Tag: Minneapolis

I Sing for Things

Wednesday Pay the Bills Day again, and yet another cold morning here in the Lost Apartment. Yesterday was bitterly cold again, and our “break” from the cold is today, getting up into the fifties before we slide back down into the freezing water level and even….SINGLE DIGITS this weekend. It’s in the low thirties outside, and my workspace is really chilly. I forgot to set my alarm last night, but woke up when I was supposed to, which was nice–and I did it without Sparky’s help. Usually he’s trying to get me up before the alarm goes off, but not this morning. He was curled up somewhere warm downstairs, obviously, because he was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs this morning when I came down. Sigh. I have to run errands tonight after work–prescription, some groceries, gas–so am hoping it won’t be too terrible outside when my work shift is over. If not, oh, well. The one thing I don’t like about the cold weather is how my legs get so tired and achy so much faster–and leg exhaustion pretty much sets the tone for your entire body, doesn’t it?

But I did some chores last night–started some laundry, ran the dishwasher before putting the dishes away, cleaned the counters–and it was very nice coming down to a clean kitchen this morning. Note to self: the reason for doing chores during the week is to stay on top of it so I don’t have to spend time on the weekends getting it all caught up. I plan on doing another book purge this week, too, and to do some organizing of the bookcases again. It looks so much nicer and neater in the living room with all those books gone…and absolutely must remember to continue purging when I get to the point where I feel like it’s okay to buy books again.

I spent a lot of time last night watching news clips, interviews, and influencer podcasts about the fallout from the fascism we’ve all witnessed in Minneapolis. (It doesn’t escape my cynical notice that everyone went completely nuts about this–right and left–once they’d murdered a straight white man on camera…so, not to worry, racialized people, queers and women: we still care more about straight white men than any other demographic in this country.) The blame game, the quick shift by Kristi Noem to “just following orders,” and the possible fall of the vile Stephen Miller and his pick-me skank of a wife (IMAGINE seeing that naked and letting him inside of you…I may never stop internally screaming) was just too delicious of a train wreck to look away from. It almost feels like they are in the “find out” part of FAFO, but they are literally like the walking dead. Firing Bovino, Noem, Lewandowski (her adulterous LOVER), and Miller is just a start, for the record. Nothing less than prosecution will suffice.

That, and never being able to show their disgusting faces in public again without heckling.

When I’ve talked recently about wishing everyone could just let us enjoy Heated Rivalry and its success without being jackasses, I was referring to the Cyd Ziegler/Empty Netters podcast that’s been going on since late last week and early into this one. At first, the piece in Outsports was terribly disappointed, as it seemed to indicate that the guys on the podcast were actually homophobic trash who pretended to like the show for views and clicks, by exposing text messages the one supposedly sent to a friend. Obviously, he knew who he sent the texts to–as they are still in his phone–and he did a video defending himself, claiming, as always, they were taken out of context and the timeline of how things happened and played out were muddled to make him look worse. Some of his defensive language was problematic, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole thing…but then I got some more context on Cyd Ziegler, the Outsports journalist who exposed the story.

Cyd is a registered Republican gay man in Florida who supports Ron DeSantis, so anything he says is bound to be suspect, and his claim of years of gay advocacy and activism is rather suspect, given his politics. If you are a gay man, claiming advocacy and activism–how the fuck can you be a Republican and support Don’t Say Gay DeSantis? The backlash was so strong he backtracked, but…you can never believe or trust anything a Republican says, because they lie like it’s mother’s milk to them.

And yes, I will stand in solidarity with straight allies who might not have the best education on queer rights or issues over a self-loathing gay Republican every fucking day of the week. We may both be gay, but we have significantly different values and morals. Queer MAGA, to me, is even more despicable than straight MAGA…”fuck those fags, I’m not like those pansies” is an attitude and mentality I will never align with or support or stand with in solidarity. There’s an essay in this, methinks, for the newsletter.

I also started the new version of Chlorine, and it’s slow going so far; maybe eight hundred words or so? But the voice feels right, and I am looking forward to getting back into it again today.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will be back tomorrow morning for my weekly “last day in the office” blog. STAY WARM!!!

When gorgeous, muscular men are involved, wrestling can create living sculpture as art. Meta will, naturally, hide this as “adult content”

Nothing Ever Changes

Tuesday of our latest arctic blast, but all is comfy and warm inside the Lost Apartment, which is lovely. The dry heat used to bother me–it still bugs Paul–but I’ve adjusted to it and it’s not the worst thing in the world. I mean, we could have to be out protesting in the streets in below zero temperatures (Minnesotans are making me very proud to be American, because fuck this fascist bullshit, now and forever.) I even saw an anthology call for short stories yesterday with the theme American Gestapo and you can bet your ass I am going to write something for that call. I have more than a few things to say about the collapse of American democracy, and a lot of scorn for those who cheer the decline and fall. I, for one, never expected the Reich-wing flip-flop on carrying a gun and gun ownership1, but these are indeed the strangest of times. And now it looks like the siege of Minneapolis might finally be ending; Bovino the Temu SS officer has been fired, and hopefully, that disgusting pile of filth known as Kristi Noem will be thrown under the bus along with him. Was this third government execution of an American citizen a turning point? Maybe, at long last. (So far, they’ve killed a black man–most people don’t know that part; outrage grew over the white woman; and exploded over the white man…as it ever was and is and will be.)

I mean, when you’ve lost the NRA and Greg motherfucking Abbott, it’s really is time for some serious self-reflection, isn’t it?

It’s cold again this morning, but it’s going to warm up a little before the next arctic blast (worse than the first) arrives later this week. We’re talking single digit weather in New Orleans, of all places. It’s going to be a weird weekend. I am going to try to get everything errand-wise finished by Friday, so I can stay indoors from Friday evening to Monday morning. Tis very cold here in my bay windows this morning, but it was pleasant at work yesterday (as opposed to our last cold spell, when the office was freezing). I slept so well last night–that pile of blankets was incredibly warm and comfortable and cozy last night, and I really hated to get out from under them this morning. When I got home from my errands last night (I had also ordered some groceries for delivery, too), I changed into my home-clothes (sweatpants and a hoodie and slippers), and sat down in my chair to read for a bit and watch the news before doing some chores, but Sparky had other ideas. He plopped into my lap and went to sleep…and then I was so comfortable, between him and the blanket, that I really never got back up again, other than for something to drink or snacks. It was entirely too comfortable, really.

Yesterday wasn’t bad at work, either. I wasn’t in the clinic after all, so I spent the day doing Admin stuff and getting caught up on everything–I’m never really very behind on anything anymore, but letting things slide always gets me in trouble. We’re slow this week, too, so I should be able to be all caught up on office work by Thursday when I leave. Huzzah!

I also finished my first promotional newsletter for Hurricane Season Hustle, which you can read right here! I need to do at least another one–the book officially drops on February 10–and I am getting really behind on the newsletters, aren’t I? The goal was once a week, and I’ve strayed very far from that initial ideal/goal over the last couple of years. I have so many started….and I really need to get more done, especially since (as with everything) I keep getting more ideas for them all the time! Heavy heaving sigh. It’s very hard to get things done, though, when I’m cold–but I need to stop giving in to the easy laziness and power through, don’t I?

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and stay safe and warm–especially those in Minneapolis and Maine. I’ll be back tomorrow!

  1. Funny how they change their tune on everything, isn’t it? Suddenly the people who need a fucking AK-47 to go get coffee at Starbucks claim if you carry a gun in public the cops or a federal agent can shoot you? But, no, we’re the brainwashed ones… ↩︎

Foreplay/Long Time

Work at home Friday has rolled around again, and this time it precedes yet another three day weekend. I was tired yesterday, not being used to getting up at six for four days in a row again. I made some groceries on the way home from work, did some chores when I got home, and then slid into my easy chair with Sparky for some cuddles and catching up on the news. I also had no idea how tired I actually was until I got home; Sparky curled up in my lap, purring, and by seven thirty I was sound asleep in my easy chair! I woke up groggy after eight and said fuck it and went to bed. I slept like the dead, and didn’t get up until about eight this morning. I still am achy in places–the hips and Achilles tendons, of all things–and not feeling particularly energetic this morning, either, and Sparky is being no help this morning at all. I have a meeting this morning, and I have lots of laundry to do, in addition to some work-at-home duties I need to get caught up on. We weren’t terribly busy yesterday–not as busy as we were scheduled to be, and I had to train someone, too–but we were busy enough. I did get a lot of stuff at the office caught up, which might very well be why I was so tired and sleepy last night (fatigue is different, in that it doesn’t involve feeling sleepy; I used to get so tired and exhausted I couldn’t do anything but was wide awake, which was torturous). Today I also have errands to run, but the temperature is going to be in the low seventies again (with a cold front striking over the weekend–slight chance of snow again Sunday morning), which will make it ever so much better to do.

And it’s a three day weekend, which is even more marvelous.

I do have a lot I need to get working on this glorious weekend. I want to do some more work on the apartment done, clean out some books to take to the library sale this weekend, and of course, I need to read and write this weekend. I also would like to do some seriously deep cleaning with the files and so forth–getting rid of things I no longer need. I don’t need to hoard ideas any more. I am never going to write every story, novel or essay idea I have, and I have more and more ideas all the time. I went ahead and ordered some groceries for delivery–it is absolutely eerie how expensive things are now, and how easily you get to over $100 in no time–while knowing you used to get three times that amount of things for that amount. $100 used to fill the hatch of my car. Now I can get it into the house with one trip with the wagon. So glad everyone voted for lower prices. Funny how they stopped complaining about prices once 1/20 rolled around while everything gets more expensive by the week. (It was always about the competent Black woman, let’s make no mistake there.)

I also love all the MAGAts posting their support of the occupation of Minneapolis and the Gestapo, and have to wonder, how would they feel if this was happening in their home town? If one of their neighboring moms got shot in the face three times by a murderous thug who shouldn’t be allowed to own a gun, let alone use one. Nothing ever matters to them unless it affects them personally, and their inability to even consider a different point of view (because they are incapable of logical thinking) is yet another reason why this country is now an autocracy with some remnants of the old system hanging on for dear life while bending the knee to the dictator. Democratic leadership is sadly too milquetoast to effectively clean house with the corporatists and centrists who are basically MAGA-lite and only beholden to their donors and not their constituents. When they gave party leadership back to Schumer and Jeffries after the last election I knew we were doomed, because neither is competent or intelligent enough to stand up for their base and apparently think it is still 1975. If Schumer and Jeffries led the party in the 1970s, Nixon would have finished his second term. I am sick to death of wimps who are afraid Fox News is going to look at them cross-eyed. The nation is crying out for them to do something other than being masters of the strongly worded letter.

