Tag: Cabaret

There Stands the Glass

Sunday, and the last day of this rather lengthy weekend I was blessed with this year. I didn’t do the things I had hoped to do yesterday morning when I was drinking coffee and being hopeful, but before I knew it, it was nearly noon and I decided to go ahead and get the new television set up, while learning to use it. I also slept in this morning, despite Sparky’s best efforts, despite planning on getting up much earlier that I actually did. No sense crying over spilt milk, though, is there? I do feel good this morning, and that’s always nice. My coffee is tasting marvelous, and yes, I have some chores to get done, especially the kitchen–don’t ask–so I will try to get that done while I work on writing.

It took me a while to get the television put together and up on the mantel, which was no small feet since it was just me and it is a 65″ television. But I didn’t want to wait for Paul, and I did get it all set up; it’s a “smart television,” which concerned me at first as I was certain I wasn’t smart enough to set it up…but I managed somehow. It was just a little time-consuming as the software needed an update, and so forth and so on, but by around two-thirty-ish it was operational and I felt comfortable using it, and its remote. And Constant Reader, it is enormous. The picture quality is so sharp, it seems like people are in the living room for me to watch. It also takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to its sheer size…but it will make science fiction shows look amazing (I watched the opening of The Force Awakens just to see, and wow!), and the Winter Olympics…yeah, I would have never thought about getting a new television, but I am very glad we did. I watched the LSU game last night on it–I see this morning they lost; I was falling asleep so went to bed after halftime–and the picture quality! Yes, I am very pleased we got a new television. I think the old one was almost ten years old? Practically archaic in technology terms, right?

When I think about the changes in technology I’ve seen during my lifetime…it really makes me feel old. I’ve seen too much! I was thinking about this last night–triggered, no doubt, by my delight in the new “smart” television–and how limited we used to be with entertainment options. If you didn’t see a movie when it came out, you had to catch it when it went to television (remember network television premieres?) and hope it wasn’t butchered by television censors (see Cabaret as a prime example) too badly. Even the advent of cable didn’t change things that much; we were still tied to when things aired. It was the same with books. It never occurred to me, ever, that if they didn’t have a book I wanted in the store I could just order it. (It wasn’t terrible; I inevitably spent over a hundred dollars every time I went into a bookstore.)

I didn’t read anything yesterday; I don’t know why, but after setting up the television and taking all the packaging (so much packaging!) out to the trash, I was revisited by the malaise. I watched a lot of videos on Youtube (fall of Rome; the Ptolemaic dynasty in Egypt, etc.) while not really doing much of anything other than free form writing in my journal. I was also trying to remember things I enjoyed in 2025 in order to do a year-end summary; the memory isn’t what it used to be…but the biggest thing was finally finding out what’s been wrong with me for so long and finally getting it treated. It’s been a journey, hasn’t it? And one I didn’t even know I was on until this past spring when I got so sick and had to be hospitalized. The six days in the hospital was a hard reset that enabled me to catch my breath and think some more about everything, remembering that only I can make changes to my life that I need to make and the only way to do so is decide what changes to make and how to go about making those changes. It was also a kind of wake-up call, a reminder that I don’t have as much time left on this planet as perhaps I might want. So…maybe the year end round up might be more philosophical? We shall see.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Sunday, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning before going to the office.

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.

Tomorrow Belongs to Me

Ah, Cabaret.

I first became aware of this movie from commercials on television, and it looked very weird to young Greg. I had no idea what the movie was about, other than it was a musical; starred Liza Minnelli; also had the gorgeous Michael York in the cast; and seemed to be set in old pre-Nazi Germany. It also came out in the same year as The Godfather, which sucked all the air out of the year when it comes to film. I had also read that book that year because of the movie…which also got me interested in Marlon Brando, which is a whole other entry. (Not to mention the sex scenes, which were really confusing in a lot of ways…especially Lucy Mancini’s over-large vagina.) But Liza was everywhere that year, too–every talk show, had her own special “Liza with a Z”, magazine covers and newspapers and periodicals like you wouldn’t believe.

I had no clue what the plot was, other than decadence and debauchery?

