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I’ve been thinking about Terry Brooks a lot lately. When it comes to fantasy authors whose work I deeply admire and who have shaped me as a writer in the genre, he is definitely right there at the top of the list. Ever since my mother put The Sword of Shannara in my hands when I was a preteen, I’ve returned to his words and worlds again and again and again, and I have yet to read a book of his that didn’t transport me and amaze me with his powers of storytelling, plotting, and character development.

Like many other fans, I was more than a bit dismayed when he announced last year that he was largely retiring from primary writing duties, turning much of that over to his co-author Delilah S. Dawson, who would be doing the heavy lifting in terms of writing new books. I should’ve had more faith, though, because the newest, Brona, is the perfect blend of Brooks and Dawson, and I’m tearing through it as fast as I can. Indeed, reading his newest book has allowed me to do some reflecting on just how much Terry Brooks has meant to me as a writer and a reader, and how I wouldn’t be the fantasy lover I am today had I not been introduced to his work all of those years ago.

When I first read The Sword of Shannara, I was simply blown away by the ease with which Brooks immersed us in this exciting but very dangerous and perilous world. I was still young and impressionable, and the Skull Bearers in particular filled me with fear (much as the Ringwraiths of The Lord of the Rings did and still do). Every subsequent book in the series continued to hook me, and I was amazed not just at how effectively Brooks managed to craft new adventure stories that felt fresh but also how skillfully he brought in elements of horror. Though the horror elements are most evident in the novels of Word & Void books, they also emerge throughout Shannara, too, adding texture and genuine peril to Brooks’ stories of adventure.

Brooks, like Tolkien, has also long had an investment and interest in environmentalism, and his love of the earth and a call for more responsible and ethical stewardship have long been a part of his oeuvre. Time and again in his works, we see the extent to which evil always seeks to exploit and destroy the lands that it inhabits, whether it’s the Mord Wraiths creating their own little pocket of corruption, the Shadowen draining the magical essence of the Four Lands for their own nefarious purposes, or the final series and its grappling with the geopolitical threat posed by climate change, Brooks has shown time and again how the genre of fantasy is a powerful vehicle through which to explore the weighty issues of our time.

Indeed, I’ve long been amazed with how effectively Brooks combines adventure fiction with the conventions of the epic. His stories are with action and peril, yes, but they also probe at the questions that often occupy epic fiction: what makes us human? How much agency do we have in an increasingly complicated and vast world? How do we hold onto those things that we value, when it seems as if we’re always locked in an endless cycle of violence? Brooks repeatedly shows how escapist fiction can allow us to ask the big questions, and how the actions and struggles of a particular generation can stretch down through the centuries.

Indeed, one of the most captivating things about the Shannara series is the extent to which it really is a multi-generational saga. As we go through the various series that Brooks has written, we can see the ways in which the Ohmsford legacy isn’t just the wishsong (though that’s a major part of it, particularly in The Heritage of Shannara and subsequent series) but also the burden of saving the Four Lands from every menace imaginable. Brooks makes sure we know the risks involved, and more than a few of our beloved characters don’t make it. In that sense, the multi-generational saga he has crafted is, in many ways, its own multiverse, and as I start to think about the world I’ve created in my own fiction and the ways in which the action of my current series might create opportunities down the road, it’s Brooks I look to for guidance on how to do this right.

At the level of craft, Brooks’s work, particularly in the various books in the Shannara series, showed me the power of plotting and outlining. If you’ve ever read one of his books at any point in the series, you’ll know that these are the types of books that grab hold of you and don’t let you go. Once you start diving into the world that Brooks has created, you won’t want to come back up for air until you’ve finished it. When I think of authors who excel at holding in balance character development, compelling plots, and detailed (but not overwhelming) worldbuilding, it’s Terry Brooks who I immediately call to mind.

Now, to be sure, I am not a traditional plotter, at least not in the sense that I sit down and write an outline and follow it. What I do, however, is sit down and crank out at least half of a draft in a relatively short period of time, which gives me a general sense of where the plot’s going and how changes I make along the way are going to affect the rest of the book. While I might not have followed Brooks’ advice completely, his steadfast belief in the power of plotting continues to influence the way I approach my own craft.

When it comes right down to it, though, it’s really the characters that make me love Brooks and that cemented his place among the great writers of fantasy fiction. Whether it’s Shea or his grandson Wil, Grianne or Brin, Walker Boh or Allanon, the people of the Four Lands loom large in our imaginations, and the same is true of the casts of Landover and Word & Void. These characters raised me, and I can only hope that some of my own characters may come to have an influence over those who read my books.

Terry Brooks, then, has had a profound impact on me, and I will forever be grateful to my mother for introducing me to his works. He built on the fire that Tolkien had already built in me, and to this day some of my most treasured reading memories are of both Shannara and The Word and the Void. Though he might have turned over the majority of the writing duties to his co-author, I’ll still devour every Shannara book we’re given, and I’ll cherish each and every one of them, just as I always have.

Thank you, Mr. Brooks, for being such an inspiration. You are truly one of the best.

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Warning: Spoilers for the series follow.

I remember being quite enamored of the first season of Adults, which I think will come to be seen as the first truly great Gen Z comedy. The first season managed to be both very funny and also sometimes quite touching, with a tremendously talented cast who fully inhabited their characters. More to the point, it also managed to have some important things to say about the struggles and foibles–some of which are self-inflicted–by those who inhabit this particular generation.

The second season is, if anything, even more hilarious than its predecessor. Like other great sitcoms, it manages to be both hilarious and poignant, filled with ridiculous scenarios, no small amount of hijinks, and some remarkably well-executed character growth and development. All of the members of our little quintet have some shit to deal with, whether it’s the group discovering that their sweet Paul Baker has a secret group of other friends, Anton contending with the fact that his older sister doesn’t want him to be the father of her child with her wife, or all of them dealing with the fact that being in your twenties means not being seen as young anymore.

One can tell right off the bat that this is a show that is feeling much more confident in the stories that it’s trying to tell and how it handles its characters, their dynamics with one another, and their futures. It certainly helps that the cast is uniformly excellent. Each actor captures something real and authentic and deeply human (and deeply hilarious) about their characters, though I do think that Jack Innanen and Owen Thiele are particularly superb as Paul Baker and Anton. More to the point, these are characters that we in the audience genuinely want to spend more time with, and if this were a weekly show (rather than the binge-watch it currently is), I can see people tuning in week after week to get to know these characters better and just to spend some more time with them.

To me, the mark of a truly great sitcom is its ability to be funny, touching, and timely, and in all three regards the first half of this season of Adults knocks it out of the park. Whether it’s Anton resenting his sister, Billie discovering that she’s slowly becoming someone the kids make fun of, Samir dealing with the fact that Paul Baker has male friends who aren’t him, Issa panicking and deciding to take steps to have her eggs frozen, or Paul Baker showing that he’s a bit more of a bro than he usually likes to let on, this show manages to touch on many of the things that characterize older Gen Z life. These are young people who are just trying to figure their shit out and, while they may not always hit the mark, we still love them and want them to succeed.

I particularly enjoyed the way that the show deals with masculinity. Gen Z men might be troubled in many ways, and the news might be full of accounts of how they’ve become increasingly reactionary and misogynist, but Adults gives me hope that there might be hope for them after all. Anton, Paul Baker, and Samir are all very different types of men, of course, but they are all remarkably well-adjusted, and they’re not afraid of showing a softer side or of demonstrating their feelings for each other. Even Paul Baker’s boorish dude friends aren’t necessarily bad; they’re just…well, dudes, and I appreciate the extent to which the show is willing to show young men as more than just a punchline or a problem.

Of course, things are always messy and complicated when it comes to five people living together. There are relationship issues, and there are hurt feelings and, in Anton’s face, there’s no shortage of family drama to deal with. All of the characters, though, love and care about and respect one another, and the show really allows us to appreciate the extent to which, through thick and thin, through the ridiculous and the heartbreaking, these five weirdos will always have one another’s backs.

The midpoint of the season features what is, I think, one of the most hilarious episodes of television I’ve seen this year. What starts as a communal acid trip soon goes very sideways, thanks to the untimely arrival of a racoon (and later an opossum); some futzing by Samir and Billie, who are desperate to keep Paul Baker and Issa from breaking up; and an almost-threesome between Anton, Paul Baker, and Issa. All of this transpires within roughly thirty minutes, and the results are as absurd as one might expect. At the same time, it’s also a remarkably mature episode, as Issa and Paul Baker have to figure out just what it is that’s wrong with their relationship and whether, in fact, they’re cut out to be in one at all. The fact that an opossum ends up crawling on Issa’s back is just the icing on the cake.

Of course, no review of the first four episodes of this season would be complete without mentioning the simmering romantic/erotic tension between Anton and Paul Baker. This has been in the offing since the end of the first season, in which the two men shared a kiss and clearly felt something. The first four episodes sees the two men repeatedly sharing meaningful glances with one another and, while things haven’t yet been consummated by the time the season reaches the halfway point, I think it’s safe to say that something is in the air and that it will only be a matter of time before the two of them end up together in some form.

So, yeah, the first half of this season of Adults has been an absolute blast. I’ve been looking for a show that would truly take me out of the dreary world in which we find ourselves and just make me laugh. This show has done all of that and more, and I can’t wait to see what the second half of the season has in store.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

My Nan was nuts.

Nuts as in: sweet as pie one minute, and mean as a rattlesnake the next. Nuts as in: would threaten to kick us off her property every single summer, her threats as regular as the seasons themselves. Nuts as in: made herself the martyr of every story and the villain of none.

This isn’t to say that I didn’t love her, or that I didn’t enjoy spending time with her. When she was in a good mood she was a lot of fun to be around, filled with the sorts of stories you’d expect of an Appalachian grandmother: about her family, about her simple upbringing in northern West Virginia, about the orchard she planted with my late grandfather. She had what I’ve come to think of as “mawmaw vibes” and, with her bright-colored blouses, her pure white hair, and her heady perfume, she had a style all her own.

On the other hand, she could be a terror, to animal and human alike. She screamed at the animals when she got into a rage, she screamed at most of her children and her grandchildren at one time or another, and she was known for using the flyswatter to get after those who displeased her. While this might sound folksy and charming and even a bit funny–and sometimes it was–all of this had a darker side, too, as I found out each summer.

At the time, my parents and I lived in a trailer on her property, where we’d moved after my parents had enough of living with my mom’s parents (a whole other story in its own right). Unfortunately, for my parents this was definitely a case of leaping out of the frying pan into the fire, and each and every summer Nan would take it into her head that she was going to move, or she didn’t like whatever work Dad was going on the property or, in the last time it happened, she hadn’t given us approval to buy chickens (spoiler alert: she did, but she was nuts, as I’ve said).

That great chicken blowup was the straw that broke the came back. My parents had had enough, and we moved away. My mother didn’t speak to Nan again for the rest of the latter’s life, and it took me years to forgive her for coming perilously close to making us homeless.

In some ways–to my way of thinking, anyway–having a mentally unstable, and sometimes downright cruel, grandmother hits harder than having a mentally unstable or cruel parent. Grandmothers, particularly Appalachian grandmothers, are supposed to be fountains of wisdom and love. They’re supposed to bake pies and make applesauce and can jams and jellies. They’re not supposed to scream at you for random offenses and almost make you homeless.