We don’t need Karens asking for the manager. Where is our JFK, FDR, or even Ted Kennedy? Instead we’ve got Chuck Schumer and Hakeem Jeffries, two incompetent losers who will be judged very harshly by the base. I hope to God someone primaries Schumer so we can be finally rid of that loser who couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag that is already torn. Minneapolis and everything that happens there is also on the Democratic Party leadership. I lived in Minneapolis (for eight months)in 1996 before I moved to New Orleans, and it’s very upsetting to see what’s happening there. I have friends there I worry about on the daily.

And yet we still have elected Democrats backing ICE.

Quislings, every last one of them. Every one of them who voted to confirm Kristi Noem should be asked every day how they intend to make up for that to their base, because that is disqualifying for office. So, by all means, ask me for more money. You won’t get it, but I appreciate the laugh every time I get a fundraising email to back them in their “fight” and treating us all like marks at a pro wrestling match. Like we can’t see how little they are doing and how ineffectual what little they do is?

Sigh.

And I am going to head into the spice mines now after this grim post. Have a lovely weekend, everyone, and I’ll be back tomorrow.

Fast Car

Thursday and my last day in the office for the week. Huzzah! I am meeting a friend for a drink after work tonight–she’s in from out of town for a few days, which is always exciting, since I adore her–and of course, tomorrow is work-at-home Friday. I didn’t sleep great last night, so I may be a bit tired this afternoon when I get off work, but for right now, I feel pretty okay. My coffee is good, and the kitchen/apartment is still under control, which is always a good thing. I’ve not done any creating this week, which isn’t great, and I probably won’t do any tonight, either.

I am still horrified by what happened yesterday in Minneapolis, and its aftermath. It really is astonishing how the Right will literally lie about everything even when it’s recorded by multiple phones from many different angles that show they are lying. With this blatant example of what this administration is capable of, how can anyone trust anything they say about anything? Of course, the cultists are too far gone–they have to swallow everything they’re told without question, else the realization of their culpability and being so fucking wrong about everything would drive them completely insane. Bigots don’t like having their hideous values exposed or questioned. So far, Mr. Donald the Dove (thanks again for that one, Maureen Dowd, you horrific traitorous bottom-feeding bitch) has invaded Venezuela and is claiming sovereignty over a foreign country he attacked without even notifying Congress (interesting how all the oil company execs knew more about it than Congress). His thugs have now murdered yet again, and are trying to blame the victim. How long before they open fire on a crowd, to the cheers of Murdoch media and the disgusting filth that works at Fox and Newsmax?

Ken Jennings posted on Threads yesterday I’m voting for the candidate who promises to prosecute the former regime at every level. Says it all, really.

I hate living through the decline and fall of the United States. I had hoped to be dead before it happened, but no such luck for me. Ah, well.

After I got home from work last night, I collapsed into my easy chair to watch the season finale of Real Housewives of Salt Lake City–which was excellent–and the final episode of The Cult of the Real Housewife. I have some thoughts about the documentary, but need to think about it some more. The allegations in the documentary were explosive…but there wasn’t any concrete proof, other than some recordings of Mary Cosby preaching? The appearance and commentary from a Youtube influencer who’s made a career gossiping about Bravo shows on-line, whom I used to follow but stopped because…well, because he was kind of racist a couple of times and I was done with him, didn’t help convince me of the veracity of anything that was being alleged. Sure it was juicy, but there was absolutely nothing new that wasn’t already in the discourse when all of this started when she joined the show in the first place. On the other hand, I do enjoy her on the show, and wonder if I’m simply looking to rationalize continuing to enjoy her? I stopped watching New Jersey when a cast member went to federal prison, and I didn’t watch this franchise until its criminal cast member was no longer on the show. I don’t like rewarding horrific behavior, but…again, no charges, no law enforcement charges, nothing. I did keep watching Beverly Hills after the failed golddigger’s husband was arrested, but I am kind of done with it now.

Sigh.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. May you have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader, and I hope you’re safe and sound wherever you may be.

When I’m Sixty-four

For the first time in decades, I am not taking my birthday off.

That’s why I am up at this ungodly hour, swilling down coffee and consuming coffee cake like it’s going out of style. I need to conserve my PTO, because I am going to the panhandle (barring unforeseen circumstances) for a week with my dad in October after a weekend in Alabama for Dad’s and Mom’s birthdays. I also have to take some time off during Bouchercon–there’s no way I can work all day and then host Noir at the Bar that Thursday, and probably not going to be able to do much work that Friday, either. I think I’ve managed to get it all planned out so that I will have just enough vacation time left to do the family thing in October, and then let things start building back up again for the new year. It’s going to be weird going to work on my birthday–I generally take the day off because I don’t need or want the attention that comes with it–but I will survive, I am sure.

Sixty. Four.

Christ on the cross.

I never planned for my future because I never thought I would have one. When I was a kid, I was certain I wasn’t going to have much of an adult life; I always had nightmares about not only dying but how I would die; either in a car accident, or a fall from a high place. This is why I am always, to this day, a little bit tense when I’m in a car and a LOT tense when I am the passenger. In my early twenties, I thought I was going to seroconvert and die from AIDS–why would I ever think that I would survive that pandemic? The next thing I knew I had somehow made it to fifty, then sixty–and now I am sixty-four, with another milestone birthday just a year in my future, should I make it till then. I am woefully unprepared for retirement, so most likely will continue to work for another few years to at least try to get my debt down to a manageable place. Ha ha ha ha, I’m so adorable, aren’t I?