I remember asking a friend that year if she knew what Cabaret was about–her parents were European immigrants from after the war; her father was Czech and mother German–and she told me her parents had seen it and her mother said, “It’s all about homosexuals”, which naturally got me incredibly interested in the movie. I finally saw it several years later when it aired on television, but everything queer was sliced out of the movie and it was disjointed and didn’t make a lot of sense, so I thought well, that was shit, how did it win all those Oscars?

Because of course, all the queer stuff has been excised from the movie; the movie was basically castrated and to me, seemed like nothing more than a vehicle to move the movie along to the next musical number–many musicals are like this, so I really didn’t understand what the big deal was about this one.

A few years later, I caught the original uncut version on HBO…and have been a fan ever since.

Cabaret never should have been sold to television for airing because it had to be gutted to make it ready for prime time. I only hope no one involved with the film saw that version of it, but it really was a desecration.

By the time I saw the movie as Bob Fosse originally intended it to be seen, I had become aware of the source material: Goodbye to Berlin by Christopher Isherwood, an autobiographical novel about his experiences in Weimar Berlin and witnessing the rise of the Nazis–and how their malevolence was poisoning German society and culture. It had been adapted for the stage by John Van Druten as I Am a Camera (which is the opening sentence of the second paragraph of the book), and the play was also filmed, starring Julie Harris, who may have played Sally on stage, too. I Am a Camera was adapted into the musical Cabaret, but significant changes were made from the stage version of the musical in adapting it for the screen–and the screen adaptation also wound up causing the stage version to revised, remodeled, and reinvented as well. (And to make things even more confusing, Isherwood later wrote a memoir about that time period in Berlin called Christopher and His Kind, which was also filmed.)

I had not seen the earlier film, nor had I read the book when I saw the uncut version of Cabaret.

And you really couldn’t go wrong casting Michael York in the 1970s. Stunningly handsome, and that velvety voice that just dripped syrup.

I mean, really. I think this is from Something for Everyone, which is a great, little-known queer movie also starring Angela Lansbury! (There’s a watchable version uploaded to Youtube, but the sound and picture quality isn’t great.)

I rewatch the film every now and then. I went through an Isherwood phase in the late 90’s/early aughts, when I read everything he wrote, and I enjoyed them all. And when I see some political movements today (hello, MAGAts!), Cabaret is never far from my mind.

It’s astonishing that the film was even made, given that homosexuality was still considered a mental illness in 1972, and the film didn’t judge. It simply presented these alternative sexualities as normal, and while the times themselves weren’t normal, there was also a very strong sense that the Weimar period–which is endlessly fascinating, which is one of many reasons I love Babylon Berlin so much–that filled the German political vacuum between the wars wasn’t very different from the twenties everywhere else, either; a time when the society and culture rejected the old, more conservative times that led to the first war, and everyone just wanted to have a good time because so much was misery. (I often wonder how much the American Stock Market crash of 1929 had to do with the rise of fascism in Germany; it was the economy, after all, that really caused the problems, and wasn’t the global economy heavily impacted by the collapse of Wall Street? We never realize how what happens in our country affects the rest of the world, because the United States is just as narcissistic as the convicted felon the Republicans are running.)

But the underlying message of Cabaret is one that is hard to miss: that living in your own bubble and ignoring the world outside is precisely how garbage like the Nazis rise to power…the assumption that someone else will do something to take care of it, and we’ll just keep having fun. In the late 1980s and early 1990s I thought we as a country we’re headed down that path; the unholy marriage between the right wing and evangelical christianity (I will never capitalize that C because cults don’t deserve that respect) certainly made it very clear to me that there was a very large segment of the American population that would be more than happy to put all racialized people and queer people into death camps. (I even started toying with the idea for a novel about that very thing; I still think about that idea A LOT, and even more so since 2016–which is also when I started rewatching Cabaret again on a more regular basis. Cabaret, and Bob Fosse’s vision of what it should be, was very powerful; and it changed the face of what movie musicals looked like and could be, and has influenced stage and screen musicals ever since. It’s a stunningly shot film, and now I can say that I understand why Fosse won the Oscar instead of Francis Ford Coppola for The Godfather; both films are masterpieces, but Cabaret was more “showy,” and that always wins over diligent and detailed craft.

