Tag: books

The Yellow Rose

Friday morning, and I have to get some bloodwork done before I head into the office this morning. Sigh. I slept really well again this morning, which was great, and thank the Lord I don’t have to fast for these labs so I can have coffee before heading over to Quest. I had a decent day yesterday, despite being a bit worn down from the trip. I did get chores done, read some, and ran errands; I also had things delivered. The cupboard was bare, quite literally. I also paid bills, tried to get caught up on the always depressing news–don’t even get me started on the Louisiana drive for voter suppression and a lack of guaranteed representation in this state; I cannot wait to sign the recall petition for our boot-licking piece of shit governor. Trust me–I am watching for a local announcement on where to go to sign it. There are times when I really hate this state, and this is yet another example of why New Orleans doesn’t claim Louisiana. I don’t understand the mentality here of voting against your best interests, time after time after time, and expecting better results. Louisiana has always had shitty and corrupt politicians on the state and local levels, and we’re so used to being betrayed by our politicians, who sell us out to corporate and elitist interests all the time, and always have been for the most part. But there is a lot of anger about this redistricting, and that anger might actually lead to a political revolution in the state; it just depends on how racist the electorate is. I don’t hold out much hope, to be honest. Maybe the economy might drive some people out of the folly of voting against their own interests, but I doubt it. I don’t hold out much hope for Southern racists to wake up from their post-Reconstruction stupor that has been in place for over 150 years.

I also need to figure out where I am with everything and what I need to get done. When I get home from the office today, I am going to have to consult my running to-do list, see if anything can be scratched off, what needs to be scratched off, and of course, add things that need doing. We have lots of shows to catch up on this weekend, some movies I’d like to see, and maybe start bingeing something new. It was gloomy and a bit rainy yesterday, which was kind of relaxing (we had serious rain overnight on Wednesday), and tomorrow I am going to have to run some books to the library sale and stop to get a few things at the Fresh Market, maybe even wash the car (madness!), and do some more reading or writing. I have a gazillion newsletter blog entries to write, some short stories to work on, and of course, the book needs to be gotten back to. I have to go back up to Alabama for a long weekend next month, but after that, don’t have to be anywhere until October, when I go up and then follow Dad back up to Kentucky. I need to buckle down and start slowly working my way back into getting into better physical condition, and I really need to get back to reading and writing more. I am greatly enjoying Carol Goodman’s The Sonnet Lover, which I want to finish this weekend. I also need to get back to work on reading Listen for the Whisperer and The Egyptian Cat Mystery, so I can move on to other books to read. I may reread a Mary Stewart classic as my next reread; we’ll see how I feel when I finish these.

Heavy heaving sigh, I also need to need to register for social security and Medicare, too, since I am turning 65 this year. I don’t want to start drawing SS until I am 67, when I am vested at 100% in it, and can still work full time with no limitations. That’s two more years; I think I can hang, since I was thinking about working until I’m seventy, if I actually last that long. I am keeping my health insurance from work, rather than starting Medicare, but I think I have to sign up before I turn 65? I need to look into this more. (Something else to add to my to-do list, I suppose.) I hate having to be responsible, you know? I’m not even sure how much my social security will be–besides that it won’t be enough to live on–but if I can draw it for three years while still working, I can work to pay off everything I owe, and the removal of that debt will ease that burden. I never thought I’d be here, to be honest, to have to understand how all of this works and what plans I need for the rest of my life. I’ve always been a grasshopper and never an ant, you know? But, it was a long shot to make it this far, yet here I am, defying all odds again.

I also can’t get this book idea I figured out while I was in the panhandle out of my head, either. I am very proud of myself for coming up with how to make the slasher novel I want to write in a more clever way of approaching it. I have been scribbling notes like it’s going out of style, too. Ah, well, it’s nice to have my creativity blooming instead of lying fallow as it seems to have for so long.

And on that note, it’s time for me to get more coffee and get ready for my day to start. I still feel a bit out of place in my own life, but that’s what this weekend is for; to get my equilibrium back. SO, have a lovely and charming and marvelous and productive day–whatever you want it to be, make it be so–and I will check in with you again tomorrow morning. Until then, see ya!

Long time fitness and physique model Eric Turner, who is aging like a fantastic wine.

Alabama Pines

Alabama really is beautiful—it’s not just a slogan on a license plate or the Welcome to Alabama signs.

I am exhausted on Sunday night and about ready to go to bed for the night. Tomorrow we’re picking up my aunt, driving south to pick up another aunt, and then it’s on to Panama City Beach, Florida. I’m only staying until Wednesday morning—have to get back in time to pick up Sparky before heading home and settling into my reality again. I’m not sure why I am so tired, honestly. Maybe it’s residual from the drive and traipsing through graveyards all day. We visited a lot of the graves again today, but mostly stayed out at the graves of my maternal grandparents and my uncle who died young. I barely remember him, but I know when I was a kid I adored him. He was eighteen when he was killed in a car accident, and his funeral is the first one I remember attending. Dad does a lot of this stuff because it was always important to Mom, which is why we spent most of the day with her parents—because that’s what they would do when she was alive, and he sees this as another way of honoring her. I may keep it up on a lesser scale if I outlive Dad; but it would only be for Decoration Day rather than four times a year.

