I put up a pretty good fight. When news of Prince Harry’s book first dropped, I nearly sprained my little eyeballs rolling them in every direction. Who cares about this dummy! What a waste of time that would be! But then I had a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, brought my blood sugar back up to normal and remembered who I am — a gossip loving, celebrity worshiping, garbage person — plus he smouldered at me REAL HARD from the cover of the book as I passed a stack of them on sale for $20 at Costco.
What was I to do?
OBVIOUSLY I had to buy the damned thing.
Besides — I am completely obsessed with The Crown, and what if he were to reveal what Mamaw was carrying around in her purse for all those years?? I couldn’t miss that tea! AND — who am I to not support a growing family? Not to mention — I’m still hoping Meg will use my $20 to run out and buy Harry a truckload of Finasteride and IMMEDIATELY start shoving it down his throat.
IF YOURE READING THIS MEGHAN — YOU HAVE ONE JOB. PLEASE: DO IT.
Whatever. Here’s the thing: sometimes you just gotta read trash. I can’t be reading The Netanyahus all the time. I need balance, so off I went! I really, Really, REALLY wanted to despise these nerds and come here and rip them to shreds. As I dropped my $20 to buy the book (along with my gunny sack full of impossible burgers) I pictured myself skipping right through the book hate-reading myself into ecstasy. I mean, how difficult could it be to smile and nod while wearing cute hats and saying cheerio, gov’na, pass the clotted cream!? No one is more irritated than I am to report that I actually enjoyed Harry’s book.
Listen, don’t get me wrong. That same stupid puppy-dog eyed baby talk these two used to speak to each other in the Netflix documentary is present in these pages, and it is equally nauseating. But — it’s really difficult to manage this irritation when revelations about how the “family” (notice use of sarcastic quotation marks) operates forces your jaw to go and unhinge itself, jump out of the bathtub, crawl across the floor, log into your computer and buy tickets on the next flight to London so it can pop over to Buckingham Palace and punch King Charles III square in the dick.
Yeah, friend, there are a lot of revelations. My face went on quite the journey making face after horrified face, and I had to work my dropped jaw back into place several times. If you’re like me and have a subscription to People Magazine (totally worth the investment) then you’ve probably already read a bit of the dirt: William & Harry begged Charles to NOT marry Camilla, the nasty frostbite that had Harry rubbing Elizabeth Arden lotion on his todger (British slang for PENIS, you’re welcome), and how H learned of Queen Elizabeth’s death online. There are tons of other revelations. TONS. The book is 416 pages long — there better be!
I know, I KNOW! It’s very easy to dismiss H&M after the Oprah interview and all the gossip. None of that garbage exactly sets him up to be a reliable narrator. The racism is easy to believe, it’s the shock over a bunch of uptight old white folks being uptight and old and WHITE that’s a little more difficult to swallow. Couldn’t Harry have done something before this whole thing exploded? That’s where I was when I started the book, but then he had to go and begin with his account of the days surrounding his mother’s death. This choice took my breath away. I dropped my cranky judgements, and all I could see was a little boy walking behind his mother’s coffin.
Yeah, yeah, yeah — it was planned like this to reel me in and punch me in the heart. I know, he got me, but it really did strike me that this is the first time we’re getting a real account of those days. Yes, there have been bits and pieces of their story, but this felt real and true and unvarnished to me. It made me see him as a real live human person, unable to manage the pressure of being a good royal (whatever that means). The book worked best in moments like this, and others where we get to see the royal family in action through Harry’s eyes.
These fools are truly fascinating! It’s like … are y’all a Ryan Murphy joint because this is a real-ass HORROR STORY. Family members trading stories about one another for good press, a father who leaves hand written notes for his sons rather than have face to face conversations (I’m proud of you, son, xo Papa Chuckles), a queen who might be so old she has become a puppet, and everyone (most everyone) vying for their place in line for the throne. The details will have your eyes popping out of your cute little head. It’s like you’re pretty sure they’re cold and detached, but trust me when I tell you YOURE NOT READY. This book is both celebrity memoir AND a full on argument for the end of the monarchy. These people are so out of touch they might actually be aliens from another planet.
