Category: crime fiction

In the Mood

Someone really needs to do one of those music-themed crime anthologies built around either big band music, or the music of the Andrews Sisters; and In the Mood would be a great title for it, wouldn’t it? Don’t @ me, I’m not interesting in doing another anthology, thank you very much, praise Jesus and hope the creek don’t rise.

I was right; I got very mentally fatigued yesterday afternoon, and last night after we finished watching the second season of Euphoria, I was basically falling asleep in my chair. I’d swear we watched something else, too; oh yes, a stand-up comic special on Netflix, but I can’t remember the name of the comedian. I feel much more awake and alive today, which is a very good thing. I also feel a little bit behind this morning, and I am–not sure what that is about, but I am a bit off, too, I think, which is weird. But I enjoyed finishing the show–not sure if it’s coming back again or not, but the second season finale definitely wrapped everything up, so if it doesn’t the stories are pretty much finished for the most part. Zendaya was terrific–the whole cast, really; Paul and I were amused that the most level, centered and likable character on the show was Fez the drug dealer. Jacob Elordi is also memorable as sociopath Nate–casting beautiful people as monsters is genius, really.

I also didn’t write yesterday–the brain fatigue thing again, but at least this time it wasn’t the fog, you know? I do think I am starting to get back to normal, or what passes for it at any rate. It’s normal to be tired after not sleeping well. It’s normal to feel off after finally getting a good night’s sleep again. I was very tired when I got home, wasn’t I? I have some errands to run tonight, too–and tomorrow I am taking workout clothes for me to change into at work so I can go to the gym afterwards, see if this theory of changing at work and going directly there afterwards will work–we shall see, shan’t we?

One thing that I’ve been doing lately is submersing myself in the music of the 1970s, to help get myself more into the right space to write this book when I am ready to get started on it, and frankly, Top Forty music of the period–with a few exceptions–was awful and cheesy and terrible. So many novelty songs (“The Streak” by Ray Stevens jumps to mind, and there were so many others), so much cheese (Tony Orlando & Dawn, and so many other offenders), and some frankly terrible recordings surrounding the few gems that I don’t know how I listened to it growing up. But we did; both my sister and I always had our radios tuned into either WLS or WCFL for hours every day. I am trying to get the prologue to this finished this week, as well as revising another short story whose deadline is this weekend, and still really trying to get everything organized and sorted. I put some short story anthology call deadlines on my calendar yesterday, which was a nice start to get better organized, and I think, besides this book I want to finish, I am going to spend a lot of this summer trying to do more short stories. I also want to get the introduction to the short story collection finished by Monday, and a first chapter of the new Scotty done.

But my immersion in music of the early 1970’s–and other pop culture aspects of the time; television was also mostly garbage back then, too; thanks censors–also led me back around to listen to the eponymous first album by Boston in the car over the last two years, and it still holds up. It’s quite excellent, although I suppose it would be considered excessive nowadays; as rock music pushed boundaries in that decade and became more orchestral, especially in the second half of the decade. There’s not a song on that album that’s not a bop (in modern parlance), and it also put me in mind of other favorite albums from throughout my life–and making a list of them. I’ve always had a soundtrack album for my life, and revisiting music always brings back a lot of memories. Listening to the Billboard Top 100 of 1973 (awful as it was) made me remember other things–like Romper Room, Captain Kangaroo, Bozo’s Circus, and Ray Raynor’s show; the Saturday morning cartoons; and the horrible variety shows that were everywhere back then and finally died out in the early 1980’s. I really want this book to be good, and I’m going to have to go to a very dark place to write this book, too, and make it as real as possible…which is why I am immersing myself in the early 1970s. I am also reminding myself I can change things in the suburb to fit my writing needs; it doesn’t have to be exact, just as Bury Me in Shadows didn’t have to be correct about the homeplace. (My mind can be very annoying at times.)

But I feel good this morning, both mentally and physically. After work tonight I need to get the mail and make some groceries (not much, just a replace some things run) and then it’s home to write, possibly make dinner, and finish some chores. I am going to head into the spice mines now, so have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will be back probably later.

Kissin’ Time

Ah, the Tuesday after Memorial Day and back to the office with me. Such an exciting life I lead, don’t I? I didn’t sleep all that great last night, to be honest–the kind of half-sleep/sort of awake kind of nights, which I didn’t quite understand until I came downstairs to find my sleeping pill (Trazodone, if you’re keeping track) sitting next to my keyboard, where I left it last night. Mystery solved!

