Category: health

You Turn Me On

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 are because 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.

  1. 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. ↩︎

Save Your Heart for Me

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‘ve heard 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.

  1. 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! ↩︎
  2. 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. ↩︎

Just a Little

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.

  1. 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. ↩︎
  2. Funny how we still have to pay all of our taxes to a system with its boot on our throats. ↩︎

Catch Us If You Can

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.

California Girls

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.

A Walk in the Black Forest

Thursday leaving work early because I have an appointment with a podiatrist (for the very first time in my life) to see if a) I have arthritis in my big toes and b) if there’s anything that can be done to stop, or at least delay, the continuing pronation of my feet. I have finally found an every day shoe that is incredibly comfortable and my leg joints finally feel good again–or at least, don’t ache. (Air Monarchs, to be exact. I love my new shoes.) I slept really well again, which is great, but I do feel a bit wrung out, if that makes sense? I was very tired yesterday when I got home from work–came straight home, too–and so took the evening off after finishing the character list (so far) and starting the outline. Maybe, if I’m not too tired from running errands tonight after work, I’ll be able to get some writing done on the book before the trip, which is Sunday.

And it’s Halloween! Yay! I didn’t get as much horror read this year as I would have liked, but I think I am still going to read some more horror for a while, just for the fun of it, before going back to my usual crime novels. I am so far behind on my reading it’s not even funny at this point. I will try to read some tonight, since tomorrow is a work-at-home day and I don’t have to get up at six (Sparky to the contrary). My new glasses also have come in, so I need to pick them up before I leave town. Yay! I’m not dressing up for work–I always go as Bitter Old Queen Close to Retirement— but I do miss the days when I would wear costumes for Halloween. I was never good at costumes; I always say the descriptor for my costumes started with ‘slutty.’ Yup, I used to be one of those gay men, ready for any opportunity to go shirtless and/or dress ‘slutty.’ I don’t see anything wrong with it, though–then or now, for that matter. I’ve never been one to turn up my nose at embracing our bodies and our sexuality in a positive, healthy way, and yes, I’ve had people explain to me almost my entirely openly queer adulthood about how ‘desperate’ and ‘thirsty’ that is, that gays who dress like that1 and show off their bodies are just attention-seeking narcissists who love to show off, etc. etc. etc. I’d listen to them, all the while thinking and if one of them was interested in you, you wouldn’t say no2 and wow you are really saying this to me. Bold choice to insult me right to my face!3

The thing is, gay men are just as guilty as everyone else of making assumptions on other gay men, based on superficiality, and sometimes place more value on how people look than who they are. This is not peculiar to gay men, either; everyone does this. When I lost weight and joined a gym, it was astonishing how differently I was treated by strangers…

Envy is always ugly, for the record, which is why I refuse to go down that path with my writing colleagues. No good ever comes from envy (as opposed to spite, my primary motivator), it’s a waste of time and energy because it doesn’t change anything, and so I don’t indulge myself with it anymore, and haven’t in over twenty years. I never envy anyone their talent or their careers. That’s pointless, and who wants to head down the path of negativity like that? My focus going forward is to try to stay positive, while making myself and my career more of a priority than it ever has been before. And it kind of feels good, you know? It’s so incredibly freeing to say “I don’t care” and “no thank you” and “sorry that just doesn’t work for me.” (That last is my absolute favorite.)

I actually do feel a bit rundown this morning, now that the coffee’s hit and I’ve had some sugary treats for breakfast (follow me for tips on how to live a more healthy lifestyle!), I do feel a bit of fatigue and some slight brain fog. At least I’m not exhausted, the way I used to get by the time Thursday rolled around again. That’s progress.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, and I may be back later.

  1. A former woman friend of mine, when I once complained about being groped without my consent in gay bars, replied, without missing a beat, “That’s what you get for dressing like a whore” to which I replied, “so you’re saying I’m asking to get raped?” and the look on her face was priceless as that reality dawned on her. I really should have cut her off at least a decade before I did. She was the kind of Trumpelthinskin asshole I have come to detest: “I get to say horrible and cruel things to and about people because I’m being funny but IT IS NOT FUNNY WHEN PEOPLE DO THAT TO ME AND HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE SO HEARTLESS AND MEEEEEEAAAAAAANNNNNN TO MEEEEEEEEE???.” Immature piece of shit. ↩︎
  2. Trust me, scruples go out the window for gay men when someone hot is interested. You’d be surprised (maybe not) at how many gay men want that homophobic POS Nick Bosa to fuck them…and let’s not forget Aaron Schock. I appreciate their looks, but who they literally are as human beings is so revolting to me that I could never. ↩︎
  3. I have so many marvelous stories about not being taken seriously because of how I looked, but that’s a story for another time. ↩︎

I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am

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!