I guess the ship has sailed on me dying young, hasn’t it?

But it’s been a pretty good life thus far, I have to say. I’ve written and published a shit ton of work, which can never be taken away from me, and neither can the awards I’ve either won or made the shortlist for…how many authors never make a shortlist of any kind? But the childhood conditioning that celebrating myself and things I’ve accomplished is a hubristic tempting of fate; how many stories and myths and fables are there about hubristic humans who anger a god? Like I often say, I live in the city I love with the man I love doing work that I love. All of my dreams came true, no matter what happens in the future.

My sixties haven’t been easy on me, and I don’t have the energy I used to have so recovery from physical, emotional, and professional blows doesn’t happen as fast as it used to; but I’m still pretty pleased and happy with my life. I try not to worry about future outcomes that I can’t control, and can only prepare for the things I can. If my thirties were about getting myself mentally healthy so I could have the life I wanted, and the forties were about getting started in my career and the fifties were about getting further along and getting better as a writer, my sixties have been a time of revisiting and rethinking my past, finally getting to understand myself and where a lot of my neuroses stem from. The anxiety medication has helped me enormously in that regard, too. Realizing how emotionally crippling my anxiety was when I was a minor also has enabled me to remember, and those memories aren’t painful anymore because so much of my misery was directly attributable to said anxiety.

So now I am sixty-four. I am older than my grandparents were throughout my childhood, which is also a staggering realization. It’s also weird to think that I was born sixteen years after the end of World War II, the country was sinking into the depths of the Cold War, and President Kennedy hadn’t even been in office for a full year yet. I never imagined what it would be like to be this age, mainly because I, as stated earlier, never thought I would live this long. I’m trying not to be that old person–you know, “When I was your age” or “We used to call it” and that sort of thing, because no one really wants to hear it. I’ve seen a lot in my life, witnessed all kinds of events (the Challenger explosion, 9/11, Watergate hearings, on and on), and lived through all kinds of things. I’ve lived in Alabama, Chicago, Kansas, California, Houston, Tampa, Minneapolis, and New Orleans. I went to two high schools in different states, and two colleges in different states. I went to Italy for a week over ten years ago. I’ve had so many jobs, but being a writer/sexual health counselor were the only things that took with me.

Life’s been good to me so far.

After work, I am going to head home and just hang out with Sparky. If I had to hazard a guess, Paul will probably get us Hoshun for dinner tonight. But I got my vacuum cleaner last week, and that’s all I really cared about.

Happy birthday to me! And may my next year be a lovely one!

The only picture of my face as a baby, my first day home from the hospital.

I’ll Be Around

Tuesday! How you doing, everyone? I’m feeling better every day. I was a little lower energy than I would have liked over the weekend, but it’s a process, isn’t it? I’m also sleeping very well, despite the return of the heat and the humidity and their combined assault on my sinuses. It’s frightening that it’s still relatively early June and it’s this hot already. Going outside yesterday was absolutely miserable. I stopped on the way home to make groceries, and was sweating lugging the bags in from the car. Sigh. Today I need to swing by the post office on the way home, too.

Yesterday was a pretty good day overall. I woke up feeling pretty good, and managed to make it through the day feeling good (other than when I was lugging the groceries in). I now weigh 198, back up from those frighteningly low weights from the illness, and I am also not as hungry all the time as I used to be, or thinking about food constantly? I think my body recognizes what weight I should be–around 200–and was thus convincing me to want to eat more to get back to that weight. I’d like to stay here, honestly; I think this is a good weight for me, and if I can maintain it as I get stronger and keep healing…maybe when I am able to get back into the gym and start working out regularly again, I can get myself into decent shape again. It won’t be easy and it will take longer than it ever did before, because I’m older and my body has been traumatized a lot in the last few years, but I have to remember the patience I am learning with this recovery.

I actually did some more writing yesterday, too–I know, right?–and it went rather well. I am trying to push myself to get a short story written for a submission call that closes soon–there are two others I want to get to by the end of the month, we’ll see how that goes, won’t we? The problem, of course, is short stories don’t pay much so the financial incentive isn’t really there to motivate me, and since it’s an open call no one will care if I don’t finish the stories and turn them in to see what happens with them. But I do want to publish more short stories, and there are so many I have on hand that need to be worked on and revised and rewritten and/or finished. I have so many that I wrote for a submission call that I never turned in–or finished, so I have a lot of story fragments that need to be finished. There are a couple of calls that I have something on hand already that may work, but needs to be revised and/or finished. And I do want to submit to the conference anthologies; nothing ventured, nothing gained. I didn’t write anything for the New Orleans Bouchercon anthology this year, because I am still kind of bitter about not being allowed to submit to the Minneapolis one in case people wouldn’t think I cheated to get my story in, if I did get in–as if I would ever do such a fucking thing; I really don’t like having my integrity challenged and insulted like that, and yes, I do take that kind of shit personally. How is being told people would think I’d cheat to publish a short story not impugning my character and insulting who I am as a professional?

I’d rather not publish something, rather than do so by cheating the system.