And no, the movie isn’t “all about homosexuals”–even though there’s a minor character who is a trans woman; the main character is gay and bi-curious, and Max, Sally’s other love interest, is also bi and sleeps with them both cheerily. That was VERY avant-garde attitude to have in a 1972 Hollywood movie made for American audiences.

I wonder how seeing it on the screen in 1972 might have impacted me? But I also can’t imagine my mother and sister sitting through it, either.

Cabaret is a must-see if you’re interested in queer film–or great American cinema, for that matter. And I will judge you for not seeing it. In fact, I’m doing that right now.

Morning Good Morning

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come Softly to Me

Sunday morning and as predicted, I didn’t get nearly as much done yesterday as I wanted to, but it was mostly about time more than anything else. I picked up the mail and stopped by Fresh Market, but then once I got home…well, there were chores still to be done (still have some more to do this morning) and I never did get around to writing anything besides blog entries yesterday, like a very bad Gregalicious. Today I have no choice, I have to write today…and I also have to drive out to the Apple Store in Metairie, and make groceries, both of which will be tiring. (I knew I’d regret putting that chore off until today, but at least it’s sunny out today; I think it’s going to be a rather lovely day out there.)

Sparky is always a problem for sitting at the computer as he always wants to sit in my chair–he will hang out and be obnoxious (right now he’s sprawled across the desk, his flicking tail brushing the keyboard as he knocks other things off…) and then jump into the chair the minute I get up for more coffee or anything, really. Heavy sigh, the joys of Big Spoiled Kitten Energy.

I did manage to watch Christopher and His Kind yesterday, which is Isherwood’s memoir about his life in Berlin during the rise of the Nazis, and it much more explicit than Isherwood’s earlier fictions about Berlin. During that “Staged Right” about Cabaret I watched the other night, he wrote it in reaction to the movie, to leave the record straight (as it were) about himself and his life; he hated that Cabaret made Brian/Christopher into a bisexual and that Sally was played by Liza Minnelli, when the actual Sally was marginally talented at best. It was an interesting film, but Christopher himself really came across as a bit of an asshole. There was also a lot of explicit sex, and there’s no question in watching this film about what his sexuality was, for sure. Matt Smith is simply stunningly beautiful, and Alexander Draymon as Caspar is just too beautiful for words. The two stories (Cabaret and Christopher and His Kind) are similar to each other, but I’m not really sure if a watcher didn’t know that both came from the same source, those similarities are simply base facts the story grew out of, and you might not even recognize them as the same story. I may need to revisit the books sometime when I have more time…as I recognize that a lot of the revisiting of fiction I talk about is probably never going to happen. But as always, I find rereading something as an easy way to shake off the not-reading mode I’ve been in for so long. We also watched the new BBC adaptation of Agatha Christie’s Murder is Easy yesterday, which we quite enjoyed…although I am waiting for the racists to complain since they cast a Black man in the lead.

So I started rereading Norah Lofts’ The Little Wax Doll yesterday, of which I remember very little of my original read back in junior high school (I read her novels about queens and royal women before moving on to her other novels, which was very definitely an eclectic mix), and find myself enjoying it a lot more than I did when I was twelve–I did enjoy it, but I am certainly seeing it differently some fifty years later. As a kid, I just read Miss Mayfield as a lonely spinster who spent most of her life working in Africa in her colonial “white savior” role with her best friend, who hopes to save enough money to buy a little place she and her “best friend” could retired to; now it’s screaming lesbians at me. The book was originally published in 1960, and of course there are the queer deniers who like to think we never existed in the world before Stonewall. The phenomenon of spinsters sharing a home was just a fact of life, and the British never really inquired much further than that–the British cold politeness.

And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. There’s a lot to get done today and I am feeling like I will be able to make some significant progress today. Wish me luck, and I may be back later. Happy Sunday, Constant Reader!

Personality

Thursday and my last day in the office for the week. Huzzah. I was tired after work yesterday–I made groceries and went to get the mail–but I did get some things donw last night around the house before collapsing into my easy chair. I watched another one of those “Staged Right” documentaries (this time about Evita), and then Paul came down and we watched another episode of True Detective: Night Country, which really took a turn last night! We’re enjoying the show tremendously, despite all the noise on-line about people hating it…and by people, I mean men. I don’t think I’ve seen a single post trashing the show that wasn’t by a (straight) man? Which sets off my “bullshit misogyny” alarm, frankly.

