A Book A Week

Over the past few months, I've plunged deeply into the realm of true crime literature. Something about how these books capture real-life perspectives and experiences within extraordinary circumstances has consistently interested me. Elon Green's Last Call recently garnered attention as it was adapted and expanded into an HBO miniseries. This book delves into the chilling account of a serial killer who terrorized gay men in New York during the '80s and '90s. The moment I first heard about it, I was intrigued. Before diving into the television adaptation, though, I knew it was crucial to read the book. So, I borrowed a copy of Last Call from my library and eagerly immersed myself in its pages.

In the year 1992, The Townhouse Bar in Midtown, New York City, held a special significance for gay men in the city. It was a refuge where they could embrace their true selves without the looming fear of ridicule or violence. At the bar's heart, a group of men gathered around the piano, their voices raised in enthusiastic harmony with their favorite show tunes, relishing a precious moment of genuine self-expression.

Amidst this exuberant crowd, one man chose to stand slightly apart. He nursed a scotch and water, his demeanor utterly inconspicuous, blending seamlessly into the background. He was intentionally unmemorable, ensuring that no one in the bar could later recall his face. This very anonymity was his greatest weapon. His eyes were fixed on an older, gray-haired man, but not with romantic intentions. Instead, he saw his next unsuspecting victim. 

The Last Call Killer preyed upon gay men in New York during the '80s and '90s, displaying the chilling characteristics commonly associated with the most notorious serial killers. However, the memory of his murders has faded into obscurity due to the high murder rates of that era, the impact of the AIDS epidemic, and the sexual orientation of his victims. Elon Green's book provides a detailed chronicle of the lengthy pursuit to unmask this elusive killer. Simultaneously, it paints a poignant portrait of his victims and the resilient community that navigated the constant threat while demonstrating remarkable strength in the face of adversity.

Being a gay man myself, I was deeply struck by the apparent negligence of the authorities in their pursuit of the killer and the quest for justice. The prevalent homophobia within the NYPD blinded them to the connections between the murders, resulting in a decades-long delay in bringing the perpetrator to account. It was also disheartening to witness how many of the victims were compelled to lead closeted lives, often maintaining a double existence with a spouse and children. Tragically, their authentic selves remained hidden until their untimely deaths exposed their true identities.

Elon Green's work comprehensively examines the case, offering insights from various angles, including perspectives from law enforcement, the victims' families, and their friends. It is both astonishing and troubling that a case of such magnitude, unfolding in one of the world's largest cities, remained relatively obscured for an extended period due to deep-seated biases. Last Call accomplishes the vital task of giving a voice to those who were silenced while delivering a compelling and essential story that demands to be shared.

For more information visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2023, 80)

M. Night Shyamalan is a name synonymous with horror. His breakout directorial hit The Sixth Sense set the stage for an incredible run of original suspense films known for their trademark twist endings. In later years, the writer-director became infamous for a string of commercial and critical misfires that saw his stature in Hollywood diminish. Recently, he has shifted away from big studio productions, opting for self-financed films that harken back to the grassroots approach of his earlier, more successful works. When I first caught wind of Shyamalan's plans to adapt Paul Tremblay's terrifying novel, The Cabin at the End of the World, for the screen, I approached the news with a mix of cautious optimism. I enjoyed most of Shyamalan's films, including some of his less well-received ones, so I was eager to witness his interpretation of a novel that I held in such high regard.

The story centers around a family consisting of a gay couple, portrayed by Jonathan Groff and Ben Aldridge, and their adopted daughter, Wen. Seeking a peaceful vacation, the trio retreats to a remote cabin in the woods. While her fathers unwind on the cabin's back patio, young Wen keeps herself occupied by collecting grasshoppers in the front yard. She meticulously names and catalogs these creatures until she notices a large, imposing figure approaching the dirt road. This intimidating man, portrayed terrifyingly by Dave Bautista, introduces himself to Wen and cryptically explains that he and his companions require their help to save the world. At this moment, Wen's instincts signal the impending danger to her and her family, prompting her to flee and seek her parents' assistance.

It doesn't take long for the man and his three associates to capture the family and hold them hostage within the cabin. It's within the confines of this cabin that their true intentions are unveiled. The strangers believe they have been chosen to prevent an impending apocalypse, with the family playing a pivotal role in their mission. Confounded, terrified, and isolated from the outside world, the family must grapple with their beliefs and make a life-altering decision before it's too late.

Knock at the Cabin demonstrates Shyamalan's directorial prowess, successfully translating Tremblay's harrowing story into a gripping cinematic experience. Dave Bautista delivers a standout performance, skillfully oscillating between nuanced grief and menacing intimidation. His emotionally charged portrayal adds layers of tension, leaving viewers on the edge of their seats. Rupert Grint, renowned for his role in Harry Potter, also makes a striking appearance, showcasing his versatility in a raw and terrifying character that's a stark departure from his iconic role. The film earns its R rating through its graphic violence, as Shyamalan fearlessly captures the horrifying essence of Tremblay's premise. While the movie delves into moments of intense terror, it also balances the narrative with poignant character development, providing viewers with brief respites amid the suspense.