But as I wake up, I’m feeling better–more alive and awake than usual, but I imagine I’ll be running out of steam later this afternoon. LSU is in the Chapel Hill regional for the NCAA baseball tournament, playing Wofford. GEAUX TIGERS! I did do some other things yesterday, including finishing the dishes and laundry, and doing the floors. I think I need a new vacuum cleaner (I saw a meme the other day that said “now that I’m an adult I understand why so many prizes on the The Price is Right were appliances”, and yes, very accurate). I didn’t work on fixing the garbage disposal or get out the vacuum handbook for maintenance help this weekend, but it’s something that can go on the list for this coming weekend. I won’t have as many errands to do next weekend, if I plan properly; although I will need to go to the library to donate books.

I also managed to make it to the gym yesterday to start the arm-rehabilitation process again. I went back to the light-weight-one-set thing, worried about overdoing or re-injuring (my biggest fear, seriously) my arm…which seemed easy-peasy, but we’ll have to see if stiffness or soreness sets in any time today. But the stretching and exercise felt great, and I was on an endorphin high for the rest of the afternoon, which was pretty fucking amazing. We’ll see how long I can keep this up for…I am looking forward to re-acclimating and getting back into a regular workout routine by mid-summer. Huzzah!

I read Michael Thomas Ford’s story in the queer horror anthology We Mostly Come Out at Night, edited by Rob Costello. Ford’s story is called “Be Not Afraid”, which is what I recognized immediately as what angels say in the Bible when they appear before humans to bring them messages from God, and I love some Biblical based horror. But even better–it was a Mothman rural West Virginia story, set at Christmas, and what a delightful story it turned out to be. Ford is a master at voice, and writing sentences that make you keep reading on to see what happens next. His characters are likable and relatable and absolutely real, and it’s always delightful to read one of his stories–he always seems to write about people who are lost and become found, but not in a Christian way, if that makes sense; he writes lovely hopeful queer stories. In a just world he’d be more successful than most other authors…he’s one of those I think will be studied as a queer literary giant by future generations. He also always can do poverty in a way that isn’t moralistic or judgmental; you understand the characters and what they are experiencing, but not in an exploitative way. Highly recommended, and I am looking forward to reading the other stories in the book, too.

I wrote for a little while yesterday, too. I worked on something I’ve been thinking about over the weeks–The Summer of Lost Boys, which I think is going to be my next book, once I finish the current in-progress one–and I also did some brainstorming on the next Scotty book, which I am hoping to finish writing by Labor Day. It felt good to be writing again, even if it was so very little, and I think my creativity is coming back in a major way after being dormant for so long. It feels good when I write. The writing I did yesterday didn’t feel like it was garbage or anything, either. Here’s hoping that feeling continues, shall we?

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and no doubt I’ll be back later–I am definitely making progress on catching up on blog entries, which is terrific–and so I bid you adieu for now.

Private Eyes

I loved this show. 100%.

I wasn’t familiar with the characters before I started watching the show, but you can never go wrong with anything that comes out of Neil Gaiman’s classic run on The Sandman, which is where these characters originally came from, and once I’d heard that, I knew it was going onto my “must watch” list. (I also believe the Netflix adaptation of The Sandman was one of the best television shows of the last decade, and I cannot wait for it to return.) Anyway, the characters were spun off into their own comics series, and that series has now been adapted for Netflix.

I wasn’t sure what to make of Dead Boy Detectives going in–I wasn’t familiar with the characters–but I’d seen a preview so I knew it was about two ghosts who solved cases, which was an interesting idea that I rather liked (and wished I’d thought of myself). The first episode wasn’t great, in all honesty, but I rarely judge a show based on its first episode as they are generally having to do a lot of story and character introduction and set up for the show, which is not easy to pull off. It wasn’t bad, I just had hoped for better, if that makes sense, and didn’t stop watching.

And it hit its stride in episode two, with each episode building on the one before as the series went on–and of course, when we reached the end, we were sorry it was over and wanted a second season immediately.

The show focuses on the ghosts of two very young men, Edwin and Charles, who somehow have (by choice) become trapped on Earth rather than moving on their afterlife; Edwin died as a result of a hazing ritual gone wrong and his soul was sold to the devil by his schoolmates, who didn’t realize what they were doing. He spends numerous decades in hell before managing his escape, and he appears to Charles when he is near death, and comforts him as he dies. Charles is also the first human who’s been able to see Edwin, so he is charmed by that as well. They become friends, Charles dies and rather than moving on, stays with Edwin–and the two decide to become detectives…helping other ghosts trapped on this plane by finding who they are, why they got stuck here, and resolving the issue so the ghost can move on.

In the first episode, they take the case of a young psychic who is possessed by a demon, Crystal, and they exorcise the demon from her but she has memory loss. They decide to let her stay with them until she gets her memory back, and she helps them with their cases. Two other characters, Nico and Jenny, who also start helping them with their cases. There are also any number of recurring characters that are an absolute delight–Lukas Gage as the Cat King is a particular standout, as is Ruth Connell (whom I loved on Supernatural) as Night Nurse, who is responsible for getting recalcitrant souls who haven’t moved on to their proper afterlives–so Edwin and Charles are also in her sights. Each episode is a case, which also moves them forward on their personal through-stories, as well.

Edwin is gay, as is the Cat King, and Edwin is a bit in love with Charles–who has chemistry and an attraction to Crystal. However, this potential “love triangle” is headed off perfectly; Edwin confesses, and Charles–not gay–doesn’t rule it out but certainly not right now, and it doesn’t change how Charles feels about him–he loves him and they are best friends. Sensitively handled and brilliantly welcomed by this viewer, to be sure.

And the Cat King’s barely concealed double-entendres and attraction to Edwin steals the series.

Bravo and well done.

I Will Follow You Into the Dark

I’ve always thought that my favorite two literary genres–crime and horror–were flip sides of the same coin. I sometimes reduce my theory to the barest of bones–both are about death but in crime the monsters are human. Horror novels always have elements of mystery and suspense woven into the story–there are always characters trying to figure out what is actually going on, and usually suspecting humans, only to find out it is not–and there’s also a lot of death. You have to figure out what is causing those deaths, and the best horror novels seem like straight-up mysteries until you find out otherwise. I didn’t really start reading horror until Stephen King and Peter Straub, and much as I love the genre, my first love will always be mysteries…but reading the kids’ series, with all their phony ghosts and hauntings and phantoms and spirits, got me really interested in the concept of ghosts–something that stays with me to this very day. (I mostly write about ghosts when I try horror; because Gothic is my absolute favorite and that runs across both genres.)

This is one of the reasons I fell in love with Michael Koryta’s novels. The first I read was So Cold the River, which was more of a ghost story/mystery about a haunted and cursed resort hotel in Indiana, which was a wild ride and great fun to read. He’s also written some other crime novels that crossed over into the supernatural; The Ridge was another favorite. I also wondered how he was writing both straight up crime fiction and sometimes supernatural styled mysteries; I was always told you couldn’t write in two genres like that under the same name.

And then he started releasing those types of novels under the name Scott Carson, so maybe there is something to that old publishing truism? I don’t know why he rebranded those books under a different name and it’s none of my business other than to satisfy idle curiosity. But I did recently finish one of his Scott Carson novels, and Where They Wait is an excellent illustration of the blurred line between horror and crime.

I was never a dreamer.

I mean that in the most literal sense. Figuratively speaking, I absolutely consider myself a dreamer. Aspirational, at least. Optimistic? To a point, although my profession–journalism–mandates a certain cynicism. When I say I was never a dreamer, I mean at night, in the depths of sleep.

No dreams. Just didn’t have ’em. Not good, bad, happy, or sad.

Slept well, though. I slept well. That’s hard to believe these days, but I know that it was true once.

People talk about their dreams all the time. I dated a woman for a few years who would wake up and recite the bizarre and vivid stories that had accompanied her through the night. Sometimes, I’d be tempted to pretend that I could share the experience. Dreaming sounds normal, right? Seems like something that should happen to all of us. And yet we don’t know much about the mechanisms of dreams, for all of our scientific research and psychological theorizing. We believe dreaming is tied to memory, that REM sleep is an archival process. We believe dreams are indicative of repressed emotions, or perhaps harbingers of maladies that haven’t yet offered physical symptoms. Warnings. Messages from the dead. From God. We believe all of these things and more, but what we know is this: dreams are still not fully understood after all these years. They come and they go.

