Wednesday Pay-the-Bills day (yay) but we’ve also made it halfway through the week, which is terrific. Paul worked late with meetings and things last night, so I was by myself at home last night. I was tired when I got home from work, so I did some things and then crashed in my chair with Sparky sleeping in my lap (which I always love). I got caught up on the shit-show that is the news–and even did some writing. Not much, but it was good writing. It wasn’t work on the book, either; I worked on a short story that I had thought through while I was in Kentucky, and I like how it’s developing. Slow going, but it was some work, and I was rather pleased to dip my toe back into the waters. I wound up going to bed an hour earlier than usual–why stay up when you’re dozing off?–and I am up even earlier than I usually am. I have some errands to do tonight after work, and then I’m coming home to hang with Sparky and finish some of these chores. It is rather endless, isn’t it? The treadmill of life we’re all on?
It felt good to be writing again and I am hoping that means I’ll get even more writing done today. Hope always does spring eternal, and all that. I need to get a to-do list made (I still haven’t done this, and so have been flying by the seat of my pants, which sounds more fun than it actually is), and I definitely need to make one for the time that Paul is gone. I am going to probably go so far as to even move furniture with my cleaning. Essentially, there are four rooms in the apartment; kitchen, bedroom, living room, and the two bathrooms. So, if over the holiday next week I pick a room a day to work on, I can get the apartment back under control again.
Writing has always been my solace, and I think not doing it always affects my mood and my outlook on life. I don’t know what the future holds for any of us, and I don’t know what’s going to happen with queer lit going forward (the pornography label threat is very real, and it’s happened to me before; and certainly independent booksellers don’t carry or hand-sell my books, so who knows how long I’ll even have an outlet for my work? I guess I could do what everyone’s always told me to do–write about straight people, which is probably something I should have started doing over twenty years ago. But is there a need for books about straight people by one Gregalicious? Aren’t there already tons of them out there? The short story I am working on is about a straight woman, which should increase its chances for being sold. I suppose I’ll try the usual suspects, like I always do, and then let it sit in my files, moldering as I wait for a place that might actually want it. Although…I can definitely do a collection myself. You see why I need a to-do list? I also want to finish my “Are You Man Enough?” essay about masculinity and its traps for my Substack. I’d like to do an essay there per week–and of course, I can always publish short stories on Substack, too. Interesting thought…hmmm. It might not be a bad idea.
I do think I am making strides in conquering my Imposter Syndrome. Probably not enough to make me strap on my big boy pants and go looking for an agent again, but you never know. The worst thing any of them could do is say no–although now it seems like they just ghost you and not reply if they aren’t interested; the last time I tried I got no responses from any of the agents I queried, which was fine. I also think it’s unprofessional–it’s not going to kill you to have a rejection template and spend an hour once a week sending them so people know, but then the entire world has changed significantly since I started in this business so long ago (I just realized that I am coming up on thirty years of being paid to write; I started writing for the queer paper in Minneapolis in 1996) and maybe I’m thinking back to how things were in another time, the way all old people do, and of course thinking those times might have been better. The dangers of nostalgia I always warn about, how things seemed better at some time in the distant past when really, it’s just because you were younger then and had a less complicated, easier life. Nostalgia for high school is really just nostalgia for a time when all the worries of adulthood were still in the future, and frankly, my public education experiences were all terrible so I’ve never had to worry about doing that. I do not miss high school, and never will.
And on that hopeful note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, and I may be back later. You never know.
Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment and I don’t have to leave the house today if I choose that option. I did take the car in for the oil change (only to discover the car needs about another $1500 in maintenance–it is almost eight years old. The battery needs replacing, I need new tires, etc. etc.etc. Woo-hoo for more debt! I’ll take it back when I figure out how to pay for the rest), and then made groceries on the way home, which I’d originally planned to do this morning. Instead, I am going to stay here, maybe run to the gym a little later, and get some work done. I am going to write today if it kills me–I’ve not written any fiction since before I went to Kentucky, and that needs to stop–and I want to spend a few hours reading this morning, too. I am behind on writing, I am behind on reading, and definitely behind on cleaning the house. It’s been a time since the election, hasn’t it?
This blog is approaching it’s twentieth birthday; yes, I’ve been doing this since December of 2004, only I started on Livejournal, where I stayed for the first twelve years or so before finally ditching the site because of many reasons. I stayed longer than most people; I even got teased originally for still being on the site, which had become déclassé; I still use my AOL email address, too, for that matter–which often is the subject of occasional mockery there, too. I hate gmail, and AOL works for me, so I still use it. Anyway, while I was in Kentucky I realized/remembered, on election night, how old this blog is and how long I’ve been doing it–and how and why it first started. I started reflecting on that, and thinking about it, and when I started censoring the content on it to make it more palatable and less offensive to the people I thought might be reading it. I started writing the blog in the wake of what happened to Paul in the spring of 2004, which derailed everything in my life and started what I call the Time of Troubles. Over the course of more than a year–spanning from Memorial Day through August of 2005–it was literally one blow after another. Paul spent two weeks in the hospital after that Memorial Day, and my primary focus in life became taking care of him, and making sure he was okay. I postponed finishing Mardi Gras Mambo for over a year, and was too damaged and laser-focused on dealing with the aftermath and being there for him that I stopped writing entirely.
People were very kind to me during that time, to us both, actually, and extended book deadlines and so forth were enormously helpful. Paul and I didn’t really venture out much from our cocoon, other than going to work and the gym (me) and running errands. Paul focused on his job, and I focused mostly on my editorial work as I couldn’t write fiction. I wasn’t really in a place to write a funny Scotty book, and by December of that year I was already getting to the point where I was worried if I could continue writing. I had dinner and drinks with a writer friend in early December who actually had a great blog that I read every morning, and he recommended that I try writing a blog, just writing the things that I was thinking about or experiencing, to get back into the habit of writing every day. I scoffed, “who would ever read such a thing?” and he replied, “You’re not doing it for other people, you’re doing it for yourself” and that kind of became the blog mantra: it’s really just for me, to talk about things that are going on, my perspective on things no one would ever pay me to write about or have an opinion on but did want to write about and have an opinion on. It was kind of a diary for me at first, and I wrote about things I was interested in–like figure skating and football and New Orleans life–and it was something I enjoyed. I was really getting into the swing of it when the next “trouble” came along–what I call the “Virginia thing.” And of course, later that year, we had Hurricane Katrina, and I blogged about my anger; how cruel people could be (Republicans, it’s always Republicans) and I was defiant. We’d just gone through an election earlier that year in which the Republicans’ entire campaign centered the evils of same-sex marriage, with all the expected homophobia and cruelty they’ve perfected. (This is who they’ve always been, and the cruelty is nothing new.)
