stateless82

I was thinking about Queer as Folk the other day- I saw a headline about a reboot. set in New Orleans with Juliette Lewis.

It's been years since I watched QaF, and I've probably forgotten most of it. I know by the end every character irritated the hell out of me, but even so I remember how vivid Brian Kinney was. He had something no one else on the show came close to.

I don't think I ever saw the actor in anything else, so I don't know if it was him or the writers that lit the character up, but yeah. Brian Fucking Kinney.

I just read 'The Owl Service' for the first time.

I expect I'll be haunted by "She wants to be flowers, but you make her owls. You must not complain, then, if she goes hunting." for a very long time.

Isn't that breathtaking?

You know the whole "this is too nice to use, I'm going to save it for an occasion"? I'm trying to stop that, and so I've been working my way through a bunch of fancy/pretty/scented soaps and it's been really nice.

However, I opened this one - I think it was called Herb Garden- and it wasn't what I expected. I assumed lavender, it's oregano. I smell just like spaghetti sauce right now.

I am very tired of Alumni.

It's a toss up between those that graduated 30 years ago and those that graduate next week as far as which is worst, but they're all really annoying.

I finally saw Avengers Endgame a few weeks ago, and I'm still mad.

I've always been at most a casual Avengers person- back when I read comics, it was X-Men (all of them - spinoffs, splinter teams, if it was mutant I read it), Defenders, West Coast Avengers, The regular Avengers didn't really catch for me. When the movies started, I watched Iron Man for Robert Downey Jr., caught a few more of them, and then mostly ignored them until WandaVision. After that I was curious so I made a list and watched the whole MCU in order.

And there's absolutely no fucking way Steve Rogers would do what he did at the end of Endgame, and from there not end up changing the entire world/timeline. If there's a more ridiculous, out of character, stupid thing for a team of writers to do, I don't know what it is.

Ugh.

I'm reading a bunch of random cozy mysteries in a slightly embarrassing attempt to hit 150 books read before the end of the year.

There are a lot of badly written cozy mysteries out there.

A LOT.

I've just finished re reading all 47 of Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe books. I started with the first one, Fer-de Lance at the end of May, and ended with the last, A Family Affair, a couple days ago. In between I read them in no order, just as the came to hand from my shelf or from the stack I borrowed from a friend. I don't know how I don't have all of them. I would have sworn I had a complete set back in the nineties.

I've been reading and re reading Nero Wolfe since the early 70's. The first one I read was one of Stout's own favorites, Some Buried Caesar. It belonged to my mother but it moved from her book case to my room and has stayed with me since.

This time through there was one passage in one of the stories that struck me- so I copied it out.

It's from Cop Killer in the book Triple Jeopardy written in 1951.

"Carl smiled at me. He really did smile, but it didn't make me want to smile back. "A policeman asking questions." he said in the level tone he had used before, "has a different effect on different people. If you have a county like this one and you are innocent of crime, all the people of your country are saying it with you when you answer the questions. That is true even when you are away from home. But Tina and I have no country, it is just a place to wait to die, only if we are sent back there we will not have to wait. Two people alone cannot answer a policeman's questions anywhere in the world. It takes a whole country to speak to a policeman, and Tina and I - we do not have one."

Dorothea Tanning turned 100 on August 25th.

This is from A Hell of a Life by Maureen Stapleton- page 179. A small story about Lillian Hellman.

"After Toys in the Attic, I began a ritual with Lillian. Once a year I'd take her out to a restaurant of her choice. "I'm not picking it," I told her, "because if I choose the joint, you'll find something to bitch and complain about." She'd select the place, and I'd order a limousine and take her out in style. Once time, after a splendid meal during which she smoked four hundred packs of cigarettes, we got into the limousine and she started to light up again. Jesus, the woman had emphysema. I couldn't help it; like a schmuck, I reached over and took the cigarette away from her. Lillian glared at me. "Do I take the wine out of your hand?" "I'm sorry," I said, handing back the cigarette. "I lost my head. Here, smoke."

Lillian and I kept up out friendship until she died. Everything went kaput at the end- her eyes, her lungs, her legs; everything except that brilliant mind and that sublime wit. At the end, she couldn't see, she couldn't walk, and she could barely breathe. She was hospitalized and lay blind and bedridden in her smoke filled room. Peter Feibleman told of going to see her toward the end; he walked in and asked, "How are you feeling?"

Lillian turned her head. "Terrible!" she groaned, "Oh, Peter, I have the worst case of writer's block I've ever had in my life." "

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