rinue | Reading

I was so transfixed by the Bittersweets' "Hurtin' Kind" (1967) that I sat in the car in front of my house listening until it was done. The 1965 original is solid, stoner-flavored garage rock with its keyboard stomp and harmonica wail, but the all-female cover has that guitar line like a Shepard tone, the ghostly descant in the vocals, the singer's voice falling off at the end of every verse: it sounds like an out-of-body experience of heartbreak. The outro comes on like a prelude to Patti Smith.

If I had a nickel for every time I heard two songs about mental unwellness within the same couple of hours, actually I'd be swimming in nickels, but I appreciated the contrast of the slow-rolling dread-flashover of Doechii's "Anxiety" (2025) with Marmozets' "Major System Error" (2017) just crashing in at gale force panic attack. Hat-tip to

rushthatspeaks for the former. I must say that I am missing my extinct music blogs much less now that I spend so much time in the car with college radio on.

"Who'll Stand with Us?" (2025) is the most Billy Bragg-like song I have heard from the Dropkick Murphys and a little horrifically timely.

Non-musically, I think I might explode. The curse tablets are not cutting it.

Current Music: Marmozets, "Major System Error"

sabotabby

Just finished: Alien Clay by Adrian Tchaikovsky. Yeah, I think this is my Hugo best novel pick. It was really good, really timely, fucking gross, and gave me nightmares. It's very much a confluence all of Tchaikovsky's quirks—rather darkly funny narrator, alien minds, and the particular type of resolution he goes for. All of those things happen to work for me quite a bit. This one reminded me quite a bit of Jeff Vandermeer but less nihilistic and I liked the characters more.

Currently reading: The Tainted Cup by Robert Jackson Bennett. This was the only novel on the Hugo list where I'd never heard of the author or the book. I'm loving it so far though. It's a murder mystery set in a city where only engineered seawalls stop the things from Attack on Titan from demolishing the place every wet season. A noble is murdered in a mansion (not his mansion) via a tree growing through his body. The person charged with investigating the murder is an old autistic woman who doesn't leave her house so she gets a young man to be her eyes and ears. The murder mystery structure makes it rather different from not just this batch of nominees but the other award lists in general, which is also intriguing.

sovay

Rabbit, rabbit! I had to go for my annual physical this afternoon, but I stopped by Porter Square Books afterward to collect a book for my mother and look what was part of their summer sea-display:

I had wanted to write about so many queer films for June, but the month disappeared. Fortunately before we ran out of the formal observance of Pride,

rushthatspeaks and I made it to Rainer Werner Fassbinder's Querelle (1982) at the Coolidge. It was adapted from the 1947 novel by Jean Genet, but I have never seen anything onscreen that more resembled the novels of Chip Delany. Meant in sincere compliment, it is one of the sweatiest films I have ever seen. It looks like it smells like a porno theater. Its antihero is straight out of Tom of Finland with his sailor's tight, tight white trousers and muscular cleavage revealed by the barest excuse for an A-shirt, his boyish, chiseled, louche face under his insolently cocked bachi in the sullen, enticing haze that never varies from the sodium-smoke of just after sunset or just before dawn, a perpetual cruising hour. The sea-wall of its fantasized Brest is studded with stone phalli, anatomically complete with slit and balls. All graffiti in town is dicks. The chanteuse of the dive bar sings Wilde like Dietrich, but some of the construction workers with their buff hard hats are playing video games while the naval lieutenant who pines for Querelle records his poetically criminal obsessions into a portable tape recorder. The bare-chested, leather-vested cop at the bar actually is a cop outside of it, where he looks just as fetishistic in his fedora and black leather trenchcoat. Every interaction between men looks like a negotiation or a seduction whether it is one or not, although on some level it always is, regardless of the no-homo excuses manufactured to allow their bodies to meet. Constantly, metaphysically, literally, this movie fucks. Its hothouse, bathhouse sexuality must have come in just under the cutting wire of AIDS. I have no idea what it would offer a viewer with no sexual or aesthetic interest in men except its philosophy, although as my husband notes the philosophy is actually quite good, deconstructing its hard masc signifiers as much as it gets off on them, dissolving in and out of the words and ultimately the life of Genet; the theatricality of its interlocked sets and swelteringly flamboyant lighting would look entirely natural on the stage. It quotes Plutarch and stages a hand job that without a glimpse of cock would have caused mass apoplexies in the Breen office. (Send it back in time, please.) It was my introduction to Fassbinder and if I had seen it as an adolescent, I imagine it would have had much the same effect as Tanith Lee. It was introduced by the series programmer wearing leather in its honor and a T-shirt for Kenneth Anger's Scorpio Rising (1963). It made a superb date movie.

