Category: writing

As Soon As I Hang Up the Phone

Ugh, the forecast for Milton and Florida remains extremely dire this morning. I feel you, Florida. It also hasn’t escaped me that I am writing a hurricane book for Scotty and this hurricane is Milton–which is Scotty’s actual first name(!!!). I hope everyone able to leave were able to get out safely, and that those who could not are safe as they can be when this storm comes ashore.1 Please help out wherever you can for the victims of this, while not forgetting those still struggling to get over Helene’s fury. Awful, just awful. (And yes, hurricane victims DO need feminine hygiene products, so get the fuck over yourself, Senator Cornpone. I know how squeamish vaginas make you, but that doesn’t change women’s realities, you miserable piece of shit.) I will never understand why men like him hate women so much–and I don’t get how the women in his immediate family haven’t smothered him in his sleep yet, but here we are.

Yesterday was exhausting, not going to lie. This week has been exhausting at the day job this week. My supervisor is in London for two weeks, so I am loosely in charge of my program and I. Do. Not. Like. This. One. Bit. She’s been gone for two days. TWO DAYS. So many things have gone wrong, so many challenges have come up, and I’ve had to come up with workable solutions. It’s not that I can’t do this kind of work–I definitely can–but I do not like to do this kind of work. I don’t want to feel like something Sparky dragged in when I get home, so I am too tired to write or read or do much of anything. This is why I have never wanted to be in management, you know? But all I can do is my best–it’s hard to keep up with everything, I can see why she’s pulling her hair out on a daily basis–and hope that’s good enough. No pressure at all, right? But…I also don’t want her to come back to the office after two weeks and have everything be on fire–especially since I am going to Kentucky a few days after she gets back.

I am definitely leaving for Alabama on Friday. I am going to do my work-at-home chores, and then hit the road and head north. It’ll be nice to see Dad again; one of the only good things that’s happened since we lost Mom is Dad and I have become a lot closer and have spent a lot more time together than we ever have. It’s actually very nice. I just wish Kentucky wasn’t so far away; if he were over in Houston or Alabama, I could make it over there for a weekend every month like I used to do when I worked for the airline and lived in Tampa; at least once a month I’d hop a flight for Houston to go chill out and visit them. I missed that when they moved to Kentucky, but a twelve hour drive is still a twelve hour drive. It’s why I didn’t see Mom more, and that’s something I’ll probably carry to my grave with me.

I also had a ZOOM meeting last night with some writer friends about a project we’re working on, which is always delightful; spending time with writers, even if we aren’t specifically talking about writing and publishing, is always lovely. Paul got home late last night, and all I basically did after the ZOOM call was escape to my easy chair to be a Sparky cushion. I watched hurricane updates and the news, as is my usual wont, and Paul came home just as I was getting ready to go upstairs and go to bed. I slept well last night, which was great, and my brain feels alert and ready to go even if my body feels a bit tired. Tonight on the way home from work I am going to go uptown to get the mail and maybe stop to make groceries…I’m not so sure because I have to figure out how to feed Paul while I am gone–and the big grocery run will have to wait until I get back.

I also figured out how to rewrite a story for an anthology call for submissions yesterday, which is very exciting. I am hoping to get that all worked on and going over the rest of the week. Going to Alabama while I am rewriting an Alabama story–the very first one I ever wrote, back in 1983–and I think I can finally make the story work the way it should have all along. I’m also finding that lately I am solving a lot of problems in work of mine that has been stalled for a long time, which is very exciting. I am hoping to have a very productive 2025, in all honesty, and bearing any tragedies or disruptions (God only knows what’s around the corner for me) but there’s nothing wrong with making plans, you know? So what if plans can get disrupted for reasons that are out of my control? (There’s so little in life that is actually under our own control; the only thing we do control is how we handle things, how we react, and how it changes us in ways we won’t understand until later–sometimes much, much later.)

And I have, recently (pardon me if I mentioned this already) realized that, with my anxiety medicated and under control, I’ve been able to be a lot calmer and cooler about things, and realized how much of my own behavior was anxiety-driven and the result of “trauma” (I feel like this word is used too much…to the point where it’s becoming almost meaningless) I experienced and learned (not always the right lesson) from. I’ve also realized that I’ve never put myself first–especially not my own mental health–and that is going to be a huge priority going forward for me. People may not like it, but I also don’t give much of a fuck what other people think, you know? You don’t like me? Not my problem, really. I feel like that’s an important breakthrough for me. Maybe it’s homophobia, maybe they think I am an asshole, but it’s really none of my business what other people think of me, and it is assuredly not my problem. And it feels good, you know? I always worried that I was too selfish (been told that enough by toxic narcissists to believe it), and yes, I can be…but I also don’t want to let anything or anyone come between me and my writing anymore (well, that doesn’t include Paul, of course).

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Wednesday–oh, it’s even Pay-the-Bills Day! I may be back later.

Why is “sweaty shirtless man holding a tire” a trope in physique photography? I’m assuming it’s because of Herb Ritts.
  1. After Katrina, I made the decision to never be one of those horrible people who blame victims for their bad luck; it isn’t cheap to evacuate by any means, and some people can’t afford to, don’t have an automobile that can last in evacuation traffic, or have some other reason they can’t go. Don’t judge them, for fuck’s sake, you heartless assholes. No one “deserves” this. ↩︎

Love is Like a Butterfly

Tuesday morning and I feel good again. I was very tired when I got home from work yesterday (my supervisor being in Europe is just as stressful as I suspected it would be), and just kind of chilled out last night. I did start outlining what I’ve already written on the Scotty, and I did start looking at stories for this anthology I am going to try to submit something for–I think I can finally change and edit a certain story that’s been in my files for decades. We started watching the new Menendez Brothers documentary on Netflix last night, and will probably finish it tonight. And despite the stress of yesterday morning, I did manage to get all my work done at the office, so I am pretty caught up.