And to me, the people who’d accuse me of such a thing are the kind of people who would do exactly that. That isn’t how my mind works. I guess I had better parents than y’all. I don’t know, I guess having integrity is something no one cares about anymore? Well, I do care about it, and if that makes me old-fashioned, I can live with it. I am old, after all.

I’ve really been missing my friend Victoria Brownworth these past few weeks, as the country continues to circle the drain as our democracy slips through our fingers, aided and abetted by the pathetic pieces of collaborationist quisling shit known as the today’s legacy media. Her emails and reporting would have been lit. She was one of the few journalists whose reporting I trusted, and now she is gone. This is why I no longer subscribe to any newspapers on-line and why I do not watch CNN or MSNBC–and why I will never watch anything with that pretentious fuck George Clooney in it ever again. I wasn’t a fan of the asshole to begin with, but occasionally he might make a film over the years where he actually had to do something besides play himself and mug for the camera that I might have been interested in seeing–but no more. The irony that after that bullshit editorial he wrote for the New York Slimes last summer that he was nominated for a Tony for playing Edward R, Murrow was almost perfect; Murrow was a true journalist while Clooney played a role in the downfall of the country.

They are not the same.

Clooney, you’re not fit to lick the shit out of Murrow’s asshole, and you’ll never be anything other than a craven piece of shit who did his best to throw the election to Trump, before escaping to your villa in Italy with your wife. The Reign of Terror, for the record, eventually urned on everyone. I hope you have your day in front of the tribunals.

But after getting my chores done and some writing, Paul and I watched another episode of The Survivors, and I am thinking I may need to add Jane Harper to my list of authors to check out. The show is quite excellent, and cinematically shot in a very stunningly beautiful location, and the way everyone’s lives are knitted together and knotted by misery and tragedy is quite extraordinary. It’s a terrific show, really.

I didn’t get much chance to read last night, alas and alack. But that’s okay; there’s only so much time in a day and I refuse to berate myself or get down on myself about not getting enough stuff done every day anymore. Life will try to knock me down enough on its own without me creating more anxiety and stress for myself, and I don’t ever want to be back in that horrible place I was in, emotionally, before the illness reboot. I am feeling good about my life and both careers (day job and writing), and I’d like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again probably tomorrow.

Screenshot

Delicate

Saturday in the Lost Apartment and all is well. I slept incredibly well last night, and feel energized and rested this morning. I am up at six again this morning, thanks to my alarm cat, but I don’t mind in the least. I have some chores I left for this morning to do; and I want to spend the day reading, doing chores, and relaxing…and maybe, just maybe, writing some more. #Madness, right?

Yesterday I was up before six–so much for sleeping in, but my body clock was clearly reset during my illness and I am now a morning person for the first time in my life–so I did some chores and even some writing (!!!) before it was time for me to start Remote work for the day. When I finished with work, I ran some errands–had to have bloodwork done again, made groceries, picked up the mail and a prescription–and relaxed a bit before going to dinner with a very dear friend. I didn’t get many chores done around the house other than laundry and a load of dishes; but I even wrote more on that short story that’s proving to be harder to write than I thought it would be. There are several short story calls I have bookmarked that I would like to try to write something for. Yes, I am feeling a bit more ambitious, and am also thinking a lot more clearly. There’s still fog in my brain sometimes, and there are times when my attention span is all over the place, but I also feel like when I am clear-headed, I am thinking a lot more practically, confidently, ambitiously, and pragmatically, which is the best mental space to be in to reflect on yourself, where you are in your life, and what you want this inevitable third act of your life to be like. I am making plans again…and while life has a way of throwing a monkey wrench into plans at the worst possible time with the plans having to be completely discarded entirely sometimes and replanned all over again, but it helps me feel like I have some control over my life and my career and everything that goes along with that.

And I do like feeling like I have some control over my life, you know?

I need to get back to writing, but I am being patient and letting my brain and my body dictate what I do every day. There are days when my job takes all my energy and all my brainpower. So be it, you need to rest when you get home–if you’re not too tired to focus you can read, and of course, there’s always something to watch on television. (I am itching to finish bingeing The Better Sister, for example.)

I had dinner with a dear friend of several decades standing last night at a delightful restaurant on Magazine Street that we go to whenever we dine together, Lilette. I even had a solitary cocktail, the Lilette Rouge, which was delicious, and I do recommend the Kobe burger with cheese; it’s mouth-watering good. The conversation was wonderful, and I kept thinking to myself all evening about how lucky I am. I do have the most amazing friends–smart and talented and witty and fun to be around. I am tired of drama and want no part of that anymore–sort yourself out, thanks, but I won’t be a part of that process. Even the three friends that I lost recently; my God, they were Dorothy Allison and Felice Picano and Victoria A. Brownworth–queer writing icons. It’s so very easy to get down about my life, especially when I’m not feeling well (I was so morose when I was so sick and in the hospital; it was why I wasn’t really responding to anyone or posting–so much maudlin self-pity about how everything sucked!!!), but the truth is I’ve had quite a marvelous second act, which made the horrors of the first act so worth experiencing and living through. Every dream I had as that lonely terrified gay kid with no friends that was bullied and shamed daily, has come true for me. No one can ever take away the writing I’ve published, the awards I was short-listed for, or anything I’ve ever accomplished in my publishing career. I got my first by-line in 1996, in Minneapolis, and from there I built a haphazard, all over the map, hard to define career that has given me endless amounts of satisfaction, pride, and joy for the last almost thirty years (yes, in January of next year I will mark my thirtieth year as a published writer! It’s been an interesting journey).