It’s now Thursday morning back in New Orleans; obviously I didn’t finish this while I was away, did I? I drove back yesterday morning without incident, and was pretty tired. My own bed felt marvelous, and I slept like the dead last night, too. Paul had gotten back Tuesday night, and had picked up Sparky from the Cat Practice before I got back to town. I unpacked, washed my clothes, and still have stuff to put away and grocery lists to be made and errands to run and all that jazz. It was a nice break, and it was even nicer to be unplugged from the news for several days. I did catch up on it when I got back–not completely, but at least what’s been going on the last day or so; there’s always so much, and it’s seeming more and more like we keep sliding back on everything as the days pass. Again, I am old, so I am not sure how much longer I have to deal with any of this nonsense’s inevitably bad outcomes.

And people wonder why I never wanted children.

I also had a lot of creativity sparked while I was gone, and I scribbled a lot in my journal yesterday, too. I listened to Alafair Burke’s marvelous The Note (more on that later) during my driving time, and got started on Carol Goodman’s equally wonderful The Sonnet Lover (and in an eerie turn of events, I opened the book on Kindle to scroll to where I had left off, but Audible and Kindle had worked together and communicated somehow so that that was where the book opened. Yikes). I also was remembering a lot, and of course, reminiscing with the previous generation (what’s left of it, anyway) helped with that a lot–which also helped with the creativity flowing. I cracked the shell of another book idea I’ve been wanting to write for several years now, which felt amazing, and yes, I wrote down notes on it as well. (It also helps jog my creativity to read excellent writers, which is another reason I’ve always loved to read so much.) I also had some thoughts about another Scotty book, which is always fun, and I also thought about the book I’m currently writing.

And I really do want to write more about Alabama, too–and the panhandle beach towns.

I have a million things to do today, including figuring out what we need to get in term of groceries and so forth–yesterday was also Pay the Bills Wednesday, so I have to do that this morning, too. I have prescriptions to pick up, and the mail, and…and… and…so much to do. I have to make an appointment for labs to be drawn tomorrow for two doctors as well. I definitely need to make a list. There’s a lot of chores that need to be done around here, too. I also have to update my check register. Sigh. There’s always something, right? The car also behaved marvelously on the drives, which put over a thousand miles on my car. That’s a lot of driving over less than a week, but the books made it a wonderful experience, and of course, Alabama is really gorgeous to drive through.

But I am glad to be back home, glad to be getting back to the normality of every day life, and glad I have a needy cat to sleep in my lap. I am going to try to finish reading the Goodman this weekend, and I am going to try to do some writing in the meantime as well.

And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday Eve, everyone, and I’ll be back in the morning. Till then!

There’s no way I’d ever stand there, but this view is magnificent. I believe this is northeast Alabama, but could be wrong.

Ring of Fire

Monday and I am staying home from the office this morning. I didn’t sleep as deeply as I would have liked, and woke up several times before the alarm (and Sparky) got me up. It was after getting up and pottering around the way I always do that I started feeling hot and started sweating and my stomach git a little bit on the roiling side, so that along with a bit of being tired…and yeah, it was a no-brainer. I think my sinuses kicked in overnight somehow, and yes, blech. I really dislike being sick, but it’s one of those things you can’t control. Paul is departing tomorrow, and I don’t leave until Friday, so I am going to be home alone with Sparky–who will need lots of affection and reassurance and cuddling. I don’t mind that, of course; I just am hopeful I’ll be able to do things in the evening as well. I should be able to just read, too, if Sparky’s need for my lap is overwhelming.

Sigh.

I did send out a new newsletter yesterday, about my set of World Book Encyclopedias that my parents bought the summer I turned nine; they may have been birthday gifts? But they were treasured possessions I still miss sometimes; I miss being able to pull down a volume and just open it randomly and start reading. But as I said in the newsletter, I don’t have space for them in my house and they are, despite holding so many wonderful memories for me, they are in the end just things. I was proud of myself for getting it done and sent out on the weekend; I still missed the midweek one, though. We can but do better.

We started watching The Beast In Me last night, and I am really disappointed that none of you convinced me to watch sooner. It’s exceptionally well done, and the performances of Claire Danes and Matthew Rhys are exceptional. It appears to have been based on the story of Bobby Durst and Susan Berman–after the disappearance of his first wife; that jumped out at me right away. WE watched three episodes last night, and while I don’t know what Paul’s schedule is like today, maybe we’ll be able to finish it tonight.

This weekend was lovely, in all honesty. I did get some chores done, and I did some reading: a short story I want to write about, and another chapter of Listen to the Whisperer by Phyllis A. Whitney, which I am enjoying a lot. I had never really read her works before in an analytic kind of critical mind way, and so things are striking me this time around. Her plots usually involved a young woman with some sort of traumatic past, trying to find resolution in the present day, and very often involved her getting to know a family she’d never known before. In Listen, the heroine is heading to Norway to meet, for the first time, her birth mother, an Oscar winning actress whose career was ended by a scandalous murder on the set of her last film. She uses a more formal style, like the older Gothic writers, but she updates and modernizes it. I’m looking forward to writing about her and the book in a rather in-depth newsletter.