  1. 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. ↩︎
  2. 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 ↩︎

Down in the Boondocks

What exactly are boondocks, anyway?1

Monday morning and back to work with me today, which is fine. Yesterday was nice–despite the Saints losing; not a good weekend for Louisiana football outside of Tulane–and I feel rested and relaxed this morning, which is great. I have a lot to do today, and am really looking forward to having a good day. I did work on the book; I got the outlining of the first seven chapters done; I made a character list (a good start); and also recognized in the rereading what needs fixing and what needs adding and what needs redoing. I also outlined the rest of a short story I am working on, and figured out how to solve the problem of another one, too, which is very cool. I also read for a while, and really am enjoying House of Rain and Bone. I also figured out why it’s taking me so long to read, which I am puzzling over, and it hit me this morning–I am reading it slowly because I am savoring it, and because it’s making me think as I engage with it, and that’s not an easy thing for any writer to do with their work. The book is also a lot of things I generally don’t care for or like–lots of violence–but the language is very beautiful yet raw, the emotion is like an exposed nerve, but I am enjoying it very much, and it’s very intense…but takes me a while to process and digest what I read, so it’s not going very quickly. This is not a bad thing. Most readers will take this ride and not be able to put it down–it moves very quickly, the characters are remarkably likable, the main character is a relatable guy–but as a fellow author, I want to savor the language, the structure, the pacing, all the things that make the book so stunningly brilliant.

And that’s a good thing.

I feel pretty good this morning, actually. I slept really well last night, and feel rested and relaxed as I face the day. It’s my Admin day at work, so I have no pressures or stress and no interactions with clients, unless I see one by chance as I walk around doing other things this morning. I love my clients–I really do, and the long-termers are lovely to see every quarter–but interacting with people all day as someone who is, at heart, an introvert despite being a Leo (I like attention but it also makes me uncomfortable2), wears me out a bit.

I also worked on the Scotty Bible some this weekend. I marked up the final volume that wasn’t (Royal Street Reveillon) and then took down the notes from those pages, and will need to get that typed up. The last step of finishing the Bible includes reorganizing the notes into book order, before sorting them all into categories and so forth. I also need to do a synopsis of each book, detailing not only the case but developments in Scotty’s personal life, the family tree, and so on. Also going through the books to do this–even just pulling the notes out–has given me the opportunity (without the anxiety and all the little naysaying voices in my head, banished by my new medications) to reread (a bit) and reacquaint myself with the work with fresh eyes. As you probably already know, I am very hard of myself and was always dismissive of any achievements or recognition I may have received, and have forgotten a lot of the stories and what happened and why and where the idea came from and why I wanted to tell this story…but this revisitation without the usual Greg-crazy has made me appreciate the stories and the writing all the more, which is lovely and incredibly cool. I also realized yesterday while making the notes that while a Scotty Bible is needed and necessary, that an overall Greg Multiverse of New Orleans Bible is necessary; I’ve crossed over all my New Orleans writing (short stories and novels), using the same fictitious spaces and minor characters. (For example, Cooper Construction from A Streetcar Named Murder is also the construction company Scotty is using to renovate the building on Decatur Street.) So, yes, it needs to be more encompassing. I realized that Paige–Chanse’s best friend–whom I’ve also used in the Scotty series–most of her background is in the Chanse books, and yes, I should probably do one for him, too….sigh. It’s like pulling a string from something knit.

I’m kind of going to miss the Swifties, to be honest. We’re used to tourism here–non-stop conventions, the big events, and so on–but there was a marked difference between the Swifties and other big groups that take over New Orleans. For one thing, they were incredibly friendly and nice! So much good energy that I didn’t mind the crowds of them I had to pass through, and the outfits and everything. They were here to have a good time, of course, and the city welcomed them (and their wallets) with open arms so that it became almost a symbiotic pairing. Hospitality workers marveled at their kindness and their generous tipping; store owners and workers didn’t mind being busy because everyone was nice and polite and didn’t complain about anything. I loved the friendship bracelets adorning the Superdome. I loved the endless karaoke of Taylor’s songs that went on as they took over Bourbon Street. Every bar and every shop was playing her music. Her economic impact on the city was undeniable, and I can’t wait to hear about her local charity giving, which she always does–usually food banks and homeless shelters, bless her.

