Hey, all,

I have a new review up over at Uniquely Pleasurable.  This one is about the remarkable "What Worse Place Can I Beg in Your Love?" by Syd McGinley.   

Anyone with the balls to use a quote from A Midsummer Night's Dream as their title would be worth a second look even if their work sucked, which Syd's most certainly does not.  The story definitely rises to the challenge of its title!

(I invite congratulations from all and sundry for using "balls" and "sucked" in the same sentence without referring explicitly to oral sex, please.)

I'm a bit tired from my day at the Fetish Fair Fleamarket yesterday, so forgive me if I sound giddy giddier than usual.  Yes, I mention it to tease and incite jealousy.  I am naughty that way.

Cheers,
Lee

My brother-in-law sent me a link to an auction house that specializes in Baseball memorabilia.  Yawn, thought I.

Then I read the item description: Published in 1898 in Baltimore, this document, titled “Special Instructions To Players,” addresses the use of obscene language by players at the ballpark.  Evidently today's dream field bad boys didn't invent the insults and epithets they hurl to intimidate umpires and opposing players, and to verbally battle with unfriendly fans.  No, there's a long and illustrious history of emasculating taunts, assaults on the reputations opponents' mothers, and prurient invitations (including, hilariously, a demand to "suck my ass").  

By then the plot bunnies were dusting off their cleats and squinting at the backfield fence.  There is no way I will ever have the time or passion to write a story of homosexual hijinks set in the yesteryear of America's game.  But someone should!!

So, step up to the plate, baseball fans.  Adopt this poor, forlorn plot bunny.  It's starting to spit tobacco juice in my imagination.  And I just redid the floors!

Batter up,
Lee

P.S.  My favorite part of the document is the little message at the end that reads, "Unmailable.  Must be forwarded by express."  Consider it done!

I haven't really shared personal matters in this journal, but I thought of several of you this morning at 4 while I consulted Jay Wiseman's Erotic Bondage Handbook to help me figure out how to truss a turkey for roasting, then did the deed with a pink shoelace.  



As one of my students told me yesterday, "The holiday is inevitable.  Keep your expectations low.  Have a Thanksgiving, Doc B."  

And so, as we Americans commemorate our decidedly ambivalent history, and as we are reminded to count our blessings, I bid you all... a Thanksgiving.

Fondly,
Lee

A few days ago I posted a link to a review I wrote of a depressingly bad book.

Yesterday I edited that post to reflect the fact that the review was being retracted from the web site.  

The author had felt personally attacked by my review and threatened the site owner with legal action.  The site owner made the correct decision, not to cave to the demands of an immature, unprofessional author, but to protect the review site, which provides a service to readers by posting un-fluffy reviews of GLBT books.  The site owner also went to bat for me, and left it up to me whether to pull the mention of the review from my LJ.  I did so partly because even though the author of the book didn't feel he could let his book stand on its slender merits, I felt my review could. It's my opinion, not my soul.  The other reason was purely (perhaps cravenly) pragmatic: every minute I give to this author is a minute of my life I'll never have back.  I'm not young enough to be cavalier about that.

Anyway, all this kerfuffle has got me thinking about a couple of things I read in periodicals recently.  

Writer's Digest has an article in the current issue about the GL publishing market.  

In July's issue of The Gay and Lesbian Review Worldwide David Bergman did an opinion piece that suggested several ways to think about queer literature as art, social activism, politically charged, and economically viable.  

So there's a disconnect between the economics of publishing and the cultural potential of queer literature.  I am shocked, I tell you.  

What *does* shock me, however, is that with all the wonderful stuff out there that deserves to be read, I'm spending time thinking about a hackneyed, stereotype-riddled, clock-unwinding, oppressor-within glorifying, self-indulgent dreck-fest.  Did I mention I'm not getting any younger?
 

I won't mention the publisher, but here is a piece of a "new releases" e-mail I received today.  What do you think?

Lovers

 

 

So I was surfing for smut doing research online when I came across a very slick site advertising a clothing-optional gay guest house.  For under $200 you can rent a "Suite with 2 Queens."

No, they don't need a houseboy, laundress, cook, gardener, or image consultant.  I already checked.