The weather had turned yesterday by the time I got off work; it had gotten a bit colder and the wind had dramatically picked up. It was also kind of gray, which reminded me of how it is before a flooding rain….borderline tornado weather. It feels cold in the apartment this morning, and the high for today is at about sixty. It may rain today, and there’s a 95% chance of it tomorrow. I have early PT tomorrow morning, and at some point I need to drive to Metairie to return something to the Apple store (I’d ordered a keyboard at long last for my iPad, but it’s the wrong size). Loathe as I am to do that–go out there–it was far too expensive for me to just slide and do nothing about. Heavy heaving sigh. But really, it’s not that big of a hassle, and in going out there, I can actually treat myself to Sonic or Atomic Burger as a treat for having to go to Metairie and deal with Lakeside Mall. Shudder.1

I feel good and rested this morning, which is very unusual for a Thursday. Last Thursday was like this, too–I ended the day feeling energized, and got a lot done when I got home. I hope that will be the case tonight. I have loads of laundry in both washer and dryer that need to be dealt with tonight; I need to empty and reload the dishwasher; the floors are looking horrific; and of course I need to assemble the shower caddy. I also need to redo my to-do list, and perhaps make one just for the weekend. I am going to have to go make groceries at some point this weekend, too. I need to go by Lowe’s at some point, too. We need more filters and I am going to splurge on a new barbecue grill, as the last one is well past its last legs, frankly. I also need to reorganize both the freezer and the refrigerator, as well as get rid of some more boxes of stuff that is no longer needed to be kept.

I love feeling reinvigorated in the mornings, frankly. I don’t know how long this will last, of course, and it’s possible I’ll get tired by the end of my shift, but that’s also okay. I don’t beat myself up over being tired anymore, and maybe the loss of anxiety is making me lean into my own stasis more than I ever have before, but I don’t think my creativity is gone–I’m having too many ideas and thoughts and making too many notes–but I need to refocus it on writing actual words down, rather than just thinking about them. I also need to start reading again. I hate how far behind I’ve fallen on my reading.

I did start listening to podcasts yesterday in the car, which was really cool. I found one called Bad Gays, which is hosted by the author of the book Bad Gays and someone who works at the Gay Museum in Berlin (which, if we ever go to Germany, is something I’d like to see); and I listed to the episode on James I of England (VI of Scotland) and his male favorites. I didn’t see an episode on two historical figures I am fascinated by, Henri III of France, and Louis XIV’s brother, Philippe d’Orleans; Philippe’s lover the Chevalier de Lorraine was the definitive bad gay of Versailles. I should fictionalize the Affair of the Poisons…which would give me an excuse to visit France for research. Plus it’ll give me the excuse to study up on the period more, too. I love seventeenth century France.

I think I am going to watch Christopher and His Kind this weekend, and I may even rewatch Cabaret for good measure. I also found some other gay movies on-line to watch that I’ve never seen, like Another Country and Maurice. I also want to rewatch Saltburn so I can finish my entry on it.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. May your Thursday be wonderful, cheery and bright, and I may be back later–one never knows.

  1. Hilariously, now that my anxiety is under control I’ve realized my hatred of driving and having to go places was always anxiety-based. Always. ↩︎

My Sharona

Wedesday pay-the-bills day, after a very good night’s sleep and this is the first time this week I’ve awakened feeling…awake, if that makes sense. I had a decent day at work yesterday, ran errands on the way home from work (will be doing that again tonight), and then got home, feeling inside out and tired. Sparky was feeling needy after being home alone all day, so I decided to just relax in my chair and let him cuddle up to me and go to sleep, which was pretty much how we spent the rest of the evening, with the occasional getting up for the bathroom or something to drink. We watched a documentary on Youtube about the backstory of Cabaret, which was interesting, from Isherwood’s Berlin Stories1 to the stage and film adaptation as I Am a Camera, and then finally stage and screen versions of Cabaret, along with the revivals. It was interesting; I knew there were a lot of differences between the play and the film, and that later revivals often used songs that were original to the film. That sort of thing always interests me. I spent most of the rest of the night reading news reports, trying to get back on top of what is going on in the world while I’ve been focusing on my recovery and getting through the days productively, and I have to say it was horrifying, absolutely horrifying. I’ve been aware of everything going on, of course, it’s just not something I’ve allowed myself to really think about and/or through until last evening.

