Category: true crime

Take Good Care of Her

Ah, here we are on what I wished were Taco Tuesday, but alas, it is not to be. Too much food already on hand to go out and get something entirely new. It’s dark again this morning, and of course there are any number of tropical systems out there that need to be watched, but at least we’re in the final months of the season. I was very comfortable in the bed this morning–Sparky was cuddled up with me when I woke up–but forced myself to get up. My week is kind of messed up already. I had to cover the clinic yesterday because someone’s on vacation (I kept thinking it was Tuesday all day), and now today I am working clinic by myself. That means I’ll probably be tired when I get home tonight, which is okay. I made groceries and got the mail last night, so I can come straight home tonight. I ordered some things on-line this week–new shoes, coffee–and I also repaired a book whose binding had broken (a Three Investigators tome), and tried repairing a pair of very cool Oxfords. I’ve had the shoes for almost thirteen years now, but have only wore them a handful of times (I rarely dress up and they’re too dressy to wear otherwise) so am not comfortable with just throwing them out when they just need to have the sole reattached. (Gorilla Glue failed me, so they’re going to have to wind up going to a shoe repair.) There wasn’t a lot of traffic last night on the way home, and after getting home and bonding with Sparky, I relaxed in my easy chair and bonded with the kitty while watching the news on-line. We did end up watching another episode of American Sports Story, and this season is really about the dangers of the closet, and how that level of self-loathing can twist someone into something dark.

Kind of sad, really; yet another example of the dangers of toxic masculinity (as if we needed another). And the guy who plays Urban Meyer is kind of uncanny.

I also read some more of Rival Queens, and have finally reached the part where the final Valois king, Henri III, has ascended to the French throne, and talks about his gender identity and homosexuality–and of course, the most interesting part to me; the mignons, his handsome young men that danced attendance on him as his favorites. Both mother and sister queens (Catherine de Medici and Marguerite of Navarre) despised the mignons, but weren’t so above the fray to not use them in their own attempts to either control the country or save her own life. It would be interesting, methinks, to write about this treacherous period of religious civil wars in France, with Spain, the Empire and England all meddling in French politics–lots on intrigue, back-stabbing, the changing of sides, assassination and murder, and of course, war. The second half of the sixteenth century saw France torn apart by factionalism and war, which wrecked the economy and kept France from building itself into a major power; fear of France really drove European history for centuries.

There certainly has been a lot of celebrity death lately, so much so that I’ve not really been able to keep up. Maggie Smith–what can I say about Maggie Smith? I first saw her on film in Murder by Death, and she was my favorite part of the movie. When I saw California Suite in the theater, I fell in love with her and wished the entire film had focused on her and Michael Caine; the other stories were dull and trite and cliched. From then on, I made a point to watch anything with Maggie Smith in it, and I was never disappointed. Such a massive talent, and so many great performances left behind. Kris Kristofferson was another giant, of music and acting. I first really noticed him in A Star is Born, and DAMN the man was fine. And that voice! Kristofferson was also a progressive and that came across in many of his classic songs. Just “Help Me Make It Thru The Night”, “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” and “Me and Bobby McGee” is enough to ensure an impressive legacy, and that’s just scratching the surface. He was also a very good person, a classy guy who cared about people and the downtrodden–from that period of country music where the greats (Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, and Kristofferson) were progressives who stood up to oppression and bigotry. (I also love his quote about Toby Keith’s music–“he’s done for country music what pantyhose did for finger-fucking.”)

In other exciting news, the so-called “abortion pills” have now been banned in Gilead, er, Louisiana; the bill banning them outright went into effect this morning. I never thought I’d see the day when we had a worse governor or legislature than we did during the Bobby Jindal “burn Louisiana to the ground” administration…so of course the Reich Wing bigots in Louisiana had to elect someone far, far worse. Such a beautiful state–with so many ugly people living here. That is unfortunately true about the entire South, really, and no, Southern states don’t deserve hurricanes as punishment, either; that’s the kind of hellfire and brimstone shit the Reich believes in, and I reject any natural occurrence as being “God’s punishment” for sin–when God doesn’t choose to protect children from physical, emotional, and sexual abuse, you can miss me with your bloodthirsty god.

I’m looking forward to working on the book some more, and I also want to submit a story to an upcoming anthology deadline that could actually work for me. We shall see how motivated I am, shan’t we?

And on that note, tis off to the spice mines with me. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I hope you get some tacos tonight!

Room Full of Roses

Monday morning has rolled around again somehow, and it’s another week of work for me (and everyone else). I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning–and I’d really like to go back to bed–but I feel okay as far as rest and everything is concerned. My neck has been sore for a few days because I slept on it wrong (it’s sooo much fun being old), so I’ve been making sure my head is correctly positioned on my pillows the last couple of nights and what do you know, it’s gotten better. The one thing I hate about being older is that you have to be a lot more careful about doing things, else you’ll be sorry. I’m not very keen on that aspect of being older, frankly. The Saints lost yesterday in the final minute, which was disappointing, but I think the Eagles are one of the better teams in the NFL? I probably should start paying more attention to the NFL overall, I suppose, but it’s still too early in the season to start thinking about play-offs and so forth.

