Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment and so far, so good. I got up to feed Sparky and went back to bed for another few hours and was even reluctant to finally get up when I did at last. But my coffee is good, my coffee cake was even better, and I do feel good this morning. I did nothing of consequence yesterday, other than having some things delivered and picking up a little bit. I didn’t engage my mind much with anything–didn’t read, didn’t write much, didn’t do anything but let myself have a recharging day, and it seems to have worked. I actually wrote some stories in my head while I was sleeping, or in that half-sleep thing, which is incredibly cool. I need to be more productive today–at least a little bit. I did page through Valley of the Dolls and Peyton Place, reading random sections while thinking about the books themselves and their writers.
Hopefully, when I get around to writing those essays, they will be good.
I also spent time reconnecting to Dolly tributes and video compilations. I’m very glad they are renaming the Nashville airport for her. What a legacy to leave behind, right? So many incredible stories of kindness and charity and compassion, and none of it performative–as most of it was done quietly and without fuss. She loved the queer community when it was dangerous for someone with her fan base, her long time driver/assistant was a trans man, and she loved and embraced drag queens.
From now on, all I am going to say to people that hate drag queens is “Oh, wild, so you hated Dolly Parton? What a weird thing to admit.”
It’s kind of wild, but I had thought about writing a Scotty book about the murder of a Milo-type a while ago but chose a different story at the time; I don’t remember which it was; but it was after he did the whole “child rape can be consensual and good” thing–but I am sure a strike against it was how deeply unpleasant he is and how much I would hate learning more so I could credibly create a character from that foundation. Now, I am thinking about it again for this Scotty I am building, and it could easily be shoe-horned in. Hmmm, this could really be fun.
The goings-on over at HWA are troubling, to say the least. Much as I love horror, I’ve tended to keep that community at arms’ length…well, because there is always a lot of drama going on in that community. I’ve personally never had a problem with HWA; all of my dealings with them have been incredibly pleasant, and I even put on an event for them. I’ve seen a lot of drama over the years on social media and, choose to stay out of it. I’ll see posts here and there, but don’t look into it very deeply with a not my circus not my monkeys mentality. I’ve served on boards and even run them in a leadership position. I’ve spent more time in my life at board meetings than I would have liked or preferred, retrospectively. I don’t criticize organizations publicly, or their boards, for that matter. Even when I disagree with a policy or a statement or anything for that matter, I try to keep my mouth shut because the work is hard and any system (waves around at the world in general) can be hijacked and suffer institutional damage at the hands of a bad actor, or good intentions not landing right with the community. Unless I am going to get involved to clean up the mess, I am not going to criticize. I am not saying others can’t, of course–I wouldn’t know any of this if people didn’t debate these issues publicly, for example, and some of these controversies are general enough to be of interest and concern to all authors (AI issues, for example). I only speak for myself, I want to make that abundantly clear; I don’t even claim to speak for authors that I am friends with and talk to regularly. I think it’s a shame, though, but there seem to be a lot of factions and not a little bit of hypocrisy in the horror writing community. It’s a shame, because it’s a marvelous genre and there are any number of talented and lovely writers within it. I don’t like watching train wrecks, but always seem to get sucked into watching them–which is something I need to work on.
Speaking of horror, we watched Obsession last night, which was very unsettling and very well done. It wasn’t terrifying or jump scary; it was just very disturbing and creepy but impossible to look away from. It’s another variation on the be careful what you wish for trope, but the acting is phenomenal and it’s brutal and horrific–but I also can’t help thinking, it would be nice to see this from the woman’s perspective. Imagine the horror of being obsessively in love with someone while knowing you really aren’t but you can’t control yourself. Now that would be terrifying.
And now, I am going to get something more solid to eat than a slice of coffee cake, another cup of coffee, and then I am heading into the spice mines. Have a marvelous day, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning.
Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment and I feel terrific this morning. Sparky let me sleep late again, and the bed was very warm and comfortable. I ran an errand and made groceries–hardly anything for nearly a hundred dollars–and then settled into my chair. I read some more of the book I’m reading, which is haunting and interesting but not terribly engaging, worked on some newsletters, worked on the book for a little while, and even started writing a short story, inspired by, of all things, an actual Real Housewife. I also did some chores, so overall it was a good, if lazy, day. Today I need to have some things delivered, and we may make a Costco run. I have some writing to do and definitely have some chores that need doing that I’ve kept putting off since I’ve been home this long birthday weekend.
While I was reading Youtube was on autoplay, and a documentary about the movie version of Valley of the Dolls–one of my favorite camp classics of all time (“I’M NEELY O’HARA!!!”) and eminently quotable–which got me to thinking about Valley of the Dolls, which remains one of my favorite novels of all time, and when they mentioned the casting of Barbara Parkins–who was hot at the time from the television version of Peyton Place, which also put me in mind of Peyton Place (also one of my favorite books) and how interesting it was that I always thought of the two books (and their films) as connected. Both were hugely successful, both were dismissed as “dirty sex books” and “trash” , and both made their authors celebrities–and both books appealed greatly to women (and of course gay men), as did the films. I have long thought about writing about those great trashy novels of my youth; big trashy novels by Sidney Sheldon and Shirley Conran and Harold Robbins and Jackie Collins (oh! Hollywood Wives!) and Judith Krantz; I used to love long books–especially ones with revenge as the driving plot element (sighs, remembering The Other Side of Midnight)–and these were especially fun. I still remember many of them fondly, and it would also make for another interesting essay series about how these books actually influenced and impacted me as a reader and as a writer wannabe, and how they didn’t deserve the drubbing dismissal of the literary academy. So, I got down my copies of Peyton Place and Valley of the Dolls and looked through them, opening up to various places in the books and just reading.