My expert advice is to read the first 100 pages so you see the family up close from Harry’s childhood on up through him going off to join the military. Then skip to the last 100 pages so you see him meeting Meghan and the snowballing drama it brings. I know this is a memoir, and ultimately it’s supposed to be about Harry, but do you really need to see a prince running around in Africa to get away from the stress of palace life? Do you really need to hear about learning to fly helicopters, missions in Afghanistan, and mostly uninteresting cocaine use?
Ehhh — probably not.
I fully enjoyed SPARE, it opened my eyes to what a shit show the monarchy is and how truly helpless Harry is. It’s no wonder the royal family and the British press have worked so hard to trash the book — it makes them all look pathetic, useless, and out of touch. If you’re into the royals you should check it out (and if you hate them even better!), but do follow my advice and only read the first and last 100 pages. It’ll leave you shocked, horrified, and asking why oh why does everything in England sound like it happened one hundred years ago.
reading: Daisy Jones & the Six. I’m fully obsessed with Taylor Jenkins Reid and I can’t wait to read all of her books. Get into it.
watching: I am fully obsessed with The Circle, and The Traitors. They’re all I can talk about right now. Please watch them both and text me immediately.
listening: It’s all Brandi Carlile all the time for me right now.
I’m obsessed with recommendations. I love Oprah’s faves, but I wanna know everyone’s favorite things! This week we’re getting recommendations from badass poet and friend C. Russell Price …
C. Russell Price is a genderqueer Appalachian punk writer originally from Virginia but now lives in Chicago. They are a Lambda Fellow in Poetry, Ragdale Fellow, Windy City Times 30 Under 30 honoree, essayist, and poet. Their chapbook Tonight, We Fuck the Trailer Park Out of Each Other was released by Sibling Rivalry Press. Their full-length poetry collection oh, you thought this was a date?!: APOCALYPSE POEMS explores sexual assault survivorship and queer liberation.
This cactus diffuser from Target! It’s cordless and portable which means if I want to throw some pine oil up in that bitch and imagine that I am living, laughing, and loving my way through a PNW wooded area, I can. It also comes in handy for some drops of lavender oil (horse tranq level of drops) and a night mask and a 9.5 hour curated playlist of rain sounds, forest sounds, rain forest sounds. The world is dying, might as well enjoy its swan song! You can fill this sonuvabitch with whatever scent you want to transport you to a time in which the entire world wasn’t absolute shit.
Trader Joe's Crunchy Chili Onion Sauce! Listen, when they say it can go on anything–it can go on anything. Eggs! Dessert! Pasta! A spoon! A dollop of this packs enough heat and grease that when you’re shitting your brains out later you’ll think: I asked for this; I deserved this. I am grateful. I have never been fucked as lovingly as a small smear of this on a Ritz with cream cheese and a self-help podcast in the background. Yeah, it might bring up some trauma, but Mama, you’re worth the work and if it ruins any fabric it intercepts, so fucking be it.
Runtz OG strain marijuana. Find your strain, find your strength. I want to make and I want to talk and I want to destroy the system from the inside. I’ll never get that from a couch-hugger blend of the good good. Find some shit that sparks you up and follow it until the end of the earth. Medicine is medicine.
NYX professional eyeliner from Target! It’s as close to tattoo level application as you can legally get in the United States. I’ve had looks made with this last longer than members of government. It’s not hygienic but neither is being a servant to a system that doesn’t give one fuck about your well-being or care. This would also be a great in-the-heat-of-the-moment graffiti some bitch’s shit.
Driftwood. It’s a natural nondestructive solution to cunts who park in crosswalks or handicap spaces. Cover that snotass subaru with some driftywoody and a bit of leaves. They gave no fucks for anyone crossing through; camouflage them hoes. Just because you drive a death machine doesn’t mean you get to shit on everyone, Chad.
PBR. Because God doesn’t like ugly.
A cork board to keep track of those who’ve wronged you and those who thought they could. I see you, hoe.
HOUSEPLANTS.
Are you queer with favorite things you’d like to recommend? Reply to this email with your recommendations, or email us at gaysjudgetheneighborhood@gmail.com.
Laughing hard all the way thru. Bless you, good sir.
Sitting at my desk, hollering! I love your articles, Jeremy!