Baby The Rain Must Fall

Work at home Friday! I have a doctor’s appointment later on today, and I may run some errands after that, but for the most part I am going to be here at home, hunkering down and doing my data entry and my quality assurance; tedious chores, to be sure–but much more bearable when done in the comfort of my own home wearing my sweats and Sparky sleeping on the desk between the keyboard and the computer. I also have chores to do when I need a break from the computer. It’s going to be easier from now on to stay away from social media, because it is definitely not good for my mental health. I have to stop wishing bad things on bad people, for one–the fact they flourish, to me, shows there is no God (which is easy to believe once you pay attention to the so-called “godly” here on this plane)–their soulless emptiness should be enough punishment for me.

Besides, I’m not the one who worships a jealous, vindictive God of wrath and punishment.

I guess my posts since I got home from Kentucky have upset some people–who saw themselves in them, and now I’m supposed to absolve them and relieve their guilty consciences. That isn’t going to happen. I’m tired of ignoring your thoughtless cruelty, and I’m not going to be the bigger person and let you off the hook so you can feel better about yourself. Everyone loves to talk the talk, and “oh Greg we love you you’re so smart and funny and kind and a joy to be around” and pat themselves on their backs about what good people they are, so inclusive! We’re not like those horrible people! But when that so-called friend basically called me a pedophile and a groomer (not me specifically; just all queer people shouldn’t be allowed around children) exactly two people on Twitter defended me. Two. Two people called her out and basically had to lead her by the hand to see what a fucking bitch she was being to me. She even reached out to mutual friends to make sure I didn’t hate her. She was very sorry, you see. She would have never said such things “if (she’d) only known.” Well, when a gay man angrily tweets that he’s very tired of such horrific lies, why the fuck would you reply agreeing with the lies? Oh, honey. Would you forgive someone who called you a horrible mother and unsafe around children? IN PUBLIC, for everyone to see?

It’s very nice to no longer give two shits about coddling fragile straight people and their privilege. I’ve not even come remotely close to talking about how abusive you people can be without a care or a thought in the world (because queers don’t have feelings and aren’t really people, and I should just be grateful people talk to me in the first place and have deigned to tolerate me within their midst). Sorry, I’m not going to pat your pointy little heads and reassure you that you’re not one of the bad people. That’s not my job in life, and I am fucking exhausted centering your massive egos and your thin skins so you can just keep sailing through life with your casual, thoughtless cruelty and your absolute lack of concern for anyone outside of your own demographic group. If you want to make us feel welcomed, maybe stop making gay jokes and accusing everyone you don’t like of being gay? I guess y’all aren’t creative enough–despite being writers–to come up with something else?

So, your careless cruelty is also lazy.

How does it feel to be criticized honestly and not let off the hook for your actions rather than the phony collegial courtesy you offer to me? How will I ever feel safe around people capable of such dishonesty? How will I ever know for sure you don’t laugh at me when I walk away? How can I trust straight people ever again? How would you feel if you found out what people really think about people like you by reading it in a public forum? Well, I know now what side you were on in the 80s and 90s, don’t I?

I guess I should be grateful you weren’t afraid breathing the same air as a gay man would give you HIV, right?

Another reason I need to get off social media entirely is I’m so tired of people exposing themselves in this crime “community” I was so pathetically desperate to be a part of. One of my mantras since I first started trying to fit in has always been “don’t keep score.” Yesterday I was on one of the social media sites where people are doing “starter packs”–people to follow for the new users. I saw one by someone I know yesterday and clicked on it, the way I always do to look for friends to follow, and it struck me as I scrolled through the list I’ve never been on one of these and as I continued to scroll through Mr. Straight Man’s list and noticed that they were only two queers out of about forty writers on the list and they were both women. Straight men, you see, will never recommend a gay male author to anyone lest someone think maybe he’s gay curious and so the queer women are always safe to mention to get their inclusive points and show everyone how “woke” they are. The person, whom I first heard of when one of the truly horrible straight women community-adjacent pulled a racism on him out of nowhere (she basically called him, and all racialized people, illiterate. Horrified by this, I immediately ordered his books and started following him on social media. I saw him in person at the next Bouchercon, and was going to walk up to him and introduce myself to him in the bar. All I was able to get out was “Hi, I’m–” with my hand stuck out when he gave me a very cold, dismissive look–his face curled in revulsion, and turned his back to me. It didn’t register to me as anything other than odd–stupid me forgot that when people don’t know who I am, all they see is disgusting faggot get away from me. It wasn’t the first or last time something like that has happened–and then later when someone introduces us they’re cordial but distant. It didn’t occur to me until yesterday as I read his “oh so woke” starter pack that yes, indeed, he could tell I was gay and was revolted that I would try to introduce myself to him–probably was worried I was going to hit on him (seriously, straight guys. Do you honestly think a gay man wants to fuck someone who doesn’t understand anal hygiene? Sorry, not into having shit on my dick, thanks). But when one of our mutual acquaintances did introduce us–and he knew then who I was, he at least pretended to be glad to meet me. I’ve actually had straight men I’ve introduced myself to (who got away as quickly as they could) apologize later and said “I didn’t realize who you were.”

Because that makes your initial behavior acceptable? You only treat gay men nicely when they’re somebody you think matters1?

Just goes to show, minority male writers are just as homophobic as white ones, if not more so. So much for intersectionality.

And there was that book everyone told me I should read by an up-and-coming writer who used homophobic slurs on page one. Yes, guys, I really love paying for a book and seeing the word faggot used derisively on page one. The irony that the book was one of the initial titles in a press’ new “diversity line”? Showed me that that publishing house was okay with homophobic language, and that diversity commitment was very insincere. I’d actually thought about pitching them! So, I guess I should be grateful my straight friends told me to read a homophobic book, so I didn’t waste my time pitching to a homophobe.