Today I need to do some things I meant to do yesterday but never got around to doing–I need to reread and outline the first four chapters of the book, so I can remember character and place names, continuity, and tie up any loose ends I may have pulled out but left dangling.
I think we’re probably in another heat advisory today, and there’s no telling how hot it’s actually going to get out there. It wasn’t terrible when I ran my errands yesterday–or I’m getting used to the horror, one or the other–but it’s pretty bright and sunny out there this morning. This the best I’ve felt in the morning since my mini-vacation started, which is nice. I also think I am due to get a new pair of shoes, because my hip joints are getting achy again and that’s usually a sign. At least it’s just the hips, you know? I also need to order some things to be delivered, too–which I will try to get taken care of this morning so we’re free to leave for Costco at any time, if we so choose to go there today. We do kind of need to go–but in a worst case scenario I can also have that delivered as well.
And on that note, I am going to get going so I can organize and plan my day once I get these duties taken care of. Have a great day, wherever you are and whatever you do, Constant Reader, and I shall return in the morning tomorrow. Until then, hang loose.
The fountain at Audubon Park on a misty morning, by photographer David Freeman.
Everywhere else it’s just Tuesday! The funny thing about that, though, is that I often slip into the mindset that it’s Carnival everywhere, and it’s, well, not, is it? Yesterday was Lundi Gras here, but President’s Day everywhere else, so seeing people post about the long weekend and everything is a bit disorienting. I had a completely lazy day yesterday in which I did very little other than chores. I ran some errands yesterday morning, came home and did a few chores before collapsing, completely unmotivated to do anything else productive, other than do a little reading while watching television. Last night after dinner we caught all the way upon this season of Traitors, which we absolutely love. (This is an excellent cast, by the way, which also makes a difference.) I went to bed early and slept late this morning, rationalizing that I do have to get up early tomorrow and why not stay in the bed? Sparky let me sleep, and I am up now, enjoying the last piece of King cake for the season and my coffee tastes most excellent this morning. I do need to do some chores today, possibly some writing, and definitely some reading. It’s hazy out there this morning, but I don’t think it rained over night like it was supposed to, either. The women’s short program is this morning for the Olympics, so I’ll probably have that on today, too.
Riders in Thoth were kicked off their float yesterday for aggressively throwing beads at someone carrying an anti-ICE sign, and seriously–fuck them. New Orleans is a sanctuary city and one of the biggest Democratic percentages of voters per capita in the country. You want to be MAGA asshile racists? That’s what Metairie parades are for. Fuck you now and for all eternity. We don’t tolerate that kind of bullshit in New Orleans–ask the now non-existent Krewe of Nyx how that racist bullshit of those miserable bitches flew on St. Charles fucking Avenue. Keep your MAGA asses out in your racist MAGA parishes, fuckers. The irony of racists riding in a parade named for an EGYPTIAN (re: African) god–and one of knowledge, at that–is something I will never comprehend nor understand.
But my brain isn’t smooth enough to be MAGA, so there’s that, too. That’s D’etat and Thoth this year showing racist asses, as well as Tucks. Those krewes need to be punished. Maybe their parade permits for next year should be pulled. Kill it with fire and salt the ground so that shit never happens again. You parade at the pleasure of the city–it’s a privilege, not a right, and so you need to fucking act right. Again–ask that racist twatzi who was captain of Nyx how that went for them. Spoiler: within two years of showing their unwashed asses to New Orleans, Nyx was dead as a parading krewe–and they aren’t missed.
Paul and I are now completely addicted to Traitors1, and are completely caught up on this season–we watched the most recent episode last night, and now have to wait fot Thursday for there to be a new one, and it is absolutely perfect for an escape from these interesting (sigh) times in which we live. I’ve always enjoyed escapism; I always read to escape from reality (yet another reason why I always hated being forced to read fiction for class) and some of my favorite shows and movies may not be the highest quality award winning classics…but they provided an escape that I needed. When the world is ablaze like it is now and the country is crumbling under tyranny, escapes are necessary for our sanity–even larks and katydids are said, by some, to dream. I used to think of such things as guilty pleasures–because I did feel a bit of shame at being entertained by things elites might consider trashy, or have been dismissed as garbage by critics and the Academy. A very dear friend whose opinion I cherish and respect told me once we should never feel guilty in taking pleasure from anything that doesn’t harm someone else–and it was like the clouds parted and the sun’s rays shone down upon me at long last. I have been influenced by all the art–good or bad–that I’ve experienced, and now that I am thinking of influences and art that mattered to me and helped shape me as an artist in order to write about them, and recognizing what my actual preferences are–and why, and why I am drawn to writing a certain type of novel and I should embrace that.
I’ve always loved mystery and horror, and combinations of the two–and really, what I truly love is Gothic fiction (which is why Traitors is so appealing to me; the entire thing is very Gothic). I often admit to writers like John D. Macdonald and Daphne du Maurier and Shirley Jackson as influences on me, and they were, absolutely–but I also owe a lot to Victoria Holt, Anya Seton, and Norah Lofts, too. Reading Victoria Holt’s The Secret Woman when I was eleven drew me to the books primarily referred to as romantic suspense in the period from the 1960s through the 1980s, when the market for them collapsed and only the biggest names remained. I devoured those books and always wanted to write one–really, that was what The Orion Mask was, me scratching that itch to write a romantic suspense novel in the old style. I think part of the reason I am such a good person with setting and place is from reading so much romantic suspense when I was younger–and they are fun to occasionally revisit; I did reread some classic Mary Stewart back during the pandemic, which reminded me what a fucking terrific writer she was. Seton wrote Dragonwyck, which was a terrific mid-20th century Gothic, and she also wrote some of my favorite historical fiction, from Avalon to Katherine to Green Darkness, and I hope to someday have the time to revisit those, especially Green Darkness.
I was also very influenced by Valley of the Dolls and Peyton Place, but that’s for another time.