I did make a grocery run yesterday morning–I’ll have to stop on the way home to get a few things I didn’t get, but other than that, it’s straight home for me tonight. We almost finished Monster: The Erik and Lyle Menendez Story, which apparently the brothers aren’t all that happy with; and in all honesty, I thought the first episode was truly terrible and we weren’t going to watch any more of it…but after the game yesterday we decided to give the second episode a try, and we got hooked into it. I’ve not seen much chatter about the show, but the acting is really good and while the writing and plotting are all over the place (the Dominick Dunne representation by Nathan Lane is quite good, but very reminiscent of Truman Capote from Feud), it’s very well done and while there are some things I don’t remember in the story (doesn’t mean they didn’t happen; it was over thirty years ago they killed their parents and my memory isn’t good anymore), it’s not intended to be factual but entertainment. I don’t know how I would feel about my life being offered up as fictionalized entertainment for the huddled, teeming masses (and hopefully will never find out). But we’re enjoying it, and I’ll talk about it more once we’ve finished watching.

I didn’t get any writing done this weekend, and that’s perfectly okay. I was very low energy both Friday and Saturday, and finally felt more like me yesterday. But after the grocery run and the Saints game, I just wasn’t up for writing…and the primary reason was I got very deep into Jordan Harper’s Everybody Knows and I even hated to put it down to watch the Saints game, but I was so into it that I was reading during the game. I will most likely finish it this week or this weekend, and I will have a lot to say about this incredible novel when I do finish it. I’ve really hit a lucky streak with my reading–this and the forthcoming Alison Gaylin are both fantastic; and I am really looking forward to all the good reads in my TBR pile. It’s also eerie reading Harper’s book, having recently watched Quiet on the Set and with the currently breaking Sean Combs story, which is truly terrifying and sending, it seems, even bigger shockwaves through the entertainment business than even Epstein’s arrest. I will have some things to say when I do finally write about Harper’s book, which is truly incredible; I can see why it got so much awards love; I would have short-listed it myself had I been a judge that year.

Reading other good writers always inspires me; this is how I can tell someone is a truly terrific talent–I get ideas of my own from reading their work, and will note phrases and sentences that sound like great titles. This is why, I think, I always have so much trouble talking about my influences, because I’m influenced by everything I read, whether I like it, enjoy it, love it, or hate it. Same will visual media–film and television. (For example, that Menendez show makes me think, again, about murders within the family, and how monstrous those stories are. I can’t imagine killing my father or my sister, under any circumstance, because it’s not even on my register. And killing your mother? Yeah, can’t even conceive of any reason powerful enough to do that…so I am lucky and kind of grateful to be lucky.)

So, I’m kind of hoping to have a good week this week, with reading and writing and cleaning and filing everything. I feel good going into the week, so let’s hope this lasts. And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in again at some point.

Reach

Monday morning and back to the office with me. I feel rested this morning–it took me a minute to wake up–and good, like this is going to be a very good week for one Gregalicious. It’s also my birthday month, which is kind of fun; I’ll be sixty-three in a few weeks (note to self: take birthday and day before off for a four day weekend), and that’s not nearly as traumatizing as it could be, you know? I don’t mind getting older; I never really have and I also don’t care about being old. I joke about it, but it’s never serious. A gay man who was in his twenties during the 1980s and made it to sixty-three? There aren’t as many of us as there should be, and that’s not something I will ever get over, I don’t think. A quick glance at the weather lets me know that it will “feel like” 112 today; Debby is battering the Florida coast; and we won’t be getting any rain today. We didn’t have any this weekend, I don’t think. I went out into the heat yesterday to make groceries, and retreated home as quickly as I could. (The cost of groceries is insane–I cannot believe how much I spent for so little…thanks, corporate greed!)

I’ve been listening to a podcast in the car the last few days, and I am really enjoying it. I’ve never gotten into podcasts–I have never been known as an early adapter; sometimes I don’t adapt at all. I’ve never really understood podcasts, how to find them, or even how to listen to them. I did figure it out last summer (I did find some great ones about hauntings and legends of the South; i listened to one about Julia Brown and the destruction of Frenier, Louisiana, for my unfinished story “When I Die”), but again–when I am in town I am rarely in the car long enough to listen to something all the way through, which totally sucks for audiobooks; you can’t listen to a ten hour book in twenty minute segments. At least I can’t; I don’t remember things anymore so it’s hard for me to pick back up if I go a few days without getting back into the book. Memory is necessary for reading, alas, which is why I am having so much trouble reading these days. Maybe if I commit to a chapter per night? I’ve either got to start reading regularly again or I have to stop compulsively buying books. Anyway, I asked my supervisor last week what audiobook she was going to listen to on her long drive this past weekend and she replied, “I don’t listen to books because I worry I’ll go to sleep. I listen to podcasts.” I of course then expressed my geriatric usual response to the word “podcast” and she recommended one to me, which I started listening to on the way home from work Thursday. It’s hilarious. It’s called “My Dad Wrote a Porno”, features three Brits (two men, one women) and that is what it’s about. One man’s dad wrote a porn novel, and each episode is his son reading one aloud and the three reacting to it. It is amazingly hilarious because…well, because the writing of the book, Belinda Blinked, is hilariously campy and bad. (It’s also a real book, for sale on Amazon.) I’ve been listening in the car non-stop, and we’re only up to chapter three. Apparently, there are eight seasons, so this should entertain me in the car for quite some time!