As in the novel, the film admirably presents a gay couple without sensationalism, portraying their relationship as authentically normal. Jonathan Groff and Ben Aldridge breathe life into their characters, crafting a genuine and relatable portrayal of this couple. Shyamalan opts for an ending distinct from the novel, which may be less contentious. Regardless of one's stance on the ending, the film masterfully explores themes of family, duty, and sacrifice within the framework of chilling horror. It stands as an excellent addition to any spooky season watchlist.

I've read many great books to kick off this year, but I've been waiting for a book to wow me. First released in 2021, S.A. Cosby's Razorblade Tears is that book. I've seen this novel across various book blogs and bookstagrams, so it has been on my radar since it was released. Like many other hyped books, I purchased a copy and promptly ignored it on my shelf for the next two years. If only I knew what I was missing! Razorblade Tears is a searing portrait of regret, revenge, and renewal, the kind of novel I crave to read, but rarely find. 

When ex-con Ike Randolph answers the door, he isn't happy to see the cops. What black man would be? Despite all of his fears, he couldn't have imagined that one of his worst would be coming true. Ike's son Isaiah and his white husband Derek have been brutally murdered. Ike never entirely accepted his son's sexuality, let alone that he married a white man, but he is nonetheless devastated by his loss. 

Derek's father Buddy Lee is stunned by the death of his son. The pair were equally ashamed of each other. Derek couldn't forgive his father for being an ex-con with ties to racist miscreants. Buddy Lee, couldn't get over his son's sexuality. Add to it all that Derek married a black man, the ultimate sin in this father's eyes, and the father and son hadn't spoken to each other in years. 

There's nothing like regret to bring people together. Both Ike and Buddy Lee sit with the loss of things unsaid. Only in losing their sons do they begin to see the error of their ways. Regret alone isn't the only thing that haunts these fathers. They hunger for revenge. The police, for their part, seem either unable or unwilling to find out who killed their boys. The two grieving fathers, then, must set aside their differences and come together to bring their boys' killer to justice. In the process, lines will be crossed, and bridges will be burned. But they just may find redemption in all the wreckage they leave behind. 

Razorblade Tears is a tour de force. Cosby writes a thriller that manages to layer in deeper themes of racism, sexuality, and corruption while never ceasing to keep the action moving. The main characters are an unlikely duo, creating tension and comedy in all the right places. In writing about a hate crime, Cosby doesn't refrain from detailing the horrors of such an event. This is a violent book that isn't afraid to go to the dark places that the subject matter requires. At its heart, though, Razorblade Tears is a book about the love a father has for his son. Like life, this love isn't perfect. A father doesn't always get it right. Redemption can be had, but one must decide to seek it. This is the first book I've read this year that truly blew me away. Cosby has a new novel releasing later this year, and I'll be the first in line to read it. 

For more information visit Amazon and Goodreads. 

(2023, 8)

As part of my tenth year of blogging, I've resolved to read and review a wider variety of books. Over the course of the last decade, I read everything from picture books to comics and even a few cookbooks. I was pleasantly surprised when one of my publishing partners Pantheon offered me a copy of Gengoroh Tagame's newest manga, Our Colors. I have never delved into the art, but I was intrigued by the gay coming-of-age story that the work's summary promised. It took me a few minutes to get past reading the book and panels from the opposite side of what I'm used to, but once I conditioned myself to the format, I was enveloped by the rich world that Tagame created. 

Sora is a 16-year-old student who is slowly coming to terms with the fact that he is gay. He's terrified of revealing his true self to his family and peers, especially as he develops a crush on one of his male friends. He is simply too afraid to confide in anyone. One day it all becomes too much to bear, and Sora flees from his school in an emotional panic. He finds refuge in a coffee shop off the beaten path. The owner, an older man, reveals to Sora that he is also gay. The pair strike up a friendship that sees Sora learning to become more comfortable in his own skin. When the elder man's past comes to light, it threatens to destroy the friendship he's built and worse, may force Sora deeper into the closet. 

What immediately struck me about Our Colors is the way with which Tagame builds deep characters and relationships through sparse words and brilliantly detailed images. Each frame deliberately works in service of this story he is telling. He illustrates the way Sora hides his sexuality from his friends and family by depicting him wearing a literal mask over his face, something we the readers see, but that the people he interacts with are blind to. Showing the internal thoughts through images seeped into fantasy helps to reveal the character's emotional journey while juxtaposing the more grounded images set within the real world. All of this comes together to make a coming-of-age story that is subtly moving. I had a minor gripe with an event that occurs near the end of the work, but that does little to take away the power of Our Colors. 