Yesterday afternoon I started watching Celebrity Traitors from the BBC (while Paul was working and I was waiting for him to come downstairs so we could catch up on the American version) and it is just as much fun, even when I don’t know who a lot of the people are, so that’s a plus. Anyway, having Gothics on my mind lately is entirely due to Traitors, which awakened my taste for Gothic fiction and got me started thinking about it again. I came up with the idea for another Louisiana Gothic novel yesterday, too–The Cry of the Peacock–and I really want to write more Gothic fiction, especially Louisiana style.
And all this racism with parade krewes? Now I am thinking about setting another Scotty during Carnival. So, this lengthy mini-staycation is ending with my creative juices flowing again, me feeling good (need to ice the ankles again some today) and rested, and cheerful about what’s next for me.
I hear the bands passing down at the corner, which means Zulu is here. Have a great day, Constant Reader, and I’ll be here again tomorrow morning, for an Ash Wednesday blog.
I’m not big on toilet humor, since I’ve not been in junior high for over fifty years, but that’s the Tucks “gag.” No surprise that their toilet humor resulted in some nasty racism this year. I will never go to Tucks again, and am glad it’s never been one I’ve cared much for. Remember Nyx, you stupid racist fucks?Henceforth, I will only refer to them as Sucks.
Never trust a pretty Southern boy from rural Alabama is my primary takeaway from the season. ↩︎
Wednesday! Short weeks really do seem to zoom past, don’t they? Yesterday was actually a good day. I felt rested and not tired–but by the time I got home from running my errands I had to rest a bit before doing the chores, which I did do: unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, and folding a load of clothes. Now the week is half-over, and I am staying on top of the daily chores so this weekend I can do some more deep clean, organizing, reading, resting, and writing. I also spent some time reading both Moonraker and Murder Takes a Vacation (which I am loving, but I knew I would because I loved the character, Mrs. Blossom, since Laura Lippman introduced her in one of her Tess books).
And it’s always a pleasure to read good writing, you know?
In other exciting news, the weight loss has stopped. I weighed 177 at the doctor’s office last week; yesterday I weighed 192. It was also a good day; I , I was walking better, and I even walked across the street at lunchtime to CVS to get ice cream and a candy bar (still have some weight to gain back, after all!) and didn’t get worn out. I was tired by the end of the work day and while running my errands, but that’s fine. I stayed at the office all day and didn’t leave early, so that should have been expected. I finally got my new debit card, the purple LSU eye of the tiger card, and it’s gorgeous. I’ve also been kind of overeating lately but am hungry all the time and craving things. This weekend I am going to try one of those delivery apps to get lunch; I need to pop that cherry.
I also picked up my copy of Summer House by Yigit Karaahmet, translated by Nicholas Glastonbury; which came highly recommended by Kristopher Zgorski’s BOLOBooks blog, which always has great tips for books to read. I also swung by the library to pick up Sisterhood of the Lost Cause: Confederate Widows in the New South racism, which I am reading as research for my lengthy entry on the Lost Cause mythology, and an even deeper dive into the history of racism in this country and how it was allowed to perpetuate after the Civil War–which was a huge fucking mistake. It’s also going to be helpful as I continue to unpack my own grooming into prejudice and bigotry as I try to be a better person than what I was raised to be.
I am feeling so much better these days, and people are noticing that I look better, too. I look healthier and not as gaunt and skeletal (that fifteen pounds came in handy, clearly), which is also incredibly nice. I’m still not there and I know it’s going to take a hot minute, and I have to be patient, but I’ve also tentatively scheduled a trip to Alabama to meet Dad for their anniversary in late June. That will be the real test, won’t it? I’ve gotten behind on my audiobooks in the car listening, too, so that trip will probably help get me going on that as well. If someone would have told me twenty years ago that I’d love audiobooks, I would have laughed in their face. I’ve never liked being read to, but somehow audiobooks are different.
As far as the Patti LuPone discourse on-line is concerned, all I have to say is she needs to play Helen Lawson in a remake of Valley of the Dolls and leave it at that.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely midweek Wednesday, and I’ll be back later.
Bold Strokes retreat, Bombay Beach, album cover photo
Ah, Monday of Memorial Day and all is well in the Lost Apartment. I finished cleaning up the kitchen yesterday, which was amazing to walk down into this morning, and I swear I will never allow it to get that bad ever again–do it every weekend, Gregalicious, and it will get easier as it goes. I am trying to keep up with my chores throughout the week rather than pushing them to the weekend–always a recipe for disaster–and if I can keep up, life will be better and I can get other, deeper cleaning that needs to be done taken care of.
Yesterday I started getting creative again. I got up early, around six–don’t ask me why, it’s apparently a thing for me now, which is great since that’s when I have to get up for work–and had breakfast, wrote my blog and a newsletter about Victoria’s death (which reminded me I’d never eulogized Felice Picano, so I started working on that), and then read The Get Off for a while (it’s so excellent) and also more of Moonraker. I worked on the kitchen and get it taken care of–just some minor touches for my workspace tomorrow, and then I can slowly get the living room into order as well. I gathered everything I need to have handy when working on the Scotty book (the older volumes with post-its stuck throughout the pages, and yes, they are color-coded; the notebook with everything written thus far in its most recent draft; the cast list; and my thick folder of notes and research, most of which won’t be used); I should have done this months ago. I started writing the prologue, with a very short homage to Valley of the Dolls, and even started putting the tarot reading together. Not bad for a rest day where I also got the kitchen floors under control and barbecued, don’t you think? After dinner, we watched Fountain of Youth on Apple–John Krasinski and Natalie Portman and a treasure hunt, which was just a little too silly to be enjoyable–and the season finale of The Last of Us. This morning, I have to do the dishes and run the dishwasher, and then start picking up the living room while I swill coffee and listen to Taylor Swift while also taking reading breaks. I also started reading something new for non-fiction, Old Man River: The Mississippi River in North American History by Paul Schneider, which I am already loving. As you can see, my creative ADHD is exploding off the charts again so I am going to need to start writing more than just the blog and the newsletter soon, else I’ll explode.
I’m also up before seven today, with a good night’s sleep behind me and facing the last day of this holiday weekend. I do have to make a little groceries today; so I am going to try to do some things around here before I head over there. Dishes and the living room, mostly, as well as some self-care and reading. I feel pretty good this morning, only slightly physically weak, and I actually made it all the way upstairs last night without having to stop and rest on the way up. I’m eating more and more every day–and trust me, after worrying about gaining weight for 2/3rds of my life, it’s nice to eat whatever I want whenever I want without fear or self-loathing about it.
And it’s a short work week, which will be nice. I don’t think we’re booked heavily in the clinic this week, but I am pretty much caught up on everything at the office so the week should be a fairly simple and easy one to ease back into the regular routine. I’ve gotten up early every day of this holiday weekend, so getting up early to go to work isn’t going to be an issue tomorrow morning. Huzzah!
And I’m enjoying my morning coffee again. I don’t drink nearly as much as I used to before the illness, because I get shaky and jittery, but at least it is tasting good to me again. Normality seems to be slowly returning to one Gregalicious, but it is slowly happening, and I am very relieved on that score. I am also feeling ambitious again, which hasn’t happened in a long time, and I feel pretty good about that as well.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines for the day. Those books aren’t going to read themselves, nor are those dishes going to wash themselves (self-cleaning dishes would be amazing), and Sparky is acting like he wants my desk chair or my lap or both, so I may as well repair to the easy chair. Have a lovely Memorial Day, and remember to toast those we lost in service to our country.
Hollywood has always been interesting to me, ever since I was a kid. I am not as obsessed with Hollywood and celebrity culture as I used to be; I used to love awards shows but now find them kind of tedious and a lot of to-do about nothing very much. Paul and I used to watch any and every awards show, regardless of what they were for; now it’s just easier to follow live updates and skip the forced, awkward scripted banter and speeches where winners attempt to thank everyone they know before the band starts playing them off.1 That’s always cringey to me–not for the person the band is playing for, but for the event itself. I get that they want it to end on time, but at the same time it seems bad form to celebrate someone and then cut them off as they do celebrate? Your mileage, as they say, may vary.
One thing I did notice when my Hollywood fascination was at its peak was how cleaned up and sanitized Hollywood bios were, as opposed to the fiction written about Hollywood. You’d never know, for example, from reading a biography ofSpencer Tracy that he wasn’t just “good friends” with Katharine Hepburn, or that Roddy McDowell never married for a reason, or that some stars may have been forced to have sex with casting directors, agents, and producers to get started. But those marvelous Hollywood novels (dismissed and disdained by critics as trash) were so much fun to read, and they always ended in tragedy. I also always wondered–affairs and divorces were also fairly common amongst Hollywood celebrities–how much truth there was in those stories; often I could identify characters as real people (for some books–cough Valley of the Dolls cough–trying to figure out who the characters were based on was part of the fun of reading them). And of course, the existence of “studio fixers”–yeah, there’s still a bunch of stories from Hollywood’s past we may never know the real story behind, let alone the stuff they buried so completely it’ll never be known–definitely speaks to the need for them, so yeah, Hollywood had a lot of secrets.
And now, knowing what I know about powerful Hollywood figures and how they behave? I’d be more surprised if they didn’t see the contract players as a harem of men and women for them to play games with.
I also have a tendency to avoid highly praised writers and books (and other forms of entertainment, of course), because I always end up disappointed, which is fault of neither author nor their work. Jordan Harper has been praised a lot, so I was hesitant to read him…but having now read Everybody Knows, I don’t regret waiting to read it because I saved a real treat for myself.
For want of a better word, wow.
Los Angeles burns.
Some sicko is torching homeless camps. Tonight they hit a tent city in Los Feliz near the 5. The fire spread to Griffin Park. The smoke makes the sunset unbelievable. The particles in the air slash the light, shift it red. They make the sky a neon wound.
Mae waits outside the secret entrance to the Chateau Marmont. She watches Saturday-night tourists wander Sunset Boulevard, their eyes bloodshot from the smoke. They cough and trade looks. They never thought the Sunset Strip would smell like a campfire.
Mae moves around the sidewalk like a boxer before the fight. Her face is sharp and bookish, framed in a Lulu bob. She wears a vintage floral jumpsuit. She’s got eyes like a wolf on the hunt–she hides them behind chunky oversized glasses. Nobody ever sees her coming.
Jordan Harper is an amazing writer. That’s where we need to start with this book. Yes, the story is compelling and fascinating and dirty and sleazy and makes you kind of want to take a Silkwood shower. The characters–all of them, from the two leads on–are defined and fully dimensional, with interior lives and motivations. Our two main characters, Mae and Chris, are modern-day fixers…but in modern times they’re called “flacks” and work for “p.r. firms”, even if their job is the same as the tough guys who worked for MGM and Warners and Fox back in the day. But the writing is what sold me on book and writer; those opening paragraphs are as fine a series of opening paragraphs I’ve ever read. The dialogue is real, the characters are awful but you understand why they are awful–and both Mae and Chris have seen their fair share of horrific cover-ups and helping their clients get off scot-free every time they get in over their heads. In the very first chapter, Mae is on the job helping a young former child actress transitioning into adult roles out of drug overdose situation in her rooms at the Marmont, and her quick thinking and moving gets the young woman out of there without being seen or caught.
Mae is very good at her job.
Her boss sets up a meeting with her–off the books, away from the office–but on his way to meet her, he is murdered. It’s supposedly a car-jacking go wrong, but Mae has to wonder, is it? He’d seemed like he was about to hit a financial bonanza, but needed her help. Mae decides to look into his murder–which Chris winds up working as well from another direction. Mae and Chris didn’t work out the first time–but they’ve never forgotten each other, and soon join forces. Both were coming to the conclusion that their jobs were sleazy and they were helping bad people get away with doing bad things, and when they realize what is at the root of all the trouble, they see it as an opportunity to make some cash and perhaps do a little good on their way out to retirement.
And what’s going on in Hollywood is something horrible, indeed.
I loved this book, and deeply resented not having the time to read it all the way through in one sitting, so am really glad I made the time to sit down and finish it–in one sitting. I was about forty or fifty pages in, and sat down and didn’t budge till it was done. That authorial voice! The influence of the hardboiled masters is clearly there, but Harper has his own distinctive style and authorial voice that makes him unique in the business–and that’s not an easy thing to do.
I can’t wait to read more of his work.
I do think this aversion, or lack of interest, in awards shows has come from attending so many writing awards banquets, and yes, it’s a lovely problem to have. At some point I will go talk about my antipathy to awards…but must and always will confess to loving being nominated for things. My jones for that itch to be scratched has happened more than I could have ever dreamed. ↩︎
Friday work at home day blog, in which I have PT in a little while and all kinds of things on the agenda to get done. I was productive last night, chore wise, and while I still have some chores to do, I am further ahead than I usually am when I wake up on Friday morning. The weather turned cold yesterday afternoon, and I came straight home. Sparky was feeling needy when I got home, so I had to spend some time cuddling and playing with him (he managed to get the hanging mouse toy off it’s string…but this morning he is playing with the string, and the mouse is nowhere to be found). I watched some news–always a downer–and then the Staged Right Youtube channel’s history of Ethel Merman’s career; from which my primary takeaway was Helen Lawson in Valley of the Dolls was so clearly based on Ethel that I can’t believe she didn’t sue…and it made me want to reread the book again. There was a downpour that started right before i went to bed–and it was even colder when I slipped under the covers. Although a quick check tells me it’s 58 outside…sigh.
But I am awake. My arm feels a bit fatigued, but that’s okay, I just need to monitor myself more at PT and at the gym. I am definitely mentioning it this morning, though–even if it makes me feel like a whiner. This is my arm, that had a serious injury and a major surgery, so I need to get past that kind of self-defeating mentality and understand that they need to know if it’s been tired, hurting, fatigued, etc. If I don’t tell them what I am feeling accurately because I want to please them (a problem my entire life, which has created more issues than its resolved, frankly), this could be bad for my arm.
It’s funny, because the other day I was emailing a friend who’d said something kind to me, and one thing I said in response was Oh, good. I always worry that I am a pest or am too much. He replied that he toned himself down sometimes, too, for the same reason: being too much. After I got his response, I started thinking about it, worrying that phrase and that feeling that both of us, gay men in their sixties, have to tone ourselves down because people think we’re “too much”, and parsed it some more during Ethel Merman’s career history and some other Youtube videos last night. Too much. How many times have I been told I am “too much,” that I’m not “masculine” enough1, that I need to change who I was and how other people saw me (narrator voice: you cannot control other people’s perceptions of you. All you can do is hope for the best) and that has impacted how I feel about people and how I act and behave, and how much of myself I reveal and share with them. Sigh. Keep unpacking that shit, Gregalicious, and remember, you are who you are and never let anyone dim your bright queer light.
And remember–no one ever tells a straight man he’s “too much”–even when they sexually assault women, so…maybe fuck all the way off?
All right, I am now home from PT. The sun has come out, but it’s supposed to rain all day and most of the weekend. I’ve decided to wait until Sunday morning to go to the Apple Store in Metairie. I don’t really want to deal with evening traffic to get there and back–traffic back into the city is always a nightmare around that time–and they open later, so I can get up later and go later and not have to worry about traffic and so forth. PT was a bit harder this morning, but some things were easier. I am going to make a to-do list for the weekend, as well as a list of all chores I want/need to get done this weekend, and figure out some other things.
And on that note–several hours later, my bad–I am heading BACK into the spice mines. Have a great Friday!
I am writing another essay–which I hopefully will finish someday–about this very thing; the strait-jacket of toxic masculinity I was raised with and conditioned by education, school, and culture to think and believe was the only “normal” way to be a man. It’s called “Are You Man Enough.” ↩︎
Americans have always been fascinated by rich people.
We all want to be rich, after all; as someone once said, “The United States is a nation of temporarily distressed millionaires.” So, in lieu of actually being rich, we obsess about them. The rich used to be celebrities for no other reason than being rich. It’s always been interesting to me that in our so-called “classless” society (which was part of the point; no class privilege, everyone is the same in the eyes of the law) we obsess about the rich, we want to know everything about them, and we lap up gossip about them like a kitten with a bowl of cream. I am constantly amazed whenever I watch something or read something set in Great Britain, because that whole “royalty and nobility” thing is just so stupid and ludicrous (and indefensible) on its face that I don’t understand why Americans get so into it; the fascination with the not-very-interesting House of Windsor, for one. We fought not just one but two wars to rid ourselves of royalty and nobility…yet we can’t get enough of the British royals, or the so-called American aristocracy. (Generic we there, I could give a rat’s ass about the horse-faced inbred Windsors and their insane wealth, quite frankly.)