I really didn’t do much of anything yesterday other than the grocery run, finishing the final season of Elite (the first three seasons remain the best), which was a bit satisfying but…they did leave some of the characters with dangling stories, so it’s entire possible they could do spin-offs, but the only spin-off I want to see is one with Carla (Ester Exposito), but that ship has sailed, alas. Tonight we’ll watch more Olympics (we did last night, too); it is unbelievable how much of a good mood the Olympics puts me into. These games also seem a bit more special this time around; the 2020 ones were kind of messed up, taking place in 2021 with no crowds, so we’ve really not had an Olympics like usual since 2016. The athletes seem to really be grateful to be there; losing gold and settling for either silver or bronze isn’t coming across as “disappointing” or “losing.” Gold medals are rare, and fluky things happen at the Olympics; which is part of the excitement. You never know who’s going to become a star during the games (if someone had told me that a nerdy pommel horse specialist from Worcester, MA would capture the hearts of the American public, I would have laughed). So many amazing stories in so many different sporting disciplines…so inspiring, and the athletes are just wonderful. Just being there is a win, let alone getting a medal. I would just be so thrilled to be there I don’t think any disappointment would stick for long. I will be sorry when it ends, but am very excited the next games will be in Los Angeles! Woo-hoo! Our time zones so we can watch live!

I really do feel bad for the people who’d rather be angry than enjoy the spirit of sport and athletic excellence from young people who’ve trained their whole lives for this moment and celebrate healthy competition, but those people tend to find no joy in life and just want to make everyone else as miserable as they are. Misery loves company indeed.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, and I may be back later; one can never be certain.

Tell Me Why

The question of whether one can enjoy art by an artist who is, in some way, problematic in modern sensibilities has been raging off and on almost this entire century; the conversation will die down without any real resolution until someone everyone hero-worships is exposed. This always lends itself to the rending of garments and the gnashing of teeth as people question whether it’s okay to continue enjoying art by someone who your ethics and values find to be problematic. I understand why people have these reactions, and there is something to be said about a world in which there was no social media or Internet around to expose artists the way they are now, you know? With the changes in publishing, artists have had to start putting themselves out there a lot more than ever before to connect with readers and hopefully sell some books to keep our careers going; as someone who (despite the blog) tends to be a very private person (“never bleed in public!”) I try not to be controversial about things that, to me, aren’t controversial; anyone who thinks I am not going to support queer equality or fight misogyny and racism with every breath in my body and every keystroke in my fingers…that isn’t controversial to me.

And if you think a gay man who constantly has to justify his existence as a human being and therefore should have the same rights that everyone else has isn’t going to belittle, insult, and rip to shreds people who think I’m subhuman? Go fuck yourself with rusty razor wire and do the world a favor and don’t breed.

And don’t even get me started on the abuse I’ve endured over the years.

The first time I ever was confronted with this ethical and moral question about art was, I think, with Orson Scott Card. Card was a highly successful science fiction writer, and his book Ender’s Game is (was?) widely regarded as a classic of the genre. I read it and enjoyed it, but there were some kind of creepy things in the text that set off an alarm in my head, and the book didn’t leave me with any desire to revisit that universe or any of Card’s other books. So when he turned out to be a devout Mormon actively working to stigmatize and deny rights to queer people…well, that was an easy decision for me. I don’t actively work to deny him rights as a Mormon, do I? So, yeah, his homophobic activism was actually causing harm to an entire community, and was pushing to do more. As far as I know, he’s still a homophobic POS, but he had the decency to fold his tent, pick up his marbles, and go home with the marriage equality fight ended with Obergefell.1

This question has reared its ugly head again recently, in the cases of immensely popular and respected writers Neil Gaiman and Alice Munro2. Gaiman for sexual predation and Munro for not supporting her daughter who was being raped as a child by Munro’s second husband (and yes, Lolita came up a lot in those conversations, and it never ceases to amaze me how many warped people DO NOT understand that book in the slightest. It’s not a beautiful romantic story of forbidden love and a child-temptress; it’s a horrific story of abuse and survival, even if beautifully written. Nabokov was too good of a writer to tackle this subject, clearly). I was going to address this question regarding them in the abstract; I have no skin in either game. I’ve enjoyed Gaiman’s work in the past, but have never met him and don’t have any connection to him other than his work and mutual friends. But hold the presses–someone I actually know was arrested for possessing child sexual abuse pornography.3

That was a shock.

And the more news that came out about this crime, the worse it has been.