It’s no wonder MAGA hates her. They hate anyone who is kind and giving–they certainly do not recognize Jesus’ messages in her (which goes to show you how they would react to Jesus’ return, doesn’t it? I find it very interesting that his followers are the ones most likely to reject and crucify him). I won’t talk about the Nazi rally at Madison Square Garden yesterday because what else is there to say, other than “we’ve not seen anything like this since the Nuremburg rallies” but we did have one in MSG back in 1939, didn’t we? (And it should come as no surprise that it was conservatives who were pro-Hitler in 1939 America, does it? They hated FDR with the same kind of passion Trump ignites in his acolytes, and since they smeared him as a socialist/communist, naturally they got into bed with Nazis.)

Everything old is new again.

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

  1. So, turns out it means “rough, isolated country”–and has come to mean, in slang, a remote place with little to no civilization. Interesting. ↩︎
  2. And yes, that is on the list of issues to unpack and make peace with. ↩︎

Go Now

Ah, Sunday morning and the last day of relaxation before I return to work tomorrow, and of course next weekend I am driving up to Kentucky. That’ll be nice, if exhausting–I never sleep enough when I travel–but I’ll get to see my sister and spend time with Dad, which is always nice. I’ll get to listen to books in the car, and read some while I am up there. I doubt I’ll write anything; or even edit much. I should just accept that in advance since it never happens, and I’ll have my journal with me and the laptop if the urge should strike. That should be enough, don’t you think? I know I certainly do.

Yesterday was kind of a flat day. I ran my errands and came home to watch football games, and was pretty tired. I did end up getting some chores done around watching games, but not much of anything. I did read some, too, between games. About the best game of the day was Texas-Vanderbilt; Alabama seems to have righted their ship at last, Auburn finally notched a win, and LSU lost last night at Texas A&M. They played great in the first half and then just crumbled in the second, and it was mostly the offense and the kicking team that cost the Tigers the game. But good for you, Aggies–your rivalry renewal game with Texas over Thanksgiving just became super-important. We don’t play again until November 9th, when Alabama comes to Baton Rouge, and we’ll see how and if the ship gets righted that night. I can’t remember the last time the two played where both had two losses coming into the game…I cooked out last night and that turned out well, and I did get some things done yesterday. There’s a few dishes in the sink and of course, the floors…but mostly today I think I am going to focus on writing and reading the most. I want to work on the Scotty Bible today and I want to revisit the manuscript completely, and of course there are short stories and essays to be worked on, as always. So, once I finish this I’m going to go read for a while with my coffee, and then get cleaned up and get to work on writing. Exciting!

I do want to start the week with the apartment cleaned, for one thing.

Yesterday I was thinking–during the dull Alabama-Missouri game–about projects I want to work on and the things I want to get done over the course of the next year, until 2026. It’s an ambitious slate, to be sure, and does require me to actually focus and work rather than blow everything off and spent time with Sparky, who gets sweeter and sweeter every day. He’s finally started cuddling and sleeping with us downstairs while we watch television–he’ll sleep on Paul before moving over to me in the chair–and of course, every morning he gets into bed with me (because he’s hungry) and is kind of a snooze button/alarm that I much prefer to the clanging of the actual one. I need to research hurricanes, too, because I am writing about one, so it doesn’t hurt to actually research and find out a basic overview of them so I can write about it in the book. I do think this Scotty could easily turn out to be the best of the bunch, frankly. Which is a nice feeling to have, I don’t remember feeling that way with the last two, but at the same time I also wrote the last two maybe five years apart? That’s kind of crazy, because I really should at most space them a year and a half apart, which I’ve not done in well over a decade. Kind of nuts, isn’t it? I’d say so. That’s no way to write a series, is it? I don’t know. I probably don’t care all that much, either. I’ve never been terribly smart about my writing career, mainly because my primary driver is the writing itself. I love writing, even when I complain about it, but it’s my primary source of joy in this life.

This week I have a doctor’s appointment on Thursday, with a podiatrist to see about my pronating feet and what is up with the pain in my big toes. It’s not always and it’s not bad enough to make me limp, but it is noticeable. I also noticed when I was pushing the cart around the grocery store yesterday that my hips were sore and hurting, which means time for a new pair of shoes. I should probably get that checked out as well, but it is most likely a side effect from my feet and their pronation. It wouldn’t surprise me if I’d need to have them (the hips, not my feet) replaced at some point over the next five years or so. My new glasses should come in as well, which will be great. I’m hoping they come in before I leave for Kentucky, because I got transition lenses because bright light and glare have become really painful for me, and that will help me on the drive up. I also think I am going to be brave and go up a different way, skipping Chattanooga by going north on I-65 at Birmingham to go through Nashville instead. That’s a better route for me; there’s a lot more places to eat and get gas between Birmingham and Nashville than there are between Birmingham and Chattanooga. I can always come back the normal way–I do want to get a look at the rest stops on 75 for a short story that I think I’ve finally figured out–which never seems to be as bad as going, you know?