I am going to Alabama this weekend; I heard from Dad and so I am going to drive up there after work on Friday, and come back home on Sunday; a short visit with Dad and then back home. I am going to go up to Kentucky later this month; I need to reschedule some things, but that’s all do-able.

I just looked at the Hurricane Milton updates and am very worried about all my friends who live in Florida. I lived in Tampa for five years in the nineties, when I worked for Continental Airlines; yes, the Tampa airport is the airport where I worked, with the white shirt with epaulets and the navy blue pants and the name tag. (The opening scene of The Orion Mask is set at Tampa Airport; my main character was an airline employee.) We never had anything really major happen there of a tropical nature when I lived there, so it was never anything I worried about before moving to New Orleans. I think about the barrier islands in Tampa Bay, and how narrow the peninsula that St. Petersburg sits on actually is; it’s not impossible that this monster storm could wipe a lot of that area clean. I remain hopeful that somehow this won’t be the coming disaster it appears to be; I can’t even imagine how bad the best case scenario could be. There was significant wind damage to New Orleans with Katrina, which people tend to forget about because of the catastrophic flood that ensued when the levees failed. Roofs will come off, trees will be uprooted and flung about with great force; if it’s as strong as they are saying it could be when it comes ashore, the wind could move cars. I hope everyone gets out that is able. It turns my stomach to think about what could happen there. I hope none of it comes to pass–but I am also realistic. I hope everyone I care about who lives in Florida was able to get out and is okay, and worst case scenarios do not come to pass.

I think I’m going to take Gabino with me to Alabama, and I was looking for a horror novel to listen to in the car, and I am leaning towards listening to Paul Tremblay’s Survivor Song or The Pallbearer’s Club. I do love his writing, though, so it’s fun to read Tremblay; but I do love his work and he’s probably one of my favorite horror writers of this current epoch of horror fiction. I’ll have to pick out some more later for the trip up to Kentucky.1 It seems a bit surreal to be thinking about trips and such things–the minutiae of life–while destruction looms for Florida, doesn’t it? (And what does this mean for the Florida football team? They are on the road at Tennessee this weekend, but supposed to be playing at home the following weekend; I suspect that game will be moved to Lexington.) It’ll be hot without power, but at least October is cooler than August or September. Small favors, indeed.

And on that sad note, I am heading into the spice mines. Keep everyone in the path of the storm in your thoughts, and send some positivity their way–and hope they won’t need it.

  1. It also just occurred to me that I am being counter-intuitive with the trip up there; there’s certainly no reason for me to go from weekend to weekend; I can also go during the week and come back the following week. I hate being so obtuse as to think that ‘trip for a week’ means Sunday to Sunday. ↩︎

I’m A Ramblin’ Man

And here we are, heading back into a Monday and a brand new work week. My supervisor is currently enjoying herself in London for the next two weeks, which makes me the go-to guy for all things testing related and for my program. It may be stressful and exhausting, or it could be totally smooth sailing. I’m also meeting Dad this weekend in Alabama. I’ll have to pick out a horror novel to listen to in the car….I suppose I could continue listening to the podcast I’m thoroughly enjoying, My Dad Wrote a Porno, but probably will go with a book. I’m going to take a week off later in the month and go up to Kentucky–which means more books to listen to.

It was, in some ways, a rejuvenating kind of weekend; I rested a lot Friday evening and Saturday, and as such, felt good yesterday. It was also a lovely day in New Orleans; I walked around the neighborhood to take pictures of the aftermath of a fire the other night just past the corner of Magazine and Hastings1 (she was renting one of the places for Mardi Gras, and had to find another place, obviously), then walked back home, got in the car because I needed gas, and after fueling her up I went to the Fresh Market. Paul was working with his trainer, and once he got back from the gym we watched two movies–The Fall Guy, which we really enjoyed and was a rather fun, charming movie (you can never go wrong with Emily Blunt, and Ryan Gosling was goofily adorable the way he always is) that had a truly terrific supporting cast as well, including Hannah Waddingham, and a true crime documentary that wasn’t good. I slept really well last night, too, and feel pretty good already this morning. I didn’t do much work on the book this weekend, but I did finish marking up the Scotty books, so that’s done. I also had another idea about structure with this book, which is going to be tricky from hereon out to pull off, but I think I can do it, and that’s a very good thing. I also managed to finally finish my blog entry review of Alison Gaylin’s We Are Watching, but you should have know that already if you stop by regularly. I also didn’t read much this weekend, either; it was more about recovery and rest this past weekend than anything else.

I am, by the way, loving the weather. It’s been so beautiful lately, other than the soggy mess that was Friday, which kicked my sinuses into gear, which was partly why I didn’t get anything done. I need to be more careful of my time, though. I’ve gotten so used to spending the weekend recovering from the week and losing track of time (because I feel like I have so much of it every week when Friday rolls around), so should probably start trying to structure the weekends more so I can get things done. I’d forgotten that when you have more free time you need to structure it a little better–but it’s kind of fun just doing what I want when I want to, I must say. I have to get used to this free time thing, and what a horrible problem for me to have, right? There’s nothing wrong with being ambitious, after all–as long as you don’t let your failure to meet goals (from being lazy and having too much free time) affect your self-worth and stop belittling/demeaning myself. I’ve done pretty well for myself as a writer, overall, and considering I did it all mostly on my own–that’s saying something.