There’s no question he’s guilty; possession of child sex abuse pornography cases generally don’t lead to an arrest unless they are 100% certain of conviction; 91% plead out and those who go to trial have a 95% conviction rate, so they have you dead to rights. The sheer volume of this vile imagery on his computer negates any excuses that a defense lawyer could conceivably come up with. I did see, as soon as the news broke, some people urging others to not jump to conclusions and “everyone is presumed innocent”–yeah, that clamor has died down as more information has come out. It’s also made me think about other instances where someone’s horrible behavior has been exposed; there’s always the people who don’t want to believe it–which I think is more of a subconscious defense mechanism in some way; we all want to believe that we can spot these people in polite company, that there are little tell-tale signs we may not have noticed at the time but now make sense, and we don’t want to believe that someone we’ve met, worked with, been around and liked can be a monster.

But as the queers can tell you, people can pretend to be supportive and pretend to be your friend while happily voting against your rights in every election. They can equate drag queens with pedophilia, and deep down think queer people shouldn’t be around children–or when presented with queer people around children, shudder and say “well that’s inappropriate”–so deep down your instant reaction is homophobia, so you’re actually homophobic at heart and need to do some self-work…and don’t be surprised when you spew out something homophobic you get dragged for it, and then pull the “I didn’t mean it that way”–yes, dear, you did.

And it’s not my fucking job to educate you.

It’s a shock, of course, anything like this will rock your world. We don’t want to believe we are in the company of monsters…but you’ll never go wrong as a queer person slightly holding back on straight people. Given the chance, they will always throw queer people under the bus to maintain their own privilege.

That’s how the monsters get away with it, after all…they look like everyone else. We do ourselves no favors thinking we should be able to tell when we’re in the presence of evil. The fact that we can’t makes knowing and liking a monstrous pedophile feel like a personal failing, like “how did I not see it?” Because they are very adept at fitting in…which is how they get away with it for so long.

The crime community has done a very good job this week disassociating with him, but it’s a excellent reminder to always be careful. Always.

And another reminder: Brendan DuBois? Not a drag queen.

  1. I don’t know if he has resurfaced in his role as unrepentant homophobic asshole in the years since, but he’s no longer on my radar and I don’t care what he’s doing. ↩︎
  2. A NOBEL PRIZE WINNER! ↩︎
  3. Not even the first time this has happened; the last time was someone I knew much better than the colleague arrested this week. ↩︎

The Streak

Good morning, Sunday, how are you all doing? I’m feeling pretty good. Yesterday was a pretty good day. I took four boxes of books to the library sale and was thus able to pretty much finish the overall of the living room. I also worked on the filing, finished the laundry room, and got the kitchen back under control. I do have to spend some time this morning working on the work space here, but I feel like I have the apartment back for the first time in years. I feel very accomplished, not going to lie. There’s still more to do, but at least it doesn’t look like the abode of a hoarder who hasn’t seen the floor in years anymore. There’s still another book purge to come, of course, and there’s the boxes on top of the cabinets that need to be removed as well. I think most of it is paper, too; I don’t think I have that many copies of my own books still in boxes anymore–but I’ve also kind of decided that I can dispose of the vanity book case soon, too. If I can clear out enough other spaces, I can box up my books, carefully archiving and labeling them, and store them in places where I have books that can be donated; and then I can pick up all the stacks of books off the floor and store them in bookcases.

I’m feeling very ambitious about the apartment this year, can you tell? And it was marvelous to come downstairs to an uncluttered and more spacious living room this morning. There are just a few more bits and pieces to get done today down here–things to put away and so forth–and then I can vacuum the entire downstairs! HUZZAH!

I slept late again this morning, much to Sparky’s dismay, but now I am up and my coffee is tasting magnificent this morning. I do have to make a grocery run today, which means organizing the fridge and so forth this morning, too, so I know what we need as well as make room for it. I am resisting the temptation to stock up the freezer–part of being prepared for hurricane season, empty your freezer and don’t fill it with anything other than things you’ll use right away; there’s nothing more frustrating and maddening than throwing away a lot of food after a power outage in the summer–which isn’t easy because yet another mental issue for me is food anxiety; I am always afraid we won’t have food in the house and I won’t have money to buy more (I think Mom was the same way, which is why there was always so much food in her house). I’ve always been this way; living paycheck to paycheck when you don’t make a lot of money can be very scarring for the rest of your life. Maybe some day I’ll get over it, but at least I recognize that it’s an actual thing now and can resist it.

Also, no need to stock up on anything fresh, as everything spoils quickly here in the heat, too. It’s amazing how quickly bananas will ripen here in the tropics, you know.

I am hoping to get some writing done today, too. Tomorrow I am going to get the mail and go to the gym on the way home from the office, and hopefully that will start a real streak of me going to the gym. My arm actually looks better than it did, which is yet another reason I really need to get into the three times per week habit again, even if I’m not doing heavy weights just the exercise itself will help my metabolism. I am getting closer to two hundred pounds and my goal weight (I remember back in the aughts when that was my goal weight to build up to; now it’s a weight loss goal. Sigh. The ironies involved with being gay never end until you’re in the grave.