I started dialing back on talking about politics and homophobia and the world a lot after I started working full-time for a non-profit, and started volunteering and serving on others having to do with writers’ groups. I didn’t want anything I said to affect negatively on either where I was working or any place I was volunteering; the rules on what we could do or say or talk about at work were very strict, and while we were always allowed to have personal lives and opinions, I thought why take the chance? It‘s an HIV/AIDS non-profit, and we’re in Louisiana, and it won’t take much to set off some evangelical idiot outside of New Orleans and make them target our funding or our non-profit status so I stopped. I’m a gay man; everyone should know what my politics and values are and what political party comes closest to working for the world I want to live in.
But when I was in Kentucky, I started thinking about these things again. I no longer do volunteer work for writers’ organizations and/or events. My day job is no longer a red flag to Louisiana conservatives–we’re no longer the NO/AID Task Force, and we have an even more innocuous name now that sets off no alarms. We also no longer merely focus on gay men; we are open to everyone up on the third floor (my department primarily still works with my community–people at risk for HIV infection) and so I don’t think I need to concern myself about doing or saying anything that might trigger the Louisiana Fascist Party. I’m free to be myself again on here, and I am very opinionated. I know my blog and Substack have picked up a lot of new readers since I ran out of fucks. I don’t know if I am actually making people think, or if people are coming here to watch what they think is me having a very public mental breakdown so they can point and laugh. I’m not, for the record. I’m not even angry or hurt. I’m just fed up, and tired of letting people get away with this shit. You’re either an ally or not, but I don’t think most people know what that actually means. And when you make it clear to me that you’re not, that you actually think people like me are gross or repulsive or whatever demeaning default your privilege allows you to fall back on–why on earth would you think I like you and want to be around you? Someone dares to call out the entire community, so he’s clearly having some sort of mental break? Yeah, that’s it. That puts it on me so y’all can sleep better at night, right? Whatever.
And yes, I know when I write about these things I write passionately and emotionally. The hurt has long ago passed–I dealt with those feelings when the things actually happened, you know1? Sure, my anger and hurt comes out when I do, because I am reliving the experience in order to write it about it properly. If I wrote about it when it happened, it would be even more raw and painful and expletive filled than what you’ve been reading this past week. This is me, after the fact, recounting horrible experiences far more calmly now than I might have at the time. Think about it–this is me being calm and rational about being demeaned and dehumanized.
I also do want to thank everyone for not gaslighting me this past week, either–for not pulling some “#notallstraightmen #notallstraightwhitewomen” shit on me. I spoke in generalities despite knowing that nothing is a monolith. There are some good straight people out there, and there are some amazing straight white women. I do have friends in this community, people I love and would take a bullet for. My friends, the people I actually really know and love and trust? I would do anything for, and they also knew I wasn’t talking about them. One of my most dogged, OCD-like tendencies is absolute devotion to the people I love. I will always come to their defense, I will not allow anyone to treat them badly, and I will fucking come for you if you make the mistake of coming for them. They also know who they are. That devotion over the years has worn out in some cases–but I always remember people who were kind to me, helped me in any way, or ever did something for me without being asked.
I’ve primarily written about all of this to begin with for two reasons: so people won’t ask me about going to conferences any more, and to let everyone know about my experience so you won’t allow people to pull this shit with the other queer crime writers. The fact this stuff still happens–look at how surprised people are at these revelations I’ve been making–in this day and age has me concerned for the queer crime writers. They are all feeling despondent, betrayed, and more than a little scared about what MAGA has up their sleeves for queer people and their art, and their futures. Christian Germany murdered twelve million people for being different, after all, and set the world on fire.
And you wonder why we are so concerned about people who hate us in the name of religion being in control here? We see good little Germans everywhere, the news media capitulated in advance, and it looks like the entire government is falling into lockstep. Nazis now feel empowered to go out in public with swastika flags in progressive cities. Nazis targeted Communists–what have Republicans been calling Democrats since the 1930’s? Communists. We also know straight people will abandon us to save themselves 999 times out of 1000. Sad, but true and even a little understandable. Who is willing to put themselves and their families in danger for strangers? Not many.
That’s why we ironically celebrate heroes who take stands against inhumanity. Because they are rare.
Paul walked to Walgreens for a prescription yesterday, and then had to go to the corner liquor store at Jackson Avenue for cigarettes. I’ve gone there myself for things like bread and milk when I didn’t feel like driving anywhere. It was a nice store, owned and operated by a Pakistani family. Always clean, neat, and organized; the family members who worked there always fell over themselves to be polite, friendly, and courteous. I generally don’t like to go into liquor stores in New Orleans for any number of reasons, so I don’t. You can literally buy liquor at gas stations here, and the grocery stores (which used to have bars in them here); pretty much anywhere that sells anything sells liquor so you don’t need to go to a liquor store here. When he got back, he said, “Have you noticed that since the election bro culture is back on the rise? Loud, obnoxious bros, everywhere. I guess the Pakistani family sold the liquor store, because there was a bro working there–and you know he’s not checking anyone’s IDs. I guess they sold the business and got out. I hope they got good money because that’s a prime location.”
GREG: I hope they sold the business. We don’t know that for sure, do we?
We just looked at each other grimly for a few moments.
Over dramatic? Maybe. I’d certainly like to think so, but as my mother used to say, “You can never go wrong imagining the worst.”
I don’t speak for my entire community; I certainly don’t speak for Paul. My experiences are my experiences, and no demographic is a monolith. There are MAGA queers, for example, and they are even worse than the inbred mouth-breathers we usually think of when we think MAGA–who clearly have a humiliation fetish. I always wonder if the Log Cabins shoot a load into their shorts every time they are barred from some Republican/conservative conclave, or if straight men start dripping when they make queer jokes. I will never cease laughing at the arrogance of straight men who think every gay man is out here trying to get into their pants.
Louder, for those in the back: just because straight women settle, doesn’t mean gay men will. There’s always a hotter gay man than any straight man I’ve ever seen. The reason you straight men go to the gym now and get in better shape than straight men ever have been before in history is entirely because of gay men. Calvin Klein did more for male body culture with his advertisements than Charles Atlas ever did with the cartoon ads in comic books–remember those? “Hey, you kicked sand in my face!”
Funny how Charles Atlas advertised getting big and strong as a way to stand up to bullies, isn’t it? Male insecurity and not being manly enough?
And there is the opening to my essay about being a man. Well done, blog!
I also want to give a shout out to the Crime Writers of Color, who have always been amazing and supportive of this tired old white queen. Kellye Garrett is a national treasure who should be protected at all costs. You fuck with her at your own peril, do you hear me?
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. I need to make a to-do list, and I need to write and read and do chores.