The world is indeed in terrible shape.

My arm feels fatigued this morning, too, from Monday’s night’s PT. The muscles in my left arm were twitching/spasming a bit last night, but they did the same thing on Sunday. I don’t think it’s a big deal or anything that needs to be reported at any time before I have PT on Friday, when I can talk to my actual physical therapist about it, but again–I think that’s just a natural reaction to working hard, which the arm is definitely not completely used to yet. I still feel good about my progress, and I am trying valiantly to resist frustration at not being fully recovered yet. But hell, I’ve made it this far already so why complain?

NARRATOR VOICE: He can always complain.

I have to say, now that I made my decision about Bouchercon and posted about it, I feel a lot more relaxed and less anxious about the whole thing–and really, that should tell me something: if I am feeling anxious about something, or dismiss it when I think about it so it won’t stress me out, that should be when I decide not to attend or do something. It would definitely make my life easier. I still have a ton of entries in the draft folder I need to eventually do something with, but hopefully tonight when I get home I will feel like getting some work done and Sparky won’t be needy–since I cannot seem to resist his wiles ever. He’s just so sweet (when he isn’t being a terror).

And so, here I am on the midway point of my work week. Things appear to be picking up, after the slow start to everything this week. The apartment still has chores that need to be done–laundry and dishes and so forth–and yesterday’s mail had a shower caddy that I ordered; one that goes over the shower head. I bought one a while ago–and every time I got in the shower I’d think I need to get one that goes over the shower head because the one I got doesn’t fit there and is a pain in the ass, but I would never remember to buy and/or order one that works better. Of course, assembly was required (and a Phillips head screwdriver! What is this madness?) and I just wasn’t there last night to do it properly, plus Sparky was trying to knock everything off the counter and I just said fuck it and shoved everything back in the box to do at another time. I also got my new, magnetic measuring spoons yesterday, which means they will either stick together when not in use or will stick to the refrigerator or the oven hood. Huzzah!

And as always when I am feeling alive and energetic in the middle of the week, I am already thinking about all the things I can get done over the weekend. WHY do I always think I can/will do more than I wind up doing? I think this is part of the constant self-defeating thing that I do; I think I will be able to do more than usual but inevitably will wind up not doing it all so I can feel like I’ve failed and thus can self-reproach, which is really not the best way to live one’s life.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. There are, after all, bills to be paid. I may be back later, one can never be entirely certain. Have a lovely Wednesday at any rate!

  1. I am thinking it may be time to revisit Isherwood; and I don’t think I’ve read Christopher and His Kind, which would be a great place to start. ↩︎

Cover Girl

Drag is a part of queer culture I’ve always known about but has also been something primarily on the periphery of my gay life and world; I’ve only occasionally ever thought about perhaps doing it–as a gag or as a costume at some point; a very dear friend has always wanted to dress me up as Joan Crawford (narrow waist, big shoulders, enormous eyebrows), which is something I would consider doing if it wasn’t so much work–I am way too lazy to ever do drag properly and respectfully. I did a very poor attempt at drag many years ago, for a Showgirls themed birthday party for a friend; the result was far from pretty. I did sometimes used to use mascara and eye liner when I would go out; it emphasized my enormous and expressive eyes which most people have always considered my best feature (although aging has deprived me of my eyelashes). Drag was just another part of the community and culture, like leathermen, bears, and gym queens–another patch on the quilt that makes up our queer world.

My primary interest in drag has always been historical and cultural; drag culture has always been a part of the gay bar scene, since time immemorial, it seems. I have always been interested in every aspect of gay culture since coming to terms with my own sexuality and recognizing that not coming to terms with it meant a lifetime of guaranteed misery, and shouldn’t I really take a chance on being happy? There was always a lot, for me, of misunderstanding about drag culture and its place in the gay community; but that also primarily came from people outside of the community and therefore didn’t have the slightest grasp of it–i.e. ignorant slurs that all gay men dressed like women whenever they had the chance, you know–not “real men.”