Grim thoughts on a grim Friday morning as the country teeters on the edge of the abyss.

I guess some straight white people finally learned how it feels to be hated by the majority of the country.

And I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Friday, queer people. Straight people are on their own.

Screenshot
  1. Joke’s on you, dude–you were nice to someone who is reminded on the daily by my “colleagues” that I am anything other than a non-entity second or third class human. ↩︎

Tired of Waiting for You

Thursday morning and my last day in the office for the week. It’s not been a bad week at the office, and of course, seeing my clients always ground me from everything else. I may not be able to change the world or affect hearts and minds on a large scale, but I do make a difference in their lives–and helping people on the smaller, one to one scale, is very rewarding. Back in the days before PrEP and undetectable viral loads, my job was to find new infections and get those people set up with treatment and medical care. That was difficult, and while rewarding, it was also emotionally draining. My job taught me the importance of listening to people’s fears and concerns while only responding with kindness and empathy. Even now, finding out that you’re HIV positive is severely traumatizing for people; and while members of my community are more knowledgeable about risk, infections, and preventive measures to keep themselves safe…it’s still a shock to the system, and it’s vitally important for their mental health that you talk them down and keep them from spiraling into depression and despair. Being kind and reassuring in that moment is crucial…and giving them self-empowering messaging about their health and body in the wake of a positive diagnosis makes a huge difference. I generally don’t talk about my work because people tend to idealize it–being told “thank you for the important work you do” always makes me uncomfortable, and I don’t feel like this work gives me any moral authority about anything other than the history of HIV/AIDS and how we’ve been treated by Americans as a whole. Sometimes I wonder if my job is a way of atoning for surviving those times and never being infected when so many good people died, but I know I wish I could have been even more there for the friends I lost–for everyone we lost.

Of course, they have all been pretty on edge this week. They’re worried about their access to PrEP; what insurance companies are going to be allowed to do (whatever they want, the way it was before the ACA), and whether we will still be funded to provide the services that we do. All I can do is shrug and say “well, this organization was founded during the Reagan administration, and we survived George W. Bush…”

I never thought I’d miss that presidency.

My job has actually been a wonderful education in examining my own prejudices and biases, and also realizing that everyone is the same, no matter what color their skin or what their native language is or what their gender or sexual identity might be. Everyone taking an HIV test is terrified–even with all the advances in treatment and prevention–and it’s my job to provide a warm, welcoming and friendly place to lesson their fears about the entire process and how it might go. If I had a dollar for every time I said, “It’s okay to be nervous or afraid, even if you’re pretty certain you’re not infected” I wouldn’t have to worry about retiring anymore, would I?

I should take my own advice more, you know? I am not a fan of conflict–which is why I try to avoid it whenever possible; my mother was the same way, and even with the anxiety medications I’m on that have made my life so much easier than it used to be, I’ve still been spiking since the election (big shock), but it’s not as horrible as it used to be, and those anxiety spikes are easier to get under control then they’ve ever been before. Imagine what a wreck I would be without it! Perish that thought, you know?

I’ve also not written anything besides blog entries, some emails, and a couple of essays for Substack this week, and I really need to circle around back to my book this weekend. This week is already toast for all intents and purposes, but being done wasting my time watching college football on the weekends is going to free up a lot of time. Most of college football players, coaches, and fans are all MAGA anyway; and I’m not even sure I can bother watching the Saints anymore since most of the NFL owners, players and coaches are as well–at least the white ones. I actually took comfort last weekend in the embarrassing loss in knowing that most of the other people disappointed in that game voted for the monsters, and it actually made me smile. Good, I thought when it occurred to me, I hope they’re all embarrassed and upset and angry and heartbroken. Then they’ll get to experience one tenth of what marginalized people in this country have been feeling since the election, even though they won’t learn a fucking thing from it.

They never learn. And while I know it doesn’t speak well to me as a person, I do smile and enjoy it when they suffer. Someday I might be able to dredge up sympathy who laughed as they slit the nation’s throat.

Then again, this isn’t the country I was raised to believe in anymore. It never was that country, and apparently has no interest in being that country. We’ve been conditioned to admire and respect the rich–no matter how they got rich–and now, here we are, heading into an oligarchy like the one they currently enjoy in Russia. The signature achievement of Reagan’s presidency, according to those who worship at his altar, was defeating Communism and ending the Soviet Union. Current Russia is exactly the same as the old Soviet Union–the difference is the Republicans have rolled us over and exposed our belly to our biggest enemy. We are now Russia’s little bitches, beta soy boys to one of the worst gangsters of our time.

Never been prouder to be an American.

And on that cheery note, I am heading into the spice mines. I need a to-do list (the world keeps turning even as its burning) and get everything together to get back to my own work for as long as I can write and publish. Have a great one, and I promise I’ll be back to being my usual cheerful self.

At least, I hope so.

Blowin’ in the Wind

Wednesday morning and the middle of the week! We’ve made it this far, Constant Reader, even though this week hasn’t quite gone the way I would have liked.

The decision to limit social media consumption isn’t going as well this week as I would have liked; I hadn’t anticipated the pull of my phone while I am at work. And getting home from work every night this week, after I finish whatever I need to do (errands and so forth) I’ve repaired to my easy chair and watched some “MAGA voter regrets” videos on Youtube before my eyes started to glaze over and I kind of zoned out for the rest of the night. I don’t like the part of me that enjoys their pain; it is not my instinct to default for sympathy for people who want to harm everyone else. You can never go wrong not having any faith in the decency of the majority of Americans, because they have no decency or shame.1

But, I am not going to be hard on myself. I am trying, at long last, to break all the programming/grooming that I don’t deserve anything or even a writing career. I am going to keep writing–make no mistake about that–and i have to figure out ways to market them and get the word out there. Going to mystery conferences was clearly a mistake; why bother pitching readers on books that are not in the booksellers’ room2? I finally got resigned to them never having my books–or only one copy–and hoped people would possibly enjoy listening to me on panels and maybe take a chance; and now I am wondering if my presence also gaslit queer writers into feeling safe at conferences? I guess that will be on my conscience till the day I die. (Ironically, the substack posts about homophobia get way more than ten times the views that my other essays get, which means one of two things, or both. I was either wrong about scaring people off by being honest about how much it sucks to be queer in this modern time, or people enjoy reading about queer pain. I don’t think I want to know which one is right, to be honest, or even consider that the two are linked.)

But what I need to do is get back to writing my books and stories; I need to put all this shit aside and focus on my work. I was able to get through the first forty-two years of my life with my sexuality and my love life against the law in every one of the fifty states (and the territories! Can’t forget those bigots either!). I lived through the Reagan administration and the George W. Bush years, both of which callously didn’t care whether we lived or died (in fairness, Reagan and his people thought AIDS was an excellent way to get rid of us). My country was willing to let us all die. Remind me again why I should be a patriot, or a conservative? All our equality movement did was make people realize if they were openly homophobic, some people they cared about would think they were bad people.

And I’ll keep writing about the bad shit, of course. It won’t change any hearts or minds, of course, but I need to get that poison (and anger) out of my system before it festers and makes me as bad a person as everyone else is. I don’t want to be a bad person. I don’t want to give into the darkness; I don’t want to feel bitter about the crime fiction community. I know I have friends, actual friends, in this community, and I do cherish them because they love and support me. But I need to stop thinking well of people who I’ve met and have been nice to me because I always forget the vast majority of people default to polite when confronted with someone/something they are revolted by. I don’t think most straight people realize what it’s like to be viewed with revulsion, like you’re some disgusting thing, some abomination. But it’s also much easier to go through life assuming people aren’t bigots until proven otherwise. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be someone we’ve racialized as a society. I kind of get it, but am still white privileged so will never understand completely; even my imagination is too limited.

The good news is a federal judge struck down Louisiana’s Ten Commandments in Every Classroom law as unconstitutional, but an immune from prosecution or consequence executive order from the White House will overrule that. And this Supreme Court already is on its back with their legs up in the air and their ass lubed, ready for some serious Constitution fucking. The Federalist Society is about to get their wishlist for the country for Christmas, isn’t that great? I, for one, look forward to not paying income taxes to educate other people’s children anymore. Wonder how my MAGA nieces and nephews are going to educate their kids, but hey–they voted for it.

I’m so tired of being ignored like Cassandra on the walls of Troy.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great day. Constant Reader, and we will soon be returning to our regular content. I’ll go back to ignoring the slings and arrows of “allies” and enemies, like a good little gay, back in his corner–and no worries, folks. I wouldn’t go to a conference even if they asked me to be a special guest–and that is never going to happen anyway. Not as long as a straight white man has written a first novel, anyway.

  1. And even as this administration destroys their lives, the government-controlled media will help convince them it’s someone else’s fault, because it always is. Is anyone ever surprised about how horrible people after all the genocides? The gleeful bigotry and the embrace of hatred? ↩︎
  2. This is something I left out of my Substack essay yesterday about homophobic booksellers: they are also never to be criticized, no matter how bigoted and horrible they are. “They work so hard on conferences,” is always the response, “you can’t even question their bigotry.” If you want to read it, this link should take you there. ↩︎

Save Your Heart for Me

Well, hello, Tuesday, how you doing this week? Yesterday wasn’t too bad. I was on social media more than I needed to be1, which I must correct, but I had a nice day at work and then ran errands on the way home. Paul was home shortly after I got home–I also left earlier than usual–and I grilled the hamburgers I didn’t last night, which was nice. We watched the last episode of Rivals–most excellent, highly recommend–and caught up on Someone Somewhere, which I also love. I wasn’t particularly tired when I got home last night, so I picked up some and read a bit more of my book, which I am loving, even as it also makes me squirm a bit (more on that later, when I write about the book)–and you know what? I should squirm while reading that book. Every white person should, but they won’t read it–or finish reading, if they start– because it might “make them feel bad.” Well, if you want to be a decent person…you need to do the fucking work and feel bad every once in a while. I think that’s the real truth: straight white people don’t want to completely understand how horrible they truly are–which is why they are so defensive all the time. They know they’re bad people, they just don’t want to face up to it, and so lean into being horrible.

And they sure as fuck don’t want to do the work to be better people, so why waste my time with them?

Hell, why am I bothering writing this book? We’re going to be all labeled as porn soon enough, and my publisher might be forced to close. And for the record, I know what it feels like to have your entire canon, your entire writing career, labeled and called pornography. I know what it feels like to get death threats. To paraphrase, there’s nothing as hellish as Christian love.

It’s raining again this morning, which is relaxing. I did sleep well again last night, which I was expecting to do, even though I wasn’t terribly tired when I got home. Today I am in the clinic working with people for the first time in a while, so we’ll see how that goes. I have to get myself back into counselor mode after an enormous (well, several of them) shock to my system…but I was able to counsel after Mom died, so I should be okay. I wonder what their mood will be like? I mean, we are entering the dark times. I think that’s why I wrote that Substack post; it was after the election that I realized that people who are casually homophobic like it’s no big deal aren’t going to step up to rescue queers when it comes to that, so…this is what minority people are talking about, straight white people–if you’re so callously dismissive of us and don’t care about that sort of thing, how can we truly ever believe we are allies? It’s a return to the 1980s again (which were not fucking great, no matter how the Reagan apologists try to make it seem like this glorious lost time; likewise the 1950s shit, too–those may have been good times for straight white people, but not so much for anyone else. And straight white people will always close ranks against outsiders, because ultimately their privilege is the most important thing to them. More important than outsiders…”others.” And sorry, I’m not here to make straight people feel better about themselves. You’re homophobes at heart and it’s not my responsibility to absolve you so you can feel better about yourself…I really don’t give a fuck about how you feel; why should I when you clearly don’t care a fucking thing about how you make us feel? “Oh, sorry if we turned Bouchercon back into your junior high school hellscape! You’ve survived it before, right? You’ll be fine.”

I never should have gone back after the initial homophobic experiences back in 2009-2010. I’ve given the crime fiction community so many chances, always thinking oh it’ll be better this time and optimistically tried again…but unlike Lucy and the football, this faggot Charlie Brown has finally learned to accept that it has failed me, repeatedly, over and over again, and talk about diversity and inclusion is just that–talk. I’m no more welcome in the mainstream mystery community than I was in 20022. That old cliché about how trying the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result, is insanity?

Well, now I am sane and clear-eyed.

When I tried again this last time, I refused to be chased away the second time because I’ve tried, as an adult, to always stand up to, and fight, the bullies. I hate giving them the satisfaction of admitting defeat finally, but you can only try so hard for so long before realizing that any win for me in this regard would always be Pyrrhic in nature. I’ve never, ever be able to completely relax or feel welcome or made to feel like a part of things, like I belonged. I used to think it was because I was so scarred from my past, and that it was entirely on me and not anything anyone else was doing to make me feel that way. I convinced myself we were welcome.

So, so naive and trusting that this time would be different.

I should have known from seeing friends do book events in stores run by homophobes and racists but then claim to be allies. How big of an ally are you when you talk the talk but launch your book in a store known to be unashamedly homophobic, misogynist, and racist? What message do you think you are sending to people who you claim to support until it comes to your money and your career? How you “don’t want to rock the boat”? It’s called collaboration, and after the Second World War you’d have been executed or at least your head shaved and a public shaming. But–at least in our brave new world you won’t have to pretend to care anymore.

This is why minorities don’t trust you, you know. You can blithely go through your life smugly patting yourself on the back about what an ally you are, how you definitely talk the talk so people know you’re one of the good guys, but guess how we feel when you announce your book launch at one of those stores? We see you, but most of the time we’re too nice to call you out for supporting stores that hate us. Miss me with your boycotts of Home Depot and Walmart and whoever; it’s all just performative bullshit when you really only care about yourself–and you’ll shop there if you think no one will ever find out.

And for the record, telling a minority writer “you’d be so successful if you’d just write about straight people” is condescending, invalidating and deeply offensive. You think I can’t write about straight people? Bitch, please. I understand you people better than you understand yourselves. Believe me, I see you.

And no worries if I’m boring you with all this, Constant Reader. I’m giving you straight people the okay to stop reading this blog, without judgment. It’s a queer space, and I care about your feelings as much as you care about mine.

Then again, you’re probably not reading this anyway? Straight people won’t read me for free, let alone pay for something I’ve written. Christ, what a fucking fool I’ve been.

But give me another day or two and things will go back to normal. I’ll be over it, and not to worry; none of this will ever come up again because I will never be hurt by betrayals from straight people–especially men–ever again. I’ll just expect y’all to be homophobic garbage from the start. It’ll be easier that way–and like I always used to say, you can always count on straight people to carelessly, casually and thoughtlessly cruel…because you don’t matter to them. You’re subhuman. You‘ve heard the things white people say about racialized people–well, that’s also what they all think about queer people.

All these years I’ve smiled and let you demean and dehumanize me, over and over again, with a smile on your face as you performatively act like I’m a colleague when you really are disgusted by my existence.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I may be back later. One never knows.

  1. In fairness to me, I was enjoying the “find out” phase the Nazi voters are experiencing. But if your feelings are hurt, MAGAts, no worries–we’ll probably all be dead by the 2025 holiday season so you can gloat to your heart’s content, guilt-free! ↩︎
  2. When mystery bookstores wouldn’t let me sign in their stores because “they don’t carry those kinds of books”–which is why I will always be grateful, and loyal, to Murder by the Book in Houston–to this day, the only mystery bookstore in the country that would have events for me. ↩︎

Eight Days a Week

I guess this will be the last Veterans’ Day, since going forward it will be renamed Suckers and Losers Day, right?

It’s Monday morning in the Lost Apartment and I am up early. My vacation is over and I am going back to the office. It’s going to be weird; it feels already like I’ve not been there in eons. But going back to the normal routine after a very restful (if stressful) vacation was inevitable. I had a nice day yesterday, in which I got some things done and made groceries, before Paul and I settled in for an evening of Abbott Elementary and Rivals–both of which I love– and we’ll be finishing Rivals tonight. I’m glad to be back home in New Orleans, and I slept very well last night. I didn’t really want to get up this morning because the bed was so comfortable, but Im not groggy this morning, so that’s a big win for me. I feel rested, which is the point of time off, and ready to face my week and whatever demons are thrown into my path this week. There’s always, sadly, a few.

I also spent some more time with Tananarive Due’s The Reformatory yesterday, and it is truly an exquisitely written and incredibly powerful story. It’s also heartbreaking in its truth about what life was like in Jim Crow Florida for Black people, and it’s a very stinging indictment of whiteness and the false promise of this country. I keep thinking ah yes this is what they mean by make America great again–a return to this kind of disgusting societal norm1s. I will write more about it when I finish savoring it, but I felt it needed to be brought up right now–I am not even waiting for me to finish this book to tell people they need to read it. I started listening to it in the car–the audiobook narration is completely en pointe–and continued reading in physical form when I got home this weekend. It really is superb, and I can see why it was (is?) so acclaimed and it definitely deserved every award it won. Due is going onto my ‘must-read’ list; I’m just sorry it took me this long to dip into her canon.

But after that I think I am going to read a crime novel. I have a shit ton of them in my TBR stack, and with my time on social media being dramatically curtailed going forward (I succumbed to the trap yesterday more than I should have; bad Greg, bad Greg), I should have time to read every night. Tonight I am going to pick up the mail on the way home, and I am going to cook out–it rained all day yesterday–and I’ll read some more while I do that (and clean up the kitchen more). Thanksgiving will be here before we know it, and that’ll be another lovely long weekend. I also decided this past week that this will be the last year I’ll skip Thanksgiving; it’ll mean a lot to my sister to have me there. Dad didn’t go last year (it’s really a Mom holiday), but he might go this year. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have either Dad or my sister, so I should spend as much time with them as I can while I still can. Morbid, yes, but my reality. And yes, since the election I’ve been much more aware of how little time I may have left here.

My new mantra, by the way, is fuck your feelings (see caption on picture), and I am not dialing anything back anymore. What good did being a pick-me gay ever do for me? I’m actually kind of sickened by how much of a ‘pick me’ loser I’ve been for so long in the crime fiction community. My Substack essay? Wasn’t even the fucking tip of the iceberg.

And you know what? DO you have any idea of how many straight “allies” let that kind of shit fly because it doesn’t affect them in the least, and well, if a queer is listening, that’s on them to say something. I can recall exactly ONE time in the last fifteen years when some straight white asshole decided to use the word faggy in front of me at the table in the bar where we were sitting. He smirked and looked right at me when he said it, too; he knew what he was saying and was testing me to see what I’d do or say; in other words, he put his little shriveled dick on the table and dared me to say something to him. As I burned and counted to ten before punching him in his smug smirking face, Lisa Lutz stuck her finger in his face and said, “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. We don’t use that word, ever.”

And I will be grateful to her for the rest of my life.

I do find it amusing how many straight men have no clue how close they’ve come to getting punched in the face.

None of this stuff makes me angry anymore; it’s how things are, and I’ve come to the realization that straight white people are never going to change. They are always going to be entitled, selfish monsters who will always convince themselves they were the real victims. “Well, we wouldn’t have had to kill all those Natives if they hadn’t fought back” or “if they hadn’t massacred that white settlement”. If anything, they were too kind to the colonizers. That’s what happens when you give straight white people the benefit of the doubt–it somehow always ends up in genocide.

And on that cheerful note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and never worry–I’ll be here for as long as I can be!

I used to worry about offending straight people by making lewd comments on these pictures, but nobody made you come here, so fuck off. And this picture just needs to be captioned “taste the rainbow.”
  1. For you white people who haven’t thought this through–no offense, but I am sure it’s most of you–when you ask, smugly, who’ll do the menial jobs when everyone is deported? They told us already–those are “Black jobs.” What else did you think they meant? Now do that math. How are they going to get Black people to do that work? Now you’re on the right track. ↩︎

Cool Water

It was lovely getting back into reading last week, and it’s amazing to me how I will just wave off doing things I enjoy; it’s more apparent now than ever that one of the things I need to do is schedule reading time for every week. I am very behind on my reading (always have been) and have been relatively successful at limiting my book purchases this year until I’ve made some more significant progress is working down the TBR pile. I didn’t read as much horror in October as I would have liked, so I was determined to read some more this past week, at least the ones I had planned.

And I am really glad I took The Chill with me to read on the trip.

Molly packed a black silk bag that could be worn as a hood, because she did not want her eyes to open again until she was back in Galesburg.

The bag was soft and lovely but it was also thick and dark, a stronger shield than the burlap sack or simple white pillowcase that she’d considered. And a kinder shield than the black garbage bag.

She put the silk bag inside her purse beside the pools of heavy saltwater fishing line and the long stainless steel hooks. The iron chains and padlock were already hidden on the bluff above the lake.

I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of towns being flooded when dams are built to create reservoirs; Lake Lanier in Georgia is one of those places, and it seems like several times of year that lake claims victims, in vengeance for a black town that was destroyed because hey, who cares what Black people own when white people want the land, right? I’ve always had an amorphous idea about writing such a book, but was never really sure how to go about structuring such a novel. I digress.

Anyway, I was pretty excited when I realized that was what this book was about. I am big fan of his writing under both Carson and his actual name; I’ve loved everything he’s written that I’ve read and think he’s probably one of the greatest crime/horror writers that we have today. He is such a literate writer, and I love that he doesn’t mind writing about supernatural events in crime thrillers, really. God, he is so good.

Galesburg was such a town in upstate New York, flooded and abandoned when the Chilewaukee dam was built to create Lake Chilewaukee; known as The Chill to local residents. But the reservoir, intended to be part of the water system delivering water to new York City, was never connected to the rest of the system. The story was that the kind of rock in the mountain they’d have to tunnel through to make the connection wasn’t the right kind of rock for tunneling through and therefore that plan was abandoned (one of the things I really loved about this book was all the research Carson did on New York’s water system, and the engineering marvels created to do so).

The book centers on a few main characters; a reservoir police officer, the local sheriff, and the local sheriff’s ne’er-do-well son, whom he loves but is losing patience with. The book opens with him heading to the jail to bail out his son, arrested for his latest drug and alcohol binge. The son feels like a loser that his father doesn’t love or understand; he spent his entire life dreaming of being a Coast Guard rescue swimmer, but was dishonorably discharged and his been adrift ever since returning home. He doesn’t have a job, doesn’t cre about anyone or anything, and is on a downward spiral that easily could end with his own death–being older now, I can see the father’s side of it, even as a child who always felt he was never believed about anything and was always at fault; but I can also see that, as a man of his generation, he has no idea how to talk to his son and get him to open up about what young Aaron feels is the waste of his life; but worry and concern often interferes with getting your point across with love and compassion when you’re feeling frustrated.

The other two characters are a father and daughter; the daughter being the afore-mentioned reservoir cop. The father, Deshawn, actually works for the city of New York on digging a third water tunnel for New York, so that the others can be taken out of service and repaired for the first time in over a hundred years. His daughter, Gillian, was born out of a summer relationship he had up there in Torrance; he got spooked eventually, and while he supported her, he never visited or had her come visit. After her mother’s death, her grandmother raised her until she sacrifices herself in the opening chapter; why, we don’t know. Deshawn brought Gillian to New York and raised her; they love each other and are very close. Gillian took the job up there because of her own confusion about her past and this strange pull she has toward the lake that submerged Galesburg…which is where her mother’s family originally were from.

I also appreciated all the information about the water system and the engineering marvels that made it all possible; my dad was an engineer, and the work they do is amazing and often unsung; we take their achievements for granted and never think about them.

The book is also paced like a runaway train. I stayed up till two in the morning to finish it, and it was marvelous. Check it out; you won’t be sorry. And check out his other work as well.

Winds of Change

It was weird reading Gabino Iglesias’ latest, House of Bone and Rain, for any number of reasons that had nothing to do with the quality of the book. I was reading it when that “comedian” called Puerto Rico “a floating pile of garbage” (not that it mattered); while writing my own book, also set during a hurricane; and was thinking about writing another supernatural thriller about teenagers. This book is set in Puerto Rico before, during, and after a hurricane, and the main characters are teenagers. Serendipity? Synchronicity? An interesting series of events? I’m not sure if it’s anything other than a lovely coincidence, but there it is. I also really loved Gabino’s previous novel, the award-winning and critically acclaimed The Devil Takes You Home, which was exceptional, and had my appetite whetted for a follow up.

It says a lot about an author so good they make me overlook things I generally don’t like to read about–machismo, violence–because they are able to turn those things into art.

The last day of classes, our last day as high school students, marked a new era for us. We wanted it. we feared it. We had plans for it. Then Bimbo’s mom hit the sidewalk with two bullet holes in her face, and the blood drowned out all those plans.

Bimbo called to tell us the day after it happened. His real name was Andrés, but we mostly called him Bimbo because he was brown and chubby and looked like the mascot bear of a brand of cookies. It’s normal for people to report the death of a parent. Old age. Cancer. A heart attack. Whatever. Old people die and we expect it, accept it even. It’s normal. Murder is different. Murder is a monster that chews up whatever expectations you had regarding death and spits them in your face. Murder is an attack on someone’s life, yes, but also an attack on those left behind.

When Bimbo called to tell me about the death of his mother, María, I felt attacked. “They shot my mom, man.” Five words about the recent past that were heavy enough to crush out future.

It says a lot about an author so good they make me overlook things I generally don’t like to read about–machismo, violence–because they are able to turn those things into art. I generally don’t like to read about extreme violence, with bones crunching, blood spurting, and teeth flying. Because I do actually abhor the use of violence1, it’s very hard for me to relate to characters who turn to violence for whatever reason; it’s not easy to ever make me think yes, this is the right path. Violence and rage are very dark places to go, and while I completely understand embracing your rage, I will vent it a bit so it calms down before I go there. But Iglesias is the kind of writer who can pull a squeamish reader along the path of male rage and violence, which is emotion-driven rather than logical.

The book centers a group of five young friends who have just graduated from high school, and the brotherhood they develop by uniting as a group and fighting off everyone else; it’s very Three Musketeers-like; “anyone fucks with one of us, they fuck with all of us.” Iglesias also provides enough back story to make each character an individual–not easy to do with so many characters–as well as the group dynamic and why, despite any internal squabbling, they always try to present a united front on this dark odyssey of revenge and violence. Gabe, our narrator, is kind of at loose ends at the opening of the book and not knowing what he wants to do with his life. He has a girlfriend he genuinely cares about and wants to build a life with, who wants to move to the mainland and go to nursing school–and wants him to come with…but his own ties to Puerto Rico, including his mother, make it hard for him to make the choice. What if he does and it doesn’t work out? What will he do then? He is transitioning from callow youth into manhood at far too young an age, but…that’s what life is like for people living under colonization.2

Gabe is also the conscience of the story–if there can actually be one. He goes along with his brothers to get revenge for Bimbo’s mother’s murder, which puts them afoul of a drug cartel (seriously, who sets out to kill the head of a murderous criminal cartel?), but there’s also something else going on…there’s some supernatural elements involved with the cartel as well that either could just be gossipy stories to scare people into obedience, or might just be real.

The book barrels along at an excellent pace–the length of time it took for me to get through it had nothing to do with the quality; I was trying to savor it because I was enjoying the voice and the writing so much. It’s also very vivid and real; Iglesias writes in such a way that puts you right there in the room with the characters–and always, there’s this foreboding sense that time is running out for the boys, and not all of them may make it to the end.

An excellent mash-up of horror, crime, and noir stylings, I have to say this is terrific, so check it out.

  1. Ain’t going to lie, there’s a part of my brain that does think that those who commit violence should get it back, repeatedly and far worse, than they dealt. ↩︎
  2. After the Puerto Rico garbage insult, people thought Puerto Rico should become a state; which I found amusing. No, they should be granted their independence from their final colonizers and paid reparations. Who says statehood in a racist country is desirable for them? ↩︎

Just a Little

Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment and all is well. It’s raining, and has been since last night–probably related in some ways to the hurricane, Rafael–so I slept deeply and well last night. It was muggy and miserable outside when I ran my errands yesterday morning, and today I have to make a grocery run, but rather than what I usually do–go in the morning or right around noon–I am going to go later and try to get all the things done today that I need to do here in the house instead. That makes the most sense to me, because usually making groceries (going out in public and being around other people in general) ends up with me in the chair with a sleeping kitty curled up in my lap. I want to get these other posts/book reviews done this morning, and I want to do some more writing today; I really need to get back on the Scotty horse this week. I also am going to start going to the gym a couple of times per week. Protecting my mental health is my biggest priority right now. The nice thing is that now that LSU humiliated itself in front of the nation last night, we don’t really have to pay much attention to college football anymore this year. Really, it’s such an enormous waste of time on a free day that I really shouldn’t waste my time on it going forward. I will say that I was incredibly lucky when I landed Paul; we both have the kind of dark sense of humor that makes us laugh about this horrible world in which we’ve always lived. It’s gotten us through some really dark days, and at least I have someone to face down the darkness with–while pointing and laughing at it. Thank heaven for him, seriously.

But my relationship isn’t real, you know. Perverts can’t love, right?

I am completely out of fucks now, and so yesterday I wrote a Substack entry talking about some of the homophobia I’ve experienced in the crime fiction community, and it got me a lot of new subscribers. I called out some people in the piece, not by name–I can never really get over that polite thing that was instilled so deeply in me by my mother–but I said some things that have been bouncing around in my brain for quite a while. Bigotry is very insidious, and it pops up all the fucking time, whether it’s direct aggression or a micro-aggression. I’ve always been the kind to give people the benefit of the doubt–“well, they don’t know how homophobic they are being”, but no more. Straight men making jokes about being gay, or gay people in general, or our sexuality, isn’t funny. It isn’t funny to have a writer’s retreat you mocking call after a movie which is literally about how much it sucks to be gay in this country and one of the main characters is beaten to death for it, ha ha ha, how funny!1 Maybe we can have a gay male writing retreat we can jokingly name after a miscarriage, or a dead child? If my rights are going to be stripped away from me, why the fuck should I keep giving straight people the benefit of the doubt? (I know, I know, #notallstraightpeople, right? Yes, yes, those of you in the dominant culture are the real fucking victims.) I never completely trusted straight people to begin with–you know, the people who wanted us all to die in the 1980s and laughed about it–and have always been somewhat wary.

Clearly, that wariness was smart. I haven’t felt this way since 2004, when the entire country made it abundantly clear to queer people that they think we don’t deserve love or happiness or full citizenship.2

You can never go wrong expecting straight people to be horrible. Trust me, they’ll never disappoint–like the ones I actually know who basically called all queer people groomers and pedophiles and couldn’t understand why that was like punching me in the mouth. I’ve shared meals with you. I’ve hung out with you. I’ve been nice to you. But queer people shouldn’t be around children, right? Thanks for nothing, mediocre bitch.

But I no longer care about other people’s feelings anymore, or not wanting to make other people feel bad about their own fucking bigotry. I’m not explaining to you why you’re a problematic bigot anymore. You don’t like and there’s nothing I can do about that–so fuck you to hell and back. I’m not getting paid to educate your stupid ass, nor do I care about your fucking feelings. You have no idea what a fucking bitch I can be, and I am taking the gloves off now. I’m not playing nice anymore, and until proven otherwise, you’re my enemy. I don’t like being that way, but how many times do we have to be abused by our fellow Americans before we finally say fucking enough?

And if you ever ask me to be on a fucking diversity panel ever again, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born–or demand payment for being an educator to troglodytes.

Be nice we need their support.

No more fucks.

Have a great day, Constant Reader.

  1. You want an idea how offensive that is? My partner was almost beaten to death twenty years ago and lost an eye. HILARIOUS, right, assholes? It’s no different than telling rape jokes. ↩︎
  2. Funny how we still have to pay all of our taxes to a system with its boot on our throats. ↩︎

Catch Us If You Can

I rolled into New Orleans around eight thirty last night; twelve hours, give or take, in the car for the second time in less than a week. It was an okay drive, although there was a lot more traffic than I would have preferred. It was also cold in Kentucky but hot when I got further south, so I didn’t dress properly for the drive and got home feeling kind of icky. But the good news is that neither drive exhausted me the way that drive used to, which is pretty awesome. This is also the first time I’ve been up there since new meds/surgery recovery. I slept well the entire time I was there and wasn’t tired for a change, too. I’ve gotten a lot closer to my dad since Mom passed away almost two years ago–they were such a unit and so devoted to each other that they were all either really needed. I didn’t foresee this, and talking to him about my childhood and what it was like for them when they were young and first dating and so on. I choked up many times while I was up there that I lost count, but I still won’t cry in front of my dad–childhood training in masculinity still deeply engrained in me.

I also have decided, in the wake of last Tuesday, that my primary focus going forward is myself (and Paul and Sparky, of course) and not wasting any energy on things I cannot control. I have finally achieved some kind of mental stability and settled into my life and who I am and what I want out of my life, so I am going to enjoy myself and focus on my work and Paul for as long as I can until I either have to step up because of my conscience, or…I get classified as a dissident for my sexuality and my work, with whatever horrors that is going to bring. I accepted a long time ago that most straight white people are homophobic garbage, and even those who think they are allies don’t care about us when they are voting. These people wanted us all dead in the 1980s, and I guess that’s what we’re going back to. I also decided to unsubscribe from a bunch of newsletters, and did so this morning. I will never go back to CNN or MSNBC; and I am definitely for sure done with the New York Times, Washington Post, and Los Angeles Times. Fuck you people forever. Have fun being controlled by the state, assholes. This is what you wanted, and no sympathy from me. I also am going to severely limit my time on social media. I’ve wasted too much of my life on there as it is, and I have better things to do.

I guess not enough people have seen Cabaret, or missed its message.

I did finish Gabino Iglesias’ latest (more on that later) and started Tananarive Due’s The Reformatory, which is extraordinary; I also read Scott Carson’s The Chill, which I also loved (more on that later). I also had some ideas while I was up there for stuff that I am working on, and am looking forward to getting all that worked on in the upcoming week. I have a manuscript to edit, a manuscript to write, and all kinds of other things to work on and complete and get back to the gym so I can get myself back into better shape again and be healthier. It will help me have more energy–which now that I sleep better has also improved (well, and finally recovering completely from my surgery), and while I do know it’s unrealistic to expect to ever get back the energy I used to have, regular exercise will help decrease muscle loss with age and bone density, which is something I have to be concerned about genetically. I also find that regular exercise triggers my creativity, which is pretty fucking awesome.

I have a lot of things to do today–errands and such–and of course there are great football games on today, capped off by Alabama-LSU in Baton Rouge tonight. I also have some other posts to do–book reviews of what I read while I was gone–and I also have some thoughts about essays I want to get working on. So have a lovely Saturday, hang in there, and by all means, protect your mental health. You’re probably going to need it.

I’ll Be Doggone

Well, it’s election eve and I am in Kentucky, of all places. I didn’t think when I planned this trip–it was postponed from a few weeks ago; we’d originally planned for me to meet Dad in Alabama for their birthdays and then I’d follow him up to Kentucky. Another family thing came up so plans couldn’t be made or finalized until it was too late for me to get the time off, and I chose this week because LSU didn’t play this past weekend (of course)…so I am up here with my right-wing family for the election. The election hasn’t come up much since I arrived, and my dad mentioned something about it to me today; I won’t say what he said but it started even if his candidate doesn’t win blah blah blah. It sounded defeated, frankly, and I’ve never heard Dad make such a comment in such a way; usually it would be the problem, followed by “this is why he has to win”, so it was odd enough for me to take note. I’ve been essentially off-line all day–we went over to my sister’s for lunch and stayed the afternoon over there–and away from the television. Dad and I watched some television tonight and he went to bed early. I am tired now–I ran out of steam a few hours ago–but I wasn’t when I got here yesterday.

It was a beautiful drive. I came up through Nashville instead of Chattanooga, and it was a nice, new drive. Gorgeous drive, even if the traffic between Huntsville and Nashville was a bit more heavy than I would prefer. But I felt good. Sundays now are my best day of the week. I’ve gotten enough physirest and my brain is working and firing on all cylinders and it’s usually when I got the most done. I got up at six on Sunday morning and slowly woke up, did some chores, and drank some coffee and packed. I departed the house around eight thirty in the morning. I finally finished listening to that hilarious podcast My Dad Wrote a Porno (more on that later) and then listened to Gabino Iglesias’ House of Bone and Rain, which is fantastic, the rest of the way. I still have about an hour to go; I’ll most likely listen to the rest while I am here and then start The Reformatory on the way home Friday…and yes, I am aware of Raphael and am paying very close attention. Right now it’s projected to come ashore about five hours after I arrive in New Orleans–so I will have to pay attention to the weather intensely as it could seriously affect the drive home. Yay?

Anyway, I wasn’t physically exhausted when I got here. I was tired, but my mind was alert and I didn’t feel like I could fall asleep unexpectedly at any moment. I felt good, and it was nice. I’ve not made this drive in well over a year (at this time last year I had already undergone a surgery and was prepping for another–and I think I also got a colonoscopy/endoscopy last fall as well, if I’m not mistaken. My memory is so tattered these days. I can’t remember anything anymore, and to remember when something happened I have to remember when other things happened and my feeling about when it was is inevitably incorrect. This bothers me some, because I used to have an excellent memory–and for many years it was one of the few things I had that I could take pride in. How sad does that sound? Pretty damned sad, I think. I spent my twenties in an almost constant state of depression, which was incredibly miserable, but the chemical imbalances enabled me to hide it well from most people, since I never let anyone get to know me well enough for them to know. I never let people close enough because I couldn’t trust anyone enough to actually be myself around them. Wow, that was some digression, was it not?

But I was very pleased to arrive and not be a complete zombie, and then I slept well until I got up this morning. I did hit a wall today, though.

Tomorrow we’re going to go see some historic homes and making a Sam’s run, which is always nice…and a bit surreal. I do like being divorced from anxiety-making news and social media, and it’s also put me into a place of whatever will be, will be. Probably more zen than I would have ever thought I’d be or feel, but that could also be my new medications. But it’s also super nice to not be wrapped up into Gordian knots of anxiety.

And on that note, I am going to call it a night. We can do this, people.

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