I read a comic book yesterday; it was a Comixology original and it was quite good. Liebestrasse was the name of it, and it’s main character is a very closeted gay businessman returning to Germany in 1952 and remembering the Weimar times there, when he moved there for work and lived openly as gay and fell in love…as the Nazis were rising. I may give the comic its own entry, but then again I may not. Gays in Weimar Berlin always interest me (especially these days, as the similarities between now and then are even more sharply drawn), but the stories never end happily–how can they–and it’s all really just another version of Goodbye to Berlin, which is a seminal work in queer canon, methinks. I also got a copy of Stephen Spender’s novel of the time (he, Isherwood, and Auden were all friends in Wiemar Berlin) The Temple, which I am also looking forward to reading at some point if I can ever get all my reading caught up (it’s never going to happen, and I really need to stop deluding myself that it will). I’ve always been interested in that time, once I learned about the queer freedoms, and I started clocking the similarities in the 1990s…even coming up with a book idea about the fall of democracy in the United States, when dissidents, queers, and racialized people were imprisoned in “relocation centers.”

Of course, I’ve been saying this for years and no one has ever listened…and here we are.

Chilling thoughts for a Sunday morning, am I right?

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later; stranger things have happened, after all, and continue to happen.

I really wish I had discovered rugby players years ago. I actually would have loved to have played, too.

Roll Away the Stone

Saturday morning and Sparky flatly refused to let me sleep in this morning, but in fairness, I got a little more than an hour of extra sleep. My back feels a bit stiff this morning, but I do feel rested, and the coffee will most likely clear the cobwebs. I have to run to the grocery store today, and that may be all I need to leave the house for today, which is perfectly fine with me. It looks beautiful outside, but I am sure it is the usual forecast for New Orleans: hot, humid, chance of rain. I haven’t looked at the hurricane center yet to see what’s going on with the tropical systems trying to form, but I’ll most likely do that once I’ve finished this.

Yesterday was a nice work-at-home day. I did pick up the mail (got my copy of James Polchin’s Shadow Men, a queer true crime case from the 1920s, which is all kinds of awesome). After I finished working for the day, Paul and I finished watching season 3 of Bridgerton, which we both greatly enjoyed, before moving on to The Acolyte and the new season of The Boys, which is its last. I did some writing–I started pulling the novella apart, in order to do an outline and get a better idea about how to expand it; I actually want to start writing today, if I could be so lucky, I also intend to spend some time reading today; I need to reread some things I have in progress, and would also like to get started on my next read, Horror Movie by Paul Tremblay, which I am really looking forward to; Tremblay is one of my favorite writers. I also want to get the house cleaned up some, as well as make a grocery run at some point in the afternoon. (We don’t need much, really, but really need what I have to get.)

I also worked on my body culture pride post, which actually has now turned into quite a lengthy personal essay; so much so that I may not ever post it here. The essay itself can go on my Substack; I’ve been putting the Pride posts there as well as here because, I don’t know, it just seemed like a better place for them–which seemed silly to post them in both places. Last night, the recognition that the essay was probably a Substack only post made me think about what I am doing with a Substack and a blog, and last night I realized that I should use the Substack for longer form personal essays and keep the blog as it has always been; a daily report on my life and the occasional discussion of a book, television show, or film I’ve greatly enjoyed; the reviews might go in both places, too. I think I can still make the body culture post, but the essay will have to be whittled down and revised; maybe I should do it from the perspective of life lessons learned from getting in shape and actually working as a personal trainer. (Again, seeing that turn into a longer form essay even as I talk about it here and think about it as I type.) Writing these is also an exercise in memory for me, which also is kind of helpful as I am researching the early 1970s in the Chicago suburbs.

I have to admit I greatly enjoyed season three of Bridgerton. Penelope has been one of my favorite characters since the show started, and I’ve always deeply empathized with her as she was ignored, made fun of it, and made to feel invisible. It made sense for her to be Lady Whistledown, and the choice given to her by the show–either Lady Whistledown or the love of her life–was very cleverly done. I wanted her and Colin to resolve everything and get their happily ever after, but I didn’t think it was fair she had to give up who she was in order to get it, you know? This season really emphasized how shitty life really was for these society women during that period, and I’ve always been fond of the actress who plays her mother (she was magnificent in Rome as Atia of the Julii), and this season gave her a chance to really shine as well, as she realized the daughter she always overlooked and never thought would amount to anything was actually the true jewel of her children–and who made the best match in the end. (I also predicted the end several episodes in, involving the Featherington money and title.) It was, all in all, very well done, and I think it may be my favorite of all the seasons, and precisely because Nicola Coughlin is such a compelling actress. It’s nothing serious, of course; Bridgerton is a light fluffy confection, meant to look beautiful and present this wonderful tapestry of what Regency England could have been like, and who doesn’t love a tricky romance with obstacles that must be overcome?

I’ve always wanted to write a romance, but in all honesty am not really sure if I can. I think I’ll put that on the writing agenda for 2025. Why not try? It would most definitely be a challenge to write, and I always prefer challenges.