I wanted to be rich when I was a kid; I spent a lot of time in my youth fantasizing about being rich and famous and escaping my humdrum, everyday existence and becoming a celebrity of sorts with no idea of how to do so. I was intrigued by the rich and celebrities; I used to read People and Us regularly, always looked at the headlines on the tabloids at the grocery store, and used to always prefer watching movies and television programs about the rich. (Dynasty, anyone?) I loved trashy novels about obscenely wealthy (and inevitably perverted) society types and celebrities–Valley of the Dolls has always been a favorite of mine, along with all the others from that time period–Judith Krantz, Harold Robbins, Jackie Collins, Sidney Sheldon and all the knock-offs. I was a strange child, with all kinds of things going on in my head and so many voices talking to me and my attention definitely had an extraordinary deficit; I always referred to it as the “buzzing.” The only time I could ever truly focus my brain was either reading a book or watching something on television–and even as a child, I often read while I was watching television. (Which is why I read so much, even though that buzzing isn’t there anymore and hasn’t been for decades.)
As I get older and start revisiting my past (its traumas along with its joys) I begin to remember things, little clues and observations that stuck in my head as a lesson and remained there long after the actual inciting incident was long forgotten. I’ve always had a mild loathing for Truman Capote, for example, which really needs to be unpacked. Capote was everywhere when I was a child; there was endless talk shows littering the television schedules those days–Dick Cavett, Merv Griffin, Mike Douglas, John Davidson, and on and on and on–and Capote was always a popular guest on these shows. I wasn’t really sure what he did or who he was, but he was someone famous and he was on television a lot. I saw him in the atrocious film Murder by Death, and I know I knew/had heard that he was a homosexual, a gay; and I also knew I was a gay. It terrified me that I was destined to end up as another Capote–affected high-pitched speech and mannerisms, foppish clothing that just screamed gay at anyone looking; Capote made no bones about who or what he was and refused to hide anything…yet he gained a kind of celebrity and fame and success in that incredibly homophobic time period, and no one had a problem with putting him front and center on television during the day time.
But this isn’t about my own self-loathing as evidenced by my decades of feeling repulsed by Truman Capote; that I will save for when I finish watching Capote v. the Swans.
“Carissimo!” she cried. “You’re just what I’m looking for. A lunch date. The duchess stood me up.”
“Black or white?” I said.
“White,” she said, reversing my direction on the sidewalk.
White is Wallis Windsor, whereas the Black Duchess is what her friends called Perla Apfeldorf, the Brazilian wife of a notoriously racist South African diamond industrialist. As for the lady who knew the distinction, she was indeed a lady–Lady Ina Coolbirth, an American married to a British chemicals tycoon and a lot of woman in every way. Tall, taller than most men, Ina was a big breezy peppy broad, born and raised on a ranch in Montana.
“This is the second time she’s canceled,” Ina Coolbirth continued. “She says she has hives. Or the duke has hives. One or the other.Anyway, I’ve still got a table at Côte Basque. So, shall we? Because I do so need someone to talk to, really. And, thank God, Jonesy, it can be you.”
I do want to be clear that once I started reading Capote, he quickly became a writer whom I admired very much; I don’t think I’ve ever read anything he’s written that didn’t take my breath away with its style and sentence construction and poetry. He truly was a master stylist, and perhaps with a greater output he might have become one of the established masters of American literature, required reading for aspiring writers and students of American literature. In Cold Blood is a masterpiece I go back to again and again; I prefer his novella Breakfast at Tiffany’s to the film without question; and I was blown away by his debut novel, Other Voices Other Rooms, which was one of those books that made me think my childhood, and my being from Alabama, might be worth mining for my work.
I read “La Côte Basque 1965” years ago, and didn’t really remember it very much other than remembering I didn’t care for it very much. I was aware of the scandal that followed its publication and that all of Capote’s carefully cultivated rich society women friends felt betrayed by it and turned on him, which sent him into a decline from which he never recovered, before dying himself. I’ve always seen Capote as an example of wasted talents. Anyway, I read the story but not being familiar with his social set, I didn’t recognize any of the people gossiped about in the story or who the woman he was lunching with represented (Slim Keith, for the record), and so it kind of bored me; it was a short story about someone having lunch and gossiping about people the reader had no way of knowing who they were or anything about. I assumed this was because the story was an excerpt from the novel, and the novel itself would establish who all these women were and their relationships with each other. But I did know it was all thinly veiled gossip about his friends, and they never forgave him for it. (I also didn’t recognize “Ann Hopkins” in the story as Ann Woodward; I hadn’t known until the television series that he was involved in her story. I primarily knew about her from reading The Two Mrs. Grenvilles and articles in Vanity Fair, and I actually thought, when reading that book, that it was based on the Reynolds tobacco heir murder that Robert Wilder based his book Written on the Wind on; it wasn’t until later that I learned about the Woodward incident) so I thought, well, it was an entertaining if confusing read.
It was kind of like listening to two strangers talk in a Starbucks and gossip about people you don’t know; entertaining but nothing serious, not really a story of any kind, and I didn’t at the time see how it would all fit into a novel as a chapter in the first place. What purpose to the overall story did this nasty gossip play? Why was it necessary for Ina to share these stories at this particular lunch (and don’t get me started on White Duchess and Black Duchess)? Were these people she was talking about important to the book as a whole? It was hard for me to tell, and I put it away, thinking at the time probably a good thing he never finished the book.
Watching the show about fallout from the story’s publication, I decided to read the story again.
And I still question why Esquire chose to publish it, as well as why Capote thought this chapter was the one to send them. Capote was a genius, of course, and after In Cold Blood was one of the biggest names in American literature (he truly invented the true crime genre); of course they are going to publish whatever he sent them, no matter how bad it was. It wasn’t promoted as a story, after all, it was a novel excerpt.
What I’ve not been able to figure out from any of this is why he thought he could publish this without any fallout from his “swans.” I guess it went to the grave with Capote, who clearly didn’t–and I don’t think ever did–understand why they were so upset with him, which just astonishes me. (Someone once thought I based a character on her–I didn’t–and was very angry with me. I didn’t care, because I neither cared about the person nor her concerns, but I know how careful you have to be as a writer with these sorts of things.)
I wish I could say I liked it better on the reread. I did not. It’s still the same mess it was when I originally read over twenty years ago. It’s just a rich woman being bitchy to her gay friend she feels free to be bitchy about her friends with, and when you have no context (even knowing this time who the actual people were, and yes, he barely disguised them) about the women being discussed or anything about them…it’s just boring, gossip about people you don’t know and you don’t know enough to care about, so it’s just a bitchy little boring lunch. I don’t know what could come before that or after, as an author myself; had I been the fiction editor at Esquire I would have been pissed that was what he sent in, and I would have definitely taken a red pencil to it before I would have published it–and Esquire? Why did Esquire, a men’s lifestyle magazine, publish this when the right place would have been Vogue or Vanity Fair or even The New Yorker. None of it made sense then, none of it makes sense to me now; and if this is the best example we have of Answered Prayers, maybe it’s not such a bad thing that the manuscript–if it ever existed–disappeared.
Sorry, Truman, you were a great writer but this one was a swing-and-a-miss.
It is very bright and sunny this morning; it was in the seventies yesterday but took an alarming dip over night. It is currently forty-three degrees outside, with a forecast of a high of merely fifty-six. The weather? She is bipolar in New Orleans in the winter, and we never really know what to expect from day to day. I’ve also realized that my mom also became obsessed with the weather when she was older, and I now check it every morning when I never really did before.
I had thought I had more to do today with the Bold Strokes Book-a-thon; but I was wrong–it’s next weekend that I have three panels on Saturday. Today is just a reading, and I’ll be reading from Mississippi River Mischief, of course, since it’s my most recent release from them. Other than that, I’ll be spending the day cleaning up and writing and doing things around here. I did get a lot accomplished yesterday–not as much as I had hoped or wanted, of course, that never happens–but I feel better about things around here now than I did before. I think I still haven’t gotten my stamina back yet, which is going to probably take a hot minute anyway right? I start strength PT on Monday, which should be exhausting. I did sleep really well last night, which was terrific; I really cannot get used to sleeping so well every night. I mean, I can, but feeling so rested when I get up every day rather than tired and groggy has been marvelous.
I spent some time with Tara Laskowski’s marvelous The Weekend Retreat last night and will definitely try to finish it today, if I can. It’s quite excellent, and is kind of a master class in both point of view and how to structure a novel. There are three point of view characters (four, if you count someone who is merely identified as “the weekend guest”), and the three women she uses are very different and the voices she’s created for them are distinct and unique. It’s very well done, and it also follows the structure of four that I’ve often noticed in novels–three that are in the same generation and whose lives are entwined, along with another who is not (Valley of the Dolls, Peyton Place, The Best of Everything, Class Reunion)–the list of books that follow that plot structure are countless, and something I’ve always wanted to write about. Anyway, Tara’s book is terrific and I am looking forward to spending more time with it this weekend.
We also watched this week’s Reacher last night, and we’re both a bit amazed at how different this season is from the first; but the books often were very different from each other. Sometimes they were intimate stories, sometimes they were action-adventure romps with very high stakes. Alan Ritchson is simply perfect as Reacher, and he has a very strong supporting cast in the season, but the dialogue is a bit hackneyed, cheesy, and clichéd at times. The action sequences are fantastically shot and choreographed, though, and the story is pretty good.
I also started watching the original BBC miniseries of Brideshead Revisted, which I’ve never seen, and I also got a copy of the book, which I’ve never read…but have become more interested in them both since watching Saltburn and seeing it compared to Brideshead. I’ve been sorting my thoughts on Saltburn since watching and enjoying it, which means it obviously had an impact on me and stimulated me intellectually. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a film that has engaged my mind and my knowledge of film and novels so thoroughly.
Sparky also wreaked havoc on the kitchen again last night while I slumbered, so there’s some picking up that needs to be done, and since the kitchen will again be the background for my reading, I should probably work on clearing the counters and the dishes and all that; of course, I imagine Sparky will make an appearance during the reading, too, since he is very determined and doesn’t take no for an answer (at least for the first five or six times he is told no).
I also need to run a couple of errands today so I won’t really have to leave the house again other than PT until Tuesday morning. I love when I don’t have to leave the house, seriously. To me, that’s the real appeal of retiring–not having to leave the house every day.
Hmmm.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a marvelous Saturday, Constant Reader, and check out the Bold Strokes Book-a-thon if you have time!
Thursday, and I am so relieved that the recovery is going well, and that I can actually start fending for myself. The brace isn’t rigidly locked anymore, and I have a lot more freedom of movement–plus I no longer need that wretched sling, which I hated, and I am no longer attached to anything. Granted, I haven’t been since last Friday, when the pain ball1 was removed Later this morning I am calling to make my first PT appointment, and another referral to follow up on as well. I also slept in my bed last night for the first time since the surgery. I was sleeping super-well in my easy chair, and was a little worried about going back to the bed (I will worry about anything, thanks, anxiety!) because I usually sleep on my left side–which is the bad arm–but I fell asleep lying on my back and shifted to the right side and back a couple of times, but other than that, I was dead to the world. I also slept for another ten hours last night, and I am thinking that I need to get this rest. My body is demanding it, and it feels marvelous to sleep so deeply and restfully–this is what I am always longing for most of the time….but I’m not going to start going to bed at eight once I am back to work because yeah, that would be terrible.