But Nan did all of those things and more, and it’s taken me a very long time to really reckon with the fact that she was mentally ill. Of course, for a woman born during the Great Depression in West Virginia mental health wasn’t something talked about, let alone diagnosed. Once I started seeing her actions through this lens, much of the instability she inflicted on all of us started to make a lot more sense. It doesn’t mitigate the scarring, of course, but it does allow me to give her more grace than many of the other members of my family seem willing to do.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have been as scarred by my Nan’s mental illness if she hadn’t been so different from my maternal grandmother. Grandma might’ve had her issues, but she was, on the whole, far more mentally and emotionally stable than Nan. When I think of positive grandparent experiences, it’s always Grandma that comes to mind. I also tend to think about Grandma as having a much stronger impact on who I eventually became than my dad’s mother.

Then, again, though, I have to reckon with my own tendency to downplay Nan’s impact on my upbringing. There’s something particularly destabilizing about having your own grandmother become the source of so much pain and terror, of being the person who has in their hands the ability to literally deny you a home. Moreover, to see her screaming her head off while your dad commits the grievous sin of–checks notes: tilling up some ground between some raspberry vines–is both hilarious and also very troubling.

It’s taken me a long time to really grapple with my grandmother’s obvious mental illness and the mixed emotions I have about her. I’m not a psychologist, but her behavior strongly suggests some sort of personality disorder, perhaps borderline personality disorder. Her behavior was undoubtedly destructive, and its effects continue to be felt among almost every other member of the family.

The truth is, though, that I loved her. Perhaps not in the same way I did my mom’s mother, but in my own way. Despite all of the damage she’d done, I still dropped everything at school and came home to spend the last few weeks of her life with her. I was deeply saddened by her death, and I’ve spent the years since trying to make sense of her mental illness, to offer her some grace, and to get the rest of my family to do the same.

The thing about obvious (and not so obvious) mental illness in places like West Virginia and Appalachia is that you tend to not talk about, or even think about, people’s behavior through the lens of mental health. “Nan is just a bitch” or “Nan is just like that” or “Man, Nan really fucked us over” tend to be the ways in which these issues are discussed. While it is true that Nan could be a bitch, and while it was true she was like that, and while it’s true she did fuck up my parents’ lives pretty significantly, the truth is that she was clearly suffering from undiagnosed and untreated mental health issues.

It makes me deeply sad that Nan’s story is far from exceptional, and even now far too many Appalachians both struggle with mental illness and with talking about it. We’re a proud and individualistic people, and it’s sometimes hard for us to think outside of that model. We don’t like to think of ourselves or our loved ones as being part of something like a mental health crisis, because to do so would, at a deep psychological level, mean giving up another piece of our individualized autonomy. More to the point, to see oneself as a statistic is far too familiar to Appalachians, and so it makes a twisted kind of sense that they would rather avoid doing so again.

To be sure, this is a strange and frustrating emotional and mental space to be in, and it continues to cause tremendous damage across the region and within my own family. Indeed, the greatest tragedy of Nan’s undiagnosed mental illness is that it set the stage for others in the family to similarly go undiagnosed. I’ve lost track of the number of times that some member of the family has engaged in some sort of absolutely unhinged behavior, only for the rest of us to shrug it off and never speak of it again, even when doing so might make everyone’s lives better and, more to the point, healthier.

It’s my hope that one day all of us will be able to grapple with Nan’s mental illness, to see her as more than just nuts or malevolent and instead a victim of a terrible scourge. Perhaps, in that imagined future, we might all begin to heal.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Spoilers for the series follow.

I think it’s safe to say that Apple is on a hot streak when it comes to their series. Time and again the streamer has really delivered when it comes to giving us compelling programming featuring unique stories and stellar talent. One of my favorite of their shows this year is Margo’s Got Money Troubles, the new dramedy starring Elle Fanning, Nick Offerman, and Michelle Pfeiffer. Based on the novel by Rufi Thorpe, it follows the title character (Fanning) as she grapples with the financial strains caused when she gets pregnant from an ill-considered affair with her community college professor. To make matters even more complicated, her father, a former wrestler (played by Nick Offerman) comes back into her life, just as her needy mother (Michelle Pfeiffer) is on the verge of getting remarried, to a man with very traditional Christian principles (played by Greg Kinnear).

I’ve adored Elle Fanning for quite a while, and I’ve yet to see her give a performance that disappoints. She’s really in her element as Margo, however, a young woman who, like many other young women before her, falls prey to the blandishments of her English professor at community college, only to end up getting pregnant. It’s the stuff of which teen melodramas are made, but this show manages to be so much more than this, and Fanning deserves a lot of the credit.

Even in her worst and most desperate moments, Fanning gives Margo an inner core of strength and resilience that allows her to not just survive but also thrive in moments of adversity. She isn’t the type to just give in to despair. Instead, when faced with trial after trial–whether that’s roommates moving out because they can’t handle being in the same house with a crying baby or the fact that the baby’s father wants nothing to do with her (in large part because he’s already married and has other children). Fanning also excels at the smaller, more intimate moments, too, and I especially enjoyed her dynamic with her parents. While her bond with her mother is strong, it’s clear the two of them don’t always eye-to-eye, and that Shyanne struggles both with getting older and with the fact that her daughter is in some ways following in her footsteps.

While Elle Fanning is obviously the center of the show, I have to give Michelle Pfeiffer a lot of credit, too. I’ve always felt she hasn’t gotten the respect she deserves as an actress, but with Shyanne she shows that there’s more to her than a pretty face. She manages to give us a number of insights into this character, a woman who has clearly always put a lot of emphasis on her looks and who yearns for the security of a man, even as she sees and feels those things slipping through her fingers. I’m looking forward to seeing more of her story going forward, particularly her romance with the rather prissy Kenny (though I have to say that Kinnear’s character is a bit too buttoned-up and judgy to be a true Episcopalian).

The first four episodes of this show manage to strike just the right balance between humor and drama, between wry hilarity and wrenching tragedy. This is particularly true once Margo discovers just how much money can be made from OnlyFans and the many different forms that desire can take among the folks populating the internet. There’s something slyly brilliant about the fact that she uses her writing skills–which are, as it turns out, quite well-tuned–to offer commentary on the penises of the men who contact her. These four episodes reveal the extent to which spaces like OnlyFans can serve as sources of financial agency for women.

And how about Nick Offerman? I know it’s hardly groundbreaking to claim that Offerman is a good addition to any show, but I think this might just be one of his very best TV performances, right up there with Ron Swanson and his memorably heartbreaking turn in The Last of Us. It should probably come as no surprise that Offerman offers one of his usual great performances, but even so, he really digs deep in his performance as Jinx, a former wrestler whose time in the ring has left him with a broken body and a history of addiction. Of all of the actors working in television today, Offerman is uniquely adept at showing us the many forms that wounded masculinity can take. Anyone who has ever had a family member struggle with addiction will probably find this scene difficult, and healing, to watch, and I give both Fanning and Offerman a lot of credit for being able to deliver such an honest performance. Given how much he clearly cherishes his reunion with Margo–even as he also remains perplexed by her decision to pursue OnlyFans and by the fact that the father of her baby wants nothing to do with either of them–it’s probably not surprising that the fourth episode ends with him crushing the hand of said father. I can’t wait to see how this works out in the episodes to come!

I would be seriously remiss if I didn’t mention the one other diva who makes a relatively brief but also quite memorable appearance, and that’s of course Marcia Gay Harden, who portrays Elizabeth Gable, the mother of Mark (the father of Margo’s child). If ever there was an actress suited to a role like this one, it would be Harden, and she makes the most out of her moment. You can practically feel and see the ice spreading across the room as she fixes her raptor gaze on the young woman who dared to try to blackmail her son. Even though she’s clearly a terrible person, I do hope we’ll get to see more of her.

Obviously, I’m really quite smitten with Margo’s Got Money Troubles. It’s one of those shows that manages to be both funny and touching, while also offering some trenchant commentary both about the ease with which it’s possible for people, particularly women, to claim some measure of financial independence. At the same time, it also shows both the promise and the perils of this brave new age of the internet. I have no idea what’s in store for Margo, but I can’t wait to watch!

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

Mother Mary is one of those films that I’ve been looking forward to for quite a while. I am, after all, an Anne Hathaway girlie, and she’s one of those stars who never fails to disappoint, even when the film around her falters. What’s more, the film was billed as a look at musical stardom, with Lady Gaga as a clear reference point, and so I thought…well, this could be a delight!

Sigh.

Unfortunately, this just wasn’t the film for me. Or, perhaps, it wasn’t the film for me in the way that it might be for other people. I have to admit that I’m just not someone who tends to enjoy films that critics discuss as being more about feelings and abstractions than it is about plot and character. There’s a place for such films, to be sure, and I often see their value, but sometimes the whole thing feels like just so much cinematic onanism, and I emerged from this film feeling more frustrated than satisfied (and not in a good way).

First, a bit of summary. Hathaway portrays the singer Mother Mary, who has achieved global superstardom. However, not all is well and, suffering an accident–which may or may not have been a very public suicide attempt–she flees to the English countryside, where she reconnects with Michaela Coel’s Sam Anselm, who was once her designer and played a key role in her style and her rise to prominence. What begins as a tense and difficult rapprochement between the two women soon becomes something else entirely, as it begins to seem as if the two of them have been haunted by the same malevolent spirit that takes the form of a red piece of cloth.

Now, I know I said I didn’t really enjoy this film, but that is perhaps overstating the case a bit. I really enjoyed what Hathaway brought to the role, and I admire her for being willing to give herself so fully to the embodiment of Mother Mary. The evocations of Lady Gaga–and, to a lesser degree, Taylor Swift and Beyonce–are not difficult to see, and Hathaway really goes the extra mile when it comes to the embodied nature of her performance, with her acting out of her choreography sans music being a particular highlight in that regard. Much as she does in The Odyssey, she treads a fine line between strength and vulnerability, giving us momentary glimpses into the psyche of a woman who has spent a lot of time at the top of her career but has ultimately found fame a prison from which there is no escape. It’s a performance that requires a lot of vulnerability from her, and she more than delivers.

Coel is also terrific, and I thoroughly enjoy the way she seems to savor each and every one of her words. It’s a performance that is, perhaps, slightly overdone, but it works, particularly when it gels with Hathaway’s. Coel perfectly captures the prickliness of someone who’s been taken advantage of and then discarded by a person they regarded as both a friend and a collaborator. Watching her essentially dominate Hathaway’s Mary is a bit of a sadistic delight.

Indeed, for about the first thirty minutes of the film I was genuinely invested in the way these two women–who have clearly been very important to one another’s lives as both people and artists–manage to really dig into their own respective traumas and baggage. I would have loved to see a film that’s all about women and the terrible price that fame exacts for its simultaneously rich and paltry rewards. However, this very interesting story is ultimately jettisoned in favor of the film’s worst impulses, and by about the hour mark I found myself growing quite tired of its wearisome navel-gazing, increasingly impenetrable and nonsensical plot, and just general tedious Hollywood nonsense.

Once I began to approach the film through the beautiful, hilarious lens of camp, however, things began to take on a very different gloss. I mean sure, the moments that are supposed to be dreamlike and emotionally significant might work if you’re vibrating on this film’s wavelength. If, however, you don’t have a lot of patience for this very navel-gazy type of cinematic experience, then I daresay you’re probably going to find this film about an hour too long. When you start looking at the whole thing as a high camp experience, if you take the chance to relish and laugh at some of the more embarrassingly over-the-top and overwrought moments, then there’s actually a lot to enjoy. In fact, my partner and I both found ourselves cracking up at the oddest moments. While this was certainly not the film’s intention, that’s precisely what makes it so pleasurable as camp. After all, when you’re dealing with a film that’s called Mother Mary, that stars Anne Hathaway, and that indulges in an overwrought metaphor that may or may not be about stardom or grief or the monsters we become as a result of fame (or maybe none of those things), perhaps the only thing you can do is just embrace the absurdity and have a good laugh. After all, what else is camp for?

So, what did I make of Mother Mary in the end? I can’t say that I regret watching it, necessarily, but I can’t say that I’ll be returning to it or thinking about it after this. Perhaps, when I’m in a more generous frame of mind, I might give it another viewing and see if I take it as seriously as it clearly wants to be taken. Or, perhaps, I’ll queue up when I’m in need of a good queer camp laugh, relishing the absurdity that is Hollywood at its most self-obsessed. Perhaps, then, Mother Mary is indeed a masterpiece, though not of the kind it intended.

But then, who could ask for more than to be a camp classic?

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To the surprise of no one, I’ve been thinking about gay sex a lot lately. In particular, I’ve been thinking about why it’s so important to the writing of what I often view as the very best of MM romance. This isn’t to say that there aren’t some excellent closed-door queer romances out there–my own Country Road Romance definitely skews that way–but I often find that the stories that appeal to and move me the most are those that treat gay sex as an essential part of a couple’s development. Because you know what? Gay sex is often a very important part of gay male life, and I feel that this is something that needs repeating, particularly in the increasingly puritanical age in which we find ourselves.

This is a particularly vexed topic when it comes to MM romance writing, in part because that space is dominated by cisgender heterosexual women, many (though not all) of whom have no experience being a man who’s had sex with other men. And, not to get too essentialist about it, but sometimes you just want to read a book about male butt stuff that was written by someone who just gets what it’s like to be a man having sex with men. I say this not just as a writer in the genre but also as someone who loves reading MM love stories, and it’s for this reason that I’ve been making a point of seeking out and devouring books written by queer male authors.

The thing about gay sex is that it’s so many things, particularly when seen in the context of MM romance. A well-written sex scene can show the reader the extent to which two characters have finally allowed themselves to open up to one another, both literally and figuratively. At other times, it can be the doorway to characters really starting to understand one another. At yet other times it might be the first encounter that two men have with one another, their bodies doing the talking while the rest of them–their feelings and their thoughts and their minds–do the catching-up later. In other words, sex is never just one thing, either in real life or on the page, and if you read widely enough in the genre you start to see the many forms that it can take.

Sex, as most of us know, is a tremendously powerful thing, and in the right circumstances it can be shatteringly beautiful. When you’re in the throes of pleasure, the world seems to fall away, your body finding new ways of feeling and being in the world than the mind seems able to wrap itself around. More to the point, sex can also shatter you and leave you a gooey mess (again, both literally and figuratively). Sometimes it’s easy to forget this, especially since we live in a world that is both strangely puritanical when it comes to the messiness of sex and yet is also hypersaturated in sexual imagery and stimulation, and it can sometimes feel like we’ve all been desensitized. When you read, or write, a really good sex scene, however, it really brings it all back to you, just how important sex can be to our lives and our sense of ourselves and our relationships to others.

It’s not just about the narrative and emotional implications, of course. To me, and to many other queer men, good gay sex scenes capture something authentic about the queer experience, something that’s a true rite of passage. A lot goes into the crafting of an authentic sex scene and, to a degree at least, you really do have to have at least a bit of an understanding of how the male body works. Now, it’s really a matter of personal preference as to just how much detail you decide to include about the preparations that go into gay sex. Some readers that I’ve spoken to–most of them gay men–have expressed a desire to see more discussion of such things as douching and other kinds of prep work and, while I don’t usually include those things in my own fiction, I do endeavor to be at least somewhat realistic in my depiction of gay sex, both how it works and how it feels. Doing so not only allows me to capture the authentic experience of many (though obviously not all) gay and queer men but also allows me to appreciate it in my own life.

However, I could sit here all day and wax eloquent about all of the narrative and emotional payoffs that come from reading and writing gay sex in the context of romance. The truth, though, is this. Gay sex is HOT, and that’s reason enough to write about it. Far too many of us have internalized this idea that sex–whether in life or on the page–has to be motivated by something, that pleasure can’t or shouldn’t be an end in itself. While sex can obviously gain in complexity and pleasure when it intertwines with emotion, it doesn’t have to be that way. Sometimes, it’s enough for us to just embrace the pleasures of our bodies and our senses, to lose ourselves in the perpetual present offered up by the magic of sex.

Now, I do want to say one more thing before I finish. I know I’ve talked a lot about queer and gay sex here, but I also want to aknowledge two things. One, trans men are men, full stop. Two, I haven’t yet had the chance to write a trans MM romance book, and so I don’t want to speak about something I haven’t written about or to an experience that isn’t mine and which I haven’t researched enough about to speak eloquently or complexly. But, to reiterate, trans men are men, and MM romance that involves trans men is still MM romance. If you don’t like that opinion, go argue with a wall.

So yeah. I’m going to keep writing about gay sex, in detail, in my queer romance stories, whether these take place in the heart of Appalachia or Delmarva or in my fictional worlds. I happen to think that gay sex is a radical and transformative act, one that, if undertaken with the right mindset, really can mark an important moment in the life of a relationship or in the life of the self. In the right hands, and with the right pen, it can also turn MM romance itself into something potent, powerful, and subversive.

How awesome is that?

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Warning: Spoilers for the series follow.

Look, the world might be going to shit a little more each day–in just the last week we’ve lost two wonderful icons, Dolly Parton and Tim Curry–but at least, at the end of the worst days, we can retreat into the world of Ted Lasso. No matter how many times I watch this show, and no matter how bad and gloomy and sometimes just downright bleak the real world can seem, I can take comfort from the fact that Ted, Coach Beard, Roy, Rebecca, Higgins, and Keeley will be out there doing their damnedest to make sure that the new Richmond women’s team gets the respect it so badly deserves.

The third episode of the fourth season was as enjoyable as the previous two, with plenty of laughs and heartwarming moments to go around. As Rebecca tries to find some time to spend with her handsome pilot Matthijs, Keeley struggles to drum up some support for the team, and Ted and the other coaches hold open tryouts in order to fill out their ranks. As if all of that weren’t complicated enough, their potential striker, Gemma, has major beef with Alice, who it turns out was quite an asshole to her the last time she was on the team.

As was the case in the first three episodes, much of the comedy stems from the opposing energies of Ted and Coach Chilton, who continue to be opposites in almost every way. There are several amusing references to Susan Boyle, efforts by Beard and Alice to try to get Ted not to recruit someone who isn’t up to snuff yet but whose energy he seems to appreciate (vain, of course), and much more. The thing about this show, as always, is that it allows us to love these characters and to appreciate what each and every one of them brings to the table. Sudeikis’ infectious energy bounces off of Tanya Reynolds in all of the best ways, and I love getting to see them spend so much time together.

Hannah Waddingham, of course, continues to be nothing short of amazing as Rebecca, and I would honestly watch an entire show just focused on her, especially if it were to involve more of her romance with her hunky pilot. For so long Rebecca has been the hard-nosed businesswoman, the one who had to be the adult in the room, and it’s nice to see her finally get to let her hair down a little. Or, at least, try to do that, though as quickly becomes clear it’s rather hard to have a boyfriend and go on dates when you’re exhausted all the time and constantly have to see to the needs of others. I appreciated the deft hand with which this episode handled her conflicts and, while I was pretty sure there for a few minutes that Matthijs was going to call it quits, I shouldn’t have worried. They do end up having their long-deferred date, even though the wait staff are convinced he hired a prostitute in order to save face.

Meanwhile, Roy and Keeley are still trying to figure out just what their friendship is going to look like. One gets the distinct impression that the two of them really want to be more than just friends, but neither of them can quite figure out how to make that work, given how different they are and given how their lives have taken very different trajectories. I will say, though, that Roy feels a bit tacked-on this season, and while I’m always thrilled to see Brett Goldstein, I’m hoping that they find a more organic way to weave him into the central storylines. Just as importantly, I really do hope that the two of them find their way back together. I’m all for men and women finding friendship fulfilling in its own right, but I still think that these two should be a couple. Why else bring them back, after all?

Lastly, I would be a right bastard if I didn’t mention Mae, who has always been and will remain one of my favorite secondary characters in Ted Lasso. Annette Badland is just such a gem of an actress, someone who knows just how to capture both the warmth and the badassery of this particular character. She’s one of the few who seems genuinely excited about the women’s team, and if the men in her life aren’t capable they might just find themselves banned from her pub. And I wouldn’t blame her one bit if she did it, too, especially considering how dickish so many of the men are being about the formation of a women’s football team.

Indeed, this episode makes it abundantly clear that it’s going to be a very steep uphill climb for Rebecca, Keeley, and Ted to figure out how to make the general public care about their team. If anyone can pull off this task, however, it would be the three of them. As the whole fiasco with the kit reveals, there’s almost no obstacle this group can’t overcome, and I’m sure that they’ll be able to get the pieces to fit together by the end of the season.

If I have one complaint about this season so far, it’s that we don’t get nearly enough insight into the team itself. This isn’t a dealbreaker just yet, and there are some glimmers of the character development we might get down the line, but the show really is running out of time to give us some more valuable insight into just what it is that makes these young women tick.

That said, I do think that Ted Lasso is just the kind of show that we need right now. The news we see every day is almost unrelentingly bleak and depressing, filled with the worst sorts of people and their heinous actions. It’s nice to believe, if just for a little while, that it doesn’t have to be that way, that there really is something to hope for.

Thank all the gods for Ted Lasso.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

It is universally acknowledged that T. Kingfisher is incapable of writing something that I don’t love. Every time I see she has a new book out, I know that a.) I’m going to have to read it as soon as I get my hands on it and b.) I’m going to love every page of it. I was certainly not disappointed with Snake-Eater, one of her releases that hit shelves last year. I’ve seen it called “cozy horror,” and I think there’s something to that description. It’s the kind of story that gets under your skin but doesn’t wear out its welcome, that reminds you that there are many uncertain and unknown things in the world and, while some of these are dangerous, some are benevolent (in the right circumstances).

When the book begins, Selena–along with her dog, Copper–is on the way to visit her aunt’s house. Selena struggles with anxiety, and she’s escaping a relationship that was emotionally abusive. Her hope is that in the small town of Quartz Creek, Arizona that she can find some measure of peace. However, while she does indeed make some fantastic and colorful friends–including a rascally old woman named Grandma Billy and a shape-shifting Catholic priest–she also draws the eye of the roadrunner god named Snake-Eater, who wants to claim more than Selena is willing or able to give.

As with so many of Kingfisher’s other works, the horror in Snake-Eater works on two different levels. On the one hand, there’s Selena’s debilitating anxiety, which sometimes threatens to consume every aspect of her life. For roughly the first half of it, she struggles to adapt her scripts to her new environments, and it takes her a long time to really accept the idea that the people of the town aren’t secretly hating her. Though my own anxiety isn’t nearly as acute and as debilitating as hers, I nevertheless found these elements very relatable, and Kingfisher excels at showing us the extent to which anxiety can become a prison from which it’s almost impossible to escape. How do you really escape the cage, after all, when it’s all in your own mind?

The other part of the horror, obviously, revolves around the titular Snake-Eater, a sort of lesser god who, it transpires, had a rather complex and parasitic relationship with Selena’s aunt. At first the hints that not all is well are relatively minor–a small statuette of a roadrunner that seems to be watching her, a roadrunner that tries to force its way into her house, sexy dreams that are just a bit too realisitc–but then things start to escalate, up to and including a group of sinister being known as fetches that Snake-Eater sends to make his displeasure known. I don’t know about anyone else, but I can’t think of anything more terrifying than a group of fetches in the shape of owl faces looking in the windows.

Snake-Eater might be a relatively minor deity, but that still makes him very powerful, and Kingfisher does her usual excellent job at showing the extent to which deities, even relatively minor ones, can be far too vast and unknowable for humanity. I particularly enjoyed the scene in the spirit world where Selena sees the various other gods gathered around, and it remains unclear whether their human guises are simply the forms they choose to take or whether it’s just the only way her human mind could make sense of them. Either way, it’s clear that this unfortunate mortal has stumbled right into the midst of a problem that’s vaster and more dangerous than she knows what to do with. How fortunate, then, that she makes some great friends.

Indeed, as is also typical with Kingfisher’s work, Snake-Eater is populated by a number of delightful characters. Obviously Grandma Billy is an absolute delight, an elderly woman who doesn’t let her age stand in the way of her doing what she thinks is necessary to help out her new friend. This is a woman, after all, who’s willing to load up a shotgun and shoot some fetches, the kind of woman who will do anything to protect those she loves, including her flock of chickens and one very ill-tempered peacock. I’ll admit that I’m partial to this character in part because she’s so much like my mother, another woman who’s quite capable of shooting something (or someone) that she sees as a danger to her homestead or her family.

What really makes Grandma Billy such a delight, though, is that she’s trans and a senior citizen. As I’m sure many of you are aware, queer and trans characters are still a minority in a lot of fiction, and older queer folks are even more of a rarity, so to see one in Kingfisher’s work warms my heart. Moreover, Kingfisher isn’t the type of writer who engages in tokenizing, and Grandma Billy really does feel as real and as developed as Selena or anyone else. The same goes for Father Aguirre, who is the very definition of a quirky and very lovable small-town priest. Together, these two characters show us the extent to which small towns in America can be horrifying but not queerphobic, and I love that Kingfisher has given us this gift.

If you haven’t introduced yourself to the delightful horror that is T. Kingfisher, then Snake-Eater makes for a marvelous entry point. It has all of the things that I’ve come to associate with her, and though she doesn’t shy away from the disturbing aspect of the genre, she also makes sure that we’re left believing that things might just turn out alright, after all. Whether we’re facing down malevolent roadrunner gods or those who would abuse us for their own gain, we all have to remember that there’s a core of strength inside of all of us and, just as importantly, that we’re never quite as alone as we might think. These days, that’s a very empowering message, indeed.

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Warning: Spoilers for the series follow.

If you’ve been keeping up with my reviews of The Shards–the new series from Ryan Murphy and Bret Easton Ellis–you’ll know that I’ve been waiting for something to actually happen. Well, after a great deal of throat-clearing and meandering, I’m happy to say that something has begun to happen in the fifth episode, and just in time. It’s probably no accident that the episode was both written and directed by Murphy himself. Say what you will about the man and his abilities, but he does know how to tell a captivating and compelling story, and he does have a keen visual style that sweeps you up even when there’s not a great deal happening.

This episode certainly throws a lot at us. Our core group of characters appear on a dance competition show called Dance Off!, and the tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Debbie in particular is very invested in becoming “Groover of the Week,” which sets her up for a conflict with aspiring dancer Cha Cha Rodriguez, who’s been having an affair with the show’s host, Tony Cruz. Lots of dancing ensues, along with lots of drama. While all of this is happening, poor the Trawler murders Cha Cha in the bathroom, while Rhonda finally returns, her body marred and cut, acting as if nothing at all has happened.

Remarkably, this episode marks one of the few times that Bret actually takes a backseat to the main action. While part of me missed hearing his constant voiceovers, another part actually thinks this was a wise decision, as it finally gives the other characters a chance to show a bit more of themselves. Sadly, though, there’s still not a whole lot to their characterizations. Kaia Gerber and Hayes Warner are certainly giving it their all with the limited material that they’ve been given, and the same is true of Graham Campbell, who seems to be under the impression that just staring intently is a good stand-in for genuine acting and emotion.

I will say, however, that I am low-key loving what Homer Gere is doing with the character of Robert. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s a great performer–or even a particularly good one–but he nevertheless has just the right amount of screen presence. More to the point, he also manages to use his pouty good looks to good effect, casting a spell over everyone with whom he comes into contact while also remaining very much an enigma, the kind of guy who looks good on a dance floor but might just be a serial killer.

I’m not sure if this is deliberate, but this show is definitely trying to achieve some sort of blend of soap opera and slasher. So many of the conflicts between and among the teen characters feel either manufactured or blown entirely out of proportion and this, in combination with the rather thin characterizations and weak acting, sometimes makes it difficult to really care what’s happening to them. It really says something when one of the most dynamic and interesting characters–I’m speaking, of course, of Bella Valdes’ Cha Cha–ends up outshining all of her costars during her limited amount of screentime, only to end up with her throat slit in the bathroom. (As a side note, I give Anthony Ramos a great deal of credit for being willing to play sleazy, something we don’t see from him very often. I suppose this is what happens when you end up becoming a part of the Ryan Murphy repertory company. See also: Wes Bentley).

I mean look, I’m not saying that every show has to be filled with action and has to have a plot that’s filled with narrative beats each and every moment. There does come a point, though, when a series–even a limited one–has to justify the number of episodes that it’s been given. If it turns out that you don’t have enough story to fill out a full nine or ten episodes of screen time, then by all means ask for a shorter order. I’d rather have a story that’s told with at least some measure of discipline than one that meanders all over the place. Unfortunately, Murphy has never been known for his narrative discipline, and this becomes more and more obvious with each episode of this show that we get.

Be that as it may, there’s still enough in this ridiculous show to keep me coming back. I would be deeply remiss if I didn’t mention Jordan Roth’s villainous queer villain Steven, with his blonde, slicked-back hair, his ability to deliver a withering put-down and, of course, his skill at manipulating and cutting others down to size. This is the kind of side character I live for, someone who effortlessly steals every scene in which he appears, leaving us wanting to see more of him and maybe, just maybe, to learn what it is that makes him tick. However, given just how much delight he seems to take in tormenting others, it might just be that he’s motivated by serving c*nt, and honestly, I’m okay with that. I also continue to enjoy the performance that Daniel Dale is giving as Ryan (porn alias Troy Wad), who looks more than a little like a wounded angel. I have no idea just where his plot is going to go, but I’m happy to go along for this very beautiful ride.

To me, the fundamental problem with The Shards is that it continues to feel like an awkwardly bargain basement version of American Horror Story. I’m hoping that, as we get into the latter half of the season, it starts to find its own groove and its own sense of purpose, as both of these things are still sorely lacking. With just four episodes to go, we’re running out of time, but hopefully Murphy can convince me that this was worth it. However, since he didn’t write or direct the forthcoming episodes, I’m not holding my breath. I have a feeling we’re going to miss Murphy’s visual flair–so much in evidence this episode–before this whole thing is over.

I guess we shall see!

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

Ever since I read Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles several years ago, I’ve been chasing that high. Though there are many good myth retellings out there, I’ve read relatively few that manage to capture Miller’s knack for deep character work and piercingly good prose. When I saw Rosie Hewlett’s Sweetbitter Song on the shelf, though, I just had the feeling that this was going to be one of those stories that stole my heart. Everything about it–from its title, which must be an evocation of Anne Carson’s book Eros: The Bittersweet to its queer retelling of Penelope and Melantho–drew me in. I’m now roughly halfway through, and I’m utterly enchanted.

When the novel begins Melantho is a slave in the house of King Tydareus of Sparta, where she lives with her mother and father and brother. At first she is jealous of those who earn the attention of the king’s brother, but it soon becomes clear that he uses the bodies of young slave girls and then discards them. Her entire life changes when she meets Penelope, whose aloof demeanor draws her like a moth to a flame. Their friendship is difficult, made more so when Melantho is given to Penelope for her wedding, but their bond proves remarkably enduring. By the time the middle of the novel arrives, Melantho and Penelope have begun to mend their relationship, paving the way for the eventual romance that we know will emerge.

Even though I’m only roughly halfway through the novel, it’s already clear that something more than friendship is blooming between Melantho and Penelope. Hewlett’s prose captures the way that desire rears up inside of you, often when you least expect it, sweeping you up and away before you even fully realize that’s what’s happening. Melantho makes for a very captivating heroine, someone who has a mind of her own and whole spirit burns brightly despite (or perhaps because of) all of the trials and tribulations and tragedies that continually mar her life. It would be easy for her to just lay down and give up but, instead, she holds tight to her desire to survive and even, when she can, to thrive.

This burning desire marks Melantho out from others, including her brother, who holds onto his grief over being separated from his lover and their child, letting it eat him from within. In some ways, he’s a cautionary tale for our heroine, who sees what can happen when grief and anger become so consuming that they take over a life. One can hardly blame Melanthius, of course, because what would any of us do in his situation? Melantho might be able to hold onto her humanity, but it’s a heavy lift even for her, and it’s not without cost.

Indeed, there’s a lot of heartache in this novel. Among other things, Melantho has to stand by and watch as her mother is taken away to be sold in the marketplace, and it opens a wound in her soul that never fully heals. Hewlett is quite adept at showing the extent to which slavery as an institution constantly works to destroy the heart and soul and mind of those caught in its grip. In Melantho’s case, it’s not enough that she loses her mother; she also sees her best friend branded and scarred for life while her brother’s lover (and the mother of his child) is similarly branded and, it’s implied, probably sold off into slavery, never to be seen again.

Given all of this, it’s small wonder that Melantho at first has nothing but contempt for Penelope, who has all of the agency that she seems to lack. Once they’re thrown together on Ithaca and Penelope gives birth to her son, things begin to change for the better, and once Odysseus departs for the Trojan War their bond begins to deepen. Much as their statuses separate them in some important ways, there’s no denying the extent to which their feelings for one another burn through the barriers their world constantly erects between them. This is one of those novels that makes you fall in love with the characters, even as they’re falling in love with one another.

There’s a lushness to Hewlett’s prose that immediately drew me in, and while some like to sneer at what they view as purplish excesses, to me that’s what makes books like this one stand out from the pack. This is the kind of book that has a lyricism akin to poetry which, if you’re trying to capture life in ancient Greece, feels very appropriate. I love a book that really immerses me in the mores and mindset of the past, and I think that Sweetbitter Song is very effective in this regard.

To me, the best queer love stories are those that cause an ache in your soul, that little prick right behind your breastbone that tells you you’re reading something real and true and deep, something that will ruin you and (hopefully) heal you. Given that I know just how this myth ends–with the strong implication that Melantho is hanged by Telemachus along with the other maids who betrayed their master by siding with the suitors in their efforts to force Penelope to marry one of them. I’m assuming that Hewlett will find some compelling and convincing way to subvert our expectations.

I’m moving quickly through Sweetbitter Song, and I’m hoping to be able to finish it this week. It’s the kind of book that invites you to savor it, even as you feverishly turn the pages, inexorably drawn into its sensuous coils. It’s rare that you find a myth retelling that both stays true to some of the core parts of the myth while also setting off in some exciting new directions. Each time I sit down to read it I am once again transported to the beautiful and cruel and ugly world of antiquity, and I’m grateful for Hewlett’s remarkable gifts.

Stay tuned for my thoughts on the second half of the book!

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Spoilers for the series follow.

Has there ever been a show quite like It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia? This is a show, after all, that’s been on the air since 2005, meaning they’ve managed to somehow stay relevant for two decades. It’s the type of show that has always asked its viewers to revel in the sheer awfulness of its main characters, and it’s also one of those shows that delights in showing the grotesqueness of the human body. I’ve returned time and time again, and it’s become one of my very favorite shows.

As tends to be the case with me, however, I went into the eighteenth season with some trepidation. Would the show continue to make me guffaw with an unhinged delight not that dissimilar from that of the characters, or would some of the magic have begun to wear off? After all, it’s almost impossible for any series, no matter how talented its creative team, to maintain quality after so much time, particularly when the core cast has remained the same during almost the entire run.

I should’ve known, though, that this show’s team would be on top of things, that they’d find a way of keeping things fresh and fun while also leaning into all of the things that have made the show such a beloved cult hit for the better part of my adult life. Somehow, this show managed to capture lightning in a bottle, and it seems to me that it might just be the kind of show that, like The Simpsons, becomes such an American television institution that it’s virtually impossible to imagine a TV lineup without it.

Take, for example, the premiere of the season. It’s hard to know just where to begin, but I suppose talking about the Carol Kane of it all. If there’s anyone who was surely fated to have a guest role in It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, it would have to be Carol Kane, whose own off-beat brand of comedy works surprisingly well, and her character of Sam was a wonderful addition. In fact, I would have gladly watched her appear during the whole season but, alas, she dies quite suddenly, though not before offering to leave Dee a large part of her fortune (her father, supposedly, invented the rubber chicken).

This is Dee, though, so not even death was enough to keep her from what she views as her rightful inheritance, which naturally led to her pretending Sam was alive and able to go through the wedding with Frank. When I say that I lost it while Dee was marching Sam’s lifeless body down the aisle, I am not exaggerating. Even for a show that delights in pushing the envelope and allowing us to indulge in macabre humor, this was a new high (or was it low?) The revelation that Sam was suffering from flesh-eating bacteria–which both she and Frank contracted due to having sex in a stagnant pond–and the subsequent loss of her head during the ceremony, had me on the floor, swept up in this show’s ongoing fascination with the gruesomeness of the human body.

Naturally, the whole farce doesn’t end there. After all, Dee and Dennis are desperate for money, and they’re not going to let a little thing like death get in the way of them getting what they see as their just desserts. Thus, the second episode of the season sees them going to every imaginable length to make sure they get their part of Sam’s fortune, up to and including cutting off (the wrong) thumb in order to verify the will. It all comes to naught, though, when her body is shot out of a cannon right into the river. We all knew that this was probably where it would all end, but seeing her body and dismembered head flying through the air is one of those absurdly hilarious moments that make this show what it is, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Lastly, I want to say that I appreciated the way that the show handled the off-screen death of Lynne Marie Stewart, who brought Bonnie Kelly, Charlie’s mother, to such brilliant life for so many seasons. It’s fitting that she would get the kind of send-off that only It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia could produce, with Charlie screaming his grief in “musical” form during Frank’s botched wedding to Sam. I hope wherever she is that Stewart got a kick out of this send-off.

While there’s more than a little absurdity on offer, there’s just a dash of genuine emotion, and this revolves, of course, around Mac’s reluctance to finally come out to his mother. Perhaps it’s because Mac’s mom reminds me just a little of my own, or perhaps it’s because I’ve always sensed the hurt lurking behind Mac’s posturing, but for some reason I found this whole storyline oddly touching. Of course, it’s all handled in the usual It’s Always Sunny unhinged way, including a moment when he borrows Uncle Jack’s demented puppet in an attempt to deflect and to admit the truth about himself. As it turns out, Mac’s mom is a person with a brain and eyes and ears, and she greets the revelation that he’s gay in her usual blunt fashion. This is a far cry from the emotional catharsis of Mac’s dance of several seasons ago, but that’s probably just as well. I think that It’s Always Sunny has one or at the most two of those moments in its stockpile before it starts to lose its core identity (i.e., being a show about horrible people whom we should see as truly terrible).

Overall, then, it’s safe to say that It’s Always Sunny is, once again, in peak form. It’s a show that manages to be both of its time and yet remarkably timely, repeatedly reminding us of the absurd cruelty and bizarre humor of the world we all inhabit. Sometimes, it sure does seem as if our culture took a collective look at Mac, Dee, Dennis, and Frank and thought, “You know what? Let’s do what they’re doing and see what happens.”

If nothing else, this show gives us a way of dealing with this monstrous era. If laughter isn’t necessarily the best medicine, it’s certainly better than nothing.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

It’s no secret that sapphic romances–whether on the screen or on the page–struggle to gain the same type of cultural cachet as MM romance. Compare, for example, the popularity of Heated Rivalry and the outcry that met the announcement that the third season of Bridgerton would focus on a sapphic romance. It seems that our culture loves it when boys find love (and hot sex, of course), but when it comes to women loving women…well, clearly that’s just beyond the pale of our collective patriarchal imaginations.

How fortunate, then, that we have films like Girls Like Girls, directed by Hayley Kiyoko and based on her novel of the same name. The film centers on Coley (Maya da Costa), who has recently moved to Oregon to live with her estranged father, Curtis (Zach Braff), her mother having died after years of struggle with mental illness. There, she meets effervescent Sonya (Myra Molloy), and the two develop an instant and intense emotional attachment to one another. As their relationship deepens, however, it becomes clear that Sonya isn’t quite as ready as Coley to commit. Drama ensues.

To state the obvious, Maya da Costa is simply perfect in this role. She might be a newcomer–this is her feature film debut–but already you can tell she has remarkable talent. She perfectly captures the essence of a young woman struggling to make sense of her grief and loss, as well as her burgeoning desires. There’s a sort of understated authenticity to her performance that grounds it in the realm of emotional reality, and it helps to keep the narrative of Girls Like Girls from sliding into the realm of cliche or trite teen story.

For her part, Molloy also delivers an emotionally authentic performance. Sonya is a very different sort of person than Coley, all smiles and seemingly effortless charm, but Molloy allows us to see the frantic desire to be loved that lies just beneath the surface. Thus, for all that she feels an intense, overpowering connection for Coley–one that manifests in shared, secret moments of kissing and embraces, as well as in quieter moments of shared glances and shy touches–she also can’t quite bring herself to make the final leap into a full relationship.

Indeed, as their feelings for one another intensify, so too do the conflicts, for Sonya isn’t unattached when the two meet. Indeed, she’s in a relationship with Trenton (Levon Hawke), sowing the seeds for conflict between the two young women. Their fights, as difficult as they are to watch, read as authentic, with da Costa and Molloy capturing the angst and emotional turmoil that accompanies adolescent romance. What’s more, it’s precisely the intensity of their fights–and the revelations that emerge from them–that make their reconciliation that much more poignant.

While da Costa and Molloy are obviously the MVPs of this poignant little gem of a film, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention Zach Braff, who portrays Curtis, Coley’s estranged father. It’s a subdued performance from Braff, and a timely reminder that he’s often remarkably good in dramatic roles. Though his screen time is limited, he makes the most of it. One of the most quietly powerful scenes in the entire film has father and daughter really grappling with what it meant for both of them to love someone with (presumably untreated) mental illness.

The thing I loved the most about this film, though, was how authentic it all felt. Teen queer love, even more than most queer love, is messy and complicated and filled with all sorts of hurdles that straight love usually isn’t. The closet is the unspoken prison looming just outside of the frame, imposing a limit–for a time, at least–on just how far this relationship can go. Unlike Coley, who seems to be at least somewhat comfortable in her own skin and is quite content to be an outcast just so long as she has Sonya in her life, Sonya feels the bite of social expectation much more keenly. One of the rawest moments occurs when she attempts to explain to Coley why she broke things off between them, only to make things worse. It’s cringe-inducing to watch her attempt to describe her feelings–calling Coley “wrong” along the way–but that’s the thing about these kinds of desires at this particular time. If you were growing up in a small town in the mid-aughts, when queer acceptance and queer representation weren’t as ubiquitous as they are now, it could be very difficult to articulate and figure out your sexual identity, let alone share that with someone else.

Indeed, I give the production team a great deal of credit for capturing the sights and sounds of the mid-2000s millennial experience. Whether it’s the various sounds associated with AIM–the sound of the door closing certainly unlocked some core geriatric millennial memories for me–or the characters’ use of iPods, this team did their homework when it came to capturing the digital reality of the aughts. More to the point, this emphasis on the atmosphere of the mid-2000s also reminds us of just how far we’ve come in terms of both queer youth representation and the potentialities of young queer love. For those growing up in that era–particularly if you lived somewhere outside of a major city–expressing queer desires in high school was a minefield, and I appreciate the film’s grappling with the messiness of being a millennial teenager.

What’s more, it doesn’t tie everything up in a neat little bow. There are still quite a few questions remaining for these two young women. After all, it’s not as if the closet has suddenly disappeared just because the two of them have reconciled, and they have a long road ahead on their journey toward happiness. Still, if the post-credit sequence is any indication, the two of them have managed to build a strong foundation on which to build a future together.

It’s really the last image pre-credits that sticks with me. The two of them are just sitting on the edge of the pool, leaning against one another, Sonya having finally decided to stop running: from Coley, from herself, from her queer identity. It’s a beautiful and calm moment, one that reminds us of the quiet rebellion of queer joy.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

If I haven’t mentioned it before, I’ll say it now. My queer romance book club is one of the best groups of people I’ve ever met, and we have yet to read a book I didn’t love. That extends to Shapes of Love, the debut novel from L.V. Peñalba. Focusing on a young singer named Sasha, whose professional name is Sassy, it follows her as she navigates the fraught territory between her identity as an aroace person, the demands of her stardom, and her deep, abiding (but also very complicated) friendship with Kai. When Kai and Sasha end up getting thrown together for a PR relationship, all of these issues come to a head, and Sasha ultimately has to decide whether to be true to herself or whether she’s going to lose herself to the fame monster.

I enjoyed this book for a whole host of reasons. To begin with, it’s very touching, and I found myself falling for Sasha. Despite the fact that she’s found an immense amount of fame with her music, she’s quickly found that that kind of visibility comes with a tremendous cost, particularly for someone who is aroace and whose lyrics are always being scrutinized by their fans for hints as to their personal and romantic life. Peñalba does a superb job of showing us the costs of fame, using the metaphor of the centrifuge to demonstrate the extent to which the entertainment industry spins out those caught in its grip, immersing them in a system in which they are constantly required to give up a part of themselves in order to become successful. As Sasha’s story makes clear, this takes a particularly heavy toll on queer folks.

The real heart and soul of this book, however, is friendship.The bond between Kai and Sasha is real and it’s deep but, like every friendship–or like any close bond, whether romantic or platonic or otherwise–it’s also complicated. How could it be otherwise, when our society and culture don’t really have words to describe the deep love that a person can feel for another, a love that isn’t romantic? Fortunately, Sasha isn’t the type of person who’s going to just let other people define her life, though it takes her most of the book to be comfortable enough–and powerful enough–in her identity and in her own skin to say enough is enough and decide to live her life on her own terms rather than other people’s.

Sasha’s friendship with her childhood friend Mia is likewise very fraught, both because Mia wants a relationship and also because she happens to be with a guy who’s very much a dick. Though their relationship isn’t quite on the same level as Sasha’s with Kai–they’re not quite platonic soulmates, in other words–it’s nevertheless an important bond, and I appreciate the way the novel examines the ways in which friendships can grow and change over the years without ever fully going away. This is a tough thing to learn for any young person, particularly when, like Sasha, it’s friendship that is the center and guiding light of your life. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it’s actually Sasha’s relationship with Mia that is more evocatively conveyed, and their brutal fight–one which sees each of them hurting the other with their words–made me squirm with emotional discomfort. It’s the kind of scene that cuts so deeply precisely because it’s true to life.

As much as the book is about the fraught nature of deep platonic friendship in a world built around and by and for those in romantic relationships, it’s also about the cost of living an authentic life, particularly in our fame-obsessed culture where every famous person seems to engender a deep (and troubling) parasocial relationship with their fans. At several points in the novel we see the extent to which Sasha’s fans have taken it up themselves to decode her lyrics, even though they’re almost always very far off the mark. These little inserts are useful reminders of the cost of such parasocial relationships, particularly when fans start to feel like they have the right to own pieces of their idol’s life.

It’s also worth noting that aroace people deserve a lot more representation than they typically receive in queer romance spaces, and so I appreciated both the representation in this novel and the way in which it was handled. Peñalba has a real gift for allowing us to learn not only what terms like asexual and aromantic mean but also how they shape how you perceive the world and your place in it. What’s more, they manage to do so without being preachy or making the novel feel like an after school special. Instead, it just lets us inhabit the mind and the emotions of a young person trying to be comfortable with who they are, even when the entire world seems dead set against them.

Suffice it to say, then, that I really loved this book! I particularly appreciate the extent to which it doesn’t tie everything up in a neat little bow. Among other things, Sasha has to contend with the fact that their relationship with their label–which is in a complicated place due to her falling out with her manager–is also very much up in the air. Likewise, it remains to be seen whether the living arrangement she’s managed to forge between Kai and his boyfriend will be an arrangement that works for them all or whether there will be more difficulties to face. That’s the thing about life, though. You just never know what’s going to happen, and that’s okay.

At a broader level, Shapes of Love reminds us just how inadequate English often is when it comes to conveying the many different shades and intensities of love. As Sasha repeatedly says, society–and, I would argue, our language–isn’t built to really express the depth and nuance of the kinds of love that most of us feel. Hopefully this novel helps to ignite the important conversations we all need to have about platonic love and how it isn’t just an inferior form of affection.

Go read this book!

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If you follow me on social media–and I’m not sure why you would subject yourself to that kind of unhinged energy–then you’ll no doubt know that I’ve been on a bit of a faith journey the past couple of years. It started when I was reading Elaine Pagels’ Miracles and Wonder: The Historical Mystery of Jesus, and I suddenly felt, thanks to her remarkable and clear prose, that I was on the cusp of something changing. I felt, for the first time in two decades, the presence of something holy and deeply personal. After having spent over two decades as a devout–if sometimes inconsistent–agnostic, I began to wonder whether it might finally be time to start thinking about returning to Christianity again.

After that, I began to think about what it might be like to start attending church at least somewhat regularly. I’m very fortunate that I live in a town where there’s a queer-affirming Episcopal congregation just down the street from my house and, after a great deal of hemming and hawing–because I’m not the type of person who undertakes anything, let alone a return to going to church, without a lot of hemming and hawing and endless consideration–I finally decided to attend.

It literally changed my life.

Now, I know I’m one who’s prone to hyperbolizing and dramatics, but let me assure you that I mean what I say. The minute I stepped into that building here in Salisbury, Maryland, I immediately felt a sense of peace and calm and belonging. It wasn’t just the people–though, to be sure, you’re never going to find a Christian group as sincere and as kind and as genuinely warm as a group of Episcopalians–but was instead something about the atmosphere of the place. It’s not overly elaborate or ornate in terms of decoration or architecture, but its simplicity is its strength. It exudes a sense of…well, of home, I suppose is the best way I’d put it. When you walk into St. Alban’s, you truly feel as if you’re being welcomed in from the tossing storms and waves of the outside world.

I’ll admit I was nervous going in that I’d become lost when it came to the way the service was structured. Though I’d attended church several times in the past year, I’d yet to encounter an Episcopal service. As it turned out, though, I needn’t have worried. Not only were there several people–including the rector–who were more than happy to provide guidance; it also ended up being a service not all that dissimilar to the ones that I’d encountered, both as a child and more recently. I felt a sense of peace and calm and grace settle over me as

And then there was the aforementioned rector.

When I say that Sheila McJilton is one of those people who just seems to exude the Holy Spirit, I’m not exaggerating. From the moment I met her, I knew that this was one of the people who was going to be invaluable as I embarked on my own winding road back to faith. It certainly helps that she gives off what I affectionately call “lesbian aunt energy” and that she has a very distinct Tennessee twang that makes me feel as if I’m right back in Appalachia. It also helps that she is the soul of human warmth and kindness, and I will forever be grateful for her taking time out of her schedule to meet my partner and me for lunch after our first service at St. Alban’s. If that isn’t bringing the Holy Spirit out into the world, then I don’t know what is.

I’ll admit that I’m as surprised as anyone that I’ve become so invested in the Episcopal Church. For so long, I held to my agnostic identity, partly (though not entirely) out of a belief that there couldn’t possibly be a place for me in a Christian tradition. The very idea of a queer affirming church still seemed anathema to me, not least because I’d internalized the idea that Christianity and queerness were utterly incompatible. Becoming a part of the EC, and learning more about queer theology and the histories behind the translation of the “clobber passages” that have distorted many people’s understanding of Scripture’s relationship with queerness has opened up a whole new horizon of religious experience that I’d thought was totally lost to me.

I’m not going to pretend that I have everything figured out, of course. I still have a lot of deconstructing to do. Even though I didn’t grow up in a particularly homophobic or queerphobic tradition–to be clear, though, the Church of Christ in which I was raised is very staunch in its belief that acting on queer desires is a sin–I still came of age during the 1980s and the 1990s, when the Religious Right was in the ascendant and in which Christianity came to be indelibly associated with a rejection of queerness in all of its forms. It takes a long time to unlearn all of that stuff, to really open yourself up to the magic and the mystery and the light that is religious belief, and I still have a long road ahead.

The magic of the Episcopal Church, though, is that you don’t have to have it all figured out. You can still be on the fence about just what it is you believe; hell, you can even be an agnostic. No matter where you are on your spiritual journey, you’re likely to find a home there. For me, I continue to be drawn in by the Episcopal Church’s approach to its theology, and its balance of scripture, tradition, and reason–the three-legged stool metaphor–really appeals to me. When it comes down to it, the rational, agnostic part of my brain never really shuts off, and I’m glad to be part of a religious tradition that encourages doubt and questioning and interrogation rather than demanding you leave such things at the church door.

To be clear, I’m not saying that every queer person in search of spiritual meaning should run out and join an Episcopal Church right away. For some, the religious trauma and scars are too deep and too lasting, and I would never want someone to go to a religious space that would only deepen and exacerbate those pains. I will say, though, that if you, like me, are a queer person looking for a spiritual home, then I think you’ll find much to love and to appreciate about the Episcopal Church.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

The Mercy of Gods, by James SA Corey (co-authors of The Expanse) was one of my favorite reads last year. My sci-fi tastes tend to run toward space opera, and this had everything I look for in the genre: lots of interpersonal and political conflict, sprawling space empires and, of course, an engagement with deep philosophical and existential questions, including the nature of humanity, personhood, and the ever-present issue of just how much control any individual has over their own destiny, let alone that of their whole species.

The Faith of Beasts picks up the action almost exactly where the first volume left off, with the human characters largely having established themselves and shown their utility to the Carryx. They’ve even begun to formulate a plan for creating children and keeping the human population alive. However, there are still rumblings of discontent, and Dafyd has all he can do to keep their masters from discovering this and purging them as not worth the trouble. The other characters have their own compelling storylines, and the novel as a whole is very much about discovery and about rebuilding, about how there is a remarkable spirit in humans that allows them to triumph, even when they are reduced to the most subaltern state imaginable. Perhaps especially when they have been reduced to such a state. No matter how much the Carryx attempt to subdue the flame of the human spirit, it continues to burn brightly.

Of all of the human characters, I find Dafyd to be the most compelling and the most complicated. He finds himself in the privileged but nevertheless unenviable position of being the human entrusted by the Carryx with making sure the others stay in line, that they work as they are supposed to, and that they don’t cause any trouble. While in some ways this grants him a great deal of power and agency, on the other it just highlights how little control he has over what happens to his fellow humans. It all comes to a head when some of his fellow humans decide they’re going to institute a work stoppage if they don’t get what they want from the Carryx, leaving him to determine the best course of action. Say what you will about Dafyd, but he genuinely does seem to want what’s best for the highest number of his fellow humans, even if they can’t (or won’t) see that. It’s precisely this exploration of the complexities of morality that makes this novel a worthy follow-up to its predecessor.

One of the other striking things about this novel–and it was true of The Mercy of Gods, too–is the extent to which it immerses us in the unsettling space of the minds and mentalities of the Carryx. Though most of the chapters are devoted to the various humans that we’ve gotten to know during the course of the series, we also get some startling and at times disturbing insights into their alien overlords. They’re so fascinatingly alien, and yet they’re just enough like humans that we, and the characters, can’t help but attempt to fit their ways of being and looking at the world into our own models. As it turns out, however, that’s precisely what Dafyd has been doing, at least up to the point where he realizes that’s a mistake. I found the portions told from the Carryx point of view to be some of the most captivating, even as they were also very disturbing.

Narratively, there are some nice twists and turns to the story, and some nice revelations that make us rethink the nature of the Carryx and the deathless enemy with whom they are locked in a life-and-death struggle. It turns out that humans have also been serving in the armies of the enemies of the Carryx. This changes everything that they, and we, though we knew about this conflict, and it certainly sets the stage for what we can hope is the final downfall of this mighty empire, which seems to exist solely for the purpose of waging war on others. As is made clear throughout the novel, they’ll keep fighting until there is no one left to conquer or until the stars themselves fail.

The Faith of Beasts asks some important questions about human agency, about humanity, and about the notion of personhood. Again and again, we find the characters grappling with the fact that, at the end of the day, they are little more than animals to the Carryx, who are determined to use them right up to the moment when they prove themselves no longer useful to the larger project of the war. As it turns out, however, humans are remarkably resilient beings, and they are more than capable of holding onto what makes them fundamentally human. They start building their own little micro-society amid the Carryx, making the most out of what they’ve been given. Under the guidance of Dafyd and his allies they even begin constructing their own new mythology which, it’s hoped, will keep both their heritage alive and perhaps even instill a revolutionary consciousness among future generations (assuming that they, too, are raised among the Carryx). There are also many glimpses of fundamental human warmth, as when Jessyn risks her own life to save a group of children, or when Campar and Ghati manage to forge a relationship of sorts even when their lives are constantly in danger. It reminds us that, even when all seems lost, it’s important to hold onto our essential human spirit.

And then there’s the being known simply as the swarm. The thing about this entity is that it’s very hard to say just what, exactly, it is, since it seems able to take on the identity of whichever body it takes over. These portions of the novel are some of the most fascinating and the most disturbing, precisely because they force us to really think about what constitutes personhood. This question becomes ever more acute as the swarm starts to reconfigure itself into an entirely new human identity, leading us (and characters like Dafyd) to question: where exactly does humanity and personhood begin? Obviously there’s no easy answer to this question, and I love that this book makes us just sit with it.

Overall, then, I’d say that The Faith of Beasts is one of my favorite speculative fiction reads this year. It’s the kind of book that, once you’ve finished it, you find yourself wanting to go back and start from the beginning, because you know it’s going to be a while before you get to see how the story ends. I know one thing’s for sure. When the third and final volume in this series is published, I’m going to be right there at the front of the line waiting to get my copy!

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Spoilers for the series follow.

This might come as a bit of a surprise to some people, but I actually really enjoy the Netflix series Tires. Yes, it’s more than a little uncouth and yes, its characters might be quite dumb, but it has its charms. As other critics have noted, it made some significant improvements between the first and second seasons, and I was genuinely impressed by how much stronger the third season has been. The characters feel like they’ve finally settled into a nice groove, and the stories this season really did push them in some new and productive directions. Like any good sitcom worth its salt, Tires both captures what made the show so appealing during its first two seasons while also moving the characters into new territory.

In many ways, Tires is a fascinating portrait of 21st century American masculinity. With the exception of Kilah (more on her in a moment), all of the main characters are men, and they each represent a very different type of American male. Shane is, of course, the archetypal working-class White dude, the kind of guy who delights in being inappropriate and un-PC (he’s essentially a Boomer in a Millennial body), while Will is far more sensitive, the kind of guy who just has no clue what he’s doing. Cal is a pretty average joe and Dave, of course, is the biggest reprobate of the bunch, though for much of the season he’s attempting to reform his ways and become less of a sex addict (needless to say, he falls off the wagon).

What continues to surprise me the most about Tires is the extent to which it doesn’t always let its characters off the hook for being terrible. Time and again, we see Shane and Will and Dave have to confront the consequences of their actions. Will obviously bears the brunt of a lot of this, since he is just intelligent enough to know how to run a business but not assertive or confident enough to put some of his better ideas into practice. Dave, of course, is the series’ favorite punching bag, both because he’s a dick and because his lascivious desires ensure he remains his own worst enemy. Watching him struggle with his desire to indulge in strippers and booze and extramarital affairs is truly a delight, and I give Stavros Halkias a lot of credit for being willing to lean into the grotesque, satyr-like humor of it all.

Even Shane, who seems to be the most traditionally (and, at times, most toxically) masculine of the characters sometimes struggles with a sense of meaning and belonging. Among other things, he sees a man die and then gets shot down by his high school crush, and it’s clear that these events–along with his brief sexual dalliance with the young woman he dubs “Lucy the Lib”--engender a bit of an identity crisis. Unfortunately for him, the unspoken–though rigidly enforced–codes of masculine behavior in America means that he really lacks either the vocabulary, or at times even the desire, to really get to the bottom of his own feelings. Shane Gillis delivers a remarkably nuanced performance, and I appreciate his willingness to show a more vulnerable side to himself. It’s just fortunate for him that Will has his own best interests at heart, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t touched by a moment later in the season when the two come as close as two straight men can to talking openly about how much they love each other.

One of the most refreshing changes in the third season is the greater emphasis on Kilah. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that she’s become a main character, exactly, but she definitely has more to do than she did in the first two seasons. This is very much a good thing, because Kilah Fox is a master of using facial expressions for comedic effect, and I love the sheer variety of looks she has. And yet, as with all of the great comedic performers, she also knows how to deliver when it comes to more poignant moments, as when Kilah discovers that a group of her former volleyball teammates have regular get-togethers without her. There’s real pain there, and it’s the kind of pain that’s sure to resonate with anyone who’s ever felt out by the popular kids. However, there’s something refreshing–even empowering–about the way that Kilah is who she appears to be, nothing more and nothing less, and if a person doesn’t like that well, fuck them.

Above all, though, Tires is also a very, very funny show. It’s ridiculous, and the characters aren’t especially bright, but that’s part of its charm. These are the kind of people that you often want to reach into the screen and smack, but you can’t help but feel yourself drawn to them anyway. Both Chris O’Connor and Thomas Haden Church do a fine job of playing the straight guys in this show of absurdity, with Church in particular is a master at delivering ridiculous lines with an absolutely straight face. I don’t know whether he’ll be coming back for the third season, but I really hope so!

I will admit, though, that I found the finale genuinely touching. At first, it seems as if everything is finally going Will and Shane’s way: the business is finally back in their hands; Shane’s dad is off doing his thing with his witchy girlfriend; and Shane seems to have made peace with the fact that his romance with his love interest is over but that there might be something with Lucy (since, as it turns out, she’s pregnant). Don’t get me wrong. I’m as surprised as anyone that I enjoyed this show as much as I did. I’m not, as a rule, the target audience for dude comedies (with the possible exception of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia). For some reason, though, Tires has really resonated with me. Perhaps it’s because the characters seem so much like the guys I grew up with, and I like to think that at least some of those fellows managed to find their own little slice of happiness. At the end of the day, men do deserve love, and this show demonstrates an avenue for that love and affection. These men aren’t perfect by any means, but they could certainly be a lot worse.

Given how toxic masculinity is everywhere these days, I’ll take it.

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I thought long and hard about whether I wanted to publish this piece, whether I wanted to dive into the whole messy discourse surrounding women who read MM romance and how they engage with the characters on the page, their struggles, their desires, and their lives. However, as someone who both writes romance and thinks a lot about how and what our literary tastes reveal about us as both readers and as people, I simply couldn’t stand by and not say something.

First, some context, since I’m sure a lot of you out there aren’t plugged into Threads and the various bits of drama that bubble up on there on a daily basis. A few days ago a user wrote that “in a MM I have two people I can swoon over or enjoy their suffering. I also love gross, ugly stories. It’s harder for me to be invested if the disgusting thing should be a woman. I don’t feel good thinking about women that way.”

Woo, lads. Where to even begin?

Now, a generous reading of the original post would suggest that this person simply meant that they enjoy a certain amount of angst and struggle in their romance novels, and this makes sense. After all, part of the pleasure of reading the genre comes from knowing that the struggle and the pain and the angst will have an amorous conclusion that, despite everything, true love really does conquer all.

However, one can’t divorce this statement from the specific types of angst they want to see in their romance novels. It’s revealing, I think, that they say they can’t stand to see women in fiction suffering because, presumably, they are all too conscious of the fact that women suffer many things in the real world. This begs the question: what, then, is so pleasurable about queer men suffering? Indeed, why frame it that way in the first place? It would be one thing if they said they enjoyed seeing queer men manage to find love despite all of the forces arrayed against queer love in our world, and it would have been one thing had they hadn’t invoked the term “disgusting,” which makes it seem as if they are perfectly okay with disgusting things happening to queer male characters.

Now, obviously queer characters in fiction aren’t the same as queer people in the real world, and I think there’s a significant danger to conflating the two. Fiction, after all, allows us to work through and experience uncomfortable things, and in a genre like romance, where the happy-ever-after is guaranteed, it can actually be therapeutic and empowering for queer people to get the kind of resolution and happiness they’re so often denied in the real world. It does make me a little concerned, however, when certain kinds of readers decide that reading about queer male suffering–whether it’s homophobia, familial rejection, or what have you–is somehow a pleasure in and of itself. For better or worse, pleasure is always political, and even queer suffering is political when, as now, we’re living in a moment when far too many people savor actual queer trauma.

The larger question, though, is what comments like this reveal about the ethics of pleasurable reading. Obviously, people take pleasure in things they read that they would never enjoy in real life, or at least one would hope so. We can hope, for example, that the poster of this comment doesn’t enjoy seeing queer people suffer in the real world, but as a queer person it’s getting harder and harder to detach queer suffering in fiction from queer suffering in the real world. For queer people, these kinds of experiences aren’t just something we can encounter from a safe remove. They’re a part of our lived realities and experiences. This isn’t just fiction for us, and so it makes sense that some of us would bristle when we read someone seeming to make light of a very real and very ugly part of current queer life in the United States (and abroad, obviously).

And this is where the reality behind fiction comes into play. Yes, romance is escapism, and yes, it gives readers–straight or gay or pan, male or female or nonbinary, cis or trans–a means of both escaping the world and grappling with the ugly realities that we all inhabit in the safe space of fiction. At the same time, writing and reading fiction, I would argue, comes with at least a measure of moral responsibility. At the very least, when we read (or watch) fictions, we should be thinking about why we take pleasure in certain kinds of things and what that might say about us. To be clear, this isn’t to kink-shame or to say that you should feel ashamed of your pleasures; it is to say, though, that a little self-reflexivity goes a long way when it comes to engaging with fictions that draw on real-life pain for their affective impact.

Much has been written about the responsibility that writers have to write authentically, even if what they’re writing about isn’t drawn from their own experiences. I honestly still don’t know how I feel about the fact that so much MM romance is written by (and, arguably, for) cisgender women, and I don’t think I’m ever going to come up with an answer that satisfies me. I’m usually of the mind that anyone can write what they want, but the increasing prevalence of anti-queer male sentiment in MM romance spaces, both online and in person, is starting to make me rethink this position.

The post that started this most recent dust-up reveals that there’s a vital conversation to be had about the ways in which we engage with that writing. What are the ethics of enjoying another’s suffering–particularly that of a marginalized character–even when that suffering is fictional? As with the question of who should be writing MM romance, there’s no easy answer to these questions, but they really do need to be grappled with, particularly as the genre continues to grow in popularity.

Writing and reading are both political acts, and it’s time we start acting like it.

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For a host of reasons, I’ve been thinking a lot about men in popular culture. Throughout much of the 2000s and into the 2010s, our TV screens–and, to a lesser extent, our cineplexes–were inundated with stories about broken and bad and grieving and destructive men, men like Walter White, Tony Soprano, and Don Draper. I’ve lost count of the number of articles, books, and opinion pieces that have been written about the destructive antiheroes of the 21st century and, while I’ll admit that I was a big fan of many of these shows, I’ll also say that I grew very tired of seeing men behaving badly and getting praised for it.

Thank goodness, then, that the last few years has seen a flowering of shows focusing on that most rare of TV creatures: what I call the decent man. I want to focus today on two shows in particular: Ted Lasso and the rebooted King of the Hill. If you’ve ever seen these two shows, you’ll know that they’re both very funny and remarkably insightful, using the plot and character rhythms and tropes of the sitcom to shed some important light on the issues plaguing us today. More to the point, both series feature male main characters that are the exact opposite of the monstrous antiheroes of decades past. Ted and Hank are certainly not perfect–more on that in a moment–but they are, at the end of the day, fundamentally decent. We might sometimes find ourselves more than a little befuddled by their actions, but we still love them and appreciate the way they are there for those they love.

If you’ve ever seen an episode of Ted Lasso, you’ll know that Ted is the very definition of a stand-up guy. He’s one of those people who is, quite simply, relentlessly cheerful and optimistic, with a grin always plastered on his face and a bit of Midwest dad wisdom for almost every situation or challenge that might arise. At first, it’s easy–for both of those of us in the audience and the Brits with whom he comes into contact–to believe that this is all just a put-on, that no one could possibly be this happy. The thing about Ted, though, is that he really is genuine, and his love for those in his life is real and deep. He’ll look out for both his friends and the members of his team and, no matter the challenges they face, you can always count on him to do the right thing and go the extra mile to make sure his players and his friends feel loved and supported.