But seriously, who wants to buy into the cult of toxic masculinity? No fucking thanks.

I don’t know the history of drag, but I did know–from the very beginning–that there was a significant difference between drag and the trans experience; there’s definitely crossover, but the Venn diagram of drag and trans is not a complete circle. I understood this always, even when I knew very little of either. This was always the issue I had with To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything Julie Newmar–the queens in the movie didn’t just do drag for performance or pageants, but dressed as women in their everyday life…which made them transwomen who also did drag. The failure of that film to define the difference between the two, I think and believe, has a lot to do with the current-day conflation by the Right of drag queens with transwomen. Likewise, was the Nathan Lane character from The Birdcage (and the French original) a transwoman or a drag queen?

And the fact that I, knowing as little about gay life and culture as I did in 1994, knew that the Wong Foo movie was conflating two completely different things as the same certainly means that other, better-educated people should have, as well.

But it’s also important to remember that the movie wasn’t made for the queer community–no Hollywood studio film with queer characters is intended for a queer audience, and thus there’s a falseness to them that rings hollow to me (don’t even get me started on Philadelphia); what Sarah Schulman once (paraphrasing) described as “the creation of a fake public homosexuality that will play in Peoria.”

There’s an essay in that, methinks.

The first time I went to a gay bar in Houston is my first true memory of seeing someone in drag performing on the bar in person. She was doing Liza as Sally Bowles from Cabaret, and as I walked in the door with some co-workers from That Airline, the first thing I saw was her up on the bar, with a musclebound dancer on either side of her in bikinis or thongs, and I can remember thinking wow this is decadent like Isherwood’s Berlin–but I liked it. I felt at home there, in a way I never did in gay bars in Fresno (or anywhere else I was able to sneak away and visit one), and felt like that night was when my gay life actually began: I was with co-workers, I was going to a gay bar openly, and the co-workers knew I was gay but had never really experienced being gay as anything but misery and depression and a curse. I don’t remember the name of the queen, but ever since then, “Mein Herr” always brings a nostalgic smile to my face.

But again, I didn’t go out much or do much during those two years in Houston as I still wasn’t completely comfortable being totally out. I moved to Tampa in 1991 and started living as an out gay man…and started spending more time in gay bars. A popular night for airline employees as Tuesday Nights at Tracks, where cocktails were only fifty cents and no cover before ten. There was also a drag show at midnight, with an actual stage in a show room, and that was my first real experience watching drag queens perform. There was a gay paper there–I cannot remember what it was called to save my life; I know the one in Texas was This Week in Texas, called TWIT by everyone–but it often had information about performances and other night life ads and so forth. I began to get a better understanding of drag, its place in the community, and its importance to gay culture, period.

And of course, once I moved to New Orleans, there was Bianca del Rio.

The mainstreaming of drag actually began in the early 1990’s, with RuPaul having a surprise hit record out of nowhere, “Supermodel (You Better Work)”, which started exposing more people to drag who ordinarily would have never seen one. RuPaul was everywhere in the early 1990’s, and even had her own talk show on MTV for a while. The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert and its homogenized American version To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar were both incredibly popular. (I enjoyed Priscilla, and I’ve already touched on my issues with Julie Newmar–which will probably become an essay at another time.)

There were, of course, other successful queens out there before RuPaul’s big breakthrough and later, comeback with Drag Race, but few had as large a profile in the culture as RuPaul. Lady Bunny, Miss Coco Peru, Miss Richfield 1998, and Varla Jean Merman were all making a pretty decent living as performers before the drag explosion that followed the launch of Drag Race.

I’ve met numerous drag queens on the local scene both in and out of drag–I’ve always been fond of Princess Stephaney and Blanche Debris (who is retired now), and the drag community of New Orleans was always incredibly supportive of the NO/AIDS Task Force. I met Bianca out of drag a couple of times, but I doubt he remembers me…but Drag Bingo at Oz on Sundays with Bianca and Blanche (I just realized their first names both translate into English as white) was always a blast–and I made a point of never trying to get Bianca’s attention because she was always quick and that tongue was sharp as a scalpel always.

