Ah, Wednesday and the midpoint of the week has arrived. It’s been a good week so far; I’ve not been super-tired at all this week and I think the shifting of my arrival at work from 7:30 to 8 was a smart decision. I imagine, though, it’ll eventually start getting difficult for me to get up later as it has getting up earlier, once I am used to the change. In other words, it won’t feel like I am getting to sleep late eventually.
I saw something interesting yesterday on social media that really resonated with me: Your life should not be a museum, and that’s kind of what my mentality has been. I tend to get stuck in ruts so easily, and I like to accumulate things that have meaning to me (have I introduced you to my library yet?), but do I really need to keep these “artifacts” of my past? I never look at these things, rarely have anyone over to see them, so therefore what is the point? Everyone at the day job laughs about how, at a co-worker’s wedding last fall, someone made a joke about how I always wear Crescent Care T-shirts to work and were surprised to see me outside of the office and wearing something else–and since the joke was made, I’ve not worn one. Not once. I had started wearing them every day during the pandemic when I came to work and it was a further simplification of my life: I didn’t have to pick out something to wear to work, But when he made the joke, I wasn’t offended, but it did kind of snap me out of a rut. You have plenty of other clothes you never wear, and they aren’t doing any good hanging in the closet, I realized finally, so I started wearing my clothes instead of the work T-shirt. I generally don’t care about clothes most of the time but I eventually get to the point, periodically, where I’ll get interested in clothes again and will buy some–I had a shoe experience earlier this year, and now have two gorgeous new pairs of shoes to show for it.
So, why not buy some more Polo style shirts in colors I generally don’t wear or don’t have in the closet? Yes, that’s my way of saying that I did order some new shirts for work yesterday.
Yesterday was also the fifty-year anniversary of women being able to get their own credit cards without their husband or any kind of male co-signer. I remember when this happened, by the way, and I also remember when my mother got her very first credit card; it didn’t have her name but rather Mrs. My Dad. I remember thinking, “yeah, but it’s STILL technically his name.” People also don’t remember that about fifty years ago was when women/wives stopped being subsumed into their husband’s identity at the expense of their own: I am constantly amazed by plaques commemorating civic leaders and donors that list women as Mrs. Chanse MacLeod or Mrs. Scotty Bradley. Women had no identity beyond their husband once they were married. They couldn’t get bank loans, and I am not sure about bank accounts, either, for that matter; women were basically chained to their husband for life and if she got a divorce, she was basically screwed. Once women had financial freedom and no longer needed a husband…well, the divorce rate rose significantly, which is why men were so opposed to treating women like equals.
“What, you mean I have to convince her to marry me? Spinsterhood and divorce aren’t unpleasant fates anymore? That’s it–women need to be controlled.“
Sigh.
We also finished The Gentlemen last night, and I was very pleasantly surprised that it did have a most excellent finale. I don’t know if there will be more seasons, or if it was merely a mini-series, but I really enjoyed it and kind of am in the place where I worry about the continuation; so many shows go on long past their expiration date (looking at you, Friends and Thirteen Reasons Why) and lose me in a later season. (I really worried about it with Ted Lasso.) But we’ve got some other shows lined up to watch, I think the national finals for college gymnastics is on this weekend, and I also would like to get some more writing done this weekend. I did write last night on revising a short story, but today I am going to get back to work on the book (and hopefully finish the short story). It’s been a good and productive week thus far, and I really like this “go in later” thing I accidentally stumbled over on Monday morning. I made it through the day yesterday without getting tired, and I felt good when I came home to His Majesty Sparky, who is now addicted to the squeeze treats I bought for him. But I only have one more day in the office this week, and suddenly it’s the weekend again. I also worked on my taxes a bit more yesterday. Sigh.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines again. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will be back probably a little later.
Thursday and my last day in the office for the week. Yay, I think. I have to get up early and go see my new primary care physician tomorrow morning–I fired the last one for a multitude of reasons I will probably go deeper into in a future post–but I also have to fast for that because I am having blood work done, which means no coffee, no nothing other than maybe water tomorrow morning. I think as long as I sleep well, I’ll not leave a body count behind in my wake on the way to and from the appointment. I am also going to be making a go-cup of coffee that I will be taking with me and you can best bet I’ll be slugging it down once the blood has been drawn.
I slept well last night, which was lovely because I was definitely running down my batteries by the time I got home last night. By the time I’d done a load of laundry, emptied the dishwasher and reloaded it, I was more than ready to collapse into my easy chair. I did some minor writing last night–a few hundred words or so, nothing much other than to be able to say “I wrote some fiction last night”–but that’s okay. I’m getting back into the saddle again gradually, and soon I’ll be clocking three thousand word days again. We watched this week’s The Morning Show last night, and I have to say, it’s an exceptionally well done show. The ensemble itself is incredibly star-powered, beginning with Jennifer Aniston and Reese Witherspoon as the two primary leads, and the excellent job of the casting director manages to work its way down from the stars all the way down to the bit players–Shari Belafonte Harper is actually a member of the cast, but has very few lines and is rarely on camera, but it’s always nice to see her when she pops up on screen, to be honest. It’s very smart and very well-written, as are most shows on Apple Plus–let’s not forget we wouldn’t have Ted Lasso without Apple Plus.
Ironically, I was also watching shorter and longer videos on Youtube before Paul got home and went down a “Calvin and Hobbes” wormhole of videos about the greatest comic strip of all time. I always loved Calvin and Hobbes, and have all the collections, including the massive coffee-table sized one that contains every strip ever published. I was very sad when Bill Watterson ended the strip on a high note, and I’ve always loved his artistic integrity about not selling out to film or television or merchandising (I would have definitely bought a Hobbes plushy back in the day), as well as his decision to end the strip and take it out on top. (I was also a big fan of “Doonesbury”, “Bloom County”, and of course “The Far Side”.)
Anyway, watching a few documentaries on Youtube about “Calvin and Hobbes” mentioned how much emotional depth the strip had; how it could not only make you laugh but make you think as well as tear up sometimes…and I realized that Ted Lasso, like Schitt’s Creek, was also like that. Calvin and Hobbes were both so fully realized as characters in the strip–as well as his parents, and the other occasional characters that showed up, too–that you cared about them, just as you do the characters on Ted Lasso and Schitt’s Creek, which is why character is so important when it comes to story-telling. People will only care if the characters seem like actual real people to them, and once they care…well, you’ve got them, don’t you?
Maybe I should revisit my massive Calvin and Hobbes collection, too.