Obviously, given the newsletter post of the weekend while revisiting a novel I originally read when I was ten or eleven, I’ve been thinking about, and trying to remember, more about my childhood and the influences on me and my work. If I had never credited the encyclopedia as a major influence and having a great impact on me, I certainly never credited the made for TV movies of the 1970s! I used to love watching the “Movie of the Week,’ which if you didn’t watch when it originally aired, you might miss completely unless it was rerun during the summer. (Hard to believe we used to plan our lives around television so completely when now everything is available on demand.) I have a book about those movies, particularly ABC’s–and over the weekend I found videos on Youtube from horror fans remembering how amazing some of those films were, despite low budgets and bad sets. SOme of them were terrifying–Crowhaven Farm, The House That Wouldn’t Die, Scream Pretty Peggy, The Night Stalker and Do Not Fold, Spindle or Mutilate. They often starred either fading movie stars or television stars, or a combination of the two. The 1970s were also an interesting time for horror movies and novels. This is when Stephen King got started, after all, and I was a fan from the moment I started reading the paperback of Carrie when I was a freshman in high school.1

But probably my favorite Stephen King book was Danse Macabre, which doesn’t get nearly the love it should. Reading it broadened my mind to think critically about genre, and it also introduced me to any number of writers I grew to like and admire, like Harlan Ellison. I should revisit that…it was the first easily accessible academic tome I’d read at that point, and I loved how he got into literary theory through applying it to horror. It’s still not that much different these days, but literary writers always give genre writers grief —oh you’re in it for the money–and it was much worse back then when very few genre writers were considered literary writers, too. Stephen King wasn’t taken seriously until he was well into his career–despite his genius, his originality, memorable characters, an uncanny eye for human behavior, and his ability to make unbelievable situations feel absolutely real. I had already read some horror before Carrie–I Am Legend by Richard Matheson, The Other by Thomas Tryon, The Exorcist by William Peter Blatty, and Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin jump to mind–but King got me truly interested in horror as a genre and to consider writing it (I spent most of the 1980s trying to write horror to no avail).

And on that note, I think I am going to go lay down for a bit. I feel a bit queasy still, and you never know how my stomach is going to be these days. Have a happy Monday, Constant Reader, however you choose to spend your day, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Till then!

  1. King was also another revelatory author for me, but that’s for another time. ↩︎

It Ain’t Easy Being Easy

Work at home Friday, and we made it through another work week in one piece (at least so far). The world is still here (for now), too, so if you’ve made it without losing your mind, killing someone, or just completely breaking down sobbing in a corner, congratulations! I did get tired yesterday afternoon, which wasn’t a surprise, but I was fine all morning and managed to get a lot done at the office, which was awesome. I was a bit tired to write words last night, so I decided to just chill, relax, do some chores when I felt like it, and think instead about what I am going to write today after my work-at-home duties. Naturally, that meant me doing little-to-nothing once I got home. Sparky was feeling lonely and needing some comfort love, which meant me providing my lap for his bed for almost the entire evening. I didn’t mind, of course; sleeping purr-kitty is very relaxing and calming. I caught up on the horrific news–these are the times that would have killed Molly Ivins, because trying to keep up on everything and writing humorously about it would have worn her down for sure.

So, apparently CNN conservative sleazebag Scott Jennings was outed as a closet case by Chef Joe Gera1. (See Matthew Rettenmund’s blog, along with some other queer news as well as some shots of actor Tom Blyth in the altogether; he’s a good resource and you should think about subscribing!) Scott Jennings is one of those white male mediocrities who has wound up as a fascism-enabler–this rat will definitely go down with the ship–and sits there with that asshole smirk while he smugly condescends to everyone else on the show. CNN was also responsible for giving us Tucker Carlson, thanks so much for that, by the way. It also raised the specter of outing again. I always go by the original ACT UP explanation for outing–if you are in a position to do harm to queer people, you do, and you’re closeted, well, fuck you and you definitely should be outed. (See: Aaron Schock) Are the allegations about Jennings accurate? Maybe, maybe not. But as far as I am concerned, we can put his unwashed fascist ass on a ice floe and set it adrift north of Canada.

Sparky only let me have about a half an hour of extra sleep this morning, so I am up way eariler than I’d intended; I never voluntarily get up at six thirty in the morning. I do feel rested and good. We watched another episode of Unchosen last night, which took another twist I didn’t see coming in last night’s episode. I kind of had wondered if this kind of twist was coming–mainly, because the show is doing such a great job with the characters that it seemed natural, but it still was a big surprise when they landed the twist. We are obsessed with this show, and of course, it has me thinking about cults again as well as Kansas, which is where I always think of when my mind turns to cults. I was thinking last night about several books I want to write that are set in Kansas–there are three I really hope I get to do while I am still writing. I also thought some more about the next Scotty, and I’m thinking I may move it up from Carnival to the Halloween before, as the story develops in my brain. I do love this creative phase I’m enjoying right now, and it’s not as frenetic and wild as they used to be; probably because the anxiety is under control so I am not getting dozens of new ideas weekly, which is also kind of a relief. I think having my mind ping around so rapid-fire the way it used to was also kind of exhausting and stressful. I like this whole new calm, centered thing medication is doing to my brain these days. And now it’s the weekend, with me feeling calm and rested and excellent. Huzzah!

I do have some work duties to do this morning that I will be diving into as soon as I finish writing this, and some other personal chores that have to be done this morning, too, which shouldn’t be an issue. I do think I am going to mostly stay home today. I have a couple of errands I can run later on (or tomorrow), and of course I’d like to get some cleaning done around here. I also need to wash and clean out the car since I am driving north a week from today (Paul leaves Tuesday to head north, too).

So I want to do some reading and writing this weekend, and get some newsletters finished as well. I feel good about everything in my life at the moment, and that’s always lovely. I am still doing a lot of processing and thinking about things that occurred in my life and making sense of them–and their lasting impact–on who I am. Maybe it was the anxiety, but I was always afraid somewhat to look back and relive/think about things again; mainly because I was certain I’d be embarrassed or ashamed. ANd maybe that’s true. Maybe I didn’t do this before because there was so much anxiety, and so much determination to always see the bad or negative about myself and now I can actually handle it? Regardless, I’m actually kind of enjoying this unpacking process while being kinder to, and forgiving, myself.

