Tag: MAGA voters

Belle Fleur

How is it pay the bills Wednesday again? Yesterday was a decent day, and I was worn out and fell asleep in my easy chair around nine while Paul packed. He’s moving into the Monteleone today for the Festivals, so I have been left alone to deal with a lonely kitty with abandonment issues. I ran my errands after work–my next dose of medication for my next injection arrived–and did another load of dishes and picked up a bit. I also watched a few episodes of The Traitors New Zealand–but it’s too early in the season to really decide anything about it yet. I was impressed they voted a traitor off at their first banishment, but I suspect it will be a while before they get their next one.

I wrote my newsletter essay about Mississippi Blue 42, which you can read here. I really enjoyed the book, and it made me think a lot, not just about college football, but writing about sports authentically. There are just so many hokey tropes and clichés in sports that are easy to fall into–the plucky kid who never plays but wins the big game; the poor kid using sports as a way out of poverty and to get an education; the big game that comes down to the final play; the big comeback; and on and on and on. But that’s the thing about sports, though–you can see a trope play out in a game on your television every weekend. Eli Cranor addresses some of these in the book, but handles it in a way that makes it not feel tired or overused, but rather inspired and fresh and new. That’s a skill, y’all–Eli Cranor is a real one. Add him to your reading list–and if you’re not a football fan, the writing alone is good enough to appeal to everyone.

Since Paul won’t be home tonight, when I get home from work I have to get used to Paul not being here. His work schedule is incredibly intense and erratic in the months leading up to the festivals, so spending the evenings alone with Sparky isn’t new; what’s new is I’ll wake up in the mornings and he won’t be here. Tonight will depend on how I feel after work, I think. Tomorrow night will be my usua; Thursday night exhausted not do anything night, and then of course I have to do the whole prepare for panels and a reading thing over the weekend, taking Lyfts to and from the Quarter. I took Monday off as a recovery day, and then it’s back to work with a vengeance. It never ends, does it? Ah, well. Today I am going to look through my to-do list notebook (I’m trying this “running list” thing I’ve lifted from Donna Andrews’ marvelous series) and figure out what I need to get done first, and what is plausible and/or possible. I need to start writing fiction again, but the last few attempts were so futile that I’ve not really wanted to try again. It’s silly; nothing’s changed, and this is simply a mental block that I’ve created, but I keep thinking, with the country and world burning to the ground does any of this matter? Which is dumb; in my newsletter essay about being a DEI author I know that, small as it may be, my authorial voice is an act of protest every time I write about queer people. I had started writing a story for that American Gestapo anthology, and it was an excellent idea–but it really took me into a dark headspace I didn’t want to be in, so I put it aside.

I also filled my tank–a Honda CR-V, for the record–and it cost over forty dollars. I don’t think I’ve ever filled my car for that much since I bought it in 2017. Nice job, MAGA. But hey, so what if you self-owned as long as you owned the libs, right? No sympathy for any of you, really–especially you three-time MAGA voters. I am amused that the media blamed “economic anxiety” for the 2016 and 2024 elections…how did those votes work out for you? Looks like the Midwest is about to get destroyed again with the cost of fertilizer, and you have no workers this year, either, so what was the point of the farmer welfare money?

And make no mistake about it, Midwest red voting farmers–you’re on the fucking dole; why don’t you pull yourself up by your bootstraps? Why should my tax money bail your racist asses out?

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely pay=the-bills Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow after my first night alone.

The pier at Panama City Beach, Florida

The Logical Song

Monday back to the office blog, and it’s taking me a while to get my morning together. I feel good this morning; like this latest round of depression has finally ended. Not that anything happening in the world has gotten better–it certainly grows worse with every passing day; at least Germany had a fairly stable economy for a little while before things got super dark there in the 1930s, you know–but I always have to remember that I am not completely helpless in the face of the rising evil in the world, I do have a voice, and I should never in a million years allow the bastards to get me down and keep me from being tired or feeling beaten. This has been a lifelong struggle for me, and now almost every American is finding out how it feels when the government doesn’t give two shits about you–it never did, but people are finally waking up to the realization that unfettered capitalism, the ideal state for Ayn Rand, doesn’t work because her “men of the mind” always allow their greed and inhumanity to take control of things.

