wrote a novel about Southern Decadence, my second one to see print, and the one that introduced Scotty Bradley to the world: Bourbon Street Blues. It’s so weird to me to still be writing about Scotty, all these years later. But I did get some work done on Chapter Four yesterday; it’s still not completed, but it’s getting there. I hate writing transitional chapters, but at least this time I was able to use this chapter to find, once again, his voice. I always worry that, as I get older, I will lose the ability to find Scotty’s voice inside my cluttered, scattered brain; and yet there it was again these last two mornings, spilling out of me and making me smile. I love the character very much, you see, and I never really want to let go of him or say goodbye to him. He’s not the same sweet, fun-loving rascal that he was when I first dreamed him sixteen years ago and started writing about him; he’s older, he has to be a little more cautious about what he eats, he aches a lot more than he ever did before and his body takes more time to bounce back. But he’s in a good place, he doesn’t resist getting older, and he doesn’t miss being younger. Scotty still sees life as an adventure, and always looks forward to what’s going to happen next.

He’s just so much fun to write about, you know?

It’s hard to believe there are so many books with him now–Bourbon Street Blues, Jackson Square Jazz, Mardi Gras Mambo, Vieux Carre Voodoo, Who Dat Whodunnit, Baton Rouge Bingo, and Garden District Gothic. I am writing the eighth Scotty now; I would have never believed back in 2001 when I was writing the first one that I’d be writing an eighth one all these years later; I certainly never thought this series would last longer than the Chanse series. Scotty’s world is much richer and more vibrant than it was when I first wrote about him; we’ve gotten to know him and his family on both sides; he has a nephew-in-law now that he cares about very deeply; and he’s a richer character from everything he’s been through–but he doesn’t regret anything. Everything he’s experienced, good or bad, has brought him to where he is now and who he is now, and he’s happy with his life so he doesn’t regret anything.

And that’s kind of a lovely thing, you know?

And since we’re on the subject, before I head back into the spice mines, here’s who I currently think would be perfect to play Scotty, True Blood star Ryan Kwanten, and how delightful that I was able to find a picture of him wearing pretty much what Scotty was wearing in the opening scene of Vieux Carre Voodoo:

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And here’s an excerpt from Chapter One of Bourbon Street Blues:

In the summer, the French Quarter reeks of sour beer, vomit, and piss. At seven ever morning, the hoses come out and the vomit and spilt liquor and piss is washed down off the sidewalks. By eight, Bourbon Street stinks of pine cleaner, a heavy, oily scent that cloys and hangs in the air. It hit me full force when I slipped out of the front door of the Bourbon Orleans hotel at eight-thirty in the morning. The bellman on duty winked at me. I shrugged and grinned back. I wasn’t the first non-guest to slip out of the Bourbon Orleans that morning, and I wouldn’t be the last that weekend.

It was Southern Decadence, after all. Urban legend holds that Southern Decadence began in the 1980’s as a bar-crawl-type party a group of gay guys had for a friend who was moving away. They had so much fun, they did it again the next year. Each year it grew and grew until it became a national event, drawing gay men from as far away as Sweden and Australia. As opposed to other circuit events, for years there was no big dance party. It was just a big block party held in what we locals called the Fruit Loop, a five-bar, four-block stretch that runs from Rawhide to Good Friends to Oz and the Pub to Café Lafitte’s in Exile. All the bars have balconies except for Rawhide, and of course you can always take your drink with you.

The gay boys had started arriving yesterday afternoon, with the big crush coming in today, Friday. Labor Day weekend. The end of summer, when the locals can begin to breathe a little easier. The mind-numbing heat will break in the next few weeks, and what passes for our fall season will begin. Sunny days with no humidity and the mercury hovering in the seventies and low eighties. In New Orleans, we turn off the air-conditioning when the temperatures drop into the low eighties and open the windows.

I headed for the corner of Orleans and Bourbon. My stomach was growling. The Clover Grill was just a few blocks up Bourbon, and one of their breakfasts was sounding damned good to my slightly swollen head. There’s nothing like scrambled eggs and greasy full-fat bacon to make you lose your hangover. The food at the Clover Grill is one of the best hangover cures in town. I shifted my gym bag to my other shoulder.

The bars at the corner of St. Ann and Bourbon still had patrons. It was probably too early for new arrivals from out of town, so these were the holdouts from the night before, who still hadn’t grasped the fact that the bars don’t close. Tourists always have trouble pacing themselves in New Orleans. Bars that have no last call is an alien concept to most. The bars had been packed with tourists who had come in early for the weekend, the liquor had flowed freely, and there were very likely a lot of drugs to be had. Today the bars would be packed again, almost impossible to navigate through. I waved at Abel, the morning bartender at the Pub.