Current Music: Les Cowboys Fringants, "Marine marchande"

sovay

As I hollered after the inapposite license plate of the SUV that had blown through the crosswalk without even thinking about stopping while we were in it, "Psalm 23? With that driving?" I am informed by

spatch that the driver who actually had stopped for us like a normal person let out one of those whoaaa sounds as at a game of the dozens, which was extremely good recompense for almost being run over by an SUV whose Lord may have been a shepherd, but obviously not a crossing guard.

(The rest of this weekend has been different temperatures of garbage; I take my victories where I can. We were in West Medford to eat tamales on the bleachers of Playstead Park.)

Current Music: The Heavy Heavy, "Feel"

adrian_turtle

I noticed something when I used public toilets in London a couple of months ago. For years, I've been seeing UK TERFs absolutely freak out about the possibility that a transwoman might be in a stall next to a ciswoman. So I somehow thought they were less private than the stalls here. Or at least no more private. The standard I'm accustomed to is that the doors come down to about knee height, maybe a little lower. (Plenty of space to run a mop under them.) The public toilets I used in London had doors that almost touched the tops of my shoes! And the doors closed with proper hinges, without big gaps on the hinge side.

I've always known the TERFs were outrageous bullies, but it was so weird to see this particular wrongness. It's like they've been saying they hate people because it's raining outside, and then it turns out it wasn't even raining?

sovay

After many travails and an extra plague year in transit, the latest of the Paleozoic Pals has made landfall from the Carboniferous.

My father adores his Diplocaulus salamandroides. My niece has been sent a picture of hers with its accompanying book, to be held in trust until her next visit. My mother has been presented with its enamel pin form, which is done in bands of lighter and darker purple instead of newt-like red and black. I had forgotten entirely about the stretch bonus of Bandringa rayi, whose spoonbill suggests the Amazon river dolphin of the Pennsylvanian period. I really am invested in the continued existence of the Paleontological Research Institution, which is one of the reasons I have gladly thrown in to its Kickstarters for almost ten years. The present being so very full of horror and stupidity, it is important that it can also produce such snuggable plush of the past.

Current Music: Soul Asylum, "Somebody to Shove"

sabotabby

Hmm, let's see. I really liked Conspirituality's "Dems Ask: What Is a Man?" episode. In general they've been doing a lot of coverage of Masculinity Crisis stuff lately and this episode, which focuses on quite pathetic attempts from the less-right wing of the American Party to re-capture the young male vote, via...studies and focus groups.

Well, fuck.

You can look to the wonderful example of New York to see a good counter-example of how to do it right, though this episode dropped before Zohran Mamdani's inspiring victory. If I were a more conspiratorial thinker, I'd say that the less-right wing of the American Party loses on purpose, and you need look no farther than their attempts to sabotage Mamdani's campaign for evidence. At any rate, the analysis in this episode lines up with what actually happened—we don't need a Joe Rogan of the left, we need people who can speak to frustrations and channel popular anger, not just for young men but for all genders.

sovay

Actually the temperature crashed by a solid thirty degrees Fahrenheit and with any luck will stay this moderately cool and dampish until everyone has rehydrated. Or we could just skip the next heat dome entirely.

I had worked up an entire rant about the scaremongering of this article and especially its anti-intellectual characterization of Zohran Mamdani as automatically out of touch because his father teaches at Columbia and his mother has directed films in Hollywood as if he were a Cabot who talks only to God when both of these professions especially in these days of DEI demonization mean something very different without whiteness and then I discovered that the author's big shtick is that she "came out" as politically conservative while an undergraduate at Harvard, at which point her already tenuous right to slate anyone for attending Bowdoin fared poorly on the pot-to-kettle scale. Anyway,

spatch liked Monsoon Wedding (2001).