I also work with several co-workers who either did drag or have started doing it while I’ve known them, which indirectly helped me with the writing of Death Drop and my original story for a drag queen. Jem is sort of patterned in some ways on one of my former co-workers who actually went to a drag school here in New Orleans–and eventually quit his full-time job to do drag full-time. He’s been in Queer as Folk and numerous other shows filmed here, and has been booking gigs all over the country–check out his Instagram, isn’t he fucking gorgeous? So that gave me the idea to make the first book with Jem his drag origin story.

Learning about drag to write this book–and its sequel–has been an enjoyable learning experience for me. At some point I know I am going to have to do a transformation; I need to know how it feels to have the make-up and the padding and the wig and the dress and shoes on. I can imagine it all from doing theater in high school, but it’s not the same.

And yes, I will share the pictures when and if it does happen.

Let’s Spend the Night Together

Yesterday was quite a day.

As you will recall, That Bitch Ford got me to come down around eight for coffee, and then we started exploring and eating our way through Manhattan (I’ve now had Irish pub food, Chinese, and Cuban), and of course we saw Hadestown last night, which was FANTASTIC. I knew it was the Orpheus story, and as I said to TBF afterwards, “You know, I was thinking as the show started that writing a musical in which there has to be a song so amazing that it would enchant Hades–a god–and convince him to let Eurydice go is really setting the bar high for the guys writing the score” but you know, it worked. It’s a beautiful show, just gorgeous, and the cast was fantastically talented and the production was incredible–choreographing dancing and singing on a stage that is moving pretty quickly is not easy–but my favorites were Hades and Persephone. He was a hot silver fox daddy, and the voice on Persephone? I kept thinking to myself, how is this talent not a major recording star? They were all wonderful, and ironically the actors playing Orpheus and Eurydice were the understudies, and all I could think was these two weren’t talented enough to be MAIN CAST? WOW. It was a spectacular evening, and as TBF said in his Facebook post of the two of us sitting in the theater before the proverbial curtain going up (they didn’t have one), sometimes it’s nice to be reminded of what humans can create in this world. I also loved that the sets, the costumes, and the music all had a New Orleans/Storyville/jazz age feel to it, as well, and it was very easy for me to believe it was actually set in New Orleans because it works.

Seriously, if you come to New York and have a chance to see Hadestown, do it. You won’t regret it–and you can thank me later.

I generally don’t like movie musicals (there are some exceptions, but it is safe to assume going in that if it’s a musical movie I probably didn’t or won’t like it–Cabaret and Chicago are notable exceptions), but as I was greatly enjoying the show yesterday I realized that musicals really work best (at least in my mind) on stage, where they originated. In a theater, with live performances, it’s much easier to suspend the belief that people will suddenly break into song and everyone around will suddenly turn into a singing and dancing flash mob than it is in a movie–at least that’s the logic in my brain.

And yes, this is me, the one and only Gregalicious, raving about a musical. NOW I WANT TO SEE ALL THE MUSICALS CURRENTLY PLAYING ON BROADWAY. Gah. I guess the Broadway musical gene was always there, it just needed to be activated…

Regardless, when I dragged myself up to my room after walking back from the theater I was exhausted. I had insomnia on Wednesday night, which made yesterday seem even longer than it was. At one point my Fitbit actually went off to let me know I’d made my “step goal” for the day (I never make it, and it’s arbitrarily set for the goal it had when it was made rather than one I set, and I only wear one because it helps with the health insurance costs–having it and syncing it to its app, which feeds into the insurance company’s website, is all that’s necessary. It would make more sense to me if it were more performance based–which would get me to actually go for walks–but it’s not). I did manage to sleep much better last night that the night before, which is lovely. I just went down and had breakfast and a lot of coffee and have some down time. I am going to try to get some writing done before I have to do anything else–yay down time!–and get cleaned up for tonight. Although lying down sounds awfully appealing. Maybe I’ll just read a bit before hitting the shower…I don’t know; I’ve been so on the go since I got here it’s odd to actually have some free time. I definitely do not want to go anywhere or do any walking, so relaxing is probably the way to go here.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, everyone!