For most people, at least.

I have always been interested in dreams, and what they say about our psyches and consciences. I’ve never studied the psychology of dreams–what little I did read was all supposition and theory, as there is no real answer to what dreams mean–is it just our brains doing freestyle, like a jazz singer bopping up and down the scales using their voice as an instrument, or are they the key to who we are, our hopes and dreams and traumas? I like to play around with dreams a lot in my work, since there is no real consensus on why some people do and some people don’t, why some remember their dreams and why others don’t; do people not remember their dreams because there’s nothing to remember, and on and on from there.

But dreams are at the heart of this chilling and masterful suspense novel, which is really more about tech horror than anything else. Our main character is a journalist who reported on the Afghanistan war, has recently been laid off from his job, and gets a call from an old buddy from the area where he grew up to write a puff piece on a local tech company and it’s newest development; a wellness relaxation app which sounds like every other relaxation app–other than it’s not. Given the latest version of the app to experiment with and write about, it starts affecting him in dreams–scary nightmares about an a shipwreck, and ghosts coming to visit him ,and the dreams are so incredibly vivid that he’s not entirely sure whether they were dreams or not. And as he discovers more, he finds that everything to do with the app is connected to him in some way, as his dreams become more vivid and sometimes waking; to the point he’s not sure if things are actually happening or he’s losing his mind.

This book was fantastic: the story is great, the pacing fantastic, the characters absolutely real–and the horror is terrifying, absolutely terrifying. Carson knows how to build suspense and suck the reader in along for the ride.

Highly recommended.

It Was I

Thursday and my last day in the office for this week, and then it’s a three day weekend after I finish work tomorrow. I am looking forward to the rest, frankly, and a chance to get caught up on things. I started feeling better about my writing yesterday–I always forget how not writing always impacts me psychologically, even if the writing is poor. When I don’t write, I start doubting myself about everything and that makes me procrastinate more which makes me doubt myself more, and you see how the mental spiral goes. But I paid all the bills yesterday and made groceries on the way home from work. I have to get the mail today, and have to swing by another store to make some more groceries that they didn’t have at the place I went last night (unusual, it’s usually a better store than where I regularly go). We are also going to Costco at some point this weekend, too, and I definitely need to get that list made. Tonight when I get home I need to put the dishes away and fold the laundry. So much excitement, right? I need to make a to-do list for the weekend, so I don’t forget all the things I need to get done this weekend. What would be lovely would be to get stuff done over the weekend and take Memorial Day itself as a “do-little-to-nothing” type day. I think we’re going to watch Dune Part 2 this weekend, and probably finish Euphoria. We started the second season last night and it definitely opened with a bang. I’m really enjoying this show a lot, and Zendaya kills it as Rue.

And this weekend I am going to kick it into gear and start trying to finish this y/a novel. I need to figure some things out with it first, but I definitely want to get back to writing it and making it into a novel from a novella. I think that sense of accomplishment will carry me through the rest of the year with writing, to be honest. I have two short stories I want to write for submission calls, one story I need to edit and revise to get it into one that’s due at the end of the month, and I need to finish revising these other two stories that are in progress and get the collection finished once and for all.

It’s kind of nice to feel excited about writing again, even if I haven’t actually done any in a while. I just hope this enthusiasm carries me through into the weekend…but then again, one never knows, does one? It is so weird that I feel so much more energetic and rested the further in the week we go, isn’t it? I don’t know why this has been the case, but it has been ever since I changed my medications. I hope to make it through the day and through my errands with the ability to still get some things done after I get home…but I also don’t have to get up early tomorrow, either. Yay!

And at least I am feeling optimistic again, you know? I don’t feel like my career is over or that the well has run dry; I just had to take some time away and now everything is a little rusty, and I need to retrain myself to focus again and lose myself in the writing.

An old man can hope, can’t he?

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday–and I may be back later; one never really knows with me.

Goodbye Jimmy Goodbye

Here it is Tuesday, and I am feeling okay this morning–awake and rested, if a little creaky (which is every morning these days)–and my coffee is really tasty this morning, which is lovely. I slept pretty well, other than the occasional sniffing/clawing/biting from Sparky, and I could have easily stayed in bed for another hour or so, but that’s okay. Functionality is perfectly fine.