And on that note, I need to get another cup of coffee and have breakfast and get cleaned up this morning so I can have a good, productive day. I hope you have a marvelous Sunday, too, Constant Reader, and I’ll chat with you again probably a little later.

Back In My Arms Again

Yesterday I walked to City Hall after work (at home) duties and voted early1, as I won’t be home on election day. It was a lovely day–cool in the shade, but rather warm in direct sunlight–and an even lovelier one for a walk. I believed that walking rather than driving (although I also noticed once I got there, they had set up one-hour free parking spots for early voters, well done, Orleans Parish!) was better for me, and I also wanted to see how the Swiftie takeover of the city was going. It was really nice, actually. I was wearing my LSU joe Burrow #9 jersey, and I’d forgotten (or just didn’t think about) the pleasant reactions I would get (people would say Geaux Tigers to me, or would thump their chests and point at the number and give me a thumbs-up), which was lovely. The Swifties also made me smile. I didn’t see as many as I would have thought I would, but every bar/restaurant I passed was playing Taylor Swift songs (there was a LOT of “Love Story” and “You Belong with Me”) and the Swifties were easy to spot. It was such a pleasant experience being around them, to be honest, and they were of all ages, too. I saw teens and kids and moms and dads and grandmothers–the groups that were three generations of women, dressed alike in bright colors with their arms covered in bracelets and glitter on their faces and I couldn’t help but think how lovely a bonding experience this is for families. Has any artist crossed generations the way Taylor Swift has? And even the dads made me smile. Again, what better way for fathers to bond with their daughters than over Taylor Swift? I loved the GIRL DAD shirts, to be honest, and I also loved the T-shirts with lyrics on them. I recognized all the quotes, too, so maybe I’m not a lower level Swiftie after all? I took pictures of the Superdome with the friendship bracelets on it, too.

But the sun was bright and hot and by the time I’d walked home all my leg joints were aching as were my feet, and I was very sweaty and uncomfortable. By the time I managed to slip into my easy chair, I was bone tired and exhausted–which just tells me that the walk was necessary and important, and I need to start taking more walks regularly. I bought a pair of ten pound dumbbells to keep in the house for my arm rehab exercises, and hopefully by the end of the year I will have started getting more of my strength and endurance back–it would be very easy to just not do any of this and remain feeble, but aI don’t really want to be feeble. I also think the steroid shots on Thursday (and having my eyes dilated) probably wore me out for yesterday too; I went to bed last night at ten and slept until almost nine this morning–Sparky even cuddled with me some in the bed before I got up, which isn’t like him–which tells me I needed the sleep. Today I am going to wash the car, run some errands and make some groceries so I can get home to watch the football games today and read some more. I also want to work on the Scotty Bible today, too–I’ve been trying to find the marked up copy of Royal Street Reveillon, but finally gave up on that yesterday and decided to make up another one today.

I also stupidly walked over there and back without a hat or some kind of head covering, which was terrible. The dermatologist had frozen some “suspicious looking” scaly spots on my scalp that were early skin cancer indicators, and Dr. Claiborne *did* tell me to always wear a hat outside…which means I am going to have to buy some hats. I used to have a ton of them but threw them away to make space2, since I didn’t wear them hardly at all. Now I have to rebuild my collection–although I really only need a few, and of course I am going to get LSU caps, maybe a Saints one, and definitely a Louisiana one.

We also got caught up on our shows, and I have to say I absolutely am loving both Grotesquerie and Agatha All Along.

I feel rested this morning, but also a bit worn out still–that weird feeling where you feel rested but know if you went back to bed I’d fall right back asleep. The coffee is hitting magnificently this morning, and tastes even better. There is some picking up around here that needs doing, and there are boxes of books I’ve been meaning to take to the library sale for quite some time now, which will help clean out that corner of the living room. I don’t know if I’ll have the energy to read, write or edit today, but I know when I finish this and eat something I will probably go to my chair and read some more of Gabino’s book, which I am hoping to finish reading this weekend. I think I am going to allow my Halloween Horror Month to spill over into November, so I can read some more of these horror novels collecting dust in my TBR pile. I also think when I get back from that trip I will probably read some classics I’ve not read, dipping more into the Ross Macdonald/John D. MacDonald/Margaret Millar/Dorothy Hughes well, before circling back to the more recent releases. I’ve managed to get very far behind on all of my favorite authors, and am really looking forward to getting all caught up with them relatively soon.

I also got a royalty statement this morning, and I have to say it’s really lovely having that passive income of a robust backlist.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. I need to make another cup of coffee and eat something before I dig into the day. GEAUX TIGERS! Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again at some point!

  1. I understood the assignment. ↩︎
  2. It was a collection; I always bought a ball cap every where I traveled. ↩︎