And yet my first college creative writing professor told me I would never publish anything, ever.

But yes, dinner was lovely. I should make plans and do things with people more often–when I’ve gotten my strength back. I’ve increasingly isolated myself since the pandemic; I think I went into hermit mode during the shutdown and never really emerged from it. I also had dehydration sickness that first summer of COVID, before vaccinations; and somehow managed to stave off COVID itself until the summer of 2022, and I’m still not sure I ever completely recovered from that before the next thing, which was my arm injury, the ten month wait for the surgery. And then Mom died, and I had the oral surgeries before the arm surgery, and then I was in rehab/PT for the arm, trying to recover from that trauma, and I think I just burnt out from everything, because I was also still writing on top of all of that. In a way, this sickness and physical/mental collapse was necessary, for me to get some rest and recuperate and stop focusing on being miserable all the time because I’m not and have no reason to be, and remember to keep seeing things as challenges to best rather than something else I need to do.

See what having dinner with a beloved friend who is just a radiant flame of positive energy can do for me? It’s wonderful to have friends who make you feel like you can do anything, and I actually have a lot of those in my life.

Like I said, I need to keep reminding myself to focus on how fucking lucky I am and what a truly lovely life I lead. I get to write, you know? I love writing. I love creating and making new characters and inventing places and coming up with the inevitable story from who those characters actually are and behave is my favorite thing to do, and I also love to challenge myself when I am writing. This little story I am working on–for which there is no market that I am aware of–is really about faith, and how far someone who considers herself devout will step outside of that when presented with a horrible situation; but I have to make sure that, morally challenged as she may be, why she makes the choices she does. It’s been slow going so far, but if I pull it off, “The Witch Bottle” will be a good story. See? This is what I love. I commented the other day that I seem to be having better luck writing the blog and the newsletter rather than fiction lately, but I’m having some very good ideas, and I do think my next revision of Hurricane Season Hustle will turn it into quite a fine piece of work.

I really can’t wait to get back to writing fiction again.

Damn. I am so fucking lucky.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines for the day. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and I’ll most likely be back tomorrow morning.

A marvelous panel I was on (see? Lucky!) at Minneapolis Bouchercon the morning after the airline lost my suitcase. Attica Locke, Karen Dionne, me in the back, Edwin Hill, David Heska Wanbli Weiden and Nancy Johnson. My imposter syndrome was off the charts that day!

You Can’t Change That

Here we are on a Thursday morning. Everyone is arriving in Denver for Left Coast Crime, but I don’t have any FOMO. Sure, there are people I would love to see and spend time with, and I always have fun at conferences, but…there are also other people there. I thought I would really miss not going to Bouchercon in Nashville last year, but…I didn’t. I’ve always been a FOMO person, scared that I was missing out on a good time, but I didn’t the entire time it was going on, or even after. And the local ones are next weekend, anyway.

I just saw that we are in the path of some massive storm system this weekend that’s going to throw up potential tornadoes in New Orleans, which means we may lose power, which will be incredibly annoying if it happens, but also means I can just light some candles and read in my easy chair. I do want to make some more reading progress this weekend in addition to everything else on the to-do list. We just can’t seem to catch a break down here this year, can we? Terrorism, blizzards, high winds, the Super Bowl, Carnival…sheesh. It’s like we can’t ever just breathe…and we are heading into stinging caterpillar season, with swarming termites not far behind.

We were busy at work yesterday again, with the end result that I was, as I suspected, exhausted when I got home from my post-work errands last night. I collapsed into my easy chair with a purring kitty and was down for the rest of the night. I caught up on my reality show, caught up on the latest news of the great American collapse (or whatever future historians will call the end of the Great American Experiment in Self-Rule), and then went to bed at a fairly early hour. I did run the dishwasher, as planned, but not the washing machine as planned. I am a bit fatigued today–synapses aren’t quite firing the way they should be–so I may not be able to write or read when I get home tonight. I guess we shall see. We’re also busy today, too. Sigh. It’s been a week at the office, has it not? But at least I only need to log four hours of remote work and then the day is mine.

Woo-hoo!

I was, naturally, saddened by the loss of a long-time friend this week, Felice Picano. It’s very strange to think I won’t ever see him again, or get that mischievous kid look on his face when he was about to say something absolutely terrible about someone to me. Felice was the first published writer I ever met. I went to a signing he did for the paperback release of Like People in History at the Borders in Minneapolis that used to be on the corner of Lake and Hennepin. Paul had bought me a hardcover copy as a gift the year before, and I’d loved the book. I was too shy and awestruck to do anything but put my book down for a signature…but when Paul went to work for the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival, they wanted to put together a queer panel and I suggested Felice for it, and I got to pick him up at the airport. That ride in from the airport was my first actual conversation with him, and the start of a friendship that lasted almost thirty years. We always tried to have coffee or lunch or something when he was in town for Saints & Sinners after that, I stayed in his house in the Hollywood Hills several times, and there was one amazing weekend when he gave me a lift to Palm Springs from LA, and oh, how hard we laughed in the car on the way there. I didn’t see or interact with him as much as I used to, but every time I saw him, it was like we’d just seen each other the day before. He meant a lot to me, and the fact that he always treated me as a peer from that first meeting at the airport on meant the world to me.

