FX "Shards" Their Britches

August 7th, 2026

30 years ago watching "NYPD Blue" on ABC my excitement was explosive. Watching "The Shards" new of the American Horror Dynasty, last night, the nicest thing I can say versus nothing is queers have become so normalized we are now making as much unrewarding redundant TV as straights (should California contain

any actual ones). Those barriers busted with cursing, nudity, and adult themes back in our glorious '90s those tacky 2000s mangled beyond recognition I saw glimmering moments mayhaps but ultimately the dumbness of our fellows strangled it out.

Before I've pointed out the swap from live theatre to broads beefing on boats being Bravo! crowds can't pause praising them that innovated the Housewives market. Yes, Cohen, you're a doll. Our sissy Springer we so needed. Like it's his fault people want "The Learning Channel" teaching them the science of enormous folks washing dirtied anuses with rags on mop-handles. THAT'S edu-tainment!

All such happens on my notice's periphery. Peering back down homo-history, coming out in 1985 to my mom was one ugly scene at Chong's, the Chinese joint of my life. Jackson St. branch, home of their pressed duck, my most cherished plate of food in a lifetime of loving and living edibles (For insight, dig "Recipes"!). We exited with half-downed plates, to hell with to-go boxes, a peep-less 10 minute drive with tearful Mommy eyes, and me nebulous now plunging piers uncharted. She KNEW, mind you, but now she KNEW in Paducah Kentucky year 1985. Hating on her? STOP. She was being perfectly thenabouts human. There's other crap I and I alone can dog her out for believe me, Buster(ette).

Being phobic ain't one of them. Flash to me in here, Northpoint Training Center in Amtrak stop Danville KY. Our conversations were stunted now. Not about 'mo crap no mo', but Betty's baby boy being behind barbwire. Bristling to bawl me out and tell me go fuck myself, handle me about the hardships endured because my 45-year crescendo was a stab-fest on a FWB. That situation we didn't discuss besides a vague reveal on her deathbed as she gave shocking context to my actions (Intrigued? Read some posts, 'den). Most chats twice a week the 7 years she sustained her elevated pitch reserved for white lies was the cadence. Notable exception: Thursdays certain seasons.

"American Horror Story" was a Swiss flag mechanism for our rapport reinvigorating my love for that genre. Appointment conversations mornings after new episodes B.S.ing with my older gal-pal, not the corroding communication of two parties whose dialogue were dying for decades. Her post-passing erupted a more open, expansive person, and I can't decide if that was minus-ing Risperadol, the boy-boob building dummy-dope I dumped six months before her death or freedom. Both and for us pair perhaps?

 Still, AHS, that joint captivated the masses with salaciousness, theater-level artfulness, and impressive writing combined with topnotch acting. "Cry-sturbation, Retail Hell, the jaw-dropping raunch of that tighty-whities dance, and all of Jessica Lange's Supreme-ly transcendent moments elevated the slighter screen, delivering the promise of "Blue" I'd abandoned hope for. Cracks showed, like "Cult" roaming to political preacher-tainment without awareness diverse demos dug what they were dishing. Worst was "New York". Inexcusable, that season was a gay person taking personal damage out on a world inculpable for it. Horror should be effective analogue, not a person with AIDS rotting in real-time screaming at Americas hetero heart out of sheer bratti- or bitterness. Some should never stand behind cameras again for that crushed compact. Mom and I were speechless literally from mutual resentment.

 "The Strands" though containing overt sexuality, and hot half-naked hotties of both biological bearings led to turned channels by a dorm of expectant inmates, some committed pervs arrested as such. Nobody in this wing of approximately 10 sets beginning there stayed for the second episode. Objectively it watched as if assigned to a group of high scholars they'd write and star in a softcore prime-time vehicle. Such obnoxious, overstated cussing and accentuated overdone sexual material it almost reached lampoon levels of vintage John Waters without calculated gross, bizarre, and vulgar extremes he made masterclass. This was mediocre on top of it's inexplicably bad execution. Nowhere could I latch on to continue watching.

Peripheral pros: scored with proto-punk pop 80's gems particularly The Pretenders ripping "Bad Boys Get Spanked" during a daytime L.A. car-chase that could've conquered coolness, but the exhaustive nasal narrative of its "gender-fluid" (term suspect for that dismal decade ceaselessly celebrated) lead, a noxious bisexual (that's more like it) Capote-caterpillar obsessed with a transplant over a backdrop killing spree. See how I made this sound like life depends on seeing it? Ultimate sin in its lameness. What we got was the cinematic equivalent of a 5 year-old being allowed to say dirty words the first time.

Closing full circle, I'll half-full here that progress is we reached a point now where queers can make lame trash like anybody else. We've come a long way, maybe?

 One year 'til I can stream with abandon untethered from cable. This body hasnt crashed onto a couch in 11 of them. FX's Wednesday show has motivated my best behavior. Keep on yours too, and drop more comments. If you had fun, visiting - share the bliss, Babylicious!

More later! Xoxoxo Batmama