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And it doesn’t even hurt that much anymore in the moment, either. Ultimately, I am rarely surprised when those who should know better don’t. I do get caught off guard sometimes, but after the initial shock it’s more of a world-weary are you really surprised? ↩︎
Ugh, I have to make an unscheduled stop on the West Bank this morning to get my car serviced. I’d hoped to make it to next weekend (it was on that to-do list), but the little wrench light came on yesterday and I need to get the oil changed now. There’s other servicing it’s going to need to, but it’s going to have to wait. I had hoped to get some stuff done around here this morning instead of sitting in the waiting room of my car dealership, but it’s a good time for me to read some more of The Reformatory, which is superb, but is also challenging to me–and you really do need to read books that make you uncomfortable. Tananarive Due doesn’t let up, never takes her foot off the neck of white supremacy, and she shouldn’t, either. No one should, and because of the sobering realities of that time period, I know this book isn’t going to give me the kind of ending I want for these characters that I love–I’ve read enough of the facts about places like Raiford to know the kids at this fictional version will not make it out of there alive.
I’ve been avoiding the news successfully. The really funny thing about the legacy media is they still don’t get it. They rubbed their hands with glee and breathlessly reported every MAGA insult, lie or slander as actual news and actively worked to undermine and demoralize the Blue vote for ratings, but can’t seem to wrap their minds around the reality that they betrayed their country for clicks and viewers by rubbing Blue voters’ faces in lie after lie after lie. It’s in their best interests, you see, to give MAGA every last bit of oxygen they possibly could because it’s always driven their ratings up. They shivved Biden by playing into MAGA lies about his cognitive function and his abilities to do the job, even as he single-handedly overhauled the country and brought it back from the abyss that yes, MAGA once again parked it on the edge of, teetering–just like 2008. They brooked no opposition to the Afghan and Iraq eternal wars, even as most Americans knew the war hawks were lying like dogs to send our young people over there to die for really no reason. We were told we didn’t support the troops by opposing the war (the conservatives learned their lesson from Vietnam, didn’t they?), and opposing the war was spitting on the graves of the 9/11 victims. The Chicks’ career was completely canceled and never recovered (which is why I am always “miss me with your bitching about the cancel culture YOU invented”). They drove the economy into the ditch, and the housing crash of the later Bush II years was actually a result of Reagan economic policies, but let’s deify that senile old fuck, shall we?
As Winston Churchill once famously said, “You can always count on the Americans to do the right thing–after they’ve tried everything else.”
But…I don’t have to give the legacy media my money, my attention or my clicks. I will continue to support independent journalism, but in cowering before his attacks, the legacy media turned itself into exactly what he said they are–fake news–and have utterly failed the country at their Constitutionally-appointed mandate to critique and criticize any and everyone who puts the nation at risk. Just like I’m not giving my money and my time to books by unproven allies anymore. There are some straight men whose books I will continue to read–but that already very short list has become much, much shorter. I am a little annoyed about having to go over to the West Bank this morning, because I had planned on pruning books by people I will never read–hey they got my money already–and taking them to the library sale this morning, but I now have the week to weed out those offending books and get them off my shelves and my stacks before they infect the others with passive homophobia.
As I said yesterday, I’ve made some people uncomfortable this past week, and the old Greg might have held back…but I don’t care anymore. For queer people, this is what we have to deal with on a daily basis from practically everyone. People think I was joking over the years when I’d say things like “I am 100% team extinction event”. I wasn’t. People think I’m funny for some reason I’ve never completely understood, but I’ve leaned into it as protective coloring for most of my life–as long as people were laughing they weren’t hating–and people often think I am being funny when I am dead serious. Maybe it’s my delivery, maybe it’s the incredibly expressive face (I can always maintain a calm, cool exterior when someone is homophobic in front of me, but that was a survival instinct I picked up in public school; don’t react, don’t let then see how wounded you arebecause that’s what they want–so deny them their fun as much as possible, but other than that, I can’t hide how I’m feeling), but yes, people think I’m funny. Younger kids have always been drawn to me most of my life, and I do think it’s the face; I can make my meme face to them and they always giggle and laugh; I also don’t really know how to talk to kids so I just talk to them the way I do with everyone else–and they respond to that. I am never comfortable around people’s children because you never know when someone is going to decide that I’m a danger to their kids, as some women I know seem to think I’m a pedophile groomer because aren’t all queer men?
Ever been called a groomer or a pedophile or both by someone you know? It’s happened to me more than once. And then the people saying it are shocked that I’ve cut them off completely, which is even more astonishing to me. Um, you called me a child rapist. (Always straight white women, of course. Of course because you are even worse than your men because you should know better. Can we stop making excuses for conservative women? Melania is exactly where she wants to be; she is no victim. Do you make excuses for Eva Braun, too? Eva Peron? Imelda Marcos? Nancy Reagan?)
And you think that’s forgivable? I hope you enjoy every horror of our new administration because you deserve it.
I’m also kind of amused at how people also seem to think we don’t have interior lives, too–and are also writers. You just blithely assume that I am what I present to you, too–like I’m not recording every insult, every slight, and every last belittling remark? I’m a writer who used to work for an airline, where you were fucked if you didn’t document every little fucking thing. I started keeping a journal when I was a kid, where I recorded all my hopes and dreams as well as all my hatred and bad wishes to the 99% of kids who were bullies, or were complicit. I always carry a notebook with me, and I started using blank journals when I worked for the airline. I kept everything in my journals–phone numbers, to-do lists, airline computer shortcuts that don’t come up very often, and often between flights I would sit at an empty gate with a cup of coffee and write–in Continental Airlines green ink–in my journals what was going on in my life. I see offensive shit on line? Screen cap, for the “Receipts” folder. I keep every email filed away in my archive and can locate it with a simple email search. I’ve bookmarked offensive essays, blog posts, and websites, and I’ve also recorded those website addresses in a “bigot spreadsheet.”1
You’re not the only ones who put on a mask. It might do you some good to reflect on that thought, too–we all have brains, we all have ears, and we all have memories and cognitive thinking capabilities, and we have a lot more practice in protective coloring than you ever will. Does that make you uncomfortable? Good.
And I don’t care if things ever change for me. As I said, I am done with conferences and things like that. But I’m going to be watching, and listening. You come for my queer colleagues, you have to come through me–and you have no idea what a monster I can be when it comes to protecting people I care about. I’m used to being treated like dirt. But you come for this new generation of queer crime writers, or the ones that have come since I entered this hellhole of a white supremacist community?
Just remember, I’m watching.
And no one ever sees me coming.
yes, if you’re wondering if I’ve kept a shitty email you sent me, yes I do have it in case I need it–like when you want something from me. I never send said email back with a note for why on earth would you want my help/advice/etc when you’ve made it abundantly clear what you think of me? I just read it again before deleting your latest email. I am not required to respond to you, nor are you entitled to my time or effort. ↩︎
Work at home Friday! I have a doctor’s appointment later on today, and I may run some errands after that, but for the most part I am going to be here at home, hunkering down and doing my data entry and my quality assurance; tedious chores, to be sure–but much more bearable when done in the comfort of my own home wearing my sweats and Sparky sleeping on the desk between the keyboard and the computer. I also have chores to do when I need a break from the computer. It’s going to be easier from now on to stay away from social media, because it is definitely not good for my mental health. I have to stop wishing bad things on bad people, for one–the fact they flourish, to me, shows there is no God (which is easy to believe once you pay attention to the so-called “godly” here on this plane)–their soulless emptiness should be enough punishment for me.