I just can’t believe I’ll never see him again. The worst thing about getting older is losing people.

And on that somber note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday Eve, everyone, and I’ll be back eventually.

Ballerinos have the most amazing bodies–and even more amazing is what they can DO with those bodies.

Don’t Bring Me Down

Saturday morning and how are you, Constant Reader? I overslept this morning, because I was a bit tired from the gym and running errands yesterday. It rained all night (part of the late sleep, methinks) and it’s raining now, in fact. I don’t think the rain is going to let up again (or for long) until the cold weather gets here whenever it decides to arrive; probably overnight on Monday (it’s almost like God doesn’t approve of Monday, doesn’t it?). But I feel very good today. Paul will be gone most of the afternoon and will most likely be working upstairs for the rest of the day when he does get home. I need to make groceries today, but am hoping the locusts haven’t descended on the grocery stores to doomsday prep for the winter storm and snow in New Orleans. (Snow in New Orleans is absolutely insane. It’s happened before but it’s very rare–and I really do need to write a Scotty book called Winter Storm Waltz, or Snow Day Story or something like that.) I grew up in snow, and learned how to drive in snow when I was a teenager. I also lived in Minneapolis for an incredibly bitterly cold and snowy winter, so while I dislike the stuff for the most part (and because it requires cold to happen), it doesn’t really bother me when we have the rare, occasional frozen precipitation every few years or so. But New Orleans has no idea how to deal with it because most people here have never had to learn, and what to do when your car starts to slide has to be instinctive, almost a second nature, whereas here? Everyone will drive ten miles an hour and will slam on the brakes when they slide, which causes a disaster for them and everyone else on the road, so yeah, probably best to not deal with terrified New Orleanians on the road Tuesday. I imagine the roads will be closed, which will make getting to work difficult, and I’ll no doubt have to get up early in the morning anyway to find out if the office is closed (shades of snow days in school!), but who knows what’s going to happen–and the northern part of the state will get hammered much worse than we will down here south of I-10 (I-10 is the temperate dividing line in Louisiana). It’ll be interesting, to be sure. No model tracking seems to agree, which makes it all a SURPRISE.

I don’t have much to do outside of the house other than some errands, which I’ll do later on. I don’t think there’s anything pressing we need to see on television other than the Australian Open, which will also be great background noise. I don’t get into tennis as much as I did when the Williams sisters played, and I definitely miss Rafael Nadal. I’ve not watched enough of the younger players to be a fan yet–for some reason I don’t watch nearly as much tennis as I used to–but I used to get every excited when it was time for a major tournament, and now I forget about them entirely unless Paul mentions them–and even he doesn’t seem all that interested anymore, at least not the way he used to be. Of course, neither of us play anymore either, which might have something to do with it. I can’t even imagine trying to run around the court now, let alone trying to swing the racket with my bad arm (my backhand was two handed). That ship has sadly sailed, but I am looking forward to the day when my weight lifting is back to what it was before the injury–just being able to do heavier weights alone, and I am being patient with the slowness of the progress. (I got frustrated when I tried to go back the times since the surgery.) Patience is the key. I did make it to the gym yesterday–even walked over there–which did kind of wear me out a bit, but it was a good tired, and I am sure that helped me sleep so well last night. (The heavy blankets–man, who knew what a difference to sleeping that would make!) Yesterday was overall a pretty good day. I got my work from home duties taken care of, did some chores, ran my errands, and even wrote for a little while. I also started reading Farrah Rochon’s Bemused, which is absolutely delightful and a book I am really looking forward to getting back to (once I finish this and go to my easy chair so Sparky will stop attacking me and go to sleep); I’m also looking forward to getting caught up on things and doing some writing today. We watched LSU beat Florida in gymnastics last night at the PMAC, which was fun and the Tigers were even a bit off and could have scored way higher than they did. It’s going to be an exciting gymnastics season here in Louisiana, isn’t it? I also got some cleaning done around here, which was great and I hope to keep that momentum going so by the end of the long weekend, the Apartment will at long last be finally back in order.

Hilariously, yesterday I actually failed in my “block and don’t engage on social media” vow when some stupid troll tried coming for me. Before remembering not to engage, I fired off several rapid-fire trolling responses, and waited an hour to block the bot/troll/subhuman, to make sure they saw the responses before blocking. I had commented on one of Carrie Underwood’s posts about her getting on her knees for MAGA (y’all called Kamala a whore; for me that means MAGA women are not off the table and deserve every pie in the face they so richly deserve), and here comes the fucking bot/troll/subhuman out from underneath “her” bridge (quotes because I am not convinced it was actually a woman; frankly this person’s humanity was definitely questionable. Her response to me was hey beta boy and went on to be the usual drooling lickspittle bullshit MAGA subhumans they are. So, I looked at her profile: proud gay conservative woman, wife, mom and grandmother. MAGA! Patriotism! I replied, oh a gay conservative? Please die in a fire. Not nice, but how could a so-called “gay conservative woman” use a gay slur to refer to someone else in the community? They don’t, and any queer person who would is simply a quisling hoping to be a guard in the camps. “She” then told me she was going to make me “internet famous” and tagged some gay conservative “influencer” (please) to “blow up my life” and “regret ever being born.” Naturally, I clicked through to this person’s profile and WOW. A whole 32k followers, most of whom were most likely bots and alt accounts. I replied, do your worst. I fought off the Wildmons, Concerned Women for America, and the American Family Association. You think I’ms cared of some nameless faceless bitch on social media and the pathetic expired twink you snitch tagged? Bring it on. After fifteen minutes, I added, still waiting. Maybe you don’t have any friends? I waited another fifteen minutes, and added, big talk and no action, what a surprise from a sad pathetic soul whose life is as empty and sad as “her” threats. I waited another hour, and nothing. I blocked them both. I guess she thought I was going to curl up into a ball and cry myself to sleep? I also said I’s rather be a beta boy than an omega skank licking Trump’s ass-crack. Nothing. After another hour waiting for the promised Internet pile-on (I was going to just block them all), I blocked both her and the expired twink she tagged.