That’s healthy, right?

And on that note I am heading into the spice mines. Have yourself a merry little Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check back in tomorrow with a progress report. Ta till then!

Anubis, Egyptian god of the afterlife and Lord of the Sacred Land
  1. We’ll see if there’s any truth or veracity to the claim, but it did make me laugh. He is so self-loathing, which is clearly apparent. I guess not thinking it was about sucking dick was probably a self-defense mechanism my brain used to protect from the horror of thinking him queer. ↩︎

Could I Have This Dance

Thursday last day in the office this week blog, and I am very pleased with myself for making it through the week without complete and utter exhaustion rolling around. I wasn’t tired yesterday after work, and I was able to do chores and some writing last night while Paul was at the gym. Check me out, will you? And I don’t feel either tired or groggy this morning. No aches or pains anywhere, either, which is ultimately delightful. We watched another episode of Unchosen last night–the hot guy is played by Fra Fee, who is simply gorgeous–and it is going in directions I didn’t see coming. It’s very cleverly written, well acted, and very well made.

I wrote about a thousand words or so last night after work, which was even nicer. Tuesday night I dribbled out about five or six hundred words, and struggled to get that. Last night I sat down, started writing, and after a slow start the words began to flow (“the words must flow!”) like they used to and the next thing I knew I was ending the first chapter and I was like, whoa, went into the zone for the first time in years and was enormously pleased, to say the least. I also put away the dishes, and did another load I’ll have to unload tonight. There’s also some laundry to finish, too. I’m enjoying writing again–which means I am feeling satisfied and really good for the first time in years. I was thinking about doing some errands on the way home tonight, but they can wait until after I finish my working at home duties tomorrow. Next Friday I am driving up to meet Dad in Alabama for Decoration Day (I’ve still not decided on a audiobook to listen to; I do like listening to horror for some reason while I’m driving; I’ve got some good ones downloaded, including some Shirley Jackson novels I’ve not read. I also have some more current ones by Riley Sager and Tananarive Due and Grady Hendrix; all of whose work I have enjoyed before.

This weekend I hope to get some writing and cleaning done around here. My writing streak will inevitably be broken when I go on the trip next week, so I need to get as much done as possible before then. I want to read some more of Listen for the Whisperer, get going on my next read, and I have a short story I want to read and write a newsletter about. I am also really enjoying thinking–and remembering–things from my past so I can either process the memory or be inspired to write about it. I’ve been lately trying to remember how I initially got interested in ancient Egypt–I think it may have been watching the Elizabeth Taylor Cleopatra on television as a child; I think she might have been my way into ancient history, along with with a juvenile mystery called The Mystery of the Pharaoh’s Treasure, which I have a copy of and should revisit. I also know one of my elementary school teachers traveled the world during her summer breaks, took tons of pictures, and showed us slide of historic sites she’d visited–and she’d been to Egypt several times, and the timing is right; it was fourth grade and I was eight or so, which was also around the time we got our set of encyclopedias, which opened up the entire world to me in that little apartment on the south side of Chicago. (My lifelong fascination with Egypt will be explored at some point in an essay series.)

And there are thunderstorms in the forecast for tomorrow, which sounds like a perfect day to stay home and get stuff done while the rain comes down and the thunder rolls. Huzzah!

It’s weird to feel so good on a Thursday morning. I am sure I’ll get tired this afternoon, probably after the caffeine wears off, but that’s also okay. I am going to come straight home from work, methinks, and run the errands over the weekend. I do need to take these boxes of books to the library sale Saturday morning and get them out of the living room; I do want to leave the house in good shape before I drive north next Friday.

And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines for the day. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I’ll check back in with you tomorrow morning. See ya!

Oscar winner Michael B. Jordan for Rolling Stone

Step by Step

How on earth is it Pay-the-Bills Wednesday again already? As my grandmother used to day, “lord, have mercy” (it sounded like lawd-a-mersuh) But the week has gone rather well thus far, so no complaints on that score. I did feel a bit tired yesterday afternoon at work, but I just keep my head down and keep plugging away. I was very organized and efficient at work yesterday, too, and I have some catching up to do this morning but that shouldn’t be much of a problem. We’re aren’t terribly busy today, either, which is nice. We also started watching a new series on Netflix, Unchosen, which is about a British cult (fictional), but it’s incredibly well done and chilling–and like Trust Me: The False Prophet, focuses on a woman victim of the cult who is starting to think the cult may not be what it’s presented to be. (Watch Trust Me–you literally can trust me on this.) I’ve always had a mild interest in cults; I remember when they found the corpses at Jonestown when I was in high school. There was also a cult in the county seat where we lived in Kansas. They had purchased the campus of a defunct religious college and taken it over as a “religious college”–but only the religion was their cult. Those people were creepy as fuck, and it was even scarier the way they would corner people to proselytize; it happened a few times to me at places as varied as McDonalds, a gas station, and the grocery store. I looked the cult up a few years ago, when I remembered how weird that was–for a religious, deeply conservative Midwestern state, a lot of weird fucking shit goes on there–and they’re declining. The campus was sold to a local land-grant university, and I even found a book by someone who had left the cult. that I ordered but haven’t read yet.

There are still so many Kansas stories I want to tell.