The Europeans (1979) turns out to have been the first foray of Merchant Ivory into costume drama and its modest budget gives it a slight, wonderful ghost-look of New England, nineteenth-century carriages on twentieth-century streets, the tarmac dirt-roaded over, telephone poles discreetly out of shot, the dry stone walls tumbledown in the picturesque rather than practically maintained day. I got such déjà vu from the Federal style of its historic houses—and the occasionally more modern construction of their neighbors—that I was reassured to see it actually had shot in Waltham, Concord, and Salem which I recognized from the red-bricked back side of the Customs House. Its autumn is the sugar-red drift of maple leaves, the pale punctuation of birches. Its actors have an indie air with their precisely characterful period clothes doing half the worldbuilding. Robin Ellis sports a moss-bronze corduroy coat and a waistcoat in pheasant paisleys I should like to bid for and a creditably mid-Atlantic accent, cast ironically on the colonial side of the plot of two sets of American cousins and their entanglement with a third, European set. I have not read its particular source novel by Henry James, but it has the light, sharp, not overly mannered observations, a sweet-sour bite in the chocolate box. In light of the setting, variations on "Simple Gifts" and "Shall We Gather at the River?" may have been unavoidable contributions to the score.

Because I had showed

spatch a clip of a trumpet played into Jell-O, my attempt to explain Chladni figures netted us a 1989 Christmas lecture by Charles Taylor, after which we went through Delia Derbyshire's "Ziwzih Ziwzih OO-OO-OO" (1967), Belbury Poly's "Caermaen" (2004), and finally thanks to what must have been a very confused sidebar landed on Les Luthiers' "Rhapsody in Balls" (2009). Today has been generally breaking-down-tired, but during the part of the evening where I was still working on implementing a bagel for dinner, WERS had the decency to play the Dead Milkmen's "Punk Rock Girl" (1988).

Current Music: The Chats, "Smoko"

sovay

Returned from the optometrist's, I have nocturnal eyes and mirrorshades. When

spatch informed me that Zohran Mamdani is Mira Nair's kid, I remarked that it was a little like discovering that Madhur Jaffrey the author of cookbooks and children's books is the actor who introduced Ismail Merchant to James Ivory. I feel I really should have seen this video coming.

Current Music: Mr. Cardamom, "Nani (feat. Madhur Jaffrey)"

sabotabby

Just finished: A Sorceress Comes To Call by T. Kingfisher. I ended up really loving this one. Reading all these award-nominated books has been a fascinating experience tbh, because (with a few notable exceptions) it's all pretty high-quality, but it's just off enough from what I'd normally read that I get to speculate about where my taste deviates from other people's. Also, because this has the worst book cover I've seen in awhile—to be clear, I've seen three covers for this and they all suck—but imo is much better than the other things I've read by her so far.

Anyway, as to the actual content. This is a dark retelling of the Grimm Brothers' "Goose Girl," which I had never heard of before, and which is already quite dark, seeing as it features the severed head of a murdered horse. It actually doesn't have much to do with the original story beyond involving a horse, a flock of geese, and some unfortunate marriage proposals. But the fairy tale frame and vaguely Regency setting is one of its strengths—Kingfisher is free to do a lot of interesting character work within that structure.

Case in point: Hester. I mentioned that the story was about Cordelia and her mother Evangeline, the aforementioned sorceress, but Cordelia is really a decoy protagonist, and the heroine of the story is Hester, the sister of the man that Evangeline intends to marry. Hester is 51 with a bad knee and a cane and has refused marriage to the man she's loved for years because she values her independence. She plays cards with a group of other badass middle-aged ladies and takes zero shit. I love her. The story is really the story of solidarity between women, from Hester and her friends, to Cordelia pushing back in any way she can against her mother's abuse and expectations of marriage for her, to the maids and servants of the household. Also it has the right level of darkness for something like this—there was a genuine sense of peril that I haven't seen in a lot of the horror-adjacent works I've read lately.

Currently reading: Alien Clay by Adrian Tchaikovsky. I think (unless the last book I have to read is amazing), this is going to end up being a Tchaikovsky-vs-Tchaikovsky decision for me with the Hugos. So far this one is edging out Service Model on concept alone, but I'm under halfway through, so we'll see. It's about a dissident scientist exiled to one of three newly discovered exoplanets, called Kiln. Earth is ruled by the Mandate, which believes in strict social control and scientific orthodoxy. Arton is an unreliable first-person narrator, so while he initially seems to have been exiled for following the scientific method to is logical conclusions, he quickly reveals that no, he was also a political revolutionary.

The journey from Earth to Kiln takes 30 years and is one-way for the prisoners sent to work there, which means that the Mandate is able to tightly control information about it—namely, that there are alien ruins on the planet, so not only does it have life, but it had at least at one point sentient life. Also, the life that they do find is Jeff Vandermeer-level fucked—each organism is made up of a bunch of other organisms that live in parasitic relationships, making taxonomy a nightmare. Arton occupies a difficult position where, as a biologist, he has a certain level of privilege amongst the prisoners and is exposed to less danger than most, but also he's linked up with the more revolutionary elements and has nothing to lose but a nasty death by rebelling.

Anyway, this is really cool and I'm into it.

sovay

102 °F, said the forecast this afternoon. 106 °F, said the car when I got into it. I have no difficulty believing it felt like 109 °F. The sun clanged. The electric grid of the Boston metro area was not designed to run this many air conditioners at once.

I followed Ally Wilkes from her short fiction into her debut novel All the White Spaces (2022) and I mean it as a recommendation when I say that I came for the queer polar horror and stayed for the bildungsroman. Externally, it follows the disintegration of an ill-fated Antarctic expedition over the austral year of 1920 as it comes under the traditional strains of weather, misfortune, the supernatural, mistrust. Internally, it follows the discovery of its seventeen-year-old trans stowaway that masculinity comes in more flavors than the imperial ideal he has construed from war cemeteries and boy's own magazines, that he can even invent the kind of man he wants to be instead of fitting himself fossil-cast into a lost shape. No one in the novel describes their identity off the cutting edge of the twenty-first century; the narrative resists an obvious romantic pairing in favor of one of the less conventional nonsexual alliances I enjoy so much. I am predictably a partisan of the expedition's chief scientific officer, whose conscientious objection during the still-raw war casts him as a coward on a good day, a fifth columnist on a bad, and makes no effort to make himself liked either way. It has great ice and dark and queerness and since I deal with heat waves arctically, I am pleased to report that it holds up to re-read.

Kevin Adams' A Crossword War (2018) is a folk album about Bletchley Park, a thing I appreciate existing.

Current Music: Alabaster DePlume, "Who Is a Fool"

sovay

For the hundred and thirteenth birthday of Alan Turing,

spatch and I drove to Gloucester to watch the sunset on the water, so, queer joy?

I have worn this T-shirt since his centenary in 2012: it is a word cloud derived from "Computing Machinery and Intelligence" (1950). The tide filled in around the barnacle-colored, seal-colored boulders we had climbed out onto, swirling the olivine shag of the rockweed in the late mirror of the sea. I had not been to Gloucester since before the last glaciation, in a warm autumn that was still cooler than this heat dome settled over Massachusetts like a fitted block of Death Valley. We saw the red-and-white blinks of buoys, the oil-slick necks of cormorants. We checked in on the ghost sign for Moxie at the top of Tablet Rock in Stage Fort Park. From our vantage point of one of the granite horns of Half Moon Beach, we saw three crewed boats practicing for what we realized later would be the races for St. Peter's Fiesta, the blessing of the fleet which had hung the streets with tricolor bunting and Italian flags and set up the Ferris wheel and concessions of a carnival as well as an open-air altar brilliantly painted with a seascape of Ten Pound Light, its foreground wheeling with gulls with their own successful fisher's catch in their beaks. The fisherman in his sunken-green bronze oilskins still holds the wheel against more than four centuries of the remembered drowned. Our designated clam shack had closed an hour before we expected it, so we drove down Route 1 in a sailor's delight of clouds like an electric fire and came to a bewildered halt in a retina-searing splatter of blue lights, because it turned out that half of Revere Beach was closed to traffic thanks to a hit-and-run on a state trooper. We managed nonetheless to salvage roast beef and fried clams from Kelly's at the cost of several miles' walk in the gelatinous night, which compensated at least with the white noise of waves at high tide. The cable-stays of the Christina and John Markey Memorial Pedestrian Bridge were lit up in rainbow neon. I admire Aimee Ogden's "Because I Held His Name Like a Key" (2025) for not being any of the things expected of a Turing fairy story. I look forward to whatever comes of these unshredded papers. We drove home covered in sea-salt and sweat-salt and an unavoidable admixture of strangers' weed smoke and I had a really nice time.

If telepathy is admitted it will be necessary to tighten our test up.
—Alan Turing, "Computing Machinery and Intelligence" (1950)

Current Music: Kevin Adams, "Safety in Numbers"

sabotabby

Always remember that if they had the money to bomb Iran, they had the money for universal healthcare, affordable housing, USAID, even egg subsidies if y'all* were so hell-bent on cheap eggs that you'd elect a fascist.

( cut for some impolite thoughts )

* Not you, obviously. Or you wouldn't be reading my blog, which has beaten the "don't invade other countries" drum since the early 2000s when I started it.

sovay

For whatever it is worth to history, I wish to register that I do not like finding out that we are suddenly at war with Iran. I do not need any more specters of annihilation, nuclear or otherwise. I get enough stress from my regular life.

(These Crusader fantasists. My entire lifetime. Their Armageddon wet dreams. Why will the sand not eat them alone.)

Current Music: Midnight Oil, "Beds Are Burning"

adrian_turtle

The admirable Redbird went down the hill this morning in search of supplies to make me a birthday cake. She went to the small Shaws (regional supermarket chain, like a Krogers or Wegmans) which is only half a mile away. It's down a moderately steep hill with lousy pavement, but still only half a mile. There's a Whole Foods a third of a mile away, but they usually don't have regular granulated sugar. They have organic sugar, turbinado sugar, coconut sugar, date sugar [1]...they are all too coarse for the recipe we wanted to use, so she braved the hill to find the sugar of our ancestors.

The sugar was essential for the cake. The cocoa powder was on the "nice to have" list. We usually bake with cocoa powder, and we had enough left for our usual birthday cake, but it would have been nice to have some dutch process cocoa and try a different recipe using that.[2] I expect any grocery store to have natural cocoa like the Hershey's powder in the brown box, but the dark dutch process stuff is more of a specialty item.

They don't sell cocoa powder anymore. It's not sold out, with a shelf tag saying the little brown boxes are supposed to be there, and how much they cost before everyone bought them. The shelf is full of other things. The person stocking the shelves doesn't know of any place for such a thing. When I stop and think about it, I suppose I shouldn't be shocked. There are only so many places on the shelves, and they need them for boxed cake mix, and pre-mixed syrup for making hot chocolate. Most people who bought the plain Hershey's powder (or their competitors) are more likely to use the pre-mixed stuff.

[1] They also have agave syrup, brown rice syrup, stevia, monkfruit, and molasses, which would all have been wrong in different ways.

[2] Note to non-bakers. Both are unsweetened powders, just processed differently to get them from bean to powder.

sovay

Thanks to the effects of prolonged illness on my body, I have even more difficulty with it these days than in previous difficult years, but

spatch took a picture of me on the way down the hill of Powder House Park that looked like I could still be the prow of a ship.

Listening to the radio in the car and tracking down songs at home, I seem to have amassed a small collection of music videos, more recent than not. I had never seen the studly single entrendres that accompany the blues-rock boasts of Elle King's "Ex's and Oh's" (2015). Rob identified the scratchy guitar chug in Sarah Barrios' "Thank God You Introduced Me to Your Sister" (2021) as a callback to Fountains of Wayne and thence the Cars, but it is a sapphic banger in its own right. It is generationally lovely to have the London Gay Men's Chorus backing up the acoustic version of Isaac Dunbar's "American High" (2024). Jean Dawson's "Pirate Radio" (2022) rocks like an Afrofuturist anthem and an autobiographical chantey at the same time. If it ever crossed your mind to wonder about a cross between the Preacher in True Stories (1986) and the High Voltage Messiah of The Ruling Class (1972), there's John C. Reilly in Jack White's "Archbishop Harold Holmes" (2025). The vintage riot grrrl of Halsey's "Safeword" (2025) is enthusiastically not safe for work. Patrick Wolf's "The Last of England" (2025) has so much Jarman in its DNA, it is almost gilding the lily to have filmed at Dungeness except that it feels like the correct acknowledgement. I just like the oneiric stop-motion of Witch Prophet's "Memory (feat. Begonia)" (2023).

Current Music: Patrick Wolf, "The Last of England"

sovay

Happy solstice!

spatch and I celebrated the longest stretch of the year's light with the third-to-last night of Theatre@First's The Tempest, the farewell production of its longtime artistic director. Their lion-bronze Caliban stood laughing, in his hands the staff the island's magic had brought him in pieces, by right, made whole. In, summer!

Current Music: Jean Dawson, "Pirate Radio*"

sabotabby

Listen this is the best episode of a podcast you'll listen to all week. Maybe ever. In this podcast lies the seed of all other podcasts.

The Aurora-nominated podcast Wizards & Spaceships episode "The Ur-Pisode: The Queer Heart of The Epic of Gilgamesh, ft. Julian Gunn" is about the Epic of Gilgamesh (obviously), why it still matters after 4000 years, and most importantly, why Tablet XII is canon despite what homophobic translators have done with it over the past century or so. It's so good you guys. It makes me happy every time I listen to it.

radiantfracture is just one of the most brilliant people I know and hearing him geek out about this is a delight you won't want to miss.

sovay

For Juneteenth, we left stones at Pomp's Wall on Grove Street and poured out a jigger of Medford rum for the man who built it, whose name on his bricklaying has outlasted the house in which he was enslaved.

WERS has been showcasing Black artists all day, which meant I switched it on and got the back-to-back fireworks of Koko Taylor's "Wang Dang Doodle" (1965) and Richie Havens' "Motherless Child" (1969).

Especially because I left the house yesterday at a quarter to eight in the morning and after four appointments and two visits returned home at a quarter to eight in the evening, I appreciate a known benefactor sending me five pounds of peaches and apricots from Frog Hollow Farm. They taste like the height of summer.

Current Music: Isaac Dunbar, "American High"

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Page Summary

sovay - You think one plus seven seven seven makes two
sabotabby - Reading Wednesday
sovay - J'm'installe sur le rivage pour te voir mon gros gars t'éloigner vers le large
sovay - I don't change, I don't even notice the scene
adrian_turtle - Boston and London
sovay - Waiting for you to call me up and tell me I'm not alone
sabotabby - podcast friday
sovay - It's two in the afternoon and thirty-four degrees
sovay - Don't know me now, then you'll never know me later
sabotabby - Reading Wednesday
sovay - Do you believe a person should be some kind of answer?
sovay - I know you're waiting for me in secret places
sabotabby - Dear Americans
sovay - How do we sleep while our beds are burning?
adrian_turtle - Chocolate
sovay - But I was cruising Gawain in the mist
sovay - All of it's golden, my body is floating, I'm still alive
sabotabby - podcast friday
sovay - I'm man enough to be a party girl and dance all night, the American high

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Clever Strangers and Strange Friends

Reading

You think one plus seven seven seven makes two

Reading Wednesday

J'm'installe sur le rivage pour te voir mon gros gars t'éloigner vers le large

I don't change, I don't even notice the scene

Boston and London

Waiting for you to call me up and tell me I'm not alone

podcast friday

It's two in the afternoon and thirty-four degrees

Don't know me now, then you'll never know me later

Reading Wednesday

Do you believe a person should be some kind of answer?

I know you're waiting for me in secret places

Dear Americans

How do we sleep while our beds are burning?

Chocolate

But I was cruising Gawain in the mist

All of it's golden, my body is floating, I'm still alive

podcast friday

I'm man enough to be a party girl and dance all night, the American high

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April 2025

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