I was dancing at the Pub this weekend for extra cash. One of the porn stars, Rock Hard, who was supposed to dance this weekend, had overdosed on crystal meth on Wednesday. Condition stable—but no condition to dance. Randy Westfall, the manager, had called me on Thursday afternoon to fill in. It was very good timing. I was behind on some bills. It probably wasn’t very good karma to be happy that Rock Hard had overdosed, but I reasoned that it was probably a good thing. Perhaps the overdose would wake him up to the fact he had a substance-abuse problem, and he would now get some help for it. The summer’s heat is always a bitch on my personal training business, but this one had been particularly bad. It had been hotter than usual, which is a staggering thought. Everyone who could afford a trainer had left town. Those who didn’t leave didn’t want to sweat any more than they already were. Can’t say that I blame them—except when the second notices from my utilities start arriving.

Happy Labor Day weekend, everyone!

Puttin’ on the Ritz

Sunshine and blue skies out there this morning, which is lovely, particularly since we are on the eve of Southern Decadence. Revellers will, of course, begin to arrive today, building to peak gayness on Friday night. I will be out on the corner at St. Ann and Bourbon tomorrow from 430-9 pm, passing out condom packs (four condoms, free lube!) with my co-workers. If you’re around, come say hey. It will be hot and humid, of course, but it’s always fun to stand out there and watch the crowd while trying to convince people to have safer sex.

The LSU-BYU tickets went on sale yesterday for the game relocated to the Superdome this Saturday night, and yes, I did set my phone alarm for 4 (when tickets went on sale to the general public) so I could get us tickets. And I was successful! Woo-hoo! It’s going to be so much fun; LSU playing a name opponent in the Dome; the season opener, and we can walk. Yes, I am in walking distance of the Superdome–although we’ll most likely take the streetcar and get off at the Girod Street stop. I am so excited! And I can’t believe it’s football season again already. August certainly flew right past, didn’t it? I’m not sure how good LSU will be this year–first full season under a new coach, lots of starters gone to graduation–but LSU football is always fun to watch.

I also got some great work done on Scotty yesterday. It started flowing, and I think I’ve found his voice again–it usually takes me a couple of chapters on a new Scotty to get there–and seriously, opening Chapter Four with this sentence: There really is no family bonding experience like rolling up a dead body in a carpet made me laugh out loud as I wrote it (it just sprang into my head) and then the next few paragraphs literally just flew out from my fingers. Chapter Four is a transitional chapter, which I hope to get finished today (those always take longer to write) but after coming up with that opening for the chapter, the rest should be relatively easy–because once I came up with that sentence, the rest of the chapter opened up in my mind, and I figured out how to flow Chapter Four into Chapter Five.

Huzzah!

So, I am now going to head back into the spice mines on this fine day before I head into the office.

Here’s your Throwback Thursday hunk, actor Glenn Corbett, from his early physique model days.

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Der Kommissar

Yesterday was, for want of a better word, odd.

Driving to work the city was a ghost town. Driving home from work, the same. This morning the sun is shining (we did have thunderstorms during the night) and while everything outside is wet and dripping, according to the forecast we have about a three hour window of heavy thunderstorms this afternoon. We might flood during that time, but when I drove home last night there wasn’t much standing water anywhere, other than around Coliseum Square, the lowest part of the neighborhood and where all our water seems to drain.

I woke up after a good night’s sleep to see that wretched Harvey has come ashore again, battering and flooding yet more of Texas–Beaumont and Port Arthur; I’ve not researched enough yet to see how things are around the Texas-Louisiana state line. It’s almost too much; I’m not having Katrina PTSD, thank God, as so many others here seem to be suffering; but I just keep donating what I can and sharing links to places where donations can be made.

Human suffering on such a large scale in our country is horrific; it’s occurring on an even larger scale in Bangladesh right now as well.

I haven’t written on the new book, or worked on inputting the line edit, as much as I should have these past few days; I know I need to focus and get on with it, but it’s difficult to not watch the Weather Channel or the news.

I did start reading Patricia Highsmith’s The Cry of the Owl last night, it’s quite good and melancholic, which kind of suits the mood I am currently in. I also reread some history last night (Leckie’s The Wars of America, one of my favorite comfort rereads) while watching the news.

Tickets for this Saturday’s LSU game go on sale to the general public today at 4; I am going to try to score some tickets for us.

And on that note, it’s back to the spice mines. Here’s a hunk for you, John Cena:

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