We watched more Euphoria last night, and I have to say, we are really enjoying it. Nate is a monster, played beautifully (see what I did there?) by Jacob Elordi; but as wild and over-the-top as the show is, it’s also marvelously queer–and also shows the difference between a miserable existence that is completely a lie (Nate’s dad) to Rue’s unabashed, unquestioned bisexuality, and of course there’s a marvelous trans character as well, who is just as developed and three-dimensional and has an interior life as much as the others, which is terrific. Represent, HBO! I’m also a bit surprised that this show hasn’t been targeted by the right–drugs and sex and drinking and teenagers, oh my! But they never came after Gossip Girl either; selective outrage is never consistent, after all.

I did write some last night; it was all garbage, but at least it was something, right? Even as I was typing the words as they came to me, I knew it wasn’t any good. I had the voice completely wrong, and the words, which I’d intended to create a dream-like kind of mood (the way Megan Abbott does, so effortlessly), weren’t good either. It’s just a prologue, and it’s not the actual book I want to write quite yet, but at least it was something–and it was in my mind so much I couldn’t really do much of anything else until I got it out of my system. It’s only about 1500 words or so, and needs to be redone, but I can work on that while I work on these other stories I need to get taken care of. There’s a lot that has to go into this book, which is probably going to wind up being shorter than I had really ever thought about–it kind of needs to be, kind of quick and nasty and dreamy.

Now that I’ve finished Where They Wait (more on that later), I am going to go back to something I’d started before my trip, and then I have some others I’d like to get through relatively quickly; but I do have a three day weekend to look forward to; so hopefully I can get some other reading done, too. I know we are going to Costco this weekend–I need to make a list–and I also need to make groceries, but I’ll probably swing by the grocery store on my way home from work tomorrow since it’s Pay-the-Bills Day. I also want to get a lot of the apartment taken care of, so I can take books to the library on Saturday and I can also drop off the dry cleaning, which will be a lovely start towards making the living room look like a living room and not a fraternity dorm room.

I do continue to keep tabs on the Noah Presgrove case in Oklahoma; his autopsy report was finally released last week (why did it take eight months is another good question), and it’s brutal. I knew it was bad, but Jesus. He literally was beaten to death, and the injuries are horrific. I also became aware of another case yesterday–Tom Brown in Canadian, Texas–which is also weird, is also small town stuff, and Canadian isn’t very far from Comanche, Oklahoma…although I doubt the cases are connected, despite the proximity; poor Tom disappeared on Thanksgiving, and his remains weren’t found for almost two years. Skin Hollandsworth had done an eight-part series on Tom for Texas Monthly, which I will probably read over the course of the weekend. It also occurred to me last night that I have become obsessed with the murders of teenaged boys in rural America lately. But how many cases like this are there, where a teenaged boy (granted, Noah was nineteen, but that still counts) is murdered in a small town where everyone knows everyone, but no one knows who the killer/killers is/are? Come on, now. I’m not buying that for a second.

There’s no corruption quite like small town corruption, is there? That’s also uniquely American, I think, and tells quite a different story than all the “real America/Joe Sixpack” right wing bullshit they try to sell us, where every small town is Mayberry and good American values are still appreciated. Well, in my experience every small town is either Twin Peaks or Peyton Place, and if that defines America….well, we need to rethink that.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I’ll probably be back later.

Endlessly

Monday morning and it’s back to work for one Gregalicious. Memorial Day is this coming weekend, which means a lovely three day weekend for me, which will be lovely, and is even more lovely to contemplate. I didn’t get a lot done this weekend, which is NOT a good thing, but I can live with it. I feel rested and ready to go this morning, which is the most important thing to come out of a weekend in my humble opinion. It’s nice not to beat myself up over taking down time, you know?

I finished reading Where They Wait by Scott Carson, and loved it (more on that later), so I don’t consider the weekend a complete wash. We also started watching Euphoria yesterday. I’m not sure why we never watched in the first place, but damn–I thought Gossip Girl was over the top, but Euphoria is a whole other ball of wax, isn’t it? But I also love the way they tell the story, with Zendaya’s character narrating the story and filling in gaps about the other characters in the story, to give the viewers a better understanding of who they are. But whew–all the drugs and sex and drinking and porn watching and so forth–things are a lot different now than when I was in high school–although I do think this show might just take things to extremes.