Besides, I’m not the one who worships a jealous, vindictive God of wrath and punishment.
I guess my posts since I got home from Kentucky have upset some people–who saw themselves in them, and now I’m supposed to absolve them and relieve their guilty consciences. That isn’t going to happen. I’m tired of ignoring your thoughtless cruelty, and I’m not going to be the bigger person and let you off the hook so you can feel better about yourself. Everyone loves to talk the talk, and “oh Greg we love you you’re so smart and funny and kind and a joy to be around” and pat themselves on their backs about what good people they are, so inclusive! We’re not like those horrible people! But when that so-called friend basically called me a pedophile and a groomer (not me specifically; just all queer people shouldn’t be allowed around children) exactly two people on Twitter defended me. Two. Two people called her out and basically had to lead her by the hand to see what a fucking bitch she was being to me. She even reached out to mutual friends to make sure I didn’t hate her. She was very sorry, you see. She would have never said such things “if (she’d) only known.” Well, when a gay man angrily tweets that he’s very tired of such horrific lies, why the fuck would you reply agreeing with the lies? Oh, honey. Would you forgive someone who called you a horrible mother and unsafe around children? IN PUBLIC, for everyone to see?
It’s very nice to no longer give two shits about coddling fragile straight people and their privilege. I’ve not even come remotely close to talking about how abusive you people can be without a care or a thought in the world (because queers don’t have feelings and aren’t really people, and I should just be grateful people talk to me in the first place and have deigned to tolerate me within their midst). Sorry, I’m not going to pat your pointy little heads and reassure you that you’re not one of the bad people. That’s not my job in life, and I am fucking exhausted centering your massive egos and your thin skins so you can just keep sailing through life with your casual, thoughtless cruelty and your absolute lack of concern for anyone outside of your own demographic group. If you want to make us feel welcomed, maybe stop making gay jokes and accusing everyone you don’t like of being gay? I guess y’all aren’t creative enough–despite being writers–to come up with something else?
So, your careless cruelty is also lazy.
How does it feel to be criticized honestly and not let off the hook for your actions rather than the phony collegial courtesy you offer to me? How will I ever feel safe around people capable of such dishonesty? How will I ever know for sure you don’t laugh at me when I walk away? How can I trust straight people ever again? How would you feel if you found out what people really think about people like you by reading it in a public forum? Well, I know now what side you were on in the 80s and 90s, don’t I?
I guess I should be grateful you weren’t afraid breathing the same air as a gay man would give you HIV, right?
Another reason I need to get off social media entirely is I’m so tired of people exposing themselves in this crime “community” I was so pathetically desperate to be a part of. One of my mantras since I first started trying to fit in has always been “don’t keep score.” Yesterday I was on one of the social media sites where people are doing “starter packs”–people to follow for the new users. I saw one by someone I know yesterday and clicked on it, the way I always do to look for friends to follow, and it struck me as I scrolled through the list I’ve never been on one of these and as I continued to scroll through Mr. Straight Man’s list and noticed that they were only two queers out of about forty writers on the list and they were both women. Straight men, you see, will never recommend a gay male author to anyone lest someone think maybe he’s gay curious and so the queer women are always safe to mention to get their inclusive points and show everyone how “woke” they are. The person, whom I first heard of when one of the truly horrible straight women community-adjacent pulled a racism on him out of nowhere (she basically called him, and all racialized people, illiterate. Horrified by this, I immediately ordered his books and started following him on social media. I saw him in person at the next Bouchercon, and was going to walk up to him and introduce myself to him in the bar. All I was able to get out was “Hi, I’m–” with my hand stuck out when he gave me a very cold, dismissive look–his face curled in revulsion, and turned his back to me. It didn’t register to me as anything other than odd–stupid me forgot that when people don’t know who I am, all they see is disgusting faggot get away from me. It wasn’t the first or last time something like that has happened–and then later when someone introduces us they’re cordial but distant. It didn’t occur to me until yesterday as I read his “oh so woke” starter pack that yes, indeed, he could tell I was gay and was revolted that I would try to introduce myself to him–probably was worried I was going to hit on him (seriously, straight guys. Do you honestly think a gay man wants to fuck someone who doesn’t understand anal hygiene? Sorry, not into having shit on my dick, thanks). But when one of our mutual acquaintances did introduce us–and he knew then who I was, he at least pretended to be glad to meet me. I’ve actually had straight men I’ve introduced myself to (who got away as quickly as they could) apologize later and said “I didn’t realize who you were.”
Because that makes your initial behavior acceptable? You only treat gay men nicely when they’re somebody you think matters1?
Just goes to show, minority male writers are just as homophobic as white ones, if not more so. So much for intersectionality.
And there was that book everyone told me I should read by an up-and-coming writer who used homophobic slurs on page one. Yes, guys, I really love paying for a book and seeing the word faggot used derisively on page one. The irony that the book was one of the initial titles in a press’ new “diversity line”? Showed me that that publishing house was okay with homophobic language, and that diversity commitment was very insincere. I’d actually thought about pitching them! So, I guess I should be grateful my straight friends told me to read a homophobic book, so I didn’t waste my time pitching to a homophobe.
Grim thoughts on a grim Friday morning as the country teeters on the edge of the abyss.
I guess some straight white people finally learned how it feels to be hated by the majority of the country.
And I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Friday, queer people. Straight people are on their own.
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Joke’s on you, dude–you were nice to someone who is reminded on the daily by my “colleagues” that I am anything other than a non-entity second or third class human. ↩︎
Well, hello, Tuesday, how you doing this week? Yesterday wasn’t too bad. I was on social media more than I needed to be1, which I must correct, but I had a nice day at work and then ran errands on the way home. Paul was home shortly after I got home–I also left earlier than usual–and I grilled the hamburgers I didn’t last night, which was nice. We watched the last episode of Rivals–most excellent, highly recommend–and caught up on Someone Somewhere, which I also love. I wasn’t particularly tired when I got home last night, so I picked up some and read a bit more of my book, which I am loving, even as it also makes me squirm a bit (more on that later, when I write about the book)–and you know what? I should squirm while reading that book. Every white person should, but they won’t read it–or finish reading, if they start– because it might “make them feel bad.” Well, if you want to be a decent person…you need to do the fucking work and feel bad every once in a while. I think that’s the real truth: straight white people don’t want to completely understand how horrible they truly are–which is why they are so defensive all the time. They know they’re bad people, they just don’t want to face up to it, and so lean into being horrible.
And they sure as fuck don’t want to do the work to be better people, so why waste my time with them?
Hell, why am I bothering writing this book? We’re going to be all labeled as porn soon enough, and my publisher might be forced to close. And for the record, I know what it feels like to have your entire canon, your entire writing career, labeled and called pornography. I know what it feels like to get death threats. To paraphrase, there’s nothing as hellish as Christian love.