I think one of the most important things for me going forward is to cure myself of Imposter Syndrome; I know I’ve talked about how I was raised and how I was taught to be about work–keep your ego out of it2 and let others see the work you do and let them appreciate it. The problem is people never like to let a writer know they enjoyed something–but they do know how to register an outraged opinion. I do the best I can with everything I write, and if I am a better writer than I was twenty-five years ago, good. (I must confess, revisiting Scotty to do the Bible was a pleasant surprise, as the books are actually good.) I also know that there’s nothing I can’t do or achieve if I set my mind to it and plan and stick to it. I did think a lot about writing this weekend–and what are the things I want to write and do over the next few years. It’s so lovely being clear-headed, seriously–you have no idea. The fog is clearing! I feel like GREG again for the first time in nearly a decade. And I’m kind of excited about it, if that makes sense? For example, I saw a news story the other day that gave me not only an insight but a clue to how to fix “Festival of the Redeemer”; that will be fun to rewrite and fix. I also had some thoughts and ideas for Never Kiss a Stranger, Muscles, Chlorine, and the next Scotty–French Quarter Flambeaux, another Mardi Gras novel. I had hoped to revise a short story for a submission call that’s due on the 15th, but I don’t think I’ll have the time to get something ready for it. I do have a story that might fit and needs resolution in a revision, though. There’s still time, of course, but I am not writing as fast as I used to be able to do. Maybe once the muscles get more warmed up? One never knows, does one?

I just saw the Milton forecast, which has me worried and concerned for my central Florida peeps. Take care and be safe, everyone!

And on that note I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great day–may be back later!

  1. If you’re a local and don’t know where Hastings is, you’re not alone. I didn’t, either, until she stayed there on a visit sometime in the last few years. It’s one of those little streets in the lower Garden District that only exist for a block or so. It also joins into the intersection at Magazine and Felicity; there are two lanes that veer off to the right to stay on Magazine, and if you veer left you can go down the one block of Hastings. It creates a pie-shaped block that comes to a point at the intersection, and there’s a small park there, and Gris-Gris restaurant is on both Hastings on one side and Magazine on the other. ↩︎
  2. I have a very strong and powerful ego, don’t ever be fooled into thinking I don’t. Knowing how bad it can be is why I go to such an opposite extreme; I don’t like egomaniacal authors who think everything they write is deathless prose that will live for a thousand years–um, you ain’t Homer, dude. ↩︎

I Wouldn’t Want To Live If You Didn’t Love Me

Sunday morning, and all is well in the Lost Apartment.

I woke up early this morning and, remembering, thought it might have been a dream, but no, a quick glance at the Internet told me it really did happen–Alabama did lose to Vanderbilt yesterday, 40-35. Hell, Arkansas came back to upset Tennessee last night while we were were watching ‘salem’s Lot (more on that later). What in the world was going on in college football yesterday? Admittedly, insane days like yesterday (Washington even went to Michigan and won. What the holy hell is going on this year?) are what make college football so fun to watch and experience as a fan; and I think 2024 might just be one of those insane “reset” seasons where everything goes out the window. Vanderbilt beating Alabama1 just two weeks after losing to Georgia State–another Vandy embarrassment–and now the concept of hope has shown up for the hapless Commodores; if they can beat an Alabama team, on any given Saturday, the ‘dores could beat anyone. Absolutely wild. I was watching a different game–I don’t even remember which this morning–when I saw that the score was 13-7 in the second quarter, Vandy leading, and I thought, what the hell and switched over to that game, and both Paul and I watched in stunned bemusement, riveted until the clock ticked to zero and the Vandy fans rushed the field, tore down the goalposts, and carried them three miles to throw them into the Cumberland River. I can only imagine what it was like to be a Vandy fan watching all of this yesterday.2 I do pity the new Alabama coach; he’s got a hell of a week to get through before next weekend’s South Carolina game (LSU comes back from the bye week to play Mississippi next week at home; the Rebs trounced South Carolina yesterday), but still have to play Tennessee, LSU and Oklahoma. They can still make the play-offs if they run the table, but I am beginning to wonder about that. Missouri was also beaten badly by Texas A&M yesterday, so now Texas is the only unbeaten SEC team still standing and there’s no telling who might run the table, who is good and who isn’t, and so forth. It’s kind of exciting, actually. CHAOS.

I did sleep late yesterday, got up and ran all over town and even went out to Metairie for my eye appointment (which has to be rescheduled; it was an on-line booking error), but was thoroughly exhausted when I got home from everything. I immediately started cleaning while the A&M game was on–no need to watch that thrashing, so it was mostly background noise. I did manage to get all the dishes done, and launder the bed linens, and pick up around here. The Lost Apartment looks better this morning, but I also need to finish assembling my desk chair, do some more cleaning up around here (the floors, the floors!) and hopefully do some reading and writing today as well. The Saints play tomorrow night (Taylor Swift has been rumored to be attending; so I imagine all day tomorrow local networks will have someone stationed at the airport to see if her plane lands), and the weather has been lovely since that sopping wet mess of a Friday we had here. I am glad to be up early this morning–clearly I needed to sleep in yesterday, and I was still easily exhausted, so I know I am still not at 100% yet…patience, Gregalicious, patience. You’re older and it takes longer to bounce back than it used to, and you’ve never had a major surgery before; it hasn’t even been a full year yet since the surgery.

I do have one errand to run today, and I should get it done this morning.