I was also thinking about the hypocrisy of the entire “tradwife” thing. For one thing, traditional farm wives who baked their own bread and churned their own butter generally didn’t have running water in the house or electricity; so these grifters trying to sell this brand shouldn’t be using what the women they are emulating would have called witchcraft. Just a thought. And isn’t it interesting that conservative women are trying to sell women on the notion that it’s better to be so fucking busy in the kitchen and the daily chores to think about what they actually want from life. There’s a harrowing passage in Robert Caro’s first volume of the LBJ biographies he’s writing about what a day in the life of a rural farm wife was like, and I’ve never forgotten how awful and hopeless their lives were when they had to boil clothes and run them on a washboard to clean them–and having to cart the water from the well, which took multiple trips, not to mention trying to keep the house clean and the larder stocked and cook and take care of the children. (Loretta Lynn remembers those hard times with love and through rose-colored glasses in her song “Coal Miner’s Daughter.”)

It’s so patriarchical, isn’t it? “Keep your woman busy so she won’t have the energy to think about how much inequity exists in her life. She’ll be happier.1“

Remember when I was talking about how some show business people decided to turn Colton Underwood into THEE GAY of the moment, and gave us a reality show where Gus Kenworthy tried to show him how to be gay? I think it was called Coming Out Colton. I didn’t watch, and kind of thought it wasn’t very well thought out–“oh, look, an NFL player and former Bachelor has come out, and is a beautiful blonde blue-eyed young man, let’s give the gays a star”–but may watch it someday2. ANyway, the other example of not knowing what the queers want (her reality show revealed how horrible she was), Caitlyn Jenner, was interviewed by the unspeakably vile Tomi Lahren the other day and was whining about her passport being renewed with an M gender marking–entirely due to the policies she actually voted for.3 And of course, being a true piece of confused moronic trash, she “still loves Trump.” Yeah, he ain’t helping you with the passport thing. You’re no use to him anymore. I’d say maybe she’d wake up and pull her head out of her ass, but she’s been in that horrific Kardashian universe for so long it’s undoubtedly broken her brain.

I also did some chores last night; I thought I had turned the dishwasher on before I went up to bed last night, but apparently I didn’t; so I’ll have to empty and reload again when I get home tonight. I also think I’m going to do a load of laundry, too–or maybe that should wait until tomorrow night after work, so I can get another day’s worth of dirty clothes in there and only have the bedding to do on Friday.

I didn’t write anything fictional yesterday; I’m trying to figure out the best way to get the information I need my main character to get in this chapter. I’ll probably go over the nearly two thousand words I’ve already done to edit and revise and add some layers to, which should get me back into the story. It was a struggle yesterday, so I gave up and worked on some essays instead. (I started to say write anything, but caught myself and remembered–nonfiction counts. Rather proud of myself.)

The MAGA civil war continues to entertain. The Candace Owens/Laura Loomer war is hilarious; they are both monsters, but it’s lovely seeing them using their vitriol on each other instead of others. I love that The Onion bought Infowars and Alex Jones is financially ruined, which isn’t everything he deserves but is a good start. He and his followers are clearly heartless and soulless ghouls. I cannot imagine telling parents grieving their murdered children they are liars, or defiling the children’s tombstones. And I am not buying into any MAGA regrets or apology tours either, that take no responsibility or accountability, and then think we owe them forgiveness? I’m more likely to forgive and financially support Westboro Baptist than forgive them without atonement because they are still awful and are just trying to get ahead of the inevitable eventual collapse.

The ebook of Sinclair Lewis’ It Can’t Happen Here was on sale yesterday for $1.99, so I snapped it up because I was thinking about rereading it again. I originally read it during the second Bush term because I could see it coming then. The rise of Rush Limbaugh and Fox News in the early 1990s was the canary in a coal mine, and I saw the signs of this current situation already starting to fall into place. I don’t think our current situation is going to end up in the Turd Reich–we are perilously close right now–because it’s all blowing up, and I don’t think a Fascist takeover with all the reins in the small hands of an insane tyrant whose cognitive dissonance must inevitably cause a complete mental collapse, and I have a lot more confidence now that we can somehow come back from the brink. But there’s so much work to be done after, to even get back to where we were before, let alone make things better.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will check back in with you again tomorrow.

The beautiful Antinous, lover of Roman Emperor Hadrian, depicted as the Egyptian God Osiris
  1. Paul asked me, as we watched the show last night, “why do these cults exist” and I replied, “as a means of controlling and subjugating women. All cults seem to have that in common.” ↩︎
  2. Since I love reality television, I’ve been thinking about doing an essay on gay reality shows, and another on queer people on mainstream reality shows. ↩︎
  3. I was also rather interested to hear her mention her driver’s license–didn’t she kill someone in a vehicular homicide? How does she still have one? ↩︎

The Sweetest Thing

Y’all, I wrote fiction yesterday. I know, right? Needless to say, I was thrilled and delighted, and I definitely am still feeling euphoric this morning about it.

It was only a thousand or so new words on the new first chapter of Chlorine, but y’all–I didn’t have to force it and it flowed out of me the way that it used to. His voice was loud and clear in my head and I was there, in that zone, and Mary Mother of God1, when I tell you I can’t even describe how good it felt to be doing this work, setting up the story, sharing who the main character is, seeing it all through his eyes…marvelous. What precisely was I so afraid of, again? Oh yes, that it wouldn’t come back, and who could blame it? We live in interesting times, I’ve gotten much older, and I am still not 100% completely healthy in mind and spirit…but my spirit is centered and where it needs to be, and motherfuckers, I wrote fiction yesterday. I still can do it. I still have whatever it is in my brain that channels this through my fingers and onto the page, and it’s glorious. It may come and go, as it is wont to do sometimes, but this is the first time I’ve written fiction in a long time–and it’s also the first time in a long time that it actually felt good to do it.