And on that note, I am going to finish this, get another coffee, and get my day underway. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and I’ll probably be back later on. I’m tricky like that. 🙂

This is NOT why I am a football fan, but it certainly doesn’t hurt. 🙂

Puppy Love

Thursday and my last day in the office for the week. Huzzah! I am fatigued this morning. I went to the gym on my way home last night, and while these “workouts” seem hardly worthy of the name, the way my muscles feel this morning shows me that oh yes indeed, even as light as the weights are and as few sets I am doing, it definitely still is counting. This is why I have to be patient with the progress and not get ahead of myself. Last night, I was definitely tempted to add more weight and even had to talk myself out of it, feeling like I was wimping out–but how much more fatigue would I be feeling this morning? And yes, I slept like the dead last night, too–another sign. I may take an extra rest day and not go again until Saturday. I was also tired when I got home last night, so I didn’t do much of anything, including chores….so will definitely have to do those tonight when I get home. I picked up the mail yesterday, too, so I can come straight home tonight.

And of course, tomorrow is a work-at-home day. Huzzah!

I had another surprise at the post office yesterday, too–my Nancy Drew The Secret of the Old Clock action figure! It’s pretty cool, and I may save pictures of it for here until after Pride month, because I cannot think of a way to do a Pride post about–you know what? I just thought of a way to do it, so I guess I manifested itself into being. I also managed to get a Pride post done yesterday–Calvin Klein ads–and I have some more on deck, too; I’ll give you some hints about them–Dynasty, party culture, gym culture, etc.–and who knows when I’ll get them finished and posted, but they are definitely in progress.

I also got my copy of a book I read and reread over and over again as a kid: Stranger than Science by Frank Edwards. I am slowly remembering some other things about my childhood–my interests in the occult and the unexplained. There was a lot of this sort of thing when I was growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, and I am not sure why there was so much of this in the late 1960’s/early 1970s, but there was. The Bermuda Triangle was a big thing, and so were pseudo-sciences like Erich von Däniken’s Chariots of the Gods and so on; Thor Heyerdahl was having his adventures proving that Pacific Islanders traveled much further than most believed, and he also was proving Egyptians could have made it to America on papyrus boats, which was insane but interesting at the same time. I also loved things like Ripley’s Believe It or Not, which used to be a bigger deal than it is now; weird theories about space alien astronauts and forgotten history–I was really into this sort of thing–lost knowledge has always interested me, and books about recovering lost knowledge (or treasure) were catnip for Gregalicious. I don’t know if this was a natural progression of the 1960s movements, in which we became suspicious of government and less trusting, but the 1970s were a very strange decade, and immersing myself in my memories has been interesting. Anyway, Stranger Than Science is a book telling short tales of real events with no logical or rational explanation (this was where I first learned of spontaneous combustion, for one). Edwards used to have a long-running radio show with the same name and subject matter, and my interest in his book and other unexplained phenomenon (whether true, legend, or a combination of both) had more of an influence on me as a writer than I actually remembered. I’m looking forward to revisiting this book.

I also got Paul Tremblay’s Horror Movie yesterday, and I may be moving it up on the TBR pile. He’s become one of my favorite writers lately–since I read A Head Full of Ghosts a few years back, and I’ve not read anything of his that wasn’t compelling and unputdownable since. (I’m also enjoying Grady Hendrix and Riley Sager these days as well.)

And on that note, I am bringing this to a close so I can head into the spice mines. Have a marvelous Thursday, and look for a Pride post later!

Rockin’ Robin

We made it to Wednesday! Huzzah! Huzzah! Here I sit with my coffee on my middle of the week morning, and I feel pretty good, to be honest. I was very tired yesterday, but not in the “I can’t even think” way, but rather the “hmm, I feel fatigued” way, which is fine. Yesterday was Sparky’s birthday, and so I gave him extra treats and pretty much played with him for most of the evening until he went to sleep in my lap. He really is a dear, even when he has Big Kitten Energy.

It’s been a bit of a week thus far, hasn’t it? Who knew that Ginni Thomas wasn’t the most awful SCOTUS wife? AND THAT IS SAYING SOMETHING. I saw someone on social media suggesting we change it, as a society, from “Karens” to “Martha-Anns,” since that name isn’t as common and she is clearly the GALACTIC EMPRESS of “I need to speak to a manager.” Madame Torquemada wouldn’t think Isabella the Catholic wasn’t religious enough for her, and clearly she’d love to implement the Inquisition, too. Thanks again to the third party votes who gave us the president who would appoint him for your service–and again for your service in 2016. I mean, what a vicious, venomous little spider she is, sitting in her house brooding over people being mean to her, waiting for the day she can be spiteful–the irony is it doesn’t make her look like the wife of a Supreme Court justice, but the Alitos clearly have delusions of grandeur and think they’re superior to everyone else. Whatever, trash. Don’t call yourselves patriots when you’re preference is to wipe your ass on the Constitution, and I also love that Alito thinks he’s a superior legal mind to, I don’t know, say every previous justice, which is rather telling. He certainly should not be a judge. But again, me and everyone else not white-cishet were screaming from the rafters that 2016 was about the Supreme Court, and as usual, no one listened–and that was also the case with the 2000 election, too. Sigh. It’s the pits, sometimes feeling like Cassandra on the walls of Troy.

I do feel much more lively this morning than I have any morning this week, but that’s got to be the better night of sleep last night–best of the week, in fact. I have to go pick up the mail today, my copies of the new Paul Tremblay should be there as well as another book from my childhood, Stranger than Science, which I am justifying getting because I plan to use it in The Summer of Lost Boys, which makes it research. I started thinking more about the next book yesterday, too, and how to expand this novella out into a novel. I am of course still going back and forth on it; it could be a novel, or it could just be the novella I stick at the end of my short story collection, but I think it would be too long for that. I need to write the introduction for that and finish the final stories and get it turned in. I know that Never Kiss a Stranger is already about 23k words in length, and there are at least two other subplots I need to weave into it, which should make it all the more interesting. I’ve not done nearly as much writing this week as I would have preferred, but there’s still a few days left in the week, so I can hopefully make up for lost time. What I need to do is summarize what’s already done, figure out where to slot in the subplots, and then buckle up and do the work. Next week is also going to be a little odd; we have Wednesday off for Juneteenth, so I have to work two days, be off one, work two more, and then drive over to Florida to meet Dad for the weekend. Their anniversary is next week–the 20th, to be exact, so Dad wants to go visit Mom and then he’s going on down. It’ll be a nice, relaxing weekend, methinks.

I’m not even going to take my computer with me. I’ll be ignoring everything until I get back.

Today is also the anniversary of the massacre at Pulse nightclub in Orlando, God rest their souls. That resonated because of course it was a dance club, and I had images of it happening here at either Oz or the Parade, which is chilling–and I really hated that the reboot of Queer as Folk was set here and a club shooting was central to the story. Has there been a true crime book about that yet? I feel like someone should, but not me. I am not the right person to do true crime, because I write fiction, I’d probably be unable to resist the urge to twist facts and evidence to fit any theories I might have, and that’s a disservice to the victims. I have thought, numerous times, about the possibility about writing a true crime book based on this case I am following in Oklahoma–without actually talking to any of the people or visiting the area–because one of the more interesting aspects of it all is the reaction, and how it’s all playing out on just this one Facebook page I joined. It still doesn’t make sense that the investigation was so fouled up from day one. How did anyone ever accept the theory that he was hit and killed by the side mirror on an eighteen-wheeler, and besides, I don’t care how drunk you are–there are conflicting reports on how drunk he was, but the autopsy did say .14 blood alcohol content–you’re not going to be unaware of an eighteen-wheeler coming up behind you on a country highway. And there was no wreckage or debris of any kind where the body was found. Sounds intriguing, doesn’t it? At some point I’ll probably write a blog entry about this case, but I don’t think, as much as I believe I could base a compelling novel in it, that I’ll eventually do so unless I can come up with a artistic thesis (that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it?) for it.

It’s funny how writing is like just about everything else in my life, isn’t it? The more I do it the better I write, the more I enjoy the other parts of my life, and if I take a break from it, it takes a while to shake off the dust and scrape off the rust and reactivate my creativity and my writing muscles. I also forget how to write a book sometimes, and that becomes a bit scary until I start remembering things, like oh yes you always have a point to the book you’re writing and you know what theme you want to explore, or I’ll remember something about the process and wonder if I’ve always done it that way because I don’t really remember. I am also finding I am forgetting a lot of the scenes and characters and plots of some of the books I’ve written, which is even scarier–what if I repeat myself, like with Scotty’s predilection for getting into car accidents? Heavy heaving sigh. This is why being a writer is an exercise in madness, really.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a delightful Wednesday; there may be a pride post later on; one never knows.

It’s Four in the Morning

Tuesday morning and my alarm went off this morning–as well as the cat alarm–and so I am up, swilling coffee, and looking forward to my day. I did stop on the way home yesterday to get the mail and went to the gym to do Rehab. It was remarkably smooth, too–I was able to drive there, park easily, get in and out relatively easily, and get home. I feel a bit tired this morning, which is no doubt due to the unexpected rigorous exercise I put my body through last evening, so there’s definitely some muscle fatigue going on. We watched The Hit Man on Netflix, which was interesting and clever enough, and it was filmed in New Orleans–and that was the way to film in New Orleans; AKA, they just filmed it here like it was anywhere else, and didn’t feel the need to “Nawlins” it up (by which I mean constantly saying New Orleans, sending the characters out for beignets all the time, occasional mention of the Saints, etc etc etc), and there was only one scene where I was like, “if you work at UNO and live in Gentilly, why would you drive home via Liberty Circle?” It was a pleasant way to spend the evening, and it was a cute film; actually based on a true story here locally about an undercover cop (really a side gig) who played hit men in sting operations to arrest the person hiring him, and he’s actually good at it. Check it out, it’s a pleasant way to spend two hours.

I did spend some time writing yesterday, which felt good; I am now going to let that sit for a few days before marking it up with the proverbial red pencil (when I first started, you did use a red pencil or ink to mark up your manuscripts) and I am now going to start pulling Never Kiss a Stranger apart in order to piece it back together as a novel. I mean, why not? I love the main character, I love the minor characters, and the story itself is one I really want to tell and share with the world.

I also picked up the mail, and now have my copy of Summer of ’42, which I am hoping to reread relatively soon.

