Nigger Ben Butte, Sisters to Shaniko
. I loved it. I hated it. It felt sick there and so special too. Like Nigger Ben Butte, all wrong, distasteful even, but sickly compelling in its defiance.
. I loved it. I hated it. It felt sick there and so special too. Like Nigger Ben Butte, all wrong, distasteful even, but sickly compelling in its defiance.
My next post was going to be a collection of sexy, vaguely homo-erotic (ok sometimes just flat out homoerotic) pictures of 19th century men that I’ve collected while finding images for my book. But hell, it’s the end of 2015. Maybe the best year of my life so far. I guess I should honor…
I have spent an ass-achingly amount of time combing through image archives, looking for 19th century, hi-res 300 dpi or greater, public domain pictures to put in my book. (UNMENTIONABLE: The Victorian Lady’s Guide to Sex, Marriage and Manners Due Fall 2016 from Little, Brown! Woot!) Which is more difficult than you can even imagine, to find…
My husband’s Uncle Shep is a doctor and surgeon and has probably saved more lives than most towns have people. Yet he believes home based technologies peaked around 1993, and his home, which he graciously opened to my family for our stay in Pennsylvania, reflects that belief. Specifically, he had no internet. No computer even. His…
‘ I hate it when I have a great idea but none of my usual editors want it. This happens a lot. “No, we’re not going to publish all that advice you found where Dear Abby tells mid-century women that they LIKED being hit.” or “Our readers aren’t really looking to be confronted…
I’ve laid down two toothbrushes and a tiny travel pack of Colgate. And two fist sized jawbreakers on sticks. The cashier starts to chuckle and I slam my hand down a little too hard on the pine wood counter. Every goddamn thing in this place is pine wood that looks like it’s been lacquered with…
I have no family of note. My dad was an only child of parents who didn’t keep in touch with their siblings, who also had almost no children. My mother; a more convoluted but similar story. Anyway, they all died and I got generations of papers to store in my garage. I found this…
So, I’m nearly 37. Which…isn’t quite true. I’ve seen 37. They were my teachers and my friend’s moms. Even some of the women I know right now are a proper 37, with large grown up homes, ordered finances and…I don’t know. Whatever 37 year olds like. Wine? So, lean into the fear, or it can’t…