There are some good games this weekend in college football, but my primary concern is, as always, the LSU game; they’re hosting Arkansas in Death Valley and we’ll get yet another chance to see how good the Tigers are–but we also don’t know how good either Mississippi State (trounced last weekend) or Arkansas yet are this year; the test will always be how the Tigers do against Auburn, Alabama, and Florida–and there’s also no telling how good Mississippi is this year, either–they play Alabama this weekend, so we’ll get an idea of how the Tide is rebounding and how good the Rebels are. Everyone is writing Alabama off, and maybe it’s simply been burned into my brain throughout the course of a long lifetime of being a college football fan,…but you can never take the Tide for granted or ever completely count them out. They have that “brand” recognition that somehow manages to get them the win in close games; the luck always seems to magically appear every time they need it, only deserting them in the one game they may lose per year. They’re in the same position that LSU is in; already one loss early and therefore cannot lose again if they want to win the conference and the national title. College football is certainly more interesting this year than it has been since 2019, at any rate.
I want to be able to drop books at the library sale this weekend, wash the car and clean out the inside, and hopefully go to the SPCA and get a new cat. I also need to clean the house more–at least try to keep up with it the way I did when Paul was out of town earlier this summer–and get some writing done. I also need to do some reading. I want to finish Shawn’s book because I also just got my copy of the new Lou Berney, Dark Ride, which I am really looking forward to; I’ve been a big Lou Berney fan since we were on a panel together all those years ago at Bouchercon in Raleigh, and his work never disappoints. (That panel in Raleigh was definitely one of the highlights of my paneling career as a crime writer; Katrina Niidas Holm was the moderator; the other panelists were Lou, Lori Roy, and Liz Milliron. Nice, right?)
So, tonight when I get home from work I am going to do some more laundry, unload the dishwasher and clean the kitchen, and then I am going to either write or curl up with Shawn’s book.
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 later.
One of the most frustrating things about being a queer American is the absence of any kind of history, really. Oh, sure, there’s Stonewall and some other riots/protests in the years leading up to Stonewall; the Mattachine Society and the Daughters of Bilitis. But since historians have done such a marvelous job of erasing us, trying to find our history isn’t the easiest task. You have to look for clues, coding, and signs.
Because, you know, we’ve always been here. We have also always consistently, despite the muzzling of the overarching culture and society’s constant attempts to erase us from the pages of history, managed to sneak traces of our existence and our sensibilities into the art of the times. Ever wonder why so many statues and paintings decorating cathedrals, cemeteries, and palaces in Europe are depictions of well-muscled, physically beautiful men? Because the artists were gay and the only way they could make art celebrating the beauty of the male body was to do so in a religious setting. (The depictions of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian, in particular, are insanely homoerotic; one such painting was used for the cover art of Anne Rice’s Violin, which I think may be her finest novel.)
This entry’s title is also one of those sneaky gay songs passing for straight. Good old Cole Porter, the witty and intelligent composer and songwriter and overall bon vivant. Queer coding is everywhere in old books and movies and television shows and music. (I’m currently reading Matt Baume’s marvelous Hi Honey I’m Homo, which focuses on queer representation on old television series from the 70s and 80s, focusing primarily on comedy shows.)
There have been queer Kings and Queens and Emperors–and two of the greatest military minds of all time were gay Kings: Alexander the Great and Frederick the Great. But our history always gets erased–and homophobic historians will argue till their dying breath that unless there’s definitive proof, those sexualities and identities cannot be named. This is both infuriating and frustrating; take the instance of King James I of England–he of the King James Version of the Bible. He didn’t have female favorites–he had male ones, and he gifted them titles, money, jewels and estates and raised them into high positions of power. But because there’s no diaries where King James admits to taking it up the bum or going down on Robert Carr, there’s no proof. Well, likewise, the only proof the man was straight was because he was married and had children…which was also his duty as King. I know of no women favorites of King James. Likewise, there are no letters or journals written by Frederick the Great where he talks about some soldier having a nice ass or having sex with some hot young ambitious Prussian noble. So, no, there’s no actual proof. There are no photographs, no videos, no nothing. But…while he was married, he had no children; and he would go years without seeing his wife. Women were banned from his court. He also wrote his actually confirmed gay secretary a letter during the course of which he said: “My hemorrhoids affectionately greet your cock.” (The hoops historians will leap through to deny that Frederick the Great was a big ole bottom, and that sentence doesn’t mean what it actually said, are worthy of Ringling Brothers.) There was a lot of gossip, and Frederick’s preference for young men was openly gossiped about at other European courts. And most of his art collection celebrated homoeroticism.
I would love to write a biography of Frederick, seriously.
I also find Louis XIV’s younger brother “Monsieur,” Philippe, duc d’Orléans, fascinating as well–another one who’d be interesting to write about, especially since he is known as the Father of Europe; almost every European monarch from at least 1800 is one of his descendants, despite his sexuality and his predilection for wearing women’s clothes to court.
My story in The Faking of the President addressed this erasure; I chose James Buchanan to write about because he is the only president who never married and he was allegedly in a long-term relationship with Senator Rufus King (Andrew Jackson referred to Buchanan as “Aunt Fancy”). There’s no evidence that Buchanan and King were actually a couple; all of Buchanan’s correspondence was burned, on his instructions, when he died. I wrote my story about a gay historian who firmly believed Buchanan was gay…and after effectively wrecking his academic career, someone contacts him who claims to have the long lost letters to Buchanan from his fiancée when he was a very young man–and the letters will prove his thesis.
Believe me, I get the frustrations he experienced. I don’t think I’d go to the same lengths he did to get that proof, but I empathized.
But this also is an issue in even more recent history. When I was with Mystery Writers of America, at one point I wanted to try to figure out how many queer authors were members…but the impracticality soon became evident. First, you have to start with the question of what precisely counts as queer fiction, and what is a queer book? Is it the sexuality of the author what matters? What if they are openly queer but don’t write queer characters and stories? What about a straight person who writes queer stories and characters? Does that count? Lambda Literary went through hell over this, and there’s literally no way to please everyone. Is it the book, or the author? I’ve always been a firm believer that it’s the book when it comes to awards. Yes, the author gets the award, but it’s for writing the book. So, in my opinion, I would consider Call Me By Your Name a gay novel, despite the author being straight, and my own A Streetcar Named Murder to not be one, despite my being gay. The argument can be made, of course, that being gay gives me a different perspective and point of view that’s more queered than that of straight writers, but I don’t think there’s any “gay sensibility” to Streetcar.
Maybe I’m wrong. I’m not the final word on my books, really.
But this becomes problematic in two regards: one, if someone never officially stated anywhere that they weren’t straight, can it be inferred? Not every man or woman who never married was queer; but marriage itself isn’t proof of heterosexuality because a lot of queer people marry opposite sex spouses and get divorced when they come out later. I was engaged at nineteen; does that serve as proof to future generations that I was straight, despite all of my writings to the contrary? People still don’t feel completely comfortable coming out TODAY, let alone before Stonewall. Take Cornell Woolrich, for example. He never married, lived with his mother for a very long time, and was an alcoholic, pretty much had a miserable, horrible life. He never said he was, but would he have during the time in which he lived? Likewise George Baxt, who wrote a series about an openly gay Black police detective in the 1960’s. Baxt never made any announcements or pronouncements one way or the other; some of his acquaintances have said that he was but Baxt himself never did in any meaningful, definitive way. So, was Baxt or someone else the first gay crime writer? Joseph Hansen was definitely out, and his David Brandstetter series was not only groundbreaking but still remains one of the definitive gay crime series.
Secondly, it also becomes a matter of privacy as well. I know any number of authors who identify as queer but don’t write queer; how do you know how far out of the closet someone actually is in their life? There’s a hugely successful thriller writer who is a gay man, but I won’t say his name here or to anyone else because I don’t know how out he is…and whose business is it, anyway? There’s a hugely successful crime writer that I know for a fact is a lesbian. But if I google her name and lesbian, there are no hits. I generally put myself into their place, really, and ask myself, okay, what if you had somehow managed to start getting published when you were closeted? You wouldn’t have written books or stories about gay men, for one, and for another, I absolutely hated when people speculated about my sexuality–because it never meant anything good formewould come of it.
I’ve never been militant about people’s need to come out, and I also don’t think it’s anyone’s place to out anyone; with the caveat that if you are closeted and actively doing the community harm, you absolutely should be outed. That congressman from Illinois, the über-conservative congressman from Illinois who was outed? Ah yes, Aaron Schock. He deserved it–and while I don’t think he ever repented from his self-loathing brand of conservatism, he certainly has been living the gay high life since it happened. J. Edgar Hoover should have been outed; he was a monster, as was the always disgusting Roy Cohn. But actors and singers? Models? Writers? People who are just navigating their lives and coming to terms with who they are? Everyone should have the time and space to come out when they are ready.
The closet is a horrible place, and it seriously fucks with the people who are living there. I can be empathetic because I know how hard it is, how terrifying it can be. It can twist people (Aaron Schock, for example, clearly felt the need to be über-homophobic just to show he wasn’t one of those people, and yes, that is twisted and sick and sad, and why I am able to feel some empathy–not sympathy–for him as his life must have been hellish, even if it was his choice), and warp them into horrific behavior….but accountability, respect, and atonement are also necessary if the closet turns you into an Aaron Schock. I mean, how much self-loathing had to be there in his mind?
Not everyone has to be a spokesperson. It depends on your level of comfort. And please give people the grace to come out at their own pace and on their own terms. Struggling to accept and love yourself–realizing there’s nothing wrong with you–is a process that isn’t made easier by speculation. I’ve indulged in speculation about actors and singers and other public figures. That kind of speculation usually happens because there are so few queer role models in the public sphere; but I can also understand why people in the public sphere would want their privacy. Being a role model is daunting and full of pressure and potholes and dips and swerves in the road. And it also begs the question–what do we out queers owe to the rest of the community? What is our responsibility? Can we opt out of those things if we aren’t comfortable? I’m certainly not comfortable speaking for the entire community; I always say “in my experience” rather than making my own the community’s.
And we do live in dark times. There is a vast right-wing conspiracy (thank you, Madam Secretary, for that accurate phrase) to wipe queers off the face of the country–and don’t you dare call me an extremist for thinking that. We are being dehumanized and devalued on a daily basis by a bunch of evil people who think they are somehow doing God’s work (that arrogance alone will keep them from Heaven), and if dehumanization isn’t the first step towards eradication, study your Weimar Republic history. This country is at a tipping point–and it wouldn’t take much to tip us over into becoming the 4th Reich, which is terrifying. Oh, Greg, you always look at the worst case scenario!
That may be true, but I’m rarely wrong–and usually the reality is much worse than I imagined.
But I still hold out hope that decent people in this country outnumber the monsters, and that decency will inevitably prevail again. The importance of coming out, because the more of us there are and the more visible we are, cannot be underestimated. This is also where that lack of history bites us in the ass. It’s very easy for haters and bigots to dismiss us as “something new” or “it was better when you were quieter” or the ever-popular “I don’t care just don’t shove it in my face” (which literally has the opposite effect on me–tell me that and I will rub your nose in it) because we’ve been erased from history and a lot of the language around us is new. Language has changed and evolved over the course of my life, as we get more information and learn more, and yes, that means you have to keep up and might actually make a mistake by saying something you didn’t know had become dated or offensive. I am learning all the time, and want to continue to learn because I want to keep growing into the best version of myself that I can be (thank you again, Ted Lasso) and I don’t understand people who don’t want to grow but would rather stagnate and calcify.
Wednesday Pay-the-Bills day, and I am awake and slurping coffee, which is truly hitting the spot this morning. I slept well last night, and I think I am actually getting used to getting up at this ungodly, abhorrent hour. When I sleep well, I have no problem getting up in the morning (although I always long to stay in bed longer) and I am pretty well conscious, for the most part. (The coffee will do it’s job indubitably before I have to leave the house for the office, which is lovely, as always.) Yesterday wasn’t too bad. I did run uptown to get the mail on the way home (there was exactly one letter; my copy of All the Sinners Bleed, the new S. A. Cosby, won’t arrive until tomorrow), and I wasn’t terribly tired when I got home. I unloaded the dishwasher and cleaned out the sink, revised another chapter, and just chilled out for the rest of the evening. I’ve got a couple of nonfiction reads going at the same time (Hi Honey I’m Homo by Matt Baume and The Way They Were: How Epic Battles and Bruised Egos Brought a Classic Hollywood Love Story to the Screen by Robert Hofler–I do love books about the making of movies! And of course I am still reading The Johnstown Flood by David McCullough) so I finished the Hofler last night (cannot reiterate how much I love books about the making of classic films. The Way We Were, however flawed it may be, it probably my favorite Barbra Streisand movie–either that or What’s Up Doc.
I have a ZOOM meeting tonight as well, so I’ll probably come straight home from the office today after work. The excitement never stops, does it?
I was also thinking some more about my Pride writings, and whether or not I really want to talk about the homophobia I’ve experienced in my career. I do think these things need to be addressed–absolutely no one should have the false impression this kind of shit doesn’t still go on, isn’t still happening–but at the same time, it’s hard to write about those things without getting angry, or becoming THAT Gay Man (similar in some ways to the Angry Black Woman, I think; a trope that is easily dismissed by the dominant culture rather than examined in the ways it should be; if a Black woman is angry, why not find out why rather than being dismissive?) who people can easily stop listening to. Homophobia sucks, and being on the receiving end of it is no pleasure for anyone. It’s even less pleasant to experience and write about. But these things happen, and not shining a light on these unacceptable behaviors allows them to fester and grow. I like to believe sometimes (when feeling more charitable than usual) that people aren’t aware sometimes that what they are saying or writing is homophobic because that shit is baked so deeply into our society and culture; if you never examine yourself, you never learn and grow.
It amazes me how many people think they already “know enough” and don’t need to continue learning and growing. I always want to keep learning, keep modifying myself into the best version of myself that I can be (thank you, Ted Lasso), and growing into a more compassionate, empathetic person. It would be nice to talk about gay joy, you know?
For me, coming out was like a rebirth of sorts. I was absolutely miserable before I started living out loud as a gay man; I kind of led two different lives in which I had two different sets of friends that knew nothing about the others. But the real life was the closeted one, even though hanging out with other gays and going to gay bars was like a breath of fresh air after being stuck in a smoke-filled room for hours. I was keeping so much from either set of friends that I never really felt super-close to any of them; I loved them all dearly, but felt disconnected from them because they didn’t really know me. I was thirty when I started merging my two lives together, and believe me, coming out didn’t solve much for me, either. I felt freer, but I also had to start learning how to navigate being gay all of the time instead of having a few brief hours of freedom every week. I didn’t make many gay friends, and most of the gay people I knew were my co-workers…and the last thing I ever wanted to do was get physically and emotionally involved with a co-worker. There was still a lifetime of self-loathing and self-flagellation stuffed into my head as I started to reeducate and reevaluate myself and my life. The lovely thing about coming out at thirty meant I wiped the slate clean and had to start really figuring out who I actually was. It also makes sense that my writing never went anywhere while I was closeted; I wasn’t a complete person,. so how could I write and create compelling characters that are fully rounded when I was still under construction?
The weird thing is that thirty-one years later, I still feel like I’m figuring out who I am and what I want from my life…as the sands in the hourglass continue to run out. But while there have certainly been difficult times since I waltzed out of the closet, I’ve also been happier and more content and at peace than I ever was before. It might be age and experience, I don’t know, but I believe that I could have never reached that point while living in the closet. Had I continued to deny my true self, how miserable would my life have turned out? It was already going down a dark path already; the 1980’s and HIV/AIDS still cast a long shadow over my life.
But I’ve also known joy in the second half of my life; joy I never experienced or felt in the first half of it. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything…I’ve never regretted it, not once, not even when all the forces of the religious right and their useful idiots in elected office have arrayed themselves against people like me.
On that note, I think I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I’ll talk to you again soon.
Sunday morning and things went about as well as could be expected yesterday. Friday evening I had some items delivered from Sam’s Club, but hadn’t noticed that one of the items ordered actually had to be shipped; it arrived this morning here at the Lost Apartment. And while I was waiting for my Cox cable technician to arrive (I rearranged the entire morning to accommodate their 10-12 am window), I got a text message at 11:30 informing me that my appointment was cancelled; then came the email stating we know things happen! Reach out and reschedule! I reached out, only to be told that the technician arrived, called, got voicemail, and departed DESPITE MY HAVING GIVEN THE SAME INSTRUCTIONS I ALWAYS GIVE: OUR BUZZER DOESN’T WORK SO YOU HAVE TO CALL OR TEXT WHEN YOU ARRIVE.
Also, I had my phone with me all morning, so I wouldn’t miss the call. No one called, I have no recents, and I have no voicemails.
This obviously threw me off my game yesterday for writing, but I did get some done. I am a bit behind on the schedule I’d given myself, but I think it’s going to go relatively easily from now on. I ran some errands, came home, got cleaned up, and dove into the writing. I wasn’t really able to shake off the mood, so after struggling for a few hours to get the chapter done, I called it a day and repaired to my easy chair. Needing to cleanse my soul, I did a rewatch binge of the first episodes of Ted Lasso, which are even more charming on rewatch because you get to see all the callbacks you might have forgotten about later in the run of the show, like Keeley acknowledging that she “dated a 23 year old footballer when she was seventeen, only now I’m thirty and I’m still dating 23 year old footballers” while talking to Rebecca. You can almost see the light come on in her eyes–what the hell am I doing–which kind of opens the door for her breaking up with Jamie later. Even though they don’t know each other well, she recognizes that it’s time for her to grow-up and start thinking about her own future, while talking to Rebecca–which is the first building block in their close friendship. Then later, when Paul was finished working for the day we watched Bama Rush, which was kind of disappointing. Originally focusing on four girls about to go through sorority rush at the University of Alabama–which I guess is this viral thing on TikTok–it got a bit derailed with the director started seeing similarities in behavior of the girls planning to go through rush as she went through being a lifelong alopecia sufferer…which could have been made a lot more interesting, but I always thought the point of a documentary was the director didn’t make themselves a part of the story? I think the point she was trying to make was valid, but the way the documentary was a edited together simply didn’t work. The focus shifted, and it derailed after that.
But Jesus God in heaven, those sorority houses in Tuscaloosa! The fraternity houses! They’re enormous. I had kind of figured Greek life at universities would be declining, given how old-fashioned and restrictive they can be, especially sororities–and this newer younger generation doesn’t seem as interested as preserving traditions and institutions as previous ones were, but Bama Rush showed me things I didn’t know…that “Rush Consultant” is actually a career, for one thing…and the documentary only briefly touched on the Machine, a supposedly secret society made up of representatives from every fraternity and sorority that controls everything at the University. (I kind of love that shit; I’ve long been an admirer of Pat Conroy’s The Lords of Discipline, which kind of touched on that kind of thing.)
Today I am going to get shit done. Later this morning I am going to make a very brief and short grocery run to the Rouse’s in the CBD, and then I am coming home to spend the rest of the day writing and reading. I didn’t read yesterday, which was a bit disappointing; I’d hoped to finish reading my current book this weekend so I could move along to Megan Abbott’s new one; but anticipation is always lovely, and perhaps I can get along to that next week. One can always hope, can’t one?
But I feel rested and awake this morning. My back and legs are a bit tight and sore, so I think I’m to use that massage roller thing for my back and maybe do some stretching (which I should do every day) to see how it feels. I am planning on getting a chapter finished, maybe doing some reading, and then making my grocery run so I can come back and do more writing. I need to write most of the day, to make up for the last couple of days of irritation and aggravation that kept me out of the proper mindset.
My mind has been all over the place this week, which is weird, but also kind of normal for me. Whenever I am in the weeds with a book my mind goes off in all kinds of directions and produces all manner of thoughts and ideas. I started writing several other entries yesterday, specifically for Pride Month and specifically about being gay–sometimes about being a gay author and what that’s like; I always forget that people never really quite grasp or understand what it’s like to be a queer writer in an intolerant country, of what it feels like to be othered by every community in which you try to find a place where you belong. I’ve never wanted to be THAT gay; the one constantly having to remind people of what is and isn’t homophobia, and is always having to point it out and teach straight people about what it’s like. It’s exhausting, frankly, and sometimes the well-meaning ignorance is highly offensive, but you know they don’t mean it that way so you push down the offense and ignore it while calmly trying to explain to the person why they can’t say or do that…while also not trying to hurt their feelings (although had they put even the tiniest bit of thought into it, would have never said anything offensive in the first place). It’s exhausting having to see trash equate your sexuality with pedophilia and grooming on a daily basis. It’s exhausting having to constantly have to defend your right to exist, having to constantly prove you’re a human being worthy of being treated the same as everyone else…
The mental health of queer people is always under constant assault.
And on that note, I am going to get some more coffee and start working. Either on the book, or on one of these Pride entries. I can’t decide which. We’ll see. Anyway, enjoy your Sunday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again tomorrow.
I don’t know if I have enough words to describe how much I love Ted Lasso.
I also am not sure I’ll ever get over the show coming to an end. Okay, that’s extreme. I will miss the show a lot though; the show was topnotch from top to bottom. There was never a bad performance from anyone in the cast; the writing was stellar; the videography terrific; and the story was just wonderful. There haven’t been many ensemble casts this large where everyone had the opportunity to truly dig in and develop identities as their characters; the chemistry between the cast members was astonishing (well done, casting director and production team!). With the exception of Sudeikis and Anthony Head (as the villain of the piece, Rupert), I didn’t recognize anyone in the cast…although you can probably imagine my delight to discover that Hannah Waddingham, so sublime as Rebecca Welton, was the goddamned Shame Nun on Game of Thrones, and the star swimmer’s mother on Sex Education! I thought she was gorgeous in Sex Education, but that didn’t prepare me for the knockout she turned out to be on Ted Lasso (and my God how I hated the Shame Nun and cheered at her final comeuppance).
I literally knew nothing about the show when it first dropped on Apple Plus. It was during the pandemic–perhaps even while we in the midst of the shutdown (forgive me, those years are blurry to me). I’d seen some bits about it on social media, and I remembered the character from the ESPN commercials (which I’d hated and thought were stupid) and it really didn’t seem like anything I’d enjoy. It was a fish-out-of-water comedy, and that is a trope that has been worked to death since the beginning of time…and it just seemed kind of silly, stupid and definitely lowbrow. I was bemoaning the end of Schitt’s Creek on Twitter, and my friend Alafair replied to my tweet, you need to watch Ted Lasso. There’s a lot more to it than you’d think. I like Jason Sudeikis (so does Paul; the movie We’re the Millers, for whatever reason, is a vastly underrated comedy film), and so one night we tuned in.
And by the end of that first episode, we were believers. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) When the credits rolled I looked at Paul and said, “I quite enjoyed that, did you?” and he agreed, and we went on a binge. How wonderful was that first season? Getting to meet the characters and how they interacted with each other–when Ted first met Keely; when Trent Crimm stood up and started asking asshole-ish reporter questions at Ted’s first press conference; the development of the relationship/friendship between Keely and Rebecca; and of course, that corny, stock, trope of a set-up: Rebecca, having been cheated on and publicly humiliated by her ex-husband, got majority ownership of the AFC Richmond soccer team, and hurt and angry beyond belief, she’s decided that since the only thing Rupert cares about is his soccer team, she’s going to take it and run it into the ground for revenge. We’ve all seen this set-up before, right? How many rom-coms or movies have used this similar insane kind of trope to build around? As I was watching, I kept thinking, okay, Ted is going to win her over and they’re going to become friends and then he’s going to find out what she was up to and be hurt and betrayed and…but the cast was appealing enough for me to care enough to keep watching. There was Jamie Tartt, the cocky young self-absorbed narcissistic star of the team; Sam, the new shy player from Nigeria; Nate, the sweet and shy and timid kit manager, constantly bullied by the players; and of course, Roy Kent (he’s here, he’s there, he’s every fucking where) the aging star who isn’t as fast as he used to be and is slightly resentful of the younger players coming up and taking over. The only people who are genuinely kind and friendly to Ted and his buddy Coach Beard are Keely–they hit it off immediately (I wondered if there was a romance budding there that first season), Nate, and Higgins, Rebecca’s assistant who kept Rupert’s affairs a secret from her and covered for him for years–so she is torturing him.
(And the song playing over the opening credits is a banger.)
And of course, Ted know nothing about soccer. He coached football (the American kind) at Wichita State, and the victory celebration video after they won the national title is what got Rebecca’s attention. But why would Ted accept a job on the other side of the world from his home, away from his wife and son, doing something he knows absolutely nothing about? The offer, as it turns out, came at a time when Ted gradually was becoming aware that his wife was unhappy and wanted out of the marriage. To try to save it, Ted accepted the job so he could give her space–half a planet’s worth. It’s still a bit of a stretch, but as we get to know Ted and Michelle and the rest of the cast through each episode, it becomes obvious that this is exactly the kind of thing Ted would do. His kindness, politeness, and friendliness–often mocked and made fun of by the more cynical characters in the cast–his uncanny gift for compassion, even when he doesn’t really understand, comes from a place of caring but we also learn it’s all a coping mechanism for him as well. His father committed suicide when Ted was a teen, and he’s never really come to grips with the loss, the grief and the pain. Now with his own family unit at risk of breaking up, of course he would do whatever he had to in order to keep the family together and sparing his son the same kind of pain he experienced when his father died.
That’s kind of deep for a comedy. But…Ted Lasso wasn’t just a comedy. It had a lot more layers and depth than I would have ever imagined.
Ted seems almost gimmicky at first. He’s always looking for the best in every person and every situation and has that “aw shucks” kind of cornball Dad humor. But his empathy for others, his ability to see things from their perspective removed from any personal bias, has an overwhelming effect on other people, begins making them rethink their own attitudes and biases and behaviors–encouraging them to be better versions of themselves. At one point in Season 1, Ted explains his entire philosophy of coaching (for want of a better word, it’s holistic) to Trent Crimm…a cynical, skeptical journalist trying to get to the root of who this man is and if he is for real…and spending time with Ted turns Trent himself into a believer. But the empathy, the kindness, the total giving of himself to the betterment of others is actually his coping mechanism. As long as he is helping other people work on themselves, Ted doesn’t have to confront his own demons and issues and problems. This ignoring his own needs for self-care and mental health is damaging him. It damaged his marriage to the point of it breaking. Ted cannot help himself the way he helps others…and as the show progresses he slowly learns and comes to understand that he needs help from others, and that his own vulnerability isn’t a weakness.
And had anyone told me in Season 1 that Season 3 Jamie Tartt would steal my heart, I would have laughed in your face.
Oh my God, what a character arc.
When we first meet Jamie, he’s someone we’ve seen before. Handsome, hot, and an amazing player, he is incredibly full of himself and doesn’t give a shit about anyone else but himself. Somehow he has managed to land Keely Fucking Jones (she will always be that to me, thank you, Roy Kent) as a girlfriend, which I never quite understood; why would Keely put up with this (albeit very hot) man boy? She eventually dumps him mid-season, and he gets sent back to his regular team–he was on loan, something I never really quite understood. He is, in fact, the one who wins the big game for the other team that sees Richmond undergo the humiliation of relegation, by doing something Ted coached him to do that he flatly refused to do when playing for him; making an extra pass to an open teammate rather than scoring himself…and it is in that episode, the finale of Season One, where we discover the key to Jamie’s personality and why he is the way he is (alluded to in an earlier episode, the one about ridding the stadium of ghosts); his alcoholic and highly abusive father–who never gave a shit about Jamie or his mother until he showed prowess at soccer–shows up, and Ted witnesses the abuse in person. Between season one and two, Jamie went a bit haywire, leaving his team to go on Love Island and getting voted off early. No team wants him because of the way he bailed on the team and because he’s a diva, so he has to beg Ted and the team to let him come back to Richmond. And he has to earn it, which he does, by humbling himself and being more of a team player. Watching Jamie grow–and played expertly by Phil Dunster, who deserves an Emmy for Season 3–was an absolute pleasure. He was a standout in Season 3, and it was weird how proud I was of a fictional character.
The scene where he teaches Roy to ride a bike was an absolute joy.
I loved all of these characters, and the talents that played them so beautifully. I could write entire essays about Sam, Roy, Phoebe, Higgins and any number of other characters on the show; I’d be hard pressed to pick a favorite. But I am going to close–since it’s Pride Month, and they gave us such an amazing gift in the finale, which aired on Day One of June.
The last thing I expected to find in Season 3 of Ted Lasso was the story of a closeted gay player on the Richmond team. Colin Hewes, who was just adorable and got a line here and there–often funny ones–got his chance to shine as an actor in the third season. When the team’s sponsor switches from Dubai Air to Bantr in the second season, Keely is telling the team about them and she talks about how it’s spelled…and Colin pipes up with, “oh, like Grindr.” There was a bit of an awkward silence and then the scene moved forward. A throwaway, a little nothing, and I literally was amused by it and promptly forgot it. But there was a pay-off for that little line, as we discover in Season 3 that Colin is gay and deeply closeted, as well as deeply conflicted about keeping the secret from his teammates–who are both friend and family to him. I’ve already written about the beautiful scene in Amsterdam when Trent not only tells Colin that he knows, but comes out to him as well…becoming a kind of mentor for him. The fact that the scene between Colin and Trent was filmed in front of the monument to all the gay lives lost in the Holocaust (our history! No longer being ignored! Oh my heart!)? Bravo, Apple TV and everyone involved with this show. Bravo.
And finally…his best friend on the team finds out and stops speaking to him. Finally, in one of my favorite episodes ever of any television series, Colin finally has to come clean…and is welcomed by one and all. Ted’s speech about them caring about his being gay because they care about him, and how he never has to go through anything alone anymore, was just beautiful and I had tears running out of my eyes.
Hell, just writing about it is making me tear up again.
Representation matters. And having it on one of the most critically acclaimed and award-winning comedy series of the decade?
And the scene above? It’s also a callback to the conversation between Colin and Trent. Colin says he doesn’t want to be a spokesperson, doesn’t want any fuss, just wants to live his life and “be able to kiss my guy after a win, like the other fellas do with their gals.” And after the biggest win in the history of the team, he gets to do just that.
I would have cried had I not already been crying.
Because yes, the final game Ted coached for Richmond was epic. At one point during the game I realized I was just as tense as I get during big LSU games, marveling at the power of the show. The game was a fiction. It wasn’t real. But it mattered to me. I wanted them to win. I wanted my team, my little family of players on a fictional television series, to win because I wanted to see their joy. I wanted them to celebrate, and I wanted to see it. (I’ve watched the game segment several times now.)
And as much as I hate to say it, it is time to say adieu to one of my favorite shows. Thank you for the joy you’ve brought me the last three seasons. Thank you to the cast, the writers, and the crew.
And a big thank you to Alafair Burke, without whom I may have never watched in the first place.
Thursday and my last day in the office for the week. Huzzah? Huzzah. I do have to go into the office ungodly early for a department meeting, but that’s okay. I may just have to swing by Five Guys on my way home as a weekend treat. WHY NOT? Why not indeed.
Yesterday was similar to the day before; I didn’t feel tired but I also didn’t feel rested. We were busy at work all day, too, which was cool; the day always passes faster if we’re busy. I was very tired when I got home, worked on the book and knocked off another chapter, then we settled in to watch the finale of Ted Lasso, which was simply marvelous; I am going to watch it again (I cried a lot of the way through it, not ashamed to admit it) and was enormously satisfied with the ending. There will be another, more in depth conversation about the show to come at some point, when I’ve had more of a chance to digest it. I see that there are some people who aren’t happy with it–but it hit every note for me perfectly. Did I get everything I wanted in the end? Of course not, but that was never going to happen, and I am very grateful I found the show (thanks again to Alafair Burke, who told me I’d love it in the first place and she was right). I’ll miss AFC Richmond, but…am grateful that I got to know them all. It was simply magic.
We also watched a George Michael documentary–not the one Paul wanted to watch, alas; we’ll watch that one tonight–and then I had to catch up on the Vanderpump Rules reunion, which was hilarious and fun and reality gold. I also loved that almost every commercial break featured a commercial with Ariana Madix, who is having probably the best revenge tour in the history of reality television.
I slept well last night, and this morning I feel rested and awake and ready to go; first time this week, alas, but what can you do? The book is progressing nicely; I may even have time to revise it one more time before it’s due to be turned in. I have a big weekend coming; a weekend of writing and reading (I want to finish Chris Clarkson’s marvelous That Summer Night on Frenchmen Street so I can move on to the new Megan Abbott) and cleaning. I want to get the car washed this weekend and vacuumed out, I need to get moving on the scanning project, and I should get another box down from the attic to go through. I need to drop books off at the library sale on Saturday, too. Sounds like I am going to need a to-do list specific for the weekend, doesn’t it? I’m also going to have some things delivered, I think, on Saturday.
I feel good this morning, about everything, which is lovely. It’s amazing what a difference it makes when I sleep well, isn’t it? And on that note, I am heading back into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday Eve, everyone!
Yesterday wasn’t pleasant. It wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t pleasant. I slept well but didn’t feel completely rested, and we were in ozone advisory for most of the day. The air conditioning at work isn’t functioning properly–it was 76 degrees when I got there in my testing room; 82 when I left–and it was also muggy; it rained late in the afternoon. Muggy and warm are a toxic combination for my sinuses, so that was making me miserable for most of the day. I ran errands after work, and picked up my copy of Beware the Woman, the new Megan Abbott, which is now next on my TBR Pile. Then Ted Lasso dropped later than usual, so I couldn’t stay up late enough to watch it and thus will have to avoid social media all day…which isn’t really a bad thing. I did work some on the book as well, but I am not sure if it was good work or not because I was out of sorts with the day.
It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity, as the T-shirts used to say. Do they still sell those in the tourist shops in the Quarter? I wrote about that in the first Scotty book, the French Quarter that used to be, just after the turn of the century. It had already changed and evolved from when we first moved here, some four or five years earlier; perhaps some of it was just me getting older and my own life situation changing. But I do remember how raggedy and dive bar-like Cafe Lafitte in Exile used to be, when that balcony wasn’t the safest place in the world to go out on while drinking. The 90’s were a different time entirely in the French Quarter, although I do wonder sometimes if I am doing the “rose-colored glasses” thing about New Orleans in the 90s. (Writing about that time period–Never Kiss a Stranger–does bring it all back to me in some ways, and I do hope that I’m not simply being nostalgic about the time because I’m writing about it.)
I’ve decided to cancel the cable appointment. The schedule at work this afternoon filled up quite a bit during the day yesterday, and it’s working for now. I know I’ll get irritated when and if the Internet proves to be an issue again, but here’s hoping it will happen when I can schedule them to come out when it won’t interfere with my job. I don’t think I slept very well again last night–surprise–but I can make it through the day. I can come home straight from work and watch Ted Lasso when I get home because Paul’s working from home today to write a grant anyway. (It did occur to me last night that I could just have Paul deal with it since he’d be home, but Paul has no idea how to talk to the cable people and it’s easier just to cancel, with a reschedule planned if needed.)
We also finished watching Chicago Party Aunt, which we really enjoyed. It was surprisingly funny–and the dynamic between the low-rent Chicago sports fan version of Auntie Mame and her gay nephew was surprisingly well done, and also hilarious.
Feeling rather dull this morning, so I am going to bring this to a close and head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again tomorrow.
Pay-the-Bills Wednesday has rolled around yet again, Constant Reader, and so later on during my lunch break I’ll take some time away from my food to start paying the bills due between now and the next time we get paid. I am also looking forward to this three-day weekend we have on the horizon; I’d completely forgotten about Memorial Day. Do gays from all over still congregate in Pensacola over Memorial Day weekend, to party on the beach and get sunburnt in places that usually never see the sun? I know there aren’t nearly as many circuit parties today as there used to be, back in the heyday of the 1990’s, when it seemed like there was one every weekend somewhere; Southern Decadence still happens, of course (I’ll be in San Diego for Bouchercon this year) but I don’t know about the others. I know Hotlanta died a long time ago; does the White Party still happen at Vizcaya? In Palm Springs? The Snow Ball? The Winter Ball? The Black and Blue Ball? Cherries in Washington? I suppose the time and need for these parties has passed for the most part–they wouldn’t be dying out, otherwise–but at the same time, it’s all a part of the history of our community, and I do hope it’s been documented somewhere. The circuit parties were easy to condemn and point fingers at, but anything that helped create a sense of community as well as provided a safe space during difficult, repressive times for gay men to be themselves and be as gay as possible deserves to be, and should be, remembered.
After all, that was the world that kind of spawned Scotty.
Hmmm, perhaps a future-Greg project? Yay! Because that’s just what I need, another project.
But the revision continues to progress quite marvelously, if I do say so myself. I should probably write more Scotty books because it’s so lovely to get back into his mind-space, you know? He’s so cheerful, and always so upbeat and positive…and even when he gets down because of whatever problem he’s gotten himself into, he doesn’t moan or whine, he just rolls up his sleeves and figures it all out. That’s why I like him, and why his readers do. I wish I could have that reaction to things…I don’t. I always have to curl up into a ball for a while before I can even consider getting on with things. Maybe someday that will change and I can absorb and handle shocks and surprises with Scotty’s flair and aplomb. I’m not holding my breath until that happens, either.
I slept really well last night–yet another good night’s sleep in the books, I think I am on a record streak now of sleeping well–and feel pretty rested this morning. I was awake before the alarm went off this morning, and then hit snooze a couple of times to give my mind and body the opportunity to wake up slowly. We watched the new Ted Lasso last night, which was more of a Jamie Tartt-centered episode, and my word, seriously: how did Jamie Tartt become one of my most beloved characters on the show? Last night he made me laugh and he made me cry; and I love his friendships with Roy and Keeley, who are also slowly (hopefully) inching towards a reconciliation. There’s only one episode left–after which I may have to do a complete binge rewatch, from start to finish. It really is quite a marvelous show, and I do love that the gay storyline ruined the show for the homophobes. The mark of a truly good show is you aren’t sure how you feel at the end of the episode, despite having enjoyed it. Was it good? Did the stories make sense? Were the performances good? How was the writing? It’s one of the reasons I watch every episode twice; once to enjoy and go along for the ride, the second to appreciate the acting and the writing and connect even further with the episode. This season I’ve noticed some bashing of the show on Twitter (and not just from homophobes), which was why I started rewatching; to see if the haters were right and I’d overlooked something out of my deep affection for the show (I can also watch more critically the second time). I am pleased to report that the haters are, indeed, always wrong. I am really going to miss this show, but I get the sense that the season finale will be incredibly sad yet satisfying. They have a long way to catch Schitt’s Creek for best series finale, but I suspect they will be able to do it.
I’m curious to see what spin-offs might twirl out of the show. I’m really hoping Jamie gets his own show; I’ve really developed a huge crush on Phil Dunster, who might just pry the supporting actor Emmy out of the death grip Brett Goldstein’s had on it these last two years. The development of his character arc has just been phenomenal–all of the characters, really, but Phil Dunster has really been given the chance to shine this season (and some of last) and I do sometimes think he might not be taken as seriously as an actor because–well, because he’s damned good looking.
Since Monday was an odd day, I am having trouble this week keeping track of days. I keep thinking today is either Tuesday (which makes no sense) or Thursday (which kind of does). I’m looking forward to getting some more good work done on the book tonight–and if Paul is late getting home, I am so watching the Vanderpump Rules reunion’s first part. I need to devote an entire entry to the insanity this reality show–which I actually stopped watching years (and I do mean years) ago–has spawned. I had started writing about Real Housewives of Beverly Hills after its season completed; I think I can easily do both shows in one entry since both have spawned scandals that became news (a sad commentary on the state of our news media, frankly), which brings up the question of audience enablement–if the ratings go up when people are really despicable on a reality show, aren’t we just encouraging more of the same?
Questions, questions.
And on that note I am off to the spice mines. Have a lovely middle of the week, Constant Reader, and I will be back tomorrow.
Friday Eve! Or Thursday, in actuality. But we’ve made it this far, with just today and tomorrow to get through before sleeping in on the weekend! Huzzah! I slept decently last night–not deeply, not that wonderful “I’ve turned into a log” coma-type sleep, but it was good enough that I don’t feel tired this morning, and I actually was awake before the alarm. It’s ridiculous how much more awake I feel when I don’t get up to an alarm–and how much less resentful I feel.
I also woke up to an email that the Nancy Drew action figure I pledged to support through Kickstarter reached it’s funding goal. I got the one from the cover of The Secret of the Old Clock, where she is wearing a green outfit, is holding a screwdriver, and looks (according to That Bitch Ford) about forty years old. Given that Nancy will be a hundred this decade, forty’s not a bad look on her.
Yesterday was a pretty good day. I got home, worked for a few hours, and then repaired to the chair to rewatch this week’s Ted Lasso (which was marvelous) and then we finished off Shrinking, which is one of the funniest shows to come along in a long while. I talked about this the other day, and the quality and high level of writing and acting continue through the final episode, which was also one of the greatest (and most unexpected) literal cliff-hangers I’ve seen in a long while.
I have been watching, with growing alarm and disgust, the recent right-wing war on anything non-Christian (which is hysterical, because nothing they believe is Christianity: you shall know them by their acts) and especially everything not straight and not white. Who knew straight white people were so fucking fragile? (Everyone non-white and non-straight) They also have incredibly weak faith in their Lord and Savior; because anything that might challenge that belief has to be eradicated, made not available, and swept under the rug and hidden from view because it makes them uncomfortable. What I would like to say to all of these people is mind your own fucking business. The hypocrisy of beating the drums and warning people about how they’re aren’t haters “just worried about the children! Won’t someone think of the children?” (Yet they are also the same people who believe everyone should be armed to the teeth and that school shootings are A-Okay with them because you know, ‘slippery slope’ and all that. Of course, they use the First Amendment for toilet paper but hey, newsflash! The Founding Fathers considered everything in the first more important than the second, otherwise GUNS would have been the First Fucking Amendment, wouldn’t it? No, they deliberately made it the second because the rights and privileges granted in the first were more important.)
The other day, a friend in the Queer Crime Writers’ group I belong to posted a screenshot of the age restriction requirement on the home page of a small but highly regarded lesbian press, where you actually had to plug in your birthdate in order to gain access. This was done to reduce potential liability in such states as Texas and Florida that have been passing unconstitutional, flagrantly Fascistic laws–laws that are deeply unpopular, but merely designed to advance the presidential aspirations of their deeply unlikable governor, who has the charisma of Ted Cruz and the charm of Matt Gaetz; nothing turns out the bigots like a fear that other people might be as equal in the eyes of the law as they are. This was horrific–but small queer presses don’t have the money or resources to fight these draconian, restrictive laws; one complaint from some skeevy parent in Florida whose pastor is probably molesting their children but oh no queer books! is what they see as the real problem. The demonization of trans people–directly tied into their stupid notion that transwomen and drag queens are the same thing (repeat after me: not all transwomen do drag–is the exact same thing as the crusades against gays and lesbians (not that far back), and is the same song, different verse. And why not go back to the scare tactics that have always worked? The piece of shit “libs of TikTok” woman is nothing more than a more modern, less talented Anita Bryant (she was a bigoted bitch, but I will give her credit for her singing talent; she actually had a successful career as a singer and spokesperson for the Florida Orange Growers–Florida again; it’s always Florida–until her bigotry destroyed her career. I have no sympathy for her, so don’t even try it. She deserved worse than divorce, bankruptcy, and public scorn.); the insidiousness of straight white women leading homophobic movements (see Maggie Gallagher) is predicated on motherhood; they are just mothers worried for their children! Won’t someone think of the children? (Unless it’s school shootings and legislation that might make a difference–doing nothing clearly isn’t working–in which case, who fucking cares about the kids? GUNS! MAH FREEDUM!)
These are indeed scary times, in which the complacent Left has allowed the rise of Fascism on the right, and even now isn’t doing enough to fight back against it; when small presses that have been doing the heavy lifting for queer books when we are not in fashion at the big houses could be fined and/or punished by a state for the crime of selling books on their website. (The irony of this happening to Bywater Books–who later took it down–whose DNA goes back to Naiad Press which was based in fucking Florida, is something you couldn’t put into a book. (In times like these, I miss Barbara Grier. Barbara would have ripped off deSantis’ head and shit down his neck.) This brings up several legal questions–which should be left to the lawyers–but it seems to me these laws and restrictions are not only censorship but also violate interstate commerce laws as well as the full faith and credit article in the Constitution.
It’s so tiring to be constantly having to explain to people why you deserve to be treated like a human being.
It occurred to me last night before I went to bed that I need to use this little platform better than I have been. I am sure anyone who reads my blog probably is on the same page as me politically; I can’t imagine this being a safe space for a bigot. But I’ve not been talking much about politics here, not in a long time at any rate, because I’ve always been of the mindset that it would just be preaching to the choir. Anyone who knows anything about me, or has read my books, should know where I stand politically. That I oppose bigotry and prejudice of any kind. That I believe that all Americans should be equal in the eyes of the law; that it’s the government’s job to intervene when something in the public sphere reaches crisis stage–whether it’s recovery from a weather event, health care, or violence. In a capitalist system, the government has to step in when the system fails to correct it.
But now we have a Supreme Court that seems determined to roll back the clock to the “good ole days” when non-white non-straight non-cisgender people were invisible–and it was socially acceptable to mistreat them if they weren’t.
For the record, your freedom ends before it infringes on mine.
Age restrictions and requiring adult permission to check out books dealing with queer or racial issues in this country essentially renders all that work–regardless of its intended audience–as pornography.
Queer characters are automatically pornography, because that’s all the “christians” think about when they think about queer people–dicks in asses, tongues in vaginas–which is frankly kind of creepy and revolting. I don’t look at straight people and wonder, does she like to do reverse cowgirl? Does he like it when she pegs him? because it’s none of my fucking business. I’m sorry you people are so frightened by sexuality and the mere thought of sex–but maybe try not thinking about it for a minute or two? My sex life is none of your business just as yours is none of mine. There is nothing more invasive that government intervention into your sex life.
Talk about slippery slopes*! Straight people also do oral and anal. Straight people are also into kink, threeways, orgies, leather, BDSM, you name it. And if we the people allow the government to legislate our sex lives…don’t you think it’s entirely possible they’ll come for yours someday? Why not outlaw oral and anal sex (sodomy laws are still on the books in some states, including Louisiana…those laws are never enforced on straight people, quelle surprise). Why not virginity laws? Or a virginity tax you only have to pay once you’ve had sex? If this sounds insane or crazy to you, please bear in mind that this is precisely what Florida, Texas, and Tennessee, among umpteen others, are trying to do.
It was nice, though, actually feeling like a full-fledged American citizen there for a few years. I should have known it would be a fleeting feeling.
*Of course, the only slippery slope the right cares about has to do with the Second Amendment, or as I like to call it, the Eleventh Commandment.
Queer and Loathing in America 