It was very easy for capitalist pigs to convince Americans that regulations–for their own safety–weren’t necessary. So, I guess we all needed a hard reminder that capitalists and corporations only care about money, and don’t care if they poison you in the name of profit, since some people never fucking learn and will never read history.

This last bout of depression was undoubtedly triggered by coming down from the Festivals, having to return to work, and all this horrible fears about my job and potential retirement. Thanks again, MAGA voters. But I do feel good this morning, better than I have since before the festivals, and so am hoping that this will carry me through until I get everything done that I need to get done. I have a shit ton of emails to answer and more to send. I have a lot of writing to do, and I need to get my taxes done once and for all. I need to pay bills, and I need to run some errands on my way home from work. I also feel physically better; I never really got past the Festival induced exhaustion. We’ll see how this goes.

I did manage to read some yesterday, and managed to finish the first part of Moonraker before my mind stopped focusing yesterday. It did amuse me; the entire first fifty pages or so of the book are about introducing the mysterious billionaire Hugo Drax, who has moved to England and is developing an amazing defensive weapon that could protect the UK from Soviet nuclear weapons, and has gotten deeply involved in British politics (sound familiar? That’s part of the reason I am revisiting the novel), and revealing him to the reader as a cheat at cards. He plays at M’s men’s club (ah, those last vestiges of the Empire and class distinctions!), and the manager suspects that he’s cheating, as he is quite successful. The manager and M want Bond (who became a master at cards on the job; can’t help but think of Casino Royale) to figure out how he’s doing it, and then give him a lesson to protect the club from a cheating scandal. Imagine the first part of a Bond film being about cheating at bridge! It also begs the question of just how far from the original character and his world as conceived by his creator, and how insane it’s gotten as the film got bigger, crazier and campier.

I spent more time on social media this weekend than I like to on the weekends, mainly because of the unfocused brain and my inability to focus–although social media, methinks, has had a lot to do with making my ADHD worse–and I could easily do that while watching the country burn to the ground on the news, and while watching documentaries about the Hapsburgs and how their incestuous marriages–a long-standing family policy geared to protect their money and their lands–eventually led to their downfall, I found myself getting sucked into several on-line dramas that just further illustrate divisions in the country. First up was the candle thing; turns out a gay candle maker decided to make a candle commemorating Cory Booker’s filibuster…and one of the options was cotton-scent. First of all, yikes–and then when Black women started calling the dude out for profiting on Black labor, he doubled down, and then someone came to his rescue–or attempted to, at any rate; this person (I am not using pronouns because I don’t know how they identify) was “camp callout”–I’d seen some of their videos about MAGA regrets, but…this person turned out to also be deeply problematic: long story short, Camp has a very well documented MAGA and anti-trans past; and then the candlemaker turned out to be a convicted sexual offender. Whoops!

Needless to say, they have both disappeared from social media, at least for now.

The bouncy house thing was another one of those “is this a real post or is it parody” posts, in which a white woman complained that the Hands Off protest she attended (her first protest) didn’t have any entertainment for her bored child, suggesting a bouncy house…and she got dragged for it, rightfully so. Good on you for going to your first protest, what the fuck are you thinking have you never seen a protest before? Granted, white people tend to not get teargassed or beaten or had police dogs set on them or firehoses trained on them (unless they’re protesting genocide!) because white privilege, but it was an incredibly tone deaf thing to say, given our proud history of incarcerating Black and brown protesters, along with their children. Leave the kids at home. Then another white gay man (sensing a theme) came in hard for Black women laughing at this idiot…calling them bullies. No one was bullying this woman…and tell me you don’t know any Black people without saying the words. I don’t speak for the Black community, but I do know the difference between bullying and clowning, and that was what was going on. People were laughing at her. No one was wishing her or her children harm, any of that stuff.

Maybe make some Black friends, Keith Edwards? Won’t be watching your channel anymore.

This, for example, is why Black people can’t trust white people–and similarly, why queer people can never fully trust straight people (having your bridal party go to a gay bar doesn’t make you an ally…being an ally doesn’t mean centering yourself and crowding out the people you’re supposed to be an ally of, for the record).

And on that cheery note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have as lovely a Monday as you can hang with, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow.