Having just read nearly simultaneously: Mike Albo's Hornito (my lie life), and "Sam d'Allessandro's" Wild Creatures and other stories. Having at the same time stopped reading: David Valdes Greenwood's Homo Domesticus, after a very few pages, overcome by a sense of the author's nauseous showing-off, of unintentional conventionality, of some sort of sick compensation for personal inadequacies--confirmed when I looked at the picture of the author on the flyleaf of the back cover: A grotesquely fat, ugly, subhuman face, the face of someone who would write a book about being "gay," and a "husband," and a "father," just to prove that he's not the silly, ugly+, inconsiderable, less than fully human person+ he actually is. At the same time I am thinking how important it is that Albo and d'Allessandro and Mordden are and were in their time physically beautiful youths and men, and how they could not be the gay persons nor the excellent gay writers they are without being consciously, sincerely, physically beautiful--in the male sense of the term. These are not superficies. Cruel so be it, to women, and effeminate losers like Greenwood: this is the reality of gay. Remember that line of Drew Carey's: "Me gay? No way! I'm not in that kind of shape!"


+ Troll. See blogs December 26th, 2007.