Majorca Flats -- 131

This beaut image comes from Steve Walker.

Keith was watching this interchange with his eyes slitted.

“What?” asked Jason, tetchy.

“Is this the guy?”

Jason knew just what he meant. “Yeah. Luigi, meet Keith. Keith, Luigi.”

“I can see why he turned you on.” Keith's smile was mordant.

Luigi looked uncomfortable.

“Keith. Not now! Yeah. Luigi's hot. And so are you.”

“Look who's talkin'!” said Keith at exactly the same moment as Luigi said “You're pretty hot yourself, Jason.”

“OK, now we've got that out of the way ...” Jason, “maybe I can tell you what happened after that.”

Luigi nodded, and Keith said “Roight!”

“Actually, there isn't much to tell. I called the police. At first they wanted to blame me. Their ears twitched when they learnt Brent and I were lovers, and next thing I was a suspect. But it was obvious that Brent had shot himself, from the way the gun was held and everything. And then there was the note to me and the whole history of what had happened came out and anyway, I'd been with my grandmother the night before and she alibied me. There was a homophobic detective and went on and on at me but it was obvious to everybody that they had no case and in the end I got sick of it and said I was going to complain about their behaviour towards me to my father and that I wasn't saying another thing till my lawyer had arrived. They didn't even arrest me.”

[See other beaut Steve Walker images here, and an article about him and other gay-shaded artists can be read here]

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A Man and his Dog

I've been reading The Road Home by Michael Thomas Ford, his latest novel. Unlike what I feel has happened with Patrick Gale or Stephen McCauley, as he's got older, Michael Thomas Ford's works haven't become more melancholy. The cheerful aperçus of The Aerodynamics of Pork (Gale) and The Object of My Affections (McCauley) have been muted in their latest novels to the sadder, wiser insights of men who know that the joie de vivre of 18 or 25 doesn't last into your 50s and 60s. The Road Home on the other hand is filled with hope, with the belief that even older guys can find happiness. I get the feeling that Michael Ford is a very likable bloke. Somehow a writer's character is revealed in their writing.

I'll be doing a longer review of it for Wilde Oats. Meantime, I recommend it. Without being rainbow coalition or Enid Blyton, and without it being overdone, it's a lovely heart-warming story, deceptively simple and easy-going. Go forth and read.

But what I really wanted to say was that the cover of The Road Home was marvellous, and I decided to search out the artist. He's a bloke called Steve Walker, and I strongly recommend you visit his gallery. This painting makes me think of my previous post, about friends and loneliness and stubborn male perceptions about weakness and love and such (so what else is new?) Some of these old perennials are considered in The Road Home. The picture's called Dog Day Afternoon. Nice, huh?

[Update: Alas, Steve Walker died in early 2012.  You can read his obituary here]