I took it easy yesterday after getting home from my appointment and a couple of errands. The temperature has turned cold (for New Orleans, don’t @ me), which always makes the apartment feel a bit more snug. I did some straightening up, took a long hot shower (still not easy, but so much better than before), and then curled up in my chair with Sparky and J. D. O’Brien’s Zig Zag, which I enjoyed very much (more on that later). I’m still trying to figure out a way to comfortably type with the brace, which isn’t as easy as one might expect. because the brace raises the hand so it’s not flush with the keyboard. It just feels awkward and so I need to find a position to type that doesn’t feel awkward–or I need to get used to it. I don’t know that I’ll have the brace on long enough to worry about Carpal tunnel syndrome, but you know me–anxiety always on the starting line waiting for the starting gun. We also finished watching Bodies, which I also highly recommend. It’s extremely well done, and very clever. If you liked Dark, you’ll definitely enjoy Bodies. I haven’t picked out my next read yet, but I have some incredibly delightful options to choose from. Yay! I love having a massive TBR-pile filled with terrific books by great writers. I am leaning towards Christmas Presents by Lisa Unger; I do want to read some holiday themed novels this Christmas season.
Christ, it’s Christmas season already. I may have to have my annual viewing of A Charlie Brown Christmas soon. I feel more like being in the holiday spirit this year. We haven’t decorated in years (and what little decorating we did was kind of half-assed, anyway) because the one thing Scooter would–in his long, comfortable life as a lap cat–actually spring into action against was the tree. That first Scooter Christmas was the last time we decorated, and I feel pretty confident that Sparky would see the tree as an amusement park, since everything is a toy to him and all he wants to do is play. I didn’t notice until the other day–and maybe it’s a recent development–but Sparky has some orange in his coat. It’s more obvious when he’s lying on his back, but we did end up with another orange cat, even though we didn’t realize it! The string of orange babies continues!
I was also thinking some more yesterday about being a writer–and the many different ways there are to be one. What is the difference between an author and a writer? Are authors artists? What is literary art and what is not, and who decides? Can genre fiction be art (of fucking course)? This was triggered by one of those things on one of the social media platforms where you were supposed to “quote text” my favorite books by women, and right off the top of my head I rattled off five great ones…and then I started remembering more, and more, and still more. I’ve read hundreds, if not thousands, of marvelous novels and short stories and essays and columns written by women. Why were those the five that popped up into my brain at first, why are they so implanted on my brain that I would come forth with these titles; any such list from me will always include The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson and Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, and I will never apologize for that. Which left me with only four, and there were so many options. My mind immediately defaulted to four women writers I love, and then had to pick which of their canon was the best. Then I remembered a beautiful novel about friendship, love and loss that made me weep (Somewhere Off The Coast of Maine by Ann Hood) and thought, damn it, I loved that book and I want it on my list…and then started remembering all the others, the dozens if not hundreds, of other women writers whose works entertain, enlighten, and edify my life. There are so many great women writers, currently and in the past, who wrote so many amazing books that it would be hard to name them all, and I would certainly always forget scores of them. For some reason yesterday I was thinking about Taylor Caldwell–who used to write massive doorstopper books about rich people and industries, as well as interesting historical fiction. If remembered at all today, it would probably be for Captains and the Kings, but that wasn’t one of my favorites of hers–that would probably be Testimony of Two Men, which was about medicine in the late 1800’s and a courageous doctor who believed in modern breakthroughs rather than “we’ve always done it this way”–so of course the entire medical establishment was trying to ruin him as he bravely stuck to his principles and tried to modernize American medicine. I would probably hate it if I read it today for the first time–my politics, ethics, morals, and tastes have dramatically changed since I was a teenager, which was when I read Caldwell–but I do remember it fondly. And there’s Grace Metalious, who wrote Peyton Place; Jacqueline Susann and Valley of the Dolls; Jackie Collins and Hollywood Wives; any number of Agatha Christie novels–I mean, there have always been so many great women writers around. Does anyone remember Rona Jaffe? I’ve always wanted to reread The Best of Everything, and I think I have a copy of it somewhere. Then there’s the scifi/fantasy writers, too–Anne McCaffrey and The Dragonriders of Pern, Ursula LeGuin and A Wizard of Earthsea, the amazing Octavia Butler….as I said on whatever social media platform that was, I could sit here and name women writers who wrote books that I loved all day. Victoria Holt, Mary Stewart, Phyllis A. Whitney, Dorothy Eden, Susan Howatch…seriously. Maybe I should write a book of essays about women writers that aren’t remembered much today? ANYA SETON! How I loved Anya Seton back in the day–and all the crime women–Margaret Millar, Charlotte Armstrong, Dorothy L. Hughes, Mary Roberts Rhinehart, Helen MacInnes, Patricia Highsmith, and Mignon Eberhard, to start.
I bet no one else remembers Edna Ferber–and if they do, it’s for Giant and it’s because of the movie (many of her books became famous films: Cimarron, Saratoga Trunk, Show Boat, and So Big). Now that I think about it, I think she addressed race issues in both Saratoga Trunk and Show Boat….which may be worth revisiting. She was also a member of the Algonquin Round Table.
This entry sounds and feels more like me than the more recent ones have, doesn’t it? I am itching to dive back into the book this morning, after I pay some bills and do some other aggravating chores. I also have a prescription ready to pick up; so since I have to go to a Midcity pharmacy to get it, I may as well make a grocery run on Carrollton.
I didn’t realize what a difference sleeping in the bed would actually make, really.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines for the day. Have a blessed Thursday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again a little later, as I really need to do a lot more promo. OH! That reminds me, here is a lovely review of Mississippi River Mischief; check it out! That absolutely made my day–and reminded me that I need to do more self-promotion.
I had a contraption attached to my left shoulder that dispensed a nerve-deadener to the arm, so I wouldn’t feel pain. It lasted for 72 hours, and by the time it was empty, I didn’t have any pain, which was great. I also had to carry it around in basically a fanny pack, so it was one more thing I had to drag around those stressful first 72 hours. However, if you are going to have surgery, ask for one. It was amazing. ↩︎
Queer and Loathing in America 