It’s raining again this morning, which is relaxing. I did sleep well again last night, which I was expecting to do, even though I wasn’t terribly tired when I got home. Today I am in the clinic working with people for the first time in a while, so we’ll see how that goes. I have to get myself back into counselor mode after an enormous (well, several of them) shock to my system…but I was able to counsel after Mom died, so I should be okay. I wonder what their mood will be like? I mean, we are entering the dark times. I think that’s why I wrote that Substack post; it was after the election that I realized that people who are casually homophobic like it’s no big deal aren’t going to step up to rescue queers when it comes to that, so…this is what minority people are talking about, straight white people–if you’re so callously dismissive of us and don’t care about that sort of thing, how can we truly ever believe we are allies? It’s a return to the 1980s again (which were not fucking great, no matter how the Reagan apologists try to make it seem like this glorious lost time; likewise the 1950s shit, too–those may have been good times for straight white people, but not so much for anyone else. And straight white people will always close ranks against outsiders, because ultimately their privilege is the most important thing to them. More important than outsiders…”others.” And sorry, I’m not here to make straight people feel better about themselves. You’re homophobes at heart and it’s not my responsibility to absolve you so you can feel better about yourself…I really don’t give a fuck about how you feel; why should I when you clearly don’t care a fucking thing about how you make us feel? “Oh, sorry if we turned Bouchercon back into your junior high school hellscape! You’ve survived it before, right? You’ll be fine.”
I never should have gone back after the initial homophobic experiences back in 2009-2010. I’ve given the crime fiction community so many chances, always thinking oh it’ll be better this time and optimistically tried again…but unlike Lucy and the football, this faggot Charlie Brown has finally learned to accept that it has failed me, repeatedly, over and over again, and talk about diversity and inclusion is just that–talk. I’m no more welcome in the mainstream mystery community than I was in 20022. That old cliché about how trying the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result, is insanity?
Well, now I am sane and clear-eyed.
When I tried again this last time, I refused to be chased away the second time because I’ve tried, as an adult, to always stand up to, and fight, the bullies. I hate giving them the satisfaction of admitting defeat finally, but you can only try so hard for so long before realizing that any win for me in this regard would always be Pyrrhic in nature. I’ve never, ever be able to completely relax or feel welcome or made to feel like a part of things, like I belonged. I used to think it was because I was so scarred from my past, and that it was entirely on me and not anything anyone else was doing to make me feel that way. I convinced myself we were welcome.
So, so naive and trusting that this time would be different.
I should have known from seeing friends do book events in stores run by homophobes and racists but then claim to be allies. How big of an ally are you when you talk the talk but launch your book in a store known to be unashamedly homophobic, misogynist, and racist? What message do you think you are sending to people who you claim to support until it comes to your money and your career? How you “don’t want to rock the boat”? It’s called collaboration, and after the Second World War you’d have been executed or at least your head shaved and a public shaming. But–at least in our brave new world you won’t have to pretend to care anymore.
This is why minorities don’t trust you, you know. You can blithely go through your life smugly patting yourself on the back about what an ally you are, how you definitely talk the talk so people know you’re one of the good guys, but guess how we feel when you announce your book launch at one of those stores? We see you, but most of the time we’re too nice to call you out for supporting stores that hate us. Miss me with your boycotts of Home Depot and Walmart and whoever; it’s all just performative bullshit when you really only care about yourself–and you’ll shop there if you think no one will ever find out.
And for the record, telling a minority writer “you’d be so successful if you’d just write about straight people” is condescending, invalidating and deeply offensive. You think I can’t write about straight people? Bitch, please. I understand you people better than you understand yourselves. Believe me, I see you.
And no worries if I’m boring you with all this, Constant Reader. I’m giving you straight people the okay to stop reading this blog, without judgment. It’s a queer space, and I care about your feelings as much as you care about mine.
Then again, you’re probably not reading this anyway? Straight people won’t read me for free, let alone pay for something I’ve written. Christ, what a fucking fool I’ve been.
But give me another day or two and things will go back to normal. I’ll be over it, and not to worry; none of this will ever come up again because I will never be hurt by betrayals from straight people–especially men–ever again. I’ll just expect y’all to be homophobic garbage from the start. It’ll be easier that way–and like I always used to say, you can always count on straight people to carelessly, casually and thoughtlessly cruel…because you don’t matter to them. You’re subhuman. You‘veheard the things white people say about racialized people–well, that’s also what they all think about queer people.
All these years I’ve smiled and let you demean and dehumanize me, over and over again, with a smile on your face as you performatively act like I’m a colleague when you really are disgusted by my existence.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I may be back later. One never knows.
In fairness to me, I was enjoying the “find out” phase the Nazi voters are experiencing. But if your feelings are hurt, MAGAts, no worries–we’ll probably all be dead by the 2025 holiday season so you can gloat to your heart’s content, guilt-free! ↩︎
When mystery bookstores wouldn’t let me sign in their stores because “they don’t carry those kinds of books”–which is why I will always be grateful, and loyal, to Murder by the Book in Houston–to this day, the only mystery bookstore in the country that would have events for me. ↩︎
Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment and all is well. It’s raining, and has been since last night–probably related in some ways to the hurricane, Rafael–so I slept deeply and well last night. It was muggy and miserable outside when I ran my errands yesterday morning, and today I have to make a grocery run, but rather than what I usually do–go in the morning or right around noon–I am going to go later and try to get all the things done today that I need to do here in the house instead. That makes the most sense to me, because usually making groceries (going out in public and being around other people in general) ends up with me in the chair with a sleeping kitty curled up in my lap. I want to get these other posts/book reviews done this morning, and I want to do some more writing today; I really need to get back on the Scotty horse this week. I also am going to start going to the gym a couple of times per week. Protecting my mental health is my biggest priority right now. The nice thing is that now that LSU humiliated itself in front of the nation last night, we don’t really have to pay much attention to college football anymore this year. Really, it’s such an enormous waste of time on a free day that I really shouldn’t waste my time on it going forward. I will say that I was incredibly lucky when I landed Paul; we both have the kind of dark sense of humor that makes us laugh about this horrible world in which we’ve always lived. It’s gotten us through some really dark days, and at least I have someone to face down the darkness with–while pointing and laughing at it. Thank heaven for him, seriously.
But my relationship isn’t real, you know. Perverts can’t love, right?
I am completely out of fucks now, and so yesterday I wrote a Substack entry talking about some of the homophobia I’ve experienced in the crime fiction community, and it got me a lot of new subscribers. I called out some people in the piece, not by name–I can never really get over that polite thing that was instilled so deeply in me by my mother–but I said some things that have been bouncing around in my brain for quite a while. Bigotry is very insidious, and it pops up all the fucking time, whether it’s direct aggression or a micro-aggression. I’ve always been the kind to give people the benefit of the doubt–“well, they don’t know how homophobic they are being”, but no more. Straight men making jokes about being gay, or gay people in general, or our sexuality, isn’t funny. It isn’t funny to have a writer’s retreat you mocking call after a movie which is literally about how much it sucks to be gay in this country and one of the main characters is beaten to death for it, ha ha ha, how funny!1 Maybe we can have a gay male writing retreat we can jokingly name after a miscarriage, or a dead child? If my rights are going to be stripped away from me, why the fuck should I keep giving straight people the benefit of the doubt? (I know, I know, #notallstraightpeople, right? Yes, yes, those of you in the dominant culture are the real fucking victims.) I never completely trusted straight people to begin with–you know, the people who wanted us all to die in the 1980s and laughed about it–and have always been somewhat wary.
Clearly, that wariness was smart. I haven’t felt this way since 2004, when the entire country made it abundantly clear to queer people that they think we don’t deserve love or happiness or full citizenship.2
You can never go wrong expecting straight people to be horrible. Trust me, they’ll never disappoint–like the ones I actually know who basically called all queer people groomers and pedophiles and couldn’t understand why that was like punching me in the mouth. I’ve shared meals with you. I’ve hung out with you. I’ve been nice to you. But queer people shouldn’t be around children, right? Thanks for nothing, mediocre bitch.
But I no longer care about other people’s feelings anymore, or not wanting to make other people feel bad about their own fucking bigotry. I’m not explaining to you why you’re a problematic bigot anymore. You don’t like and there’s nothing I can do about that–so fuck you to hell and back. I’m not getting paid to educate your stupid ass, nor do I care about your fucking feelings. You have no idea what a fucking bitch I can be, and I am taking the gloves off now. I’m not playing nice anymore, and until proven otherwise, you’re my enemy. I don’t like being that way, but how many times do we have to be abused by our fellow Americans before we finally say fucking enough?
And if you ever ask me to be on a fucking diversity panel ever again, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born–or demand payment for being an educator to troglodytes.
Be nice we need their support.
No more fucks.
Have a great day, Constant Reader.
You want an idea how offensive that is? My partner was almost beaten to death twenty years ago and lost an eye. HILARIOUS, right, assholes? It’s no different than telling rape jokes. ↩︎
Funny how we still have to pay all of our taxes to a system with its boot on our throats. ↩︎
I rolled into New Orleans around eight thirty last night; twelve hours, give or take, in the car for the second time in less than a week. It was an okay drive, although there was a lot more traffic than I would have preferred. It was also cold in Kentucky but hot when I got further south, so I didn’t dress properly for the drive and got home feeling kind of icky. But the good news is that neither drive exhausted me the way that drive used to, which is pretty awesome. This is also the first time I’ve been up there since new meds/surgery recovery. I slept well the entire time I was there and wasn’t tired for a change, too. I’ve gotten a lot closer to my dad since Mom passed away almost two years ago–they were such a unit and so devoted to each other that they were all either really needed. I didn’t foresee this, and talking to him about my childhood and what it was like for them when they were young and first dating and so on. I choked up many times while I was up there that I lost count, but I still won’t cry in front of my dad–childhood training in masculinity still deeply engrained in me.
I also have decided, in the wake of last Tuesday, that my primary focus going forward is myself (and Paul and Sparky, of course) and not wasting any energy on things I cannot control. I have finally achieved some kind of mental stability and settled into my life and who I am and what I want out of my life, so I am going to enjoy myself and focus on my work and Paul for as long as I can until I either have to step up because of my conscience, or…I get classified as a dissident for my sexuality and my work, with whatever horrors that is going to bring. I accepted a long time ago that most straight white people are homophobic garbage, and even those who think they are allies don’t care about us when they are voting. These people wanted us all dead in the 1980s, and I guess that’s what we’re going back to. I also decided to unsubscribe from a bunch of newsletters, and did so this morning. I will never go back to CNN or MSNBC; and I am definitely for sure done with the New York Times, Washington Post, and Los Angeles Times. Fuck you people forever. Have fun being controlled by the state, assholes. This is what you wanted, and no sympathy from me. I also am going to severely limit my time on social media. I’ve wasted too much of my life on there as it is, and I have better things to do.
I guess not enough people have seen Cabaret, or missed its message.
I did finish Gabino Iglesias’ latest (more on that later) and started Tananarive Due’s The Reformatory, which is extraordinary; I also read Scott Carson’s The Chill, which I also loved (more on that later). I also had some ideas while I was up there for stuff that I am working on, and am looking forward to getting all that worked on in the upcoming week. I have a manuscript to edit, a manuscript to write, and all kinds of other things to work on and complete and get back to the gym so I can get myself back into better shape again and be healthier. It will help me have more energy–which now that I sleep better has also improved (well, and finally recovering completely from my surgery), and while I do know it’s unrealistic to expect to ever get back the energy I used to have, regular exercise will help decrease muscle loss with age and bone density, which is something I have to be concerned about genetically. I also find that regular exercise triggers my creativity, which is pretty fucking awesome.
I have a lot of things to do today–errands and such–and of course there are great football games on today, capped off by Alabama-LSU in Baton Rouge tonight. I also have some other posts to do–book reviews of what I read while I was gone–and I also have some thoughts about essays I want to get working on. So have a lovely Saturday, hang in there, and by all means, protect your mental health. You’re probably going to need it.
And here we are at Remote Friday again in the Lost Apartment. I was very tired when I got home last evening, after my doctor’s appointment and running some errands. I went to my first ever podiatrist, and the good news is I don’t have arthritis in my big toes yet, but the bad news is that there’s really nothing to be done about the pronation of my feet, which I was expecting and was kind of a Hail Mary ask. What was super-nice was his PA was a lesbian, which she revealed in one of the most amazingly nonchalant way, and did make me feel better about being there, if that makes sense? (I think the primary care physician I fired last summer was homophobic, if I am being honest. He was certainly dismissive of me and all of my concerns to the point where I was uncomfortable asking him anything. He could just be a shitty doctor, but one of the great joys of being marginalized is never knowing, or being completely sure, if someone is homophobic or not homophobic and just an asshole. Got some serious trust issues, don’t I?)
And of course I slept late this morning! No wonder I was exhausted; I also asked him about the chronic ingrown toenail on my big toe, so he took care of it in the office as an outpatient procedure. I won’t go into details of what he did on my big toe, but for the next week I have to soak my toe twice a day in epsom salts and re-bandage it after applying Neosporin. I always forget those kinds of things are a shock to the body, and it needs rest after trauma, so it takes a while to recover. I’m not used to these sorts of things, which is pretty amazing that these little traumas and shocks to my body didn’t start until I was in my sixties. I’ve always been relatively healthy for the most part, and also…lived in pain for a good portion of my life mainly because it never occurred to me to do anything about it, which is really kind of insane. But all those years of no insurance taught me to live with pain because I couldn’t afford to see a doctor. (I am writing about my low-paying job history and being the working poor, in an essay for my Substack, which I really need to finish and post before I leave for Kentucky on Sunday.) He also gave me a cortisone shot in my right big toe to do away with the reoccurring pain, and it’s actually kind of nice to not have my toe joint hurting for a change. Woo-hoo!
At some point today I have to take a break from working remotely to head out to Metairie to pick up my new glasses, which is very exciting. I have a lot of cleaning to do around here before I leave Sunday morning, but LSU is off this weekend so I am not terribly vested in watching games tomorrow; I’ll have it on in the background but will mostly clean and read for the day. I also was able to read some more of House of Blood and Rain, which is extraordinary, and I am hoping to finish that before Sunday, too, so I can blog about it before I head up there. I’m going to listen to Shadowlands by Peter Straub on the way up there, and probably Lisa Unger on the way home. I am also going to experiment with going a different way than I always have–I always go through Chattanooga–but this time I think, for something different, I am going to go through Nashville. Exciting, no? The drive to Birmingham will be the same; that’s where I’ll leave 59 North and head for Nashville instead of driving through northeast Alabama. I’m not going to worry about doing any writing (or blogging) while I am up there; you’ll simply have to get used to doing without me for the duration of the trip. (I know, I know, whatever will you do without your daily Gregalicious?) It’s also going to be rough being with my conservative family during the election, but I can keep my mouth shut, and years of experience (and knowing they will never change their minds) has taught me how to be honest but noncommittal; it’s not my fault if they interpret my responses as agreement or concurrence. (Example, from 2009: my dad says “Sarah Palin is no Hilary Clinton” to which I reply, “you can say that again.” I can certainly can agree with that statement , right?) But at least I’ll know how the right is taking the results, regardless of what happens. It may be harder if there’s violence, as I expect there to be. (I’m hoping not, but…those hopes aren’t very high.)
I did watch The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City last night; as you can see, the excitement level around the Lost Apartment for Halloween was very intense. Paul went to a friend’s party (I was exhausted, as I already mentioned), and so I stayed home, reading and cleaning (very lackadaisically) and watching news clips on Youtube to stay slightly aware of what’s going on nation-wide with the election. All the desperate shrieking from the right side seems to be getting more shrill and hysterical on a daily basis. I also had to laugh at the right being so upset over the false claim that President Biden called them garbage; let’s see, what have you trash called me over the course of my life? Pervert, sinner, fornicator, groomer, pedophile, traitor–so yeah, miss me with the hurt feelings of the “fuck your feelings” crowd. Maybe the lie hit too close to home to the people who know, deep down, they aren’t good or nice or Christian or even decent? Just like the “deplorables” thing. Hillary said one negative thing about “some” of his supporters, while they were chanting “lock her up” and worse, and they lost their fucking minds. They sure don’t like being called names, for a group of assholes who feel pretty strong in their ability to call everyone else names but should remain free of criticism myself. And at this point? I’d correct Hillary to say they are ALL deplorables. Maybe not in 2016, but they sure as fuck know they’re all trash and a disgrace to all humanity now because they’ve seen what he is capable of doing and they are looking forward to the end of our democracy.
I don’t think that’s patriotic, actually. I find it deplorable and disgusting and treasonous. (Someday I will write about how the right wrapped itself in the flag and absconded with the country’s symbols to such a point that the word patriot no longer means what it once did.)
Ugh.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, everyone, and I may check in again later.
Yeah, I’ve been big on the Tudors for most of my life–first the Virgin Queen, and then her father, Henry VIII and his many wives1, and eventually the entire family (Henry VIII’s sister Margaret was a pistol–and it is her descendants who sit on the throne today, not Henry’s). As I got older, I became more interested in the century as a whole, and eventually I moved on from the Tudors to the Stuarts, who I find much more interesting. I still love the Tudors, and will watch documentaries and films, but won’t read any more books about them, especially because I’ve not really scratched more than the surface with the Stuarts, and I want to read more about the Tudors’ French contemporaries, the House of Valois. (Yes, I loved The Tudors, because it was more of a Renaissance version of Dynasty; I don’t watch historical films and expect accuracy2, and if you are, wake the fuck up. Book adaptations are never the same as the book, either. It’s entertainment, not a fucking documentary.)
Speaking of entertainment, I finally gave up on Jon Stewart with his defense of the indefensible. His joining in on the media’s decision to badger and hound Joe Biden–one of the most successful presidents of all fucking time–out of the race? None of that, not one bit of that, was actual concern; they all were giving (and continued, until recently) Shady Marmalade a pass on his obvious mental decline…and Jon’s decision to defend the indefensible “because comedian”? Fuck off and die, you arrogant rich white cisgender piece of shit. I’ll never watch him again, so congrats on that year contract extension, Comedy Central. You thought calling Puerto Rico a floating pile of garbage was funny? You thought comparing Travis Kelce to OJ, implying he’ll murder Taylor Swift, was funny? And on and on and on. Straight white male comedians will always circle the wagons for another comedian with a penis, but when a woman comedian (see: Kathy Griffin) is being attacked, not a fucking word? So he’s a misogynist, too. I’m not telling you what to do, Constant Reader, but Jon Stewart is dead to me, now and forever. And don’t even get me started on the 49ers and Nick the Traitor Bosa. Talk about pussy. Someone got slapped down by management when he hit the locker room and before he talked to the press, and like a good little beta soyboy, he caved and sulked like the pathetic emotionally-and-intellectually stunted bitch he is. He’s not being punished because when asked he shut his fucking mouth, which is the other primary difference between him and a true hero, Colin Kaepernick (besides the obvious “white man gets away with shit a Black man never could” racism).
And really, 49ers managers and coaching staff? Your team represents San Francisco, the most tolerant city in the country. Trade him to Dallas, where he belongs.
Thank God I am on anxiety medications. If not, I probably wouldn’t have slept at all since June. But the medications and my personal ban on legacy media companies who are garbage and untrustworthy has helped a lot with my election anxiety, and refusing to engage with the trash on-line (block, block, block) I’ve managed to take good care of my own mental health this time around. I refuse to worry about what will happen if he wins, or if he loses and they try another violent coup; I do, every once in a while, think you always wondered what it was like to be a Berliner in 1933…and I didn’t really need to get an answer to that question, you know?
I feel good this morning yet again; I’ve been sleeping well every night this week and it’s been really nice. I did my errands last night, got home and got started on the dishes and did some other clean-up around here. Paul didn’t get home until late, so I mostly went down Youtube idle curiosity research holes. I also managed to get the Scotty Bible’s first draft finished; it’s just raw information for now that I have to reorganize and pull together. I am also realizing, as I mentioned yesterday, that I should do a concordance of everything I’ve written by place; Kansas, California, New Orleans, Louisiana, Florida, and Alabama. That’s the problem of having characters cross over from stand-alones to the series and back again, you know? I was realizing that the lawyer the boys hire in Royal Street Reveillon doesn’t have as much information in the Scotty series about him as I would have thought…only to remember that Loren McKeithen has a much larger role in the Chanse series than the Scotty. Oops!