History Has Its Eyes On You

Ah, Independence Day.

That’s really what the 4th of July commemorates–the day the Continental Congress ratified, and began signing, the Declaration of Independence, when the thirteen British colonies along the Atlantic seaboard threw off the yoke of the King of England and his Parliament and said, nah, thanks–we’re going out on our own. It was extremely radical–particularly since the British Empire was the greatest power in the world since the end of the Seven Years’ War (to the colonials, the French and Indian War) in 1763; perhaps the largest empire to date in world history.

And yet…no rights for women and there was still slavery for another ninety-odd years, give or take.

Someday I will write an essay about American mythology and how I learned it as absolute truth as a child; American history (or rather, US history) was my gateway drug to world history. I should have gone into History as my major in college; it’s entirely possible that History rather than English (or business; I switched back and forth between the two for a very long time) might have garnered an entirely different result when it came to my academic career. But I also would have had to have picked a time to specialize in, and how on earth could I have ever decided? There were so many interesting periods…although inevitably, I tend to think my metiér would have been sixteenth century Europe.

Someday–probably after I retire–I am going to write A Monstrous Regiment of Women.

Yesterday was rather lovely. I actually slept late, of all things; I cannot remember the last time that happened, and thus got a rather late start to my day. I started cleaning up around the house, and organizing things, but again–a late start kind of threw me off my game a bit, and I didn’t get near enough done that I had wanted to get done. I did read a couple of short stories for the Short Story Project, and I also read some more of Robyn Gigl’s wonderful By Way of Sorrow; that was lovely. I also listened to some Bette Midler albums on Spotify (joking on Facebook that I was doing my part to break down gay stereotypes by doing so); in particular I listened to It’s the Girls and Bette Midler, before moving on to Liza with the Cabaret soundtrack, and the little known sequel to Rocky Horror soundtrack, Shock Treatment, and then moved on to the Pet Shop Boys. I made meatballs in the slow cooker for dinner, and then we watched Fear Street 1994 (which was remarkably fun), then a few episodes of High Seas (which is really fun) and a few episodes of Happy Endings before bed.

R. L. Stine and Christopher Pike, who were hugely successful writers of young adult suspense/mystery/horror in the 1990’s, actually had an influence on me as a writer, surprisingly enough. I read most of their novels when I lived in Tampa back in the day (I actually preferred Pike, to be honest), and I actually wrote three novels–Sara, Sorceress, and Sleeping Angel–for young adults during that time. I had always intended to do the Fear Street thing–where the books were all connected somehow and minor characters in one would become the lead characters in another–and spread them across the country, as opposed to one town, as Stine had done; mine would be scattered between Kansas, California, Chicago, and Alabama (one of those ideas became Dark Tide and another Bury Me in Shadows). Then I discovered, through Paul, gay mysteries and all those ideas went into a drawer, along with those manuscripts, and I started creating Chanse and his world, and what eventually became Murder in the Rue Dauphine.

Fear Street 1994 is a lot of fun, as I said, both a mystery, a slasher film, and horror–the main romantic story is a lesbian love story, which was very cool–and it also slightly involved class differentials between the town of Shadyside (often called Shittyside) and it’s wealthier, preppy neighbor, Sunnyvale. It was a fun homage to Scream as well, and it was clever, witty, and quite a fun ride. I do recommend you watch it, if you like those kinds of movies. Nothing deep, but lots of fun, and now I can’t wait for the next part of the trilogy, which drops this Friday: Fear Street 1978.

I did try writing yesterday, without much luck, logging in less than a thousand words. But rather than despairing, as I am wont to do (Oh no! I knew I was breaking my momentum!), I chose to understand and recognize that the scene I was writing needed to be set up better–which was why it wasn’t working–and it needed more than just the cursory slide over I was giving it. I am going to open the document back up later this morning–probably after getting another load of laundry finished, and emptying the dishwasher–and scroll back a bit to start revising and getting into the story again. There really is such a thing as thinking too much about what you’re writing; that’s when the door to doubt starts to open a crack and Imposter Syndrome starts saying pssst through that open crack in the door.

And on that note, I am heading back into the spice mines. Have a happy and safe 4th of July, Constant Reader!