Hilariously, Harrison Butker (aka Hairy Butt) was in the news again lately for “saving” a teammate’s life, who’d gone into cardiac arrest. Turns out all he did was run for help–which, as someone who has been certified in CPR since 1997, I can tell you is the wrong thing to do. You’re supposed to call for help while starting CPR and ordering someone else to go for help, or to keep calling until someone comes. You’re never supposed to leave the person alone; seconds are critical and the longer before compressions starts the more unlikely it is they will be successful, not to mention the cessation of oxygen flow to the brain. Even if he was the person who was sent for help, it was hardly “his” heroism at play here; it’s really not all that heroic to go look for help when someone is having a medical issue. The irony that he got a female trainer to come out and save the man’s life–while getting the headlines for himself about his “heroics”; in many of the pieces the actual trainer’s name wasn’t even mentioned as they masturbated Butker’s fragile ego, as though saying to all of us who found his graduation antics in incredibly poor taste “see what a great guy?”

Given the other option was to let the man die, he literally did the bare minimum, but we’re supposed to call him a hero? No, heroes are my co-workers who run outside to administer NARCAN to an overdose and save lives. It’s become so routine now that no one even thinks about it, but watching my department immediately slip into crisis mode and work together quickly and efficiently to save a life is very impressive, and way more than Hairy Butt ever would do; he’d probably think the OD was God’s will or something.

The bar really is set low for cishet white men, isn’t it? They need praise for everything.

Sigh. The poor, sad, oppressed straight cis white man, right?

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Wish me luck, and I’ll do the same for you, Constant Reader, and there’s going to be a Pride post later, I’m sure.

Screenshot

Morning Good Morning

Sunday morning and I slept late, which is fine, really. I keep forgetting that sleeping in on my days off isn’t a criminal act of any kind. After so many years of keeping myself overly busy and so I was always behind on deadlines and so forth, I’ve kind of gotten into the insane mindset that sleeping late is a waste of time that could be better utilized, writing or cleaning or reading. I do have some things I need to get done today–mostly running to the store to get the things i need to make a carrot cheesecake for a co-worker’s birthday tomorrow–but if i manage my day properly, I should be able to get things done.

I spent yesterday running errands, and trying to get things cleaned up around the house while dipping into two books–The Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood and Ode to Billy Joe by Herman Raucher. I ordered the latter from ebay after I started doing my research into Robby Benson for the post I made about the crush I had on him as a teenager; realizing the movie script and novel were written by Herman Raucher made me interested in reading the book, as well as wondering about Summer of ’42, and so I ordered copies of each. Billy Joe arrived yesterday, and I was curious about it. Usually novelizations were work-for-hire arrangements and the author used a pseudonym; some are better than others, of course, but just reading the first chapter of Billy Joe I can tell it’s head-and-shoulders above most novelizations, and it’s probably more thorough in telling the story than the movie was, which has me interested. I’ve also been thinking about The Berlin Stories lately, after watching the film Christopher and His Kind, and may revisit it again, too, for Pride Month; Isherwood is one of the literary gods of the gay canon, and the opening sentences of Goodbye to Berlin are perfect for parodying in the prologue to the next Scotty. I still have to finish my reread of Michael Thomas Ford’s Suicide Notes, and I think I’m going to bump the new John Copenhaver up on my TBR list. It is Pride Month, and I should immerse myself in queer lit for the month, don’t you think, Constant Reader?

I also want to write about Summer of ’42 at some point. Like The Other, it was an early read that was very influential on me, and one I often don’t think about when I do think about influential works I’ve read or make a list. I really do need to sit down and identify the books that really impacted me and the way I write; The Other, Summer of ’42, and so many, many others. I also want to write today; I didn’t really yesterday, but I did spend some time yesterday doing research; i.e. watching Youtube videos on the Oklahoma true crime story that fascinates me still, as well as ones that review the 1970’s and pop culture and what was going on those early years of the decade, which is when the book will be set. I think I am moving in a more historical direction rather than writing about the current day; Never Kiss a Stranger is set in the 1990s (1994, to be exact) and of course The Summer of Lost Boys is going to be set in either 1972 or 1973; I can’t decide which, although I suspect 1973 is going to end up being the winner when I finally have to decide.

We finished Under the Bridge last night, and it’s most excellent; I highly recommend it. Based on a true crime novel about the Reena Virk murder in Victoria, British Columbia back in the 1990’s, Reena was beaten badly by a group of girls–some she thought were friends–and then after the others left her broken and injured and bleeding along the river bank, a boy and a girl came back and basically, finished her off. The show reminded me a lot of Megan Abbott’s work; Abbott always writes about the mysterious world of female relationships, female rage and jealousy, and that’s what Under the Bridge does so beautifully. The acting is extraordinary; a real standout is Javon Walton as Warren, the young boy who kills Reena. Walton is very handsome in that young way, and I looked him up because the performance was so extraordinary, and turns out he also played Ashtray on Euphoria, who was one of my favorite characters on that show. Do watch it when you get a chance. I’m going to get a copy of the book now, too. Yay, more things to read! Just what I need!

We also started The Acolyte, but I was sleepy by the time it started and kept dozing off. No judgment on the show, I was just tired.

And on that note, I think I’ll head into the spice mines. I’ll probably finish the dishes this morning while making a grocery list, and then I’ll dash to the store and get gas. I may even finish one of these other Pride blog drafts, so have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later.