It does kind of give me pause, though–my books about teenagers are nothing like this. I’m not even sure I could even write something like this, to be honest. But then again I always tend to come down on the side of innocence when it comes to teenagers…even if I do depict high school as an endless hell for the students. As I am not a high school student, my grandnieces and nephews are very religious so this wouldn’t be them, and I don’t know any high school students to ask, I will simply have to continue wondering. But I am sure that kids with access to money and so forth probably party a lot harder than we did when I was in high school (for the record, I had only had alcohol once before graduation–yeah I was one of those kids; incredibly innocent and even more naive; Dad still regrets letting me skip a grade to this day), and I sort of touched on that with #shedeservedit, but I think my next book with teens will go into more detail.

I didn’t write at all this weekend; the motivation was simply not there, which is actually shameful. It is AMAZING the excuses I can some up with to not write; I’m also beginning to think talking about plans to write instead of talking about having written is perhaps not the ideal way to go. I do feel good this morning; I don’t feel like I slept all that well last night, in all honesty, but somehow I am alert and have energy–that will undoubtedly flag a bit this afternoon before I go home. But I do hold out hope for a good week, as always.

We also tried Manhunt, the Apple series about the hunt for John Wilkes Booth and his accomplices after the Lincoln assassination; the first episode was a bit slow, but I do love Tobias Menzies and we’ll probably go back to it once we’ve finished Euphoria. I’m still not sure what the deal is with the rest of the episodes of After the Flood, but for whatever annoying reason, we only have access to the first two episodes, despite a Britbox subscription. (Note to self: see what all we are subscribed to, and cut the cord on the ones we never watch; in some cases it might be easier and cheaper to simply buy or rent the shows we want to watch.)

As you can tell, this weekend wasn’t much. Not much done, not much accomplished, and I pretty much just laid around the whole weekend, other than running to the grocery store (twice) and picking up the mail twice. I also don’t feel in the least bit sorry about it, either. I know I need to get back to writing and making some breakthroughs on things, which might engage the writing muscles again and get me back to writing, but I am really not feeling all that motivated anymore. I think a lot of it has to do with the overall inability to ever get caught up on the house. Sparky of course is no help whatsoever; he always seems to be wanting attention when I am doing anything, and he’s just too cute to ignore–even when he is attacking me with fangs and claws unsheathed. Especially then, really? But I really need to get back to writing every day, even if it’s nothing more than a couple of hundred words here and there. Every word written brings things closer to being finished, and if I have to work on multiple things at the same time, so be it; I’ve done it before and it worked, so it would work again–at least in theory.

And so on that note I am heading into the spices mines, trying to get everything onto a to-do list, which may help in some ways. I may be back later, you never know; there’s lots of blog drafts that need finishing.

Killer Queen

Ah, my lord the Duke of Buckingham; probably one of the most successful fuckboys in history.

Contemporaries wrote of his physical beauty constantly when he was a young man, and first coming to the attention of his King; and while I’ve certainly never read any biographies of George Villiers, I have always been vaguely aware of him–primarily because of his role in The Three Musketeers, which is, of course, a marvelous fiction. While I have no doubt that George may have become enamored of the French Queen (the Hapsburg Spanish princess Anne of Austria) while in France arranging the marriage of Charles I to the French Bourbon princess Henrietta Maria (which, despite the success of the marriage, was a big mistake in the macro sense; the Stuart penchant in the seventeenth century of marrying Catholic princesses eventually led to their fall and the extinction of their direct line); without reading more into the history of the period, it’s hard to say whether that fiction of Dumas’ was based in rumor or was simply his own creation–but George was definitely a fuckboy, so anything is possible.

It took me until I was a bit older to realize the relationship between my lord Buckingham and his king was a bit more than just “best buddies.”

And even then, it took me a little while longer to recognize that the Buckingham of The Three Musketeers was also the same favorite of King James’. It was his son that was the bosom buddy of Charles II; he also was the cousin of Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine, one of that king’s longest running and most notorious mistresses (I named Chanse’s landlady after her, actually), so there were a lot of noble Villiers entwined with the destiny of the royal house of Stuart during the seventeenth century. Of course, given how language was blurred about Kings and their favorites in the histories I read, it never crossed my mind to read more into them until I was in my thirties (also, reading Cashelmara by Susan Howatch made me realize Edward II’s favorites also shared his bed…and then all the other pieces, about James I and Henri III of France began falling into place, even if their sexuality was determinedly erased from history.

