Death by Consumption: Death of Pride
I keep writing and un-writing these letters, for months now. I'm not sure why, since this should be the easiest writing I do. (Did you even remember you subscribed to this? Surprise!) I started this as a nothing-thing, a way to write whatever I wanted to write, aimlessly, allowing myself the small hope that someone would read it and like it. (And, an even smaller hope, that a big Someone would read it and really love it and, as a reward, hand me a bunch of money and a huge house and the perfect life. I'm a realist!) Then it became a place to process the things I had been consuming recently, and then it just became nothing. But I'm back here now! And that counts for something, I hope.
This isn't to say I haven't been writing: I actually have! Nothing earth-shaking, but in the spirit of self-encouragement, please indulge a new section to this stupid newsletter:
THINGS I PRODUCED:
I wrote a quick little piece for my friends Jake and Larissa's new travel company about the joys of finding yourself someplace you didn't mean to be. (I swear I'm still working on that second piece for you, Jake.)
I've now participated in Monet Thomas's last three writing challenge competitions in a row, and I've placed twice in the last two! One was a short story and the other was (eeeek) a nonfiction essay. None of the pieces are public, yet, but I hope to get them in somewhat decent shape soon, so I can submit them for publication and earn, like, $15 or whatever you get paid for writing these days.
Not much, but it's SOMETHING, right? Great. On with the show.
THINGS CONSUMED:
It's difficult, being a grouch in the summer. The sun shines, the birds sing, friends ask you to come to the beach, and you struggle to hang onto your surliness. And Pride falling in the summer doesn't make it any better (when you have a few minutes, let's chat about my proposal to move Pride to January, when we can all go to the bars in bulky sweaters and the parade is a miserable, desperate march through the snow). But this year, Pride has felt different. The Brands, as I'm sure you've noticed, have lost their damn minds. The banks are gay now! (Never mind that same-sex couples are 73% more likely to be denied a mortgage application.) Are trans women of color still being murdered at alarming rates and being left to die in prison for the crime of not having $500 to spare? Shut up and have some gay mouthwash.
Walking to get lunch earlier this month, I passed Stonewall, where I was greeted by an enormous JetBlue ad practically covering the name of the bar. "LOVE WINGS", it declared. I rejoiced: finally, at long last, a chance to be cynical during Pride. So let me be one to thank you, Brands, from the bottom of my desiccated heart, for shitting all over Pride and giving me a chance to be miserable in the summer again.
On the intellectual front, I've mostly used the month to tear through the pile of queer books I've been meaning to read. I devoured all nine books (all 2,500 pages!) of Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin (also a Netflix series now, as every written word is destined to one day become). And, let me tell you, these books are a wild ride. Written over a span of 40 years, encompassing countless plot twists, and packed with all the soap opera drama you could ever want, from secret affairs to cannibal cults. I have no idea how they ever managed to put even a third of it all on TV. But it's a good series and you should check it out, if you're in the market for 2,500 pages to read.
Quickly now, some other queer books I've burned through lately:
Maurice by E.M. Forster: Written in 1914, published in 1971. A bit dusty in its writing style, 100 years later, but undeniably groundbreaking, and an incredibly rare and intimate look at gay life before "gay" was a concept.
When Brooklyn Was Queer by Hugh Ryan: A beautifully written chronicle of various queer lives in Brooklyn before Stonewall. Most existing documents are about white men, of course, but Hugh does a great job of trying to uncover as much as he can about non-white and non-cismale Brooklynites of the past. I've thought about stories from this book every single day since I read it.
Orlando by Virginia Woolf: Finally read it, loved it. Duh.
Black Leopard, Red Wolf by Marlon James: First of all, they need to stop calling this "the African Game of Thrones," because it's so much more complicated than that. Also, they need to start talking about how queer this book is!!! It's incredibly difficult to read, with wildly complex language and characters, so it was probably the slowest I've read a book since childhood. But I loved every second of it. And, yeah, this book is gaaaaaaaay. The gay Game of Thrones!
Edinburgh by Alexander Chee: I love Alexander Chee so much, but had never read this, his first book. Did I love it? OF COURSE I DID. Every sentence he writes is beautiful, and he's so good to his characters (which still feels rare in queer literature — we must be PUNISHED!). I couldn't help but compare it to that beloved monstrosity A Little Life, as it's another novel about gay men and pedophilia, and I could write a million words about the differences between the two, but let's just leave it at this: If you only have the mental capacity for one book about that subject, read Edinburgh, and then buy a copy of A Little Life and throw it in the garbage.
The Sparsholt Affair by Alan Hollinghurst: Earlier this year I read The Line of Beauty by dear old Mr. Hollinghurst, which I loved so, so, so, so, so very much. So in comparison, The Sparsholt Affair slightly trailed behind what is undeniably his masterpiece, but I still loved every second of this book. The way he writes — so English, so upper-class — feels like every sentence is being whispered to you across the hedges by a nosy neighbor. His books feel gossipy and scandalous, and I'm probably going to go out and buy the rest of his books, like, this afternoon.
Dancer from the Dance by Andrew Holleran: Another queer classic, a hilariously tragic romp through gay NYC in the 70s. Fire Island, disco, drugs, despair. Outrageously memorable characters. Beautiful descriptions of wit and loneliness and love and misery. The 70s sounded exhausting.
Believe it or not, gays can read! Happy Pride to you, especially if you're a corporate entity.
DEATH
My friend Steve sent me this music video for the Japanese band CHAI's song "N.E.O." I had to immediately watch it twice in a row, trying to process it (there's a LOT going on), and then took to the internet to have someone explain to me exactly what they're all about. I knew I loved their vibe and that they felt radical, but I didn't have the Japanese cultural awareness to know exactly what made them radical. It turns out the song is a major part of their overall message of redefining what makes Japanese women "kawaii" or cute: from tiny, standardized girls to messy, loud, imperfect people. In "N.E.O." they're embracing traditionally unattractive features and reclaiming them as perfect, or neo-kawaii. Plus, their videos are just goofy and fun as hell:
We're back! Thanks for subscribing. When will the next one come? ANYONE'S GUESS. See you in a decade. <3