For more information visit the author's website and Goodreads. 

(2022, 29)

I've been blogging and reviewing books for nearly ten years now. In that time, I've seen many changes to the kinds of books that are being published. Some trends have thankfully come and gone, while other more welcome changes seem here to stay. One positive trend is that publishers seem to be releasing books that are much more diverse in their authors and the stories they tell. This year alone, I've already noticed that my own reading has been much more varied than in years past. Yes, this is partly due to me consciously seeking out a wider array of books, but I think it is safe to say that publishers are learning that readers want to read stories that are as diverse as we are. It should come as no surprise, then, that P.J. Vernon's new thriller Bath Haus has taken readers by storm. 

On the surface, Oliver has it all. The road to this point hasn't been easy, but he has managed to trade a life addiction and abuse in Indiana for a place of love and luxury in Washington DC. Oliver owes his change in fortune in large part to his partner Nathan. Nathan's upbringing couldn't be any more different than Oliver's. He comes from a wealthy family and has flourished in his own right as a prominent trauma surgeon. In fact, it was at the hospital where Nathan first met Oliver. Nathan helped Oliver overcome his drug addiction and showed him the true meaning of a loving relationship. The couple now lives in a gorgeous home outside of the city, and has, by all appearances, the perfect life. Beneath the surface of their picture-perfect life together, however, cracks are beginning to form. 

How did he get to this point? Aren't there better ways to deal with unhappiness in a relationship? These thoughts cross Oliver's mind as he quietly approaches the gay bathhouse Haus. He knows that he is risking his entire livelihood by visiting this place. Still, he opens the door and enters, forever setting into motion the events that will change his life as he knows it. Once inside, thoughts of his relationship with Nathan quickly leave his mind. They are replaced with something much simpler. Lust. Oliver follows a man into a private room, already beginning to surrender to his desire. Just as he's losing himself to the moment and the man before him, things change. His lust is replaced now with something he didn't expect. Fear. As he races from Haus, barely escaping with his life, Oliver is certain of only one thing. Nathan can never know about what just happened. 

In Bath Haus, P.J. Vernon presents a breakneck domestic thriller that is both unapologetically gay and surprisingly accessible to a more mainstream audience. As a gay man, I was thrilled to see a gay couple given the kind of care and depth that is normally reserved for a heterosexual couple in popular fiction. As a fan of mysteries and thrillers, I was even more enthused by the imaginative plot full of surprising twists and revelatory reveals. It was really easy to get behind the main character Oliver. He's just a kid who is overwhelmed by trying to be the perfect version of himself. Even though most of his troubles are self-inflicted, it's hard not to root for him. By firmly planting his characters in a sense of reality, Vernon allows his unabashed exploration of eroticism and enigma to be more readily accepted by the reader. Bath Haus is the kind of read that you won't be able to put down or, in my case, stop listening to. P.J. Vernon has written a steamy thrill ride that manages to push the boundaries of diverse storytelling in modern fiction while satisfying all desires for an excellent summer read. 

For more information visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads.

(2021, 30)

 "American history is truly the greatest fable ever written."

Representation matters. Hearing the voice of a person like you, seeing them live their life and truth, can truly inspire and encourage. For LGBTQ+ youth, this representation is paramount. When I was a young man coming to terms with my own sexuality, seeing other gay men represented in the media provided a beacon of hope that everything would be okay. Fortunately for me, I was growing up at a time where being a gay man was beginning to lose some of the stigmas that had plagued it before. But imagine for a moment that I'd never had this representation. For countless queer black men like author George M. Johnson, representation has been non-existent. In his book All Boys Aren't Blue, Johnson sets out to rectify that. 

For as long as he could remember, George felt different. He grew up surrounded by his large extended family. There was no shortage of cousins to play with and learn from. Still, George didn't quite see himself in any of his family members. It began at recess where each of the kids separated out into their prescribed groups. The boys all would play ball, but George had little interest. Instead, he would climb to the hill with a group of girls to jump rope. These were his friends, and this is what he liked to do. This was also the first time George began to question himself. The other couldn't understand why he wouldn't want to play with them. George was beginning to wonder too. 

All Boys Aren't Blue is a manifesto of sorts. George M. Johnson sets out to provide a history of his own story and guide others into accepting themselves. From his early days of recognizing himself as "other" to growing into a man much more confident in his sexuality, Johnson writes each anecdote with an honesty that serves to inspire and educate. His perspective from the intersection of both the queer and black communities helps to give a different insight into each of them. The book is geared toward a teenage audience, and I think it is really successful in answering some of the common questions about relationships, sex, and being a queer/black person. I could also see this being a helpful tool for parents who are trying to navigate their children's identity. All Boys Aren't Blue serves as a moving portrait of one man's life and a brilliant example of more diverse representation in books. 

For more information visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2021, 23)