So, when I saw the first preview for Mary and George, I was very excited. A series that actually isn’t afraid to address James Stuart’s actual sexuality, and that of his fuckboy, my lord George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham? Starring Julianne Moore and Nicholas Galitzine? Julianne Moore was clearly relishing playing the hell out of the ambitious let-nothing-get-in-her-way mother?

I was so in.

And in all honesty, I knew Galitzine was becoming a heartthrob/sex symbol, but with blond hair he reminded me too much of Macauley Culkin and I just didn’t really see it.

But as a brunette? Beautiful, and perfectly cast.

See what I mean? Sex on a stick, just like Buckingham’s contemporaries said.

I can see why historians tried so hard to erase the truth about the rise of the Villiers family, from lower nobility to a dukedom; the fact that Mary groomed her gorgeous son to seduce the king as a way to riches and power is not something you encounter frequently in the pages of history; especially in the modern age…but this was very common throughout history with beautiful girls…they were groomed and educated with an eye to seducing a powerful man for money, prestige, and power, and if the man was a king, even better.

Mary and George is pretty historically accurate, too–more so than many of these kinds of series, where things are changed for the sake of story, but the rise of George Villiers is dramatic enough, as well as all the court intrigue behind the scenes, but…the final episode to me was the only failure in the series. Even though I knew how it would all end, I kept thinking they’d come up with some way to make the end more dramatic, but that last episode felt rushed to me, didn’t have enough set-up to work as a finale and it just then kind of….ended. But the show is gorgeously produced; the costumes, the sets, and the acting is all excellent…until the last episode. In that episode, George has already been raised to duke…yet his clothes are the most drab of the entire season other than the first episode, when his preparations to be a fuckboy get underway. George was very famous for his splendid, ornate and opulent style of dress; he was always covered in jewels from head to toe, but for some reason they tried to make him look as drab and unattractive as possible. That certainly wouldn’t have been the case when he visited the Spanish court with the Prince of Wales (excellent casting; he looked just like the paintings of Charles I); it would have undermined English prestige to show up at the court of Philip IV so underdressed.

There’s also frontal male nudity, and lots of gay sex scenes. Buckingham was undoubtedly, at best, in modern terms a bisexual; the best quote of the show about sex partners was “bodies are just bodies”–which both mother and son say any number of times as they bed both genders happily.

I highly recommend it, and would love to see more of these shows.

Petite Fleur

Saturday and the weekend blooms this morning, huzzah huzzah! Well, I slept super-late for me this morning, not arising until a bit before ten, and I do have to run to the store to pick-up something I forgot yesterday (Sparky’s treats, and he is NOT happy to have had a treat-less 24 hours, believe you me), but other than that, I’ve pretty much decided to spend the day reading and not stressing about anything. I feel like I need a low-energy day, and since today is feeling that way, may as well make it today. I did spend some time yesterday reading my book, which I am really enjoying, and when Paul got home last night we watched the finale of Mary and George, which was kind of a letdown in some ways, and then the next two episodes of Bridgerton, which we are enjoying precisely because it’s just meant to be frothy fun–and that’s not a bad thing, and it’s not easy to do while making it all look easy. I don’t have much desire to read the books, to be honest, and the Regency period has never really interested me much; which is kind of interesting and perhaps something I should explore; but the wretched sons of George III and Queen Charlotte are sublimely uninteresting.

A wonderful thunderstorm woke me around six this morning–that, and a treat-less cat–which was marvelous, and I went right back to sleep. I also didn’t stay up super-late last night (eleven rather than ten), so that doesn’t explain it.

I also read some research for another book I am considering writing (separate from the Noah Presgrove death in Oklahoma one I’ve been talking about) and I think I am beginning to understand how I need to write that book, and how to write myself into it. I’ve also been thinking a lot about some other projects that I would like to get done, and now I need to make a plan and figure out how I am going to get everything done that needs to be done. I’ve already come up with a financial plan for the rest of the year (very little travel, very little spending, and trying to clear some debts), and now I need to just get it together for writing.

I think we will probably finish Bridgerton this weekend, and we also want to watch The Iron Claw. There are some other shows we are thinking about watching, and some that we need to catch up on…I’m still trying to figure out why only the first two episodes of After the Flood are available. We watched the first, but are holding off on the second until the rest are available to watch–and will probably have to go back and watch the first again.