Apparently there are youngsters who don’t know who THE Madonna is? Shame on you all! Madonna is a fucking legend, bitches–put some goddamned respect on her name! ESPECIALLY YOU YOUNG QUEERS. Know your history, know your icons and why they are icons, and be better. MADONNA stood up for the queer community during HIV/AIDS before most celebrities and she has always been a huge ally for us. I suppose next they’re not going to know who Elizabeth Taylor was…I saw a theory on-line yesterday about how these things are now possible, while we knew the music and stars of previous generations because we all didn’t have personal phones, and there were only three channels on the television, and we were exposed to the art of previous generations that way (and listening to the communal car radio on drives) and now…everyone has their own phones and playlists and so forth, so such cross-generational sharing of art no longer happens. It was an interesting theory, and it’s been echoing in my brain since I first saw it. My father loved 1950’s music and country; Mom was more mellow and loved Lawrence Welk and the kind of music she played on the piano growing up. My childhood was filled with the music of Patsy Cline, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, George Jones, and that entire generation of country legends, and even the lesser known ones. I’m also glad this kind of exposure broadened my own musical tastes and aesthetics, and damn it, every young queer should know who Madonna and Elizabeth Taylor are/were. It’s queer history. There are many others, too, that you should know. Always remember, queer history isn’t as well-documented as it should be, nor is it reported on properly, so passing the knowledge down by word of mouth has always been important. Maybe the young, with their phones and ear buds and all the information of the world at their fingertips, don’t think they need to know about those who came before? I do remember explaining who Sylvester was to some young co-workers, and even playing the video for “You Make Me Feel Mighty Real” for them.

Yes, kids, we’ve always had bops.

I had a good day yesterday, although I could tell my injection is due today. Nothing major, but heartburn and gas and a mild discomfort, and a little dehydration to go with it. Like I said, I actually wrote fiction, read a chapter of Listen for the Whisperer, and as mentioned earlier, I worked on my own fiction writing, which was terrific and as I mentioned already, am still a bit euphoric. The Bold Strokes Book-a-thon was a lot of fun and reminded me that yes, Greg, you are a writer even if you never write anything else ever again, and of course, I write this every day (even though I only count fiction). My supervisor is in London for two weeks for a very well-deserved vacation, so I have more duties and responsibilities while she’s gone (hurray), but I’m hoping it won’t be a stressful, tiring week, and of course at the end of next week I am off to Alabama/Florida for Decoration Day and to see my recently widowed aunt. This month has really been nuts, hasn’t it? And next month is all about the doctors appointments, and blood work. Onward and upward, as I always say.

We started watching a creepy documentary about FLDS, called Trust Me: The False Prophet, which is about the aftermath of the arrest and conviction of their former child molesting prophet, Warren Jeffs (we’ve watched several documentaries about that pedophile already) and someone who stepped in and claimed Jeffs had “claimed and named” him as the new prophet so he could accumulate wealth (he was kind of a loser) and wives–including underage ones. I had never really thought about it before, but of course those women are groomed and conditioned to accept whatever their Prophet tells them is the Lord’s will. It really is fascinating to see how easy people can be conditioned to follow a man (or men in general) who is stealing their lives, their skills and abilities, and who they actually should have grown up to be. I do hope Sarah Weinman takes this on at some point.

I’m feeling a little bit more connected to myself these days, too–maybe I should have started all this introspective naval-gazing sooner? No, probably not. There was a reason for me to not examine myself and my life more deeply and objectively, and I needed to get older (and medicated) in order to do this work on myself. I’m trying very hard to get rid of the last vestiges of trying to please that is still wired into my brain.

I also started working on my next newsletter, which may even go out on Wednesday like it’s supposed to. Consistency, that’s me. The on-line rape academy report recently published by CNN (which came under attack almost immediately, because we must not ever talk bad about the menfolk! Their fragile egos and incredibly weak senses of self must be protected at all costs!!!) was disgusting but also my way in to talk about another reason I felt isolated from other boys (later, men), namely, that I never held girls/women in contempt the same way my male peers did?

Here’s hoping I hit that Wednesday target.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. The temperature dropped yesterday when the rain finally concluded, but I am sure will be sweltering by the time I get off work. Until tomorrow, Constant Reader, and have a good one!

The temple at Edfu, Egypt
  1. Shout out to Pope Leo! ↩︎

Lookin’ for Love

Sunday! It started raining last evening before I went to bed, and it lasted through this morning. I slept well and stayed in bed for another hour after I woke up because it was so nice and comfortable and because, well, because I could. I can’t tomorrow, after all. I feel rested and good this morning, too. I think the reading went well, and the panel…well, I’ve done a better job moderating before, but my panelists were amazing–Karis Walsh, MJ Williamz, and Marie Incontrera. Their new books sound amazing; Marie is actually a debut author with a romance set in the world of Manhattan theater, which sounds like a absolute winner. I enjoyed talking with them, at any rate, and hope the viewers enjoyed listening to us. I think I rambled a lot, like I always do, forgetting its about the panelists and not the moderater. I hate when I do that, you know.

LSU came within a tiger’s whisker of winning the national championships in gymnastics, and they didn’t have the best meet, either. Kailin Chio got a 10 on vault (the only one of the competition) and I was very proud of the young ladies. Congratulations to Oklahoma for winning again, and to Minnesota and Florida for making the finals. LSU didn’t make it past the semi-finals last year, but they had a great season this year and rebounding to finish second nationally this year was a great season. Brava, ladies!

I didn’t read much yesterday, sadly, but plan to rectify that a bit this morning. I am ordering groceries for delivery, and I am going to make my “famous” meatballs (the recipe that was in the Mystery Writers of America Cookbook, but has evolved and is much better than it was then) in the slow cooker for dinner and lunches this week. I have a panel this afternoon which I am not moderating for the Bold Strokes Bookathon, which is about reading reviews (I don’t) and if reviews have anything to offer the reader (no, they don’t). I do have the interview questions from the moderator, which I may use to explore the topic more on my own for the newsletter (I love doing self-interviews when someone else thinks up the questions). I do want to do some reading today, and I would also like to write some. I think I’m itching to get back to work on fiction, and I know that once I start, the dam will break and a torrent of words will come flowing out of me. At least, I hope that will be the case.

I also opened up the new version of Chapter One of Chlorine that I had started a while back, when I realized my revisions had not truly improved it and I was losing the character’s voice and truth and desires. The original idea was a young actor-on-the-make, willing to do whatever he needed to do to keep his career alive and progressing, despite being a closet case for obvious reasons. The 1950s were a very paranoid era in Hollywood–all the Commie-hunts, the Hays Code, a connected and queer underground beneath the glittering surface, the threat of television to film attendance–and I also came up with a better stage name for him: Wade Rivers, which fits into that whole Adonis Factory machine Henry Willson drove–Rock Hudson, Tab Hunter, Troy Donahue, Guy Madison–that I am fictionalizing. I have to say, there may have been only about seven hundred words or so that I wrote on this new version, but it really is good, he typed modestly.

I’m a much better writer than I have ever given myself credit for. It’s also nice to be able to recognize that–and my long career–without feeling the need to belittle myself or make some caveats.

I also want to get a newsletter finished and completed and sent out today.

And on that note, I am going to bring this to a close and head into the spice mines. I also want to get some cleaning done today, too. Cleaning, reading and writing on a cloudy, rainy Sunday; does like ever get any better than this? Have an awesome rest of your day, and I will check back in tomorrow morning before I head into the office.

Not sure I’d stop, but I’d be tempted.

He Stopped Loving Her Today

And here we are on a Saturday morning and I am up early again. I went to bed early last night, too, which was nice–I was a bit tired after this week’s Hacks and The Boys. I feel very good this morning, too. I have some ZOOM things to do for the Bold Strokes Book-a-thon; a reading at three and moderating a panel tonight at seven, and another panel tomorrow at six pm my time. The national gymnastics finals are today at three, so I’ll be watching on my iPad during the reading–with no offense intended at all for the other readers; I’ve been waiting to watch this since last year, and I’ll be listening to the readers, not the meet.

Yesterday was lovely. I got my work-at-home chores done, cleaned some, did laundry all day, and had a nice relaxing day at home, which was super-nice. I spent the early evening ater Paul got home catching up on the news, and ordered a pizza from Reginelli’s–which is another example of how small a town New Orleans can be. When I served on jury duty for that civil case all those years ago, the plaintiff was a Reginelli, and that case inspired Murder in the Irish Channel, a Chanse novel I am particularly proud of, and what our friend Susan would order for our Game of Thrones nights at her home. I also managed to get a late newsletter out, discussing Cheryl A. Head’s marvelous short story “Finding Jimmy Baldwin,” which you can read right here. I am going to try to get another one out tomorrow, to be back on the twice weekly schedule, but we shall see how that goes. I have some errands to run today, too, before settling in for the reading and the panel and the gymnastics. I should also probably pick up and do some more cleaning, too. I am going to try to get some reading done this morning, too…Listen for the Whisperer‘s second chapter, and back to the novel I’ve been trying to get into for several weeks now, with no disrespect intended for the author or the book itself; it’s me, not the book. I think reading the short stories might have helped kick the reading gene back into gear; although I suppose we shall see this morning, won’t we?

And of course, later this month I am going to both Alabama and Florida, which means an audiobook to listen to and write about, so huzzah for that. The audiobooks actually make me look forward to going on long drives again, and of course, I am now anxiety-free so I don’t get tense and tired while driving , which always resulted in me being exhausted; I wasn’t tired at all the last time I drove to Kentucky, which is my benchmark for long drives. Obviously, given a choice I wouldn’t take all these drives, but I make the best of them, and listening to books definitely has made them much more bearable. I’m not sure exactly what I am going to listen to on this drive; I do have some interesting books downloaded already on my phone.

Nothing about that rape academy website (or whatever it was; I was far too disgusted by what it was for and about so didn’t dig into the news reports deeply) surprised me, other than I thought the number of visits (or hits, or whatever the term is for that) was shockingly low at sixty-two million, frankly; I would have assumed it was one out of every two or three men–but then again, not everyone had heard of that website, so it would have been significantly higher otherwise. As everyone says, maybe not all men but always a man, which is accurate. The men are clearly not okay, and haven’t been in a while, but as long as they continue subscribing to the notion that women are merely sperm depositories whose sole function is running the house and squirting out fetuses, they will continue to be. I’ve always been grateful not to be a straight man, because that privilege comes at too great a cost for me. The whole manosphere thing has always been hilarious to me; who thinks Joe Rogan is a fucking role model? How sad and pathetic is that? That man-child Braden Peters (talk about generic white-boy names!) is clearly mentally unwell and his parents clearly failed him. (You can’t start injecting testosterone at fourteen without parental consent, can you? There were places in his life where his parents should have parented better, but he also bears some responsibility for how broken he is; overdosing on crystal meth is a warning sign he clearly isn’t capable of reading.) How can anyone look at Theo Von, Joe Rogan, Andrew Schulz, and other grifters of their ilk, and think, that’s what I want to be like.

Shudder.

So many podcasts and their podcasters are the dregs of humanity. But when you’re selling something people want to buy–your inability to get laid isn’t your fault–you’ll always make money.

And their mentality that gay men are somehow lesser than them because we’re not into the bullshit they are is laughable. None of them would get laid if they were gay men; no gay men would ever find them attractive–especially when you know they don’t clean their ass properly because “that’s some gay hit, man.” No fucking thanks. That any woman would ever want to fuck any of their unhygienic selves–I mean, I can smell Theo Von through the screen, you know? He also used to work out at my old gym once in a while; it was weird seeing him when he was nothing more than that douche from Road Rules trying to start a comedy career. And no, even when he was younger and in much better shape–he was still completely unfuckable, to me at any rate. Trust me, bros, you ain’t got nothing to fear from us queers, okay?

So, no, the straight men aren’t okay. Thank God my straight male friends aren’t anything like them–but they wouldn’t be my friends if they were. I don’t assume all straight men are homophobic sexist pricks until proven otherwise…but they often prove themselves lacking in that area without any prompting or assistance from me. I’ve been wanting to tackle the topic of “boys will be boys” and “locker room talk” as one of my masculinity essays, but haven’t really found my way into it–the US Men’s Olympic Hockey team made me think of it, along with the Access Hollywood tape we all listened to back in 2016–and trying to find my way into the subject. The rape academy shit may be the key to the opening paragraph, plus the fact that I’ve spent a lot of time in locker rooms throughout my lie, or in male-only spaces, and have heard it myself.

I also never excused it.

Sigh.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines and getting some breakfast. Have a great Saturday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning.

Statue of Ramses II at night with the crescent moon

He Thinks He’ll Keep Her

How is it Thursday already? This is what happens when your schedule disrupts. Yesterday I kept thinking it was Tuesday, and Tuesday was the same. Argle-bargle, but at least this weekend I will reset. Yesterday wasn’t a bad day at all; I never really was tired while at work and I got a lot done; likewise after I got home. I did some laundry and the dishes, read a short story, and picked up some around here–it really doesn’t take much to maintain order during the week, and if I don’t have to do all of that over the weekend, I can do other cleaning that needs doing; like the stairs haven’t been swept in I don’t know how long. In fact, after work-at-home Friday I should be all current with everything from work. Tonight is the national semi-finals for college gymnastics; LSU is in the second bracket which fortunately airs after I get home from work. GEAUX TIGERS!

We finished watching Stick last night, which is an absolutely charming little comedy about relationships and grief and healing, just like Ted Lasso–and if you loved Lasso, you will love Stick, which also has a most excellent cast. It’s a delightful comfort show, much as Tad Lasso and Schitt’s Creek, and it just makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Owen Wilson is an absolute delight in the lead, and there is excellent chemistry between the cast, too. I’m sorry it’s over, but at least with the gymnastics tonight we don’t have to figure out what to watch next, which is really nice.

I also realized last night that I missed my newsletter schedule for the week again. Heavy sigh. As I said, I did read a short story last night; Cheryl Head’s marvelous “Finding Jimmy Baldwin” from Crime Ink: Iconic, which was recently chosen for the Best Mystery and Suspense anthology by editors Megan Abbott and Steph Cha–I’m telling you, this anthology is fire–and it delivered, as I knew it would. More on that later, of course. Maybe that will be my next newsletter? Cheryl is an absolute gem, both as a person and as an author, and so fiercely intelligent and competent and kind! I am grateful she came to Saints and Sinners all those years ago with her first Charlie Mack mystery, and I’ve been a fan/reader ever since. (S&S is why I know a lot of really amazing people.) I’m also glad I decided to go back and read short stories since I can’t seem to concentrate enough to read an entire novel (I do think there’s something to the not being able to read a novel and the I need to read for research combination.)

I have been feeling a bit at sea lately, and I am sure it has everything to do with not having a normal weekend around here for a few weeks. I just can’t seem to focus or concentrate as much as I need to, but for now, at any rate, I am just letting my mind wander freely and keep up its ADHD creativity of thoughts and ideas and so forth…because it’s been a long time since my mind and body and spirit were rested and in sync and really been creative. Hurricane Season Hustle was a lot harder to write than most books I’ve written because my brain wasn’t free enough to create on its own and I had to force it. I think that’s part of why I look at the book slightly askance; it’s not just that I got so damned sick while working on it but because I had to put effort into thinking and writing it, which usually isn’t as hard as it was…but in fairness, this has been a very rough decade, and not just for me, either; others have had it much worse than I have, but it’s not a competition, and I don’t have to feel bad about recognizing how rough it’s been without having the tones of toxic masculinity whispering in my inner ear–“tough it out” or “get over yourself wimp” and other hateful things of that type.

This is why toxic masculinity is so damned damaging; it take root deep in your brain and goes off at inopportune moments like a blue light special. I wish I’d started unpacking all of this a lot sooner, frankly. Ah, well.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines for the day. May your Thursday be bright and lovely and filled with love and success, Constant Reader, and no worries. I’ll be back on the morrow.

Flooding in Venice.