So, we decided to watch ‘salem’s Lot instead of watching the Tennessee game (which we should have watched, apparently; I never tire of watching Tennessee lose), and going into it, I knew that most of the King fans amongst my horror writer/reader social media friends didn’t care for it. As I watched the movie–which is a fairly competent vampire horror movie–I immediately saw what the problem with this film adaptation was going to be, and even understood why even the cheesy two-part television version with David Soul failed. I have always thought of ‘salem’s Lot as “Peyton Place with vampires, and that strength of the novel–the townspeople themselves, their relationships with each other and all the long-simmering feuds and gossips and pettiness–was the primary strength of the novel, as is its pacing: it begins as a slow building burn, and the momentum just keeps building. Everyone knows the story is about vampires now; it’s even a bit of an homage, in its own way, to Dracula–there’s even a scene in the book where Matt Burke reminds Ben of Van Helsing–but when I first read the paperback from Signet back in the fall of 1976 in Kansas, I had no idea what it was about. I just knew it was scary, it was about evil in a small town, and the writer was the guy who wrote Carrie, which I had read in one sitting a year earlier. So, I was enjoying how the town is originally shown, a small town that’s like every other small town, that idyllic vision of America that the right keeps forcing on us all–small town America is the real America as this Norman Rockwell painting/Mayberry like life, and it’s anything but that. (Small town America is the real America, but not in the way they mean–small towns are composites of the society as a whole, with percentage wise just as much crime, adultery, incest and passive-aggression as the rest of the country, no matter how much better they believe they are than urban dwellers.) That slow build, as we settle into Jerusalem’s Lot as a town like any other, with likable people and unlikable people whose dirty secrets King allows us to see; in the first half of the book it’s almost like reading Peyton Place; Jerusalems Lot even has the Marsten House as Peyton Place had Samuel’s castle (which was also the name of Allison’s novel in the book). Something dark is going on in the town, and just getting started, which we get glimpses of from time to time–a dog killed and left on the cemetery fence spikes; the disappearance of Ralphie Glick and his brother’s strange sickness and death…but it isn’t until Danny Glick shows up at Mark Petrie’s window do we know that it’s actually vampires, and then the entire book flips and no longer lazily meanders along on its assigned path; it then becomes a thriller that moves with the speed of a locomotive.

This pacing is what most readers like me (and I suspect a lot of others) loved the most about the book; I always loved the town-stuff as much as the vampires, honestly, but that kind of pacing is impossible in a film or a two-part television movie–you can’t have the first half be meandering and slowly moving along the path of the story, folks who have no idea what’s happening in their town and still aren’t entirely sure as the depopulation moves faster and faster, because you risk losing your audience. This was the problem with the David Soul version–the pacing was the same throughout, which isn’t the way the story reads. In this film version they chose to abandon everything from the story that isn’t about vampires, and to just make a standard horror film about vampires. On that level, the movie works. It’s a standard vampire movie that moves very quickly, just as the second half of the book does, but by cutting out all the stuff that made us care about the characters, we aren’t as vested, and when they die, we don’t really feel it much or care–every death in the book was a fucking tragedy, and so the movie is actually kind of soulless. We aren’t given enough character development to care when characters die. I think the only true way to film ‘salem’s Lot successfully, it needs to be a six or eight episode series to be done truly properly. There was hardly anything about the Marsten House in the movie, and that’s a significant change from the book. It’s just there, and we have no idea what kind of research Ben is doing for his novel or why he even came back. The loss of all the supporting characters that really made the book so strong can be felt deeply in the film. It’s just a competent vampire movie, but it isn’t ‘salem’s Lot, but I did like the big scene at the drive-in movie theater.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. I want to get a lot done today, and here’s hoping that shall come to pass.

  1. No one ever worries about losing to Vanderbilt; it’s usually seen as a bye for most teams because Vanderbilt has always been terrible in football; they’ve never won the conference in all the years of belonging, haven’t beaten Alabama since 1984, and are always cellar-dwellers in the SEC (one of my favorite things to remind people is that Senator Tatertown the moron lost to Vanderbilt as a football coach; now Kalen DeBoer will also have that distinction. What a wake-up call for Tuscaloosa, and how wild that it happened one week after Alabama beat Georgia, handing them their first regular season loss in 42 games. I mean, good for Vanderbilt, but whoa, what the hell, Bama? ↩︎
  2. Vanderbilt always has more visiting fans in their stadium than their own fans; at one point I was in the kitchen washing dishes and would hear the crowd cheer, so would come take a look–they were Alabama cheers, and they were louder than the smaller contingent of Vandy fans there. ↩︎

She Called Me Baby

Saturday morning in the Lost Apartment, with a trip to Metairie looming for an eye appointment. Yesterday was a bit more hectic than I would have liked, beginning with having to go in to the office on what is usually my remote day (meetings, mostly, and some catch up on work I didn’t get to on Thursday), and then I had errands to run all afternoon. It was a gloomy, off and on raining kind of day, so when I got home I was very happy to be safely back into the Lost Apartment so I could do my chores and do some work. I was very tired last night when I was finished with everything, so just kind of zonked out in my chair. We spent the last few nights getting caught up on our shows (we’re now watching Agatha All Along, Bad Monkey, Only Murders in the Building, Grotesquerie, English Teacher, and American Sports Story), and I am hoping to get to watch the new ‘salem’s Lot movie aat some point this weekend, and I’d like to watch Fall Guy, too.

And I need to write this weekend, big time.

Thursday night, when I was working on the Scotty Bible and was marking pages in Mississippi River Mischief, I realized the murder victim in the book was a corrupt politician who goes by JD; prescience, perhaps? It also reminded me of something from a book I had read a very long time ago–Sarah Schulman’s Stagestruck. The thesis of the book was about the similarities between a very popular Broadway musical (Rent) and her nove, People in Trouble. Sarah had actually attended and reviewed Rent, and while it seemed familiar to her, she just dismissed it as being inspired by the struggling artist scene in lower Manhattan in the 1980s and thought it played very false, given her own experience; it wasn’t until later when a friend told her “you must be so mad about Rent”–and she went back and reread her book. (In all honesty, I went on to read People in Trouble and also watched the film of Rent and I also saw the similarities; she wasn’t inventing anything.) But the point of this particular story is that at the time, as an unpublished aspiring novelist, I found it a bit of a reach that she didn’t remember her own book…but doing the Scotty Bible–and talking with other authors–I realized that not remembering your own book isn’t that much of a stretch, and it does get harder the more book you have; the exponential possibility that you won’t remember your own books grows with each new book you write. that the piece of art basically ripped off her piece of art–and she couldn’t remember much I have been routinely shocked about how much of the Scotty series had slipped from my memory banks as I enter the information from each book into the master document; the huge plot points that are the most memorable things about them…but gone completely. I’d forgotten my villainous politician JD, and I only wrote that book last year. I’d forgotten a lot of the stuff in most of the books. I thought the one I’d really be able to temember was Bourbon Street Blues, and nope. I’d forgotten about the entire sequence in the swamp, the fire, and who the first victim was…and I also was able to remember, while going through it, what I was trying to do with him as a character as more time passed and he gained more experience with criminality and human behavior.

And given all those experiences, it was very important to me to ensure he remained a positive person who prefers to expect the best of people, not the worst, and never become cynical. Cynicism was one of the most powerful traits I wrote into Chanse, and I didn’t want to do that over again.

It was also rainy and dreary all day yesterday, and much as I love rain, it can damper your spirits a little especially when you’re already a bit fatigued. But I am feeling good today (I slept really late this morning) and like I can get a lot accomplished. I am going to make groceries on the way home from my eye appointment. I am going to run an errand in my neighborhood on foot when I get back from that, and I am going to try to get the house cleaned up and do some writing this afternoon while football games play in the living room. I also want to read some more of Gabino’s book and get more into it. Tomorrow morning I will run another errand that I don’t want to do much today–Fresh Market is close so it’s an easy thing to do…maybe I can run it later today and get it over with, but I suspect after getting home from the errands today I won’t want to leave the house so much.

And on that note, I am going to get cleaned up so I can get moving on the errands and the other things to get done around the house. Have a lovely Saturday, best of luck to your favorite team, and I am heading into the spice mines. I might be back later; I am itching to finish my review of Monsters, and the Menendez Brothers in general.

Another Lonely Song

Friday morning and have to go into the office for a number of meetings and things today, but hope to get out of there around 2ish to run errands and head home. Huzzah! I slept well last night (and all the way through; didn’t get up once) and feel pretty terrific this morning. Maybe it was the bellinis I had with dinner last night? Perhaps.

Yesterday was lovely. I had a nice day at work, then came home and wrote before my dinner plans. I managed to finish Chapter 7, which was enormously pleasing, and then went to meet my friend for dinner. Look at me, out on a school night and having two drinks with dinner! But it was very nice. Lilette, the restaurant on Magazine where we had dinner, is marvelous; I always have a good time whenever I have a meal there. The conversation was also quite fabulous; and it was a very contented Gregalicious who got home from dinner around eight thirty. Paul and I watched another episode of American Sports Story; it’s an interesting exploration of toxic masculinity in sport, and how damaging that was for someone like Aaron Hernandez, deeply closeted and so terrified anyone might ever find out. (I did wonder what Tim Tebow would have said to him if Aaron had told him the truth–I think we know, and what a shame there wasn’t a single person in his life he could be honest with.) It’s very well done (although some of the reproductions of Florida football games were clearly reproductions and not actual game footage; it may have even been CGI but it didn’t look real), and the acting is, as always and ever in a Ryan Murphy show, superb. The young man playing Hernandez is quite good. It’s also quite excellent at showing what a monster Urban Meyer is as a coach, and how little he actually cared about his players (every time I think that Urban Meyer had Joe Burrow on the bench, wasting his talent for two years, I smile); I have never liked nor trusted that man. He’s clearly a good coach–he won three national titles at two different schools–but he’s not the kind of coach whose players speak well of him–and his teams at Florida were clearly out of control. (He also had Cam Newton on the bench at Florida; that’s two Heisman Trophy winning quarterbacks who rode the bench for him.)

I do have some errands to run after work; I have to get the mail and pick up prescriptions and maybe do a bit of a grocery run. I also have laundry to do once I get home, and then I think I’ll be in for the day. I have another writer friend in town this weekend that I am hoping to get to see, so I think I’ll try to do that tomorrow. I also want to work on the book some more this weekend, and start playing around with the next one I want to write. I want to finish reading Gabino’s new book–I started it last weekend, and it’s off to a really powerful start. It grabs you by the throat and won’t let you look away, no matter how badly you might want to!

I also have some cleaning up to do around here as well. It never really ends, does it? At least my filing it pretty much caught up, and I certainly can’t let the inbox stack up the way it has in the past. Staying on top of things is usually the smart thing to do…but I sometimes get lazy, particularly if I’m tired; that’s when I really don’t want to do anything when I get home except catch up on the news. I am so much happier now that I’ve blocked every news source that started the “get rid of Biden” nonsense in July; the age and mental acuity of a presidential candidate ceased to be an issue in this election once the President dropped out, despite the patentedly obvious decline of the Republican candidate, not to mention his planned vengeance tour if he wins. After doing everything they could to ensure Hillary lost in 2016, they have the nerve to continue to both-sides everything while pretending this is a normal horse race election because they are a national and historical disgrace, the New York Times editorial board endorsed the Vice-President while continuing their horrendous, clearly partisan reporting.

Your words are hollow when you are sane-washing an incredibly dangerous narcissist. It’s not what you say, but what you actually do, and I will never forgive nor forget their collaborationist quisling bullshit as long as I live.

So, after work today I am going to go run those errands and then come home to be productive. I have my to-do list ready to have things checked off, and there’s some writing that definitely needs to be done this weekend. Next weekend I may be meeting Dad in Alabama, and will probably head up to Kentucky for a week around Halloween; not sure when that would be, but it’s on the schedule.

And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines on this rainy Friday morning. Have a great day, and I may be back later; I’m tricky that way.

I Don’t See Me in Your Eyes Anymore

And now it’s Thursday.

Despite waking up multiple times during the night and never falling into a deep sleep, I wasn’t as tired when I got home last night. I’d picked up some packages at the post office (coffee…lots of coffee, and the new Lev AC Rosen novel, Rough Pages. It’s a gorgeous cover, too. Once I got home I just glared at the new but not completely assembled desk chair and decide not to ruin a decent mood on it, unpacked the boxes, took out the trash, did the dishes and the laundry (!!!!) and wrote over a thousand words on the book. I also managed to mark up Mississippi River Mischief, and copy the highlighted information from Jackson Square Jazz into a notebook. Not too shabby for a Wednesday night, wouldn’t you say? Tonight I am having dinner with a friend, and I got a message from another writer who’s in town, who I am definitely hoping to see. Look at me, being sociable and not even thinking twice about either. Who am I? This is actually kind of nice. And yesterday at work was a nice day, as well. I hope to get Chapter Seven finished tomorrow evening, and maybe even get Chapter Eight going over the weekend, too. I want to go to the gym this weekend, and start trying to be more regular with that; I can go on nights when I don’t plan to write.

I do have to come into the office tomorrow, not my usual Friday; we have a department meeting and then my team meeting and a benefits seminar (meeting). I also have an eye appointment on Saturday in Metairie (better make sure my shots are up to date, just kidding), so I have a lot of stuff to navigate over the next few days and the weekend, don’t I? I should be able to squeeze some writing in, too, as well as all my errands. It’s crazy for me to have all this going on; I can go months without going out of the house to be sociable. My natural tendency is always to stay home; I’ve always said that it’s a good thing I have a day job so I have to leave the house at least four days a week now, otherwise I never would other than make groceries and so on. Good thing LSU is off this weekend and the Saints play Monday night.

We’re supposed to get rain this weekend, and that system down by the Yucatan (same place Helene started) still isn’t doing much, but could form but will most likely head over to Florida. I am still stunned by the destruction wrought by Helene, as pictures and news and updates come from the communities up in the Appalachians along and near the Tennessee-North Carolina border. It sounds like the estimate to get running water again in Asheville is not until next year. That’s way worse than Katrina; and while more people were killed by Katrina than Helene, I think the devastation is on par with Katrina, if not worse. It’s horrifying to think this could happen more often, which is sadly more likely, and imagine the same scenario with rain and wind and so forth heading to Birmingham or Nashville (or both, really), or up the river to Memphis. 20-30 inches of rain on the Mississippi River would be catastrophic; 1927 level flooding. My heart is with everyone affected by Helene, and I wish there was more that I could do to help.

I woke up several times during the night again, but woke up feeling fine again this morning. Today is going to be a slower day at the office, but I’m pretty much all caught up on everything. I do have something new to do while my boss is in England for the next two weeks, but I’m sure it’s something I can handle. I also made a to-do list for the weekend last night, and hopefully I can stick to it and keep that momentum going forward. Lists are very necessary for me because I don’t remember anything anymore, but I’m not going to pretend like I had a great memory. I did used to have one, but I started making lists when I was in my thirties because…I was forgetting things. I also used to have a great memory for trivia (I always killed at both Trivial Pursuit and Jeopardy), but even that’s iffy anymore. (I also don’t know much trivia from this century because I gradually stopped paying attention to things like pop culture.) There’s nothing wrong with that, either. Compiling the Scotty Bible has been very illuminating–I’d forgotten a lot about the plots of the books over the years; hell, I had trouble remembering things from Mississippi River Mischief and it just came out last year.

Overall, I am rather pleased with myself. The ship seems to have finally righted itself after many years of disorganized chaos. Of course that probably means more chaos is on its way; that’s just the way things go. Life is just a long list of chaos, anyway. Trying to make sense of the chaos or trying to control it is a fool’s errand; when you’re in the midst of bad chaos, you’re just trying to survive and get through it, but it never really ends. Chaos can change you–you may not even know how you’ve changed. I’ve also come to accept that my biggest delusion is thinking I’m self-aware…I so am not.

I Overlooked an Orchid

Wednesday and we’ve almost made it over the hump preparatory to sliding into the weekend. I was fatigued last night after I got home from work, so didn’t do a whole lot of anything. I picked up my new desk chair from Office Depot, than got really irritated trying to assemble it and gave up for the night. (I also realized I didn’t take my medications yesterday morning when I found them in my backpack, because of course I forgot to take them.) It’s also really amazing that I can tell that I haven’t taken anxiety medication. I didn’t want to watch the debate last night because I despise the Couchfucker so much I can’t even stand the sound of his voice. It’s been nice shielding myself from the election and all the insanity, dabbling in whenever I feel I can stand it (and I never can, for very long; can we sue the legacy media for malpractice?). How anxious and stressed about the election would I be were I not on these marvelous new medications? I don’t even want to think about it, honestly. Paul didn’t get home until after I went to bed–board meeting–and so I didn’t do a lot of anything last night other than play with Sparky and fall asleep in my easy chair–which was interesting, because I woke up several times during the night but feel strangely rested this morning? My new shoes will arrive tomorrow, and some other things I ordered will be arriving over the next few days (including the new Lev Rosen!!!) Such an exciting life, isn’t it?

But tonight when I get home from work I hope to get going on the next chapter of the Scotty, and maybe start marking up those last two Scotty books for the Bible. I’m almost done with it; three more books to add to it, and then I just need to do the synopses of each book and it’ll be finished. I want to release a Scotty every year until the series runs out of steam; I know there are going to be at least two more beyond this one.

The dockworkers in New Orleans are part of the bigger strike. When I was driving home from work the other night and stopped at the grocery store, on my way home I had to drive past their headquarters (corner of Louisiana and Tchoupitoulas) and they were out in force; the street was clogged with parked cars and dockworkers walking to the building. Sigh. Prepare for the cost of bananas and coffee to skyrocket. New Orleans used to be the country’s biggest port; 60% of imports and exports came through the port of New Orleans. It’s not that huge of a port in the overall scheme of things now, but it’s still an important one, which is why New Orleans has to exist. Losing New Orleans to a hurricane and not rebuilding would close the entire Mississippi River waterways to shipping. New Orleans is the city that has to be. I don’t know why that’s so hard for people to understand, but I for one will never forget nor forgive the Republican Party for trying so hard to not help the city rebuild after Katrina–or some of the things the trash had to say, including the only Speaker of the House to go to jail for raping children, Dennis Hastert.1

I do feel pretty good this morning; surprisingly, given the off-and-on sleep I had last night. The one nice thing about it was I did discover that Sparky does indeed sleep at the foot of the bed, down near our feet and in between mine and Paul’s. That’s also the spot on the bed where he sleeps if he gets in the bed during the daytime, so I have to assume that, in his kitty brain, is his spot. He does have his own peculiarities, as do all cats, and he certainly loves to ride on my shoulders. Just mine–not Paul’s.

So, tonight I hope to have energy when I get home. I am going to run by the post office on the way home tonight–and once I get home, I need to do a load of laundry and another sink full of dishes, and hopefully write for a bit and/or read; we also have some shows to catch up on, and I believe a new Agatha All Along drops today? I also should do some picking up and cleaning around the house, too–the old “let it go until the weekend” mentality needs to be broken once and for all. I’m usually not tired when I get home from work–yesterday was an outlier–and so I need to play with Sparky a little bit but he needs to wait for cuddle time until I have gotten some things done. Heavy sigh. I also have to go out to Metairie Saturday morning for an eye appointment; wish me luck, and I’ll probably hit a fast food drive thru on my way home.

Yikes, what a bore I am today! And that’s a lovely segue into heading into the spice mines for the rest of the day. May your day be special and bright, Constant Reader., and I’ll be back with another exciting dose of Gregalicious at some point!

  1. Never forget, they were garbage LONG before Trump. He’s simply the end result of their rotted souls and desire for power at any cost–and with our short attention span as a country, it’s easy to bemoan Trump and MAGA as the “decline” of the GOP, but the rise of a “populist” Fascist was the inevitable result of everything they started with Ronald Reagan in the 1980s. They were the people who laughed about AIDS killing the right people, so why should we fund research or a cure or a preventative? Let them die, let them die, let them die! If the only candidates to vote for were Republicans, I wouldn’t vote. ↩︎

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!

I Am Woman

Ira Levin has always one of my favorite writers, but I often forget about him when I am talking about influences. I don’t know if Levin’s work influenced me; he was very sparing with his prose, and I am most definitely not that, but I know he has written some of my favorite novels of all time and his incredible popularity–based on very few novels written, most of them pretty short–was such that titles of his books became part of the popular culture; a “tl;dr” if you will to explain something: Rosemary’s Baby, The Stepford Wives, The Boys from Brazil. He wrote one of my favorite crime novels with a shocking twist (two thirds of the way in!), A Kiss Before Dying, which won an Edgar and should be considered one of the best crime novels of all time (the problem with it is a big part of the genius is in the twist, and it’s such a massive spoiler it can’t really be talked about except in criticism).

I knew about Rosemary’s Baby–everyone alive the year the movie came out knew what it was and what it referred to (I was wanting to do an entire post about Levin, but I couldn’t find my copy of Rosemary’s Baby) so settled for rereading The Stepford Wives over the weekend (it’s very short, very chilling, and downright terrifying in places. It was also the first Levin novel I read; I bought the Fawcett Crest edition pictured below, and I think I read the entire thing in a single afternoon. I’ve also seen both movies, both of which were okay, but again, the great thing about Levin is how he played his cards and which ones he withheld; the movie editions couldn’t get away with what he did in the book, which made the movies less compelling and less terrifying.

And it definitely holds up. In fact, it’s kind of compelling reading in this post-Dobbs time in which we find ourselves living these days.

This is the actual copy I had, and read. It looks very Gothic on the cover, but it’s not that at all.

The Welcome Wagon Lady, sixty if she was a day but working at youth and vivacity (ginger hair, red lips, a sunshine-yellow dress), twinkled her eyes and teeth at Joanna and said, “You’re really going to like it here! It’s a nice town with lots of nice people! You couldn’t have made a better choice!” Her brown leather shoulderbag was enormous, old and scuffed; from it she dealt Joanna packets of powdered breakfast drink and soup mix, a toy-size box of non-polluting detergent, a booklet of discount slips good at twenty-two local shops, two cakes of soap, a folder of deodorant pads–

“Enough, enough,” Joanna said, standing in the doorway with both hands full. “Hold. Halt. Thank you.”

The Welcome Wagon lady put a vial of cologne on top of the other things, and then searched in her bag–“No, really,” Joanna said–and brought out pink-framed glasses and a small embroidered notebook. “I do the ‘Notes on Newcomers,'” she said, smiling and putting on the glasses. “For the Chronicle.” She dug at the bag’s bottom and came up with a pen, clicking its top with a red-nailed thumb.

Are there still Welcome Wagon Ladies? And what a clever way to open a novel about a bedroom community town for New York–what else but the Welcome Wagon Lady welcoming a new family to Stepford. It puts the reader at ease, too–something very familiar to people in the 1970s was the Welcome Wagon Lady, so opening a novel with something ordinary and normal is an interesting choice, given what’s to come. (For the record, there will be spoilers here. I’m sorry, the book came out in the early 1970s, as did the original film version and even the dreadful remake is now at least twenty years old.) Joanna Eberhart is a stay-at-home mom who gave up a promising career as a photographer when she got married, but now that the kids are older, she and her husband have found a lovely home in an idyllic seeming town where he can commute into the city1, and they’re in the midst of the chaos of moving in. There’s an extra room that even had running water to function as a developing room2, so Joanna can get back to pursuing her photography career. Good schools, lots of space, all kinds of enticements to get a young family to move out there3…

It’s difficult for young people today to even imagine what a different world it was I grew up in, and the 1970’s might as well be the 1870’s to the younger generations…then again. didn’t 1945 and World War II seem a million years ago when I was a kid…but I was much closer in time to WW2 than teenagers today are to the 1970’s. (The actual equivalent would be fifty years ago, which would have been 1921 to me; when my grandparents were born there was still a German Empire, an Ottoman Empire, an Austria-Hungary, and the Romanovs were still on the throne in St. Petersburg.) But when this book was written the Women’s Movement was just really gaining a lot of traction (it was called Women’s Lib, and proponents of it were scathingly called “Libbers” by those who thought women were better off in the kitchen, unseen and unheard), and women were beginning to understand they didn’t have to subscribe to the old, tired gender roles that basically were invented after the Second World War. They could have a career. They didn’t have to get married. Among the things they were protesting was not being allowed to get bank loans, credit cards, or bank accounts without a husband–which was very difficult for widows and divorcees (and why a lot of women stayed with abusive jerks.) It wasn’t a crime to beat or rape your wife because you owned her. The Pill freed them–both married and unmarried–from the terror of getting pregnant and abortion was illegal. Sound familiar?

Levin, who was also an incredibly sly critic of social structures, the culture, and society in general, saw the beginnings of women starting to assert their independence, and asked the question so many bewildered men, unaccustomed to women’s freedom, didn’t know the answer to: if women were free and independent and could choose their own course in life, what was the new role in all of this for men? What was their place anymore? There was pushback against women’s liberation and not just from men; some of the most vocal opponents to women being made into whole people came from women.4 If it was, indeed, a “battle of the sexes” as the conservative gadflies kept insisting (or a “war on men”), what would men do?

The Stepford Wives was the chilling answer.

Once Joanna moves in, she begins noticing how the other wives in town are all beautiful, have great figures, and always have their hair done, a face of make-up, and are devoted to making their husbands happy. She meets another recent relocator, brash Bobbie Marlowe, whose house is just as messy as Joanna’s, and they begin to bond over the weirdness of the other women in town. They make another friend, Charmaine, and the three women kind of bemusedly wonder if there’s something in the water in Stepford that makes the women behave like such 1950’s June Cleaver housewives. There’s also the Men’s Association, a men’s club that all the men of Stepford belong–a secretive organization in a big house. Joanna and Bobbie are appalled at the sexism in the very idea of such a club, and their husbands promise to try to make including women an option–the old “change from inside” shtick we’ve all heard a million times. Joanna’s husband brings some of the club officers for her to meet and get a read on. One of them is a Frank Frazetta-style artist, who does a series of sketches of Joanna. Another used to work in the animatronic section of Disney. Another is doing a research project he asks Joanna to help with, having to do with accents and the way people speak, which requires her to record an insane amount of words into a tape recorder.

And then…Charmaine becomes one of the Stepford wives, and the two women are terrified.

Bobbie is convinced now there’s something from nearby chemical plants in their drinking water, and goes to extremes in her paranoia. Joanna forces Walter to agree to move, and then they start looking for other places in nearby towns. Heightening their paranoia is finding out there actually HAD been a Women’s Club in Stepford, and even had Betty Friedan come speak to them4! What happened to these women? Levin is exceptionally brilliant at writing paranoia, and the reader becomes wrapped in them, what is happening to them, and hoping that they’ll get away somehow. But the biggest betrayal of all is yet to come: their husbands, whom they loved and married and started families with, are also in on it.

The message of The Stepford Wives was that men don’t really want a full partner; they want a home manager who takes care of everything, including the kids, so they can focus on work.

Sound like tradwives or something Senator Katie Britt would love to impose (on other women, of course; tradwife for thee but not for me) on the country, doesn’t it? Women with no imaginations, animatronic creatures who feel like women, and cater to their every whim and desire?

Maybe The Stepford Wives should be required reading for all teenaged girls. And sadly, the book still holds up. It’s not a reach to believe that there’s a town like this somewhere, where the men have murdered their wives and replaced them with droids. I certainly see enough troglodyte men on-line who think that way.

  1. This was a HUGE trope in 1970’s horror; moving away from the city to get fresh air and space…only to have that dream of a bigger house and a lawn and fresh air turn into a fucking nightmare, which I hope to write a longer essay about at some point. ↩︎
  2. Yes, we used to take pictures with “cameras” on “film” that had to be processed and developed; Fotomats were popular, or you could get it done at Walgreens. There used a developer on Decatur Street just off Jackson Square; I had a lot of pictures developed there when I was in the Quarter more regularly. ↩︎
  3. Interesting that Rosemary’s Baby also opens with a young married couple, hoping to have kids, moving into a new place. ↩︎
  4. I hope Phyllis Schlafly is frying in hell, and is sharing a cast iron skillet with the Reagans and Jerry Falwell. ↩︎
  5. If you don’t know who Betty Friedan is, shame on you and use google. ↩︎