Hank, likewise, is a good guy, though he can be very stuck in his ways and reluctant to change. That’s as true in the reboot version of the series as it was in the original run and, if we’re being honest, it’s a big part of the reason that we love him. Who among us, after all, doesn’t have at least one Boomer man in their life who looks at every new thing–whether it be an electric vehicle or a small dog–with both fear and a little bit of loathing? Yet we love these folks, despite the fact that they seem trapped in a world that can never be, because to some degree we can at least sympathize with them, even if we don’t share their ambivalence about this brave new world.

What’s really notable about Hank, however, is the extent to which he will always show up for his family, even though he’s often befuddled by them. To be sure, Hank makes it very clear–time and time again–that he’s never going to be able to wrap his head around Bobby and his life choices, but he’s still going to show up for him when it matters. Likewise, he’s also going to show up for his friends, even (especially) when they’re once again gotten themselves into an absolute mess. Say what you will about Hank, but the man is loyal, to both man and dog alike (the scene in which he asks for Lady Bird’s blessing on his new dog is one of the highlights of the newest season of the show).

The thing that I find refreshing about both Ted Lasso and King of the Hill is that they don’t let their main characters off the hook. As we’ve seen in previous seasons, Ted’s relentless optimism is often a shield used to disguise his very real mental health struggles, and it has taken him a lot of work to get to the point where he can speak honestly about them. His struggles don’t diminish his resolute optimism; if anything, the fact that he is still so willing and able to see the best in others is testament to how genuine he has been and remains.

Hank, likewise, often has to grapple with the fact that he’s not always right, much as he might like to think that he is. I particularly liked the episode in which he’s tricked by a scammer into sending money to them, money he believes is being sent to get Bobby out of jail. It’s a humbling moment for Hank precisely because he tends to think he’s the most competent person in the room, and it’s a good reminder that, for all that he usually is the most competent, he’s not completely infallible, either. It’s also a useful reminder that men, even the wisest of them, don’t always have all of the answers.

In other words, Ted Lasso and Hank Hill are iterations of what I’ve seen referred to as “tonic masculinity.” They demonstrate the extent to which straight, cisgender men can be good and decent and kind, without giving up the things that make them men. No one would ever accuse Hank of being soft, and Ted has shown, time and again, that he has a gift for sports. These two characters, in their unique ways, may just point us toward a better vision for masculinity. While I don’t think that popular culture can solve all of our social problems, I do think that shows like Ted Lasso and King of the Hill remind us that we don’t have to settle for a world in which White men are given carte blanche to act like sociopaths and to make their problems the world’s responsibility to solve. Instead, we can demand that they just be plain decent men.

Is that so much to ask?

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

If you know anything about me–or, hell, even if you’ve just perused this newsletter a few times–you’ll know I’m one of those people who watches movies in order to hurt my own feelings. For example, I knew going into Don’t Say Good Luck that this film was going to make me ugly cry, and I was right. I mean, it is about a teenager, Sophie Birenbaum (a superb Sunny Sandler) who tries out for her high school’s production of The Waitress and gets the lead, only to find out her mother, Elizabeth (an equally superb Melanie Lynskey) has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Sophie’s musical aspirations conflict with the stresses and demands of her mother’s final illness.

It probably goes without saying, but Melanie Lynskey is just sublime in this film. From the moment we meet her, it’s clear how much she loves her daughter and has a truly deep and abiding relationship with her. You can see the anguish it causes her to know not just that she’s going to lose the fight against cancer but that she’s also not going to be there for her at some of the key moments in her life, most notably the opening night of Waitress. It’s a deeply and poignantly human performance, giving a necessary face to the struggles that come with terminal illness, and I particularly appreciate the extent to which Lynskey captures Elizabeth’s heartbreaking vulnerability, particularly once Sophie finds out just how bad it all is. It’s one of Lynskey’s most tender, heartfelt, and poignant performances and, given just how many of those she’s given over the course of her career, that’s no small thing.

For her part, Sunny Sandler continues to demonstrate remarkable talent, and she nicely captures the angst and frustration–and, most importantly, the grief–of a young woman caught on the cusp of tremendous change to almost every aspect of her life. One of my favorite moments in the entire film is when she spurns the advances of a love interest after she catches him kissing another girl…only for him to then try to make out with her, too. In a less mature film, she would’ve still been interested in him romantically, but instead she holds fast to her dignity. What’s more, she has a remarkable singing voice and you can well believe, as her mother tells her, that in music she has at last found her light.

The supporting cast is also superb, but that’s hardly surprising. I mean, when you have the likes of Steve Buscemi and Bebe Neuwirth playing loving but very intrusive grandparents, the results are going to be spectacular. Neuwirth in particular is astoundingly good, and I loved getting to see her a fierce and loving mother, even as I appreciate the extent to which the film shows that a certain type of maternal love can become smothering when it ceases to regard the wishes and interests of its recipient.

Indeed, the thing I loved the most about this film is just how deft it is when it comes to its message. In fact, it may well be the fact that there’s not a message to it, at all. Instead, it’s a film all about the messiness–and yes, the tragedy–that is the human condition. It’s absolutely not fair that Elizabeth’s cancer has come back, and it’s also not fair that Sophie’s parents keep the truth from her. I give Max Greenfield a lot of credit for the understated intensity to his performance, and I loved the scene in which his character, Ted, shares a tender moment with Sophie, as they both contend with what it’s going to mean when Elizabeth is no longer with them. Moreover, he also acknowledges that they were wrong to keep the extent of her illness from their daughter, and that he understands it will take time for her to forgive them. Grief and love and sorrow are messy, and this film doesn’t shy away from these things.

The understated brilliance of Don’t Say Good Luck lies in its ability to deftly weave together moments of great tragedy and moments of genuine humor, and there were a surprising number of moments where I literally laughed out loud. Sophie is, in many ways, a typical teenager, with crushes and best friends and messy teen drama but she also genuinely loves music. I loved the way the film made music an intrinsic part of its story, and the cutting together of the drama with numbers from The Waitress was effective. I also liked seeing Sophie’s friendship with Carolyn (Scarlett Estevez), which is just as complicated and emotionally fraught as most high school bonds.

I actually love the fact that the film doesn’t end with Elizabeth’s death. Instead, it gives Sophie a last embrace with her mother: she gets to embrace the light that singing and performing brings to her, and her mother gets to bathe in the light her daughter has always given her. We know, of course, what waits for her in the moments that extend beyond the end of the film, but at least for this last, precious moment we can savor and enjoy the image of a mother and daughter in a loving embrace. The fact that it all takes place against the backdrop of a reconstructed beach house–where the family was supposed to vacation–makes it all that much more poignant. Our last glimpse of mother and daughter is of the two of them in an embrace,

I wrote at the jump that this film hit home for me because both of my parents are cancer survivors, and I meant that. There’s something cathartic and freeing about fictions that allows us to grapple with heavy feelings, even when there isn’t a happy ending waiting at the end of things. I’m so very grateful that both of my parents are in remission but, like Sophie, I’ve had to grapple with what it might mean for one of them to say, “I’m not gonna make it.” I found this film to be a cathartic balm and a timely reminder to cherish every moment you have with those you love, because none of us truly knows how much time we have left.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

Tom Vellner’s Thirty Love is one of those lovely little gay books that I just happened to discover when I saw it sitting on the shelf of my local library. Since I’m always on the hunt for new queer romance–and since Heated Rivalry has lit a desire in me to read more sports romances of every type–I thought this one would be a good choice. I was fortunately proven correct, and it was exactly the sweet romance that I wanted, with just the right amount of spice. If you’re looking for your next great sports romance, then this should be it.

When the book begins, Leo is a very successful tennis player, but he has a problem. Or, more precisely, he has a rival who also happens to be a problem: Gabe Montoya. The two of them have cordially disliked one another for years, and it doesn’t help that Gabe manages to get the best of Leo on the court. As tends to happen in these cases, though, their mutual dislike masks something deeper and more complicated. Soon enough, they’re starting to fall head over heels for one another and, while it takes some time and work, in the end it all works out for them.

Unlike many sports romances, which tend to gloss over the sports part, Vellner actually does a very strong job of immersing us in the world of tennis. Now, to be sure, I know next to nothing about tennis, but Vellner made me feel like I did. More to the point, he also made me feel invested in the success of Leo’s career as much as I was invested in his romance and love story with Gabe. Personally, I love romances that allow me to feel like I’m an intimate part of the character’s life, that their goals are my goals. I may not know anything about tennis or feel particularly invested in it in the real world, but during the time I was reading Thirty Love I sure felt like I was!

Given the fact that it takes place in the context of professional sports, it’s not surprising that Thirty Love grapples with the ugly reality of homophobia. The Russian Sascha is particularly odious, and he seems to go out of his way to be as much of an asshole as he can possibly be. He’s superficially a little like Ilya Rozanov, except without Ilya’s genuinely good nature. Given how much he goes out of his way to be a terrible person and to be a virulent homophobe, it’s particularly satisfying to see Leo kick his ass in the final tennis match. Of course, the match itself is symbolic for Leo, and it marks the moment at which he finally comes into his own as both a tennis player and as a gay man. It’s the peak of triumph, and it had me on the edge of my seat wondering what was going to happen.

Moreover, figuring out his feelings for Gabe and trying to stay in the closet aren’t the only things Leo has to deal with. He also has to contend with the fact that his father has MS and that this, in turn, means he won’t always be there as a coach (though he will obviously always be there as a father). Anyone who’s ever had to contend with a parent’s failing health will find this aspect of the story particularly resonant, and I thought it was handled with a great deal of grace and sensitivity. Vellner knows how to use every element of his story to add layers and levels of emotional depth to the central romance.

I also loved the fact that Leo had a very supportive group around him. This includes his parents–and I admit that I teared up a bit when his mother welcomed him out of the closet with open arms–but also his friends, who are there with him through thick and thin. I’ve long thought that the best romances are those that show people being part of social groups that go beyond just the one best friend, and Vellner deserves a lot of credit for giving us a gay hero who has a group of folks who love him unconditionally and sometimes know him better than he knows himself.

The heart and soul of the book, however, is the relationship between Leo and Gabe. Vellner does an excellent job of showing the extent to which these two young men are clearly attracted to one another, even though it takes them quite a while to admit their feelings to one another. Vellner strikes the right balance between sweet and spicy, and the novel nicely straddles the line between open and closed door, giving us just enough to feel the heat and the passion and the love pulsing between our leads without overwhelming us.

Rather remarkably, this novel doesn’t rely on a third act breakup. Oh sure, things get a little uncertain there when their relationship leaks to the press, but it’s resolved pretty quickly. When it comes right down to it, queer love does triumph over all, both on the court and off. The moment when Leo sees Gabe up in the stands melted my heart, and I was cheering for him throughout that fateful match with Sascha. I’ll admit that I wasn’t sure he was going to be able to pull off the win, but he did, and my heart soared for him.

Altogether, then, I really loved this book. I mean, I knew I was going to, both because the cover is gorgeous and because I love me a sports romance. Even so, Vellner has a knack for crafting heroes who are both very likable and also a little flawed, and I loved both Leo and Gabe. I do wish that we’d gotten at least a few scenes from the latter’s point of view–we also know that I tend to prefer dual POVs–but Leo is such a great hero I’m willing to make an exception.

Go read this book. You won’t regret it!