E. C. (Gene) Ayres Blogspot

Back in Jane Austen's time people used to laugh, and sing happy songs like ‘now we don our gay apparel.’ But now gay means getting murdered in rural Wyoming like Matthew Shepard, or flogged in Teheran, or at best having to be secretive, or at least pretty brave, if you choose to come out anywhere outside of, say, the West Village or West Hollywood. But to me, I keep wondering just what all the fuss is all about. It’s like the old saying, ‘some of my best friends are Jews.’ Or in this case, ‘gays.’ Relatives too. Even favorite ones. Having worked in the arts, music, Hollywood and literary worlds my whole life, I was bound to meet one or two of them. And it’s hard to understand why all this anathema from the rest of us. Most of the gays I’ve met are very nice, well educated, well dressed, polite people who wash their hands, and have excellent taste in most matters. Every town or city I’ve ever lived in was improved once gays moved in: art galleries were opened, good restaurants, thea...

I have this problem. It started about three months ago, when I woke up one morning with a song stuck in my head, and it wouldn’t go away, no matter what I tried. I can’t remember which song it was, but I know how it got there. It got there when I was eight years old, listening to 50s pop radio in Westfield, New Jersey, where I grew up. No, wait. Oh no. Here it comes again! Something about a Honeycomb , I think it was called. It went: It’s a darn good life and it’s kinda funny how the Lord made the bee and the bee made the honey and the honey bee lookin’, for a home, and they called it a honeycomb . By a country western artist named Jimmy Rogers. Why do I remember this? It really, truly beats the hell out of me. By no stretch of the imagination should I be carrying this song around in my head, let alone here, now, in the 21rst Century, let alone using it for my six o’clock wake up call. I mean, I know lots of songs. Some of them I’m quite fond of, like Yesterday . And You Are My Sunshin...

Back in 1995, when my second Tony Lowell Mystery, Eye of the Gator was published (with all due acclaim) my then-publisher, St. Martin's Press, sent me to Gainesville, Florida, for a booksigning. Of course those in the sports world know Gainesville to be home of the University of Florida (and thus, presumably, lots of educated people as well, interested in the themes I was hoping to bring to the table) and naturally, anything with 'Gator' in the title should resonate loudly there. Besides, my laid-back P.I. was (albeit fictional) an alumnus of that fabled school. Unfortunately, I quickly discovered that, even in the hometown of the Florida Gator, anything that didn't involve All American quarterbacks, NBA-bound point guards, or at least Ted Bundy or Tom Petty, didn't qualify. Thus my books, and presence, were met with resounding yawns. What my book was actually about, of course, in fact had little to do with the sports Gators and their fans. In fact, it had nothing ...