And for the record, I can’t speak for all, but I have never, ever known an actual woman who called herself “a gay woman.” The word is lesbian, bitch. “Gay woman” is an absolute red flag for me; the only time I ever hear a woman say she’s gay is in a TV show or a movie, and it never sits right with me. Gay is almost exclusively used for men, and saying “gay woman” is, at best, misogynist because using that word, even to describe the entire community (which is why I say queer) erases women. So, I find it really hard to believe there’s any lesbian out there who would be misogynist; but then again, conservative gay woman says it all, doesn’t it? If she were a real person, she’s more deserving of pity than contempt; imagine hating everything you are so badly.

Don’t bring the heat for me unless you are prepared to be incinerated. I never start it, but I will fucking finish it–and trust me, straight people, I’d highly recommend you don’t poke with the homophobe stick unless you are prepared to have your self-worth decimated.

And for the record, straight people joking about being in a same-sex relationship isn’t funny, it’s actually pathetic and homophobic–and it’s as tired as your macho man masculinity, girls.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Saturday. Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow or perhaps later today; one never really knows, does one?

It’s Not Unusual

Wednesday Pay-the-Bills day (yay) but we’ve also made it halfway through the week, which is terrific. Paul worked late with meetings and things last night, so I was by myself at home last night. I was tired when I got home from work, so I did some things and then crashed in my chair with Sparky sleeping in my lap (which I always love). I got caught up on the shit-show that is the news–and even did some writing. Not much, but it was good writing. It wasn’t work on the book, either; I worked on a short story that I had thought through while I was in Kentucky, and I like how it’s developing. Slow going, but it was some work, and I was rather pleased to dip my toe back into the waters. I wound up going to bed an hour earlier than usual–why stay up when you’re dozing off?–and I am up even earlier than I usually am. I have some errands to do tonight after work, and then I’m coming home to hang with Sparky and finish some of these chores. It is rather endless, isn’t it? The treadmill of life we’re all on?

It felt good to be writing again and I am hoping that means I’ll get even more writing done today. Hope always does spring eternal, and all that. I need to get a to-do list made (I still haven’t done this, and so have been flying by the seat of my pants, which sounds more fun than it actually is), and I definitely need to make one for the time that Paul is gone. I am going to probably go so far as to even move furniture with my cleaning. Essentially, there are four rooms in the apartment; kitchen, bedroom, living room, and the two bathrooms. So, if over the holiday next week I pick a room a day to work on, I can get the apartment back under control again.

Writing has always been my solace, and I think not doing it always affects my mood and my outlook on life. I don’t know what the future holds for any of us, and I don’t know what’s going to happen with queer lit going forward (the pornography label threat is very real, and it’s happened to me before; and certainly independent booksellers don’t carry or hand-sell my books, so who knows how long I’ll even have an outlet for my work? I guess I could do what everyone’s always told me to do–write about straight people, which is probably something I should have started doing over twenty years ago. But is there a need for books about straight people by one Gregalicious? Aren’t there already tons of them out there? The short story I am working on is about a straight woman, which should increase its chances for being sold. I suppose I’ll try the usual suspects, like I always do, and then let it sit in my files, moldering as I wait for a place that might actually want it. Although…I can definitely do a collection myself. You see why I need a to-do list? I also want to finish my “Are You Man Enough?” essay about masculinity and its traps for my Substack. I’d like to do an essay there per week–and of course, I can always publish short stories on Substack, too. Interesting thought…hmmm. It might not be a bad idea.

I do think I am making strides in conquering my Imposter Syndrome. Probably not enough to make me strap on my big boy pants and go looking for an agent again, but you never know. The worst thing any of them could do is say no–although now it seems like they just ghost you and not reply if they aren’t interested; the last time I tried I got no responses from any of the agents I queried, which was fine. I also think it’s unprofessional–it’s not going to kill you to have a rejection template and spend an hour once a week sending them so people know, but then the entire world has changed significantly since I started in this business so long ago (I just realized that I am coming up on thirty years of being paid to write; I started writing for the queer paper in Minneapolis in 1996) and maybe I’m thinking back to how things were in another time, the way all old people do, and of course thinking those times might have been better. The dangers of nostalgia I always warn about, how things seemed better at some time in the distant past when really, it’s just because you were younger then and had a less complicated, easier life. Nostalgia for high school is really just nostalgia for a time when all the worries of adulthood were still in the future, and frankly, my public education experiences were all terrible so I’ve never had to worry about doing that. I do not miss high school, and never will.

And on that hopeful note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, and I may be back later. You never know.