I also realized last night, as I watched news clips and documentaries about the Civil War, that with my anxiety gone I no longer feel the need to belittle and dismiss things I’ve accomplished in this wild and crazy career of mine. I’ve written a shit ton of books, short stories, and blog posts–and when I think about all the queer papers and magazines that I’ve written for over the years, yes, my output has been a bit prodigious. It wasn’t false humility (though I am often horrified at how easy it is to slip into egomania, and always over-correct once I catch myself); I honestly still thought I wasn’t very good at what I do. I always compare myself to other writers and come up wanting; but it’s really not a competition of any kind; I appreciate great writers who produce great work, and my work is different from theirs. I always strive to be better, to get better, and not stagnate–the problem that creates is it extrapolates to I could have done that better and dismissing it. Those are the kind of brain landmines I need to watch for, and avoid whenever possible. I’m proud of all my work, for the record. Sure, going through the old Scotty books was always difficult (I always edit it another time as I’m reading it) but doing it for the Bible, where I’m just looking for information, was different. Sure, there were some clunky things I could have said better, but overall, I was actually a little surprised to see how good–and clever–the books actually are. It also reminded me of how I used to write the first ones, what I have always tried to do in my work–whether anyone notices or not. (Someone once emailed me after reading one of my books and said, “Did you deliberately do this?” and delighted, I wrote back “Absolutely!” That was a big thrill for me.)
And I am proud of my work. I overcame so many obstacles to build this career, and I am pleased with myself, too. My books are pretty good–yes, there will always be a few where I think, God I wish I could give that one more pass, but even those are pretty good. There are some I am more pleased with than others; yes, I have favorite children. But that doesn’t mean that I am not pleased with all of them. How many people told me along the way that this would never happen for me, that I didn’t have what it takes, or that I have no ability at all? Maybe, maybe not–but if that’s what you think, how many books have you published? How many awards have you been nominated for, or won?
I really wish I’d known it was anxiety much sooner.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again, perhaps later!
I love that historians count all of the women he married as his wives; although technically the first two were actually annulled, so the marriages were never, at least legally, valid. ↩︎
I totally understand why films and television shows based on history have to make changes; the actual stories don’t play out perfectly for different media and thus must be adapted. I do ↩︎
Wednesday morning of Pay-the-Bills day, which is always a pleasant day, much as I loathe paying the bills I am just grateful that I can pay the bills; I’ll never not be grateful for that. I remember all too well the days when paying the bills was a nightmare, there wasn’t enough to cover everything and buy groceries…and there were late fees and so on and ugh, you never could ever just breathe easy and catch up. Once you get behind financially, it becomes exponentially harder to ever get caught up. One of the reasons I never address financial concerns in my work is because it’s too hauntingly familiar for me, and I don’t really like remembering those days very much. That’s not good–and not really true entirely; I have written about working class/the working poor in short stories, which is about as long as I can handle it. Of course, now that I’ve said that, I’m thinking I do need to write about someone poor or working class in a book sometime, so I can process the shame of my poverty-stricken past. I’ve also been thinking about this because I am writing an essay about my first job (McDonald’s; can’t imagine why I’ve been thinking about that lately, can you?), and that has also brought back the memories of being one of the working poor for so long, and all the money worries, and everything else that went along with it1. I’ve had some pretty awful jobs…but the only thing worse than having an awful job was looking for another awful job I would grow to hate.
Ugh, those low wage job years were the worst. It’s no wonder I had so little self-esteem. Scrounging in the couch for change to get a burger at McDonald’s. Going through the car looking for change. Nothing in the cupboards to eat, no money in my wallet and no money in the bank, but super hungry. Lots of eating macaroni and cheese in the blue box, any flavor of ramen, and buying store brand deodorants and shampoos and shaving cream. Not being able to afford an oil change for the car, or a new tire should one go flat. To this day, I have food anxiety, where I’m scared there won’t be anything in the house for us to eat and nothing in the cupboards and no money. This led to a small scale hoarding situation with me and food; in which I am always stocking up on dried stuff so there’s always something I can make to eat. I have canned baked beans and boxes and boxes of Lipton’s Double Noodle Soup and all sorts of things that I hoard…but I’ve managed to stop buying more of these things, and have cut back on buying more than we need. There’s still more than needs to be done in the kitchen cabinets and in the grocery stores, and I am still working on the food anxiety. There are also any number of Asian vinegars and wines and sauces for cooking in there that had probably gone bad over the years.
Sigh.
I slept well again last night, which feels great this morning. I have tomorrow off because I have appointments during the day, which is going to be weird–especially since Friday is my work-at-home day; my weekend is going to be all messed up and potentially my week next week, too. I have some errands to run tonight after work, too. I didn’t do much of anything once I was home last night–big plans often come to naught in the Lost Apartment on weekday nights–but today I am planning, again, to get some things done. I need to finish working on the Scotty Bible, which is the plan for this weekend. I also need to get started revising the first seven chapters and fixing them for the continuation of the book next week before I leave for Kentucky. Funny how I always have big plans for the evening in the morning that so rarely come to fruition, isn’t it? But by the time I negotiate traffic on the way home, I am usually a bit tired when I get home to begin with–and then when Sparky keeps insisting on needing a lap (like Scooter used to) I’ll sit down for a moment and then am down for the evening because he’s so deeply asleep and so cute–he sometimes purrs in his sleep–that I don’t want to disturb him. Last night he was back to normal completely and over his sulks; he pounced on me several times and wanted to play with some Big Kitten Energy after he was done napping. I have a busy morning at the office today, but it’s not that terrible, and of course I have to make two stops on the way home today, which isn’t a big deal but also might be an issue about being tired when I finally park and go inside.
I also decided that I am going to Kentucky the first week of November, so I don’t have to listen to horror on the way there or back. I think I will listen to Shadowland on the way home from up there, because it’s thirteen or so hours long and I have the ebook on my iPad so I can finish it when I get back to New Orleans. (I thought I had a paperback copy, but can’t seem to find it.) But since October and Halloween will be over by then, I am not bound by my “only horror reading in October” rule. I want to finish reading Gabino’s book this weekend, too. I think there are some good games on this weekend; LSU is playing Texas A&M at night to see who will be alone on top of the conference standings. The day games are not the greatest, but there’s Missouri at Alabama and Texas at Vanderbilt (!!!) and Oklahoma at Mississippi, so not anything terribly involving unless they turn out to be great games…and there have been a lot of those this season. I didn’t know what to expect from this season of new everything and big changes, but so far it’s been a lot of fun.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Pay-the-Bills Day, and I might be back later, one never can be sure!
The only luxury item I never did without was books. I would always spend money on books because that was something just for me, and for me alone. I also really resented having jobs where I had to consider books as luxury items I technically should have done without. ↩︎
Queer and Loathing in America 