Very exciting, aren’t I?

Louisiana’s “bathroom bill” is currently making its way through our demonic legislature, which is beginning to resist our Christofascist governor. They passed a law this week to display the Ten Commandments in every public school in the state (there will be lawsuits), and are working on legitimizing a voucher system so Louisiana taxpayers can pay to send rich kids to private school while defunding public education here, already deplorably underfunded…which makes me wonder; Louisiana Lottery proceeds were supposedly earmarked for public education–but we never hear that anymore, so where is that money going? For the record, this piece of shit makes Bobby Jindal look like a moderate, and look at the damage Jindal did in eight years….this guy is on track to drive Louisiana right into a drainage sewer canal much faster than Piyush ever dared to dream. Environmental protections stripped to benefit oil and petrochemical corporations? Done. Tax breaks for the wealthy? Done. Attempts to turn Louisiana into a theocracy? Well on its way! Thanks again, Louisiana bigots, for foisting this piece of shit and this sewage legislature on us all.

Jindal went out of office with his career and ambitions basically gone. Here’s hoping Landry’s fall from grace is swifter and even more brutal.

It’s Late

Wednesday and midweek, with only two days (inclusive) left in the office, can we say hallelujah? I am still struggling to adjust back to getting up early and going into the office, and this morning was a bit better than the others this morning in terms of getting up–my alarm went off, for one–but I am still struggling yet to adjust. I was low energy most of the day yesterday (I got all my work done, though) and then came home to do literally next to nothing the rest of the evening. I pretty much wasted most of the night, really, because I was physically and mentally fatigued. I fell asleep almost the moment I got into the bed, and I slept well for the night. But this too shall pass, and hopefully next week will be a return to my normality as far as sleep and work are concerned.

I continue to follow this Oklahoma suspicious death–the autopsy was recently released, and it’s horrific what happened to this kid–and also realized last night that I not only didn’t want to use All Their Guilty Stains as the title of the book that might grow out of this case; but didn’t know what to use instead, and I always have to have a title before I can do much of anything with the research etc. It hit me right in the face this morning; Justice for Abel, which is a stopgap name for the victim that I’ll probably change later. There are also several ways to write such a book–from the perspective of several people from the area impacted by the death; from a journalistic POV, of either a reporter or true crime writer interested in the case; or as a straight up cop story, like a deputy sheriff or something who becomes very aware there’s corruption in the area’s justice system (or a Kansas Bureau of Investigation agent). But I’m nowhere near ready to write this one, and so I need to just vomit out all the ideas and thoughts about it so I don’t forget them, and dig into the unfinished stuff I need to get done. I know what I am going to be working on next, of course, but I also need to get some of these damned short stories finished, too. Focus, Gregalicious, focus.

I also need to get back to my Scott Carson book, so I can move on to my next read, which will most likely either be the latest Kellye Garrett, Angie Kim, or something else out from the stack of books.

I’ve been up and down lately about my career; which is, of course stupid to think about right now. Of course your career feels a bit off this year–last year was horrific emotionally, spiritually, and physically–so it was kind of a lost year, and this year has been pretty much a wash. I seem to be coming out from under all of that at the moment (at least for the time being) and so I need to make a summer to-do list as well as one for this weekend and next week. It’s been a hot minute since I set any kind of goals for myself, and I don’t think it’s wrong for me to take it easy this week and put no pressure on myself to acclimate faster to my reality. So it takes a while to get back in the saddle and feel like I belong in my own life when I was able to bounce back from trips and breaks in routine faster. But I am in my sixties now and that does impact everything…even if I forget to account for it regularly. I do worry that I am simply justifying being lazy–something I’ve been accused of for so long now that I’ve simply accepted the fact that I am and don’t defend myself when someone says it anymore. But that’s a touch of anxiety, isn’t it? No one cares how hard I work when I am not at my day job, and as I often remind myself when I start to head down the path of self-recrimination, everyone else gets time off, so why shouldn’t I? And not taking down time to rest my creativity and my intellect and my body would just lead to burn out faster, and when I’m burned out there’s nothing I can do at all, so what is better?

So, here’s hoping I can make a to-do list today, get some chores done when I get home from the office, and read for a bit before Paul gets home. I am going to take my leave of you now, Constant Reader, before I head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday!