We Both Laughed In Pleasure: The Selected Diaries Of Lou Sullivan

You know how some books just hit you right in the heart? 'We Both Laughed in Pleasure' is one of those for me. It's Lou Sullivan's diaries, raw and unfiltered, documenting his life as a gay trans man in the 70s and 80s. The title alone captures his spirit—joyful, defiant, unapologetic. Reading it feels like flipping through pages of someone's soul; his struggles with identity, his euphoria in finding himself, even the mundane daily entries are laced with this sharp wit and tenderness. It's not just a historical artifact—it's alive, messy, and deeply human.

What struck me most was how Sullivan's voice refuses to be boxed in. He writes about sex, love, and activism with equal fervor, and his humor shines even in darker moments. Like when he jokes about binding his chest or navigating queer spaces before terminology caught up. It’s bittersweet, knowing he didn’t live to see how much his work paved the way, but this book lets his laughter echo.

I stumbled upon 'We Both Laughed in Pleasure' while digging through queer literature recommendations, and wow, did it leave an impression. Lou Sullivan’s diaries aren’t just a personal record—they’re a seismic shift in how we understand transgender history. The raw honesty in his entries, from the euphoria of self-discovery to the grind of navigating a world that didn’t understand him, feels like a time capsule of resilience. What blows me away is how Sullivan documented his transition before mainstream medical or social frameworks existed for trans men. His humor, frustration, and joy leap off the page, making it way more than a diary—it’s a lifeline for queer folks seeing their struggles reflected across decades.

What elevates it to 'important' status is its rarity. Most pre-90s trans narratives were filtered through medical or sensationalist lenses, but Sullivan’s voice is unfiltered and human. He writes about crushes, office jobs, and punk shows alongside gender epiphanies, which makes his experience relatable even now. I’ve lent my copy to friends who normally don’t touch diaries, and every single one came back with underlined passages. That’s the magic of it—Sullivan didn’t know he was writing history, but he was.

I picked up 'The House That Lou Built' on a whim, drawn by the cover and the promise of a heartwarming middle-grade adventure. What really struck me was how relatable Lou's journey felt—she's this determined kid with big dreams, trying to build a tiny house to honor her late father. The book balances humor and emotional depth so well; it’s not just about sawing wood but about family, grief, and cultural identity. The Filipino-American representation added layers I didn’t expect, like the way Lou’s lola (grandmother) shares stories or how food becomes this unspoken love language.

Some might find the pacing a bit slow in parts, but honestly, that gave room for the characters to breathe. The side characters—like Lou’s best friend Kaz—are hilarious, and their antics kept things light. If you’re into stories that feel like a warm hug but still tackle real-life stuff, this one’s a gem. It left me grinning at Lou’s stubborn optimism and maybe tearing up at the quiet moments.

Lou's on First: A Biography is one of those deep dives into baseball history that feels like uncovering a treasure chest if you're into the sport's golden eras. It chronicles Lou Gehrig's life with a mix of reverence and gritty detail, painting him not just as the 'Iron Horse' but as a complex, deeply human figure. The book doesn't shy away from the darker moments—his struggles with illness, the pressures of fame, and the way his career was cut tragically short. What stands out is how it balances stats and anecdotes; you get the towering home runs alongside the quiet stories of his humility, like how he'd insist on carrying his own luggage despite being a superstar. For baseball nerds, it's a must-read, but even casual fans might find themselves gripped by the sheer emotional weight of his story.

That said, it isn't a flawless home run. Some sections drag, especially if you're less invested in the granular details of early 20th-century baseball politics. The writing can feel a bit dry in spots, leaning heavily on facts over flair. But when it clicks—like in passages about Gehrig's rivalry-turned-friendship with Babe Ruth or his heartbreaking farewell speech—it’s downright cinematic. I walked away with a newfound appreciation for how much he shaped the game’s soul. If you can handle slower pacing for the sake of depth, it’s worth sticking through. Just don’t expect a fast-paced modern biography; this one’s a slow, deliberate curveball.

Lou in 'Lou's on First: A Biography' is none other than Lou Gehrig, the legendary New York Yankees first baseman whose life and career are chronicled in this detailed biography. The book dives into his incredible journey from a humble upbringing to becoming one of baseball's most iconic figures, famously nicknamed 'The Iron Horse' for his relentless durability and consistency. What makes Gehrig's story so compelling isn't just his athletic prowess—though his 2,130 consecutive games played record stood for decades—but the way he carried himself with quiet dignity, even in the face of his tragic diagnosis with ALS, which later became known as Lou Gehrig's disease.

Reading about Gehrig feels like peeling back the layers of a man who was both larger than life and deeply human. The biography doesn't shy away from the pressures he faced, from living in Babe Ruth's shadow to the emotional toll of his illness. Yet, it also celebrates his moments of joy, like his heartfelt 'Luckiest Man' speech at Yankee Stadium, which remains one of sports' most poignant farewells. For me, the book isn't just a recap of stats; it's a reminder of how Gehrig's legacy transcends baseball, symbolizing resilience and grace under unimaginable pressure. I walked away from it with a deeper appreciation for the person behind the legend—someone who loved the game fiercely but never lost sight of what truly mattered.

Lou's on First: A Biography' is a deep dive into the life of Lou Costello, the comedic half of the legendary Abbott and Costello duo. The book paints a vivid picture of his rise from a struggling performer to one of the most recognizable faces in classic Hollywood comedy. It doesn’t just focus on the laughs, though—it peels back the curtain on the personal struggles, financial ups and downs, and the behind-the-scenes dynamics of his partnership with Bud Abbott. One of the most touching aspects is how it explores Lou’s relationship with his family, especially after the tragic loss of his son, which haunted him for years. The biography balances the glitz of showbiz with the raw, human side of fame, making it a compelling read even for those who aren’t die-hard fans of old-school comedy.

What really stuck with me was how the book captures Lou’s resilience. Despite setbacks, he kept grinding, whether it was bouncing back from career slumps or navigating the changing landscape of entertainment. The author doesn’t shy away from the darker moments, like Lou’s health issues or the tensions in his partnership, but there’s also warmth in how his generosity and love for his craft shine through. I walked away feeling like I’d gotten to know the man behind the 'Who’s on First?' routine—not just the performer, but someone who lived a life full of both triumph and heartache. If you’re into biographies that mix nostalgia with unflinching honesty, this one’s a gem.

Confessions of Henry Lee Lucas' is one of those books that sits in a weird gray area between true crime and psychological horror. If you’re a fan of deep dives into the minds of serial killers, it’s undeniably fascinating, but it’s also deeply unsettling—not just because of the subject matter, but because of the questions it raises about truth, memory, and manipulation. Lucas himself was a notorious figure who claimed hundreds of murders, though many of those confessions were later disputed. The book doesn’t just recount his crimes; it forces you to grapple with how much of his story was real and how much was crafted for notoriety or even law enforcement convenience.

What makes it worth reading, in my opinion, is the way it forces you to question the nature of evil and the systems that sometimes unintentionally enable it. Lucas’s life was a mess of poverty, abuse, and institutional neglect, and while that doesn’t excuse his actions, it adds layers to the usual 'true crime villain' narrative. The writing can be graphic, so it’s not for the faint of heart, but if you can stomach it, there’s a lot to unpack about how society deals with its most monstrous figures. Plus, if you’ve read other true crime books, the contrast between Lucas’s unreliable confessions and more straightforward cases like 'In Cold Blood' makes for a thought-provoking comparison.

That said, I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone. It’s a heavy, sometimes exhausting read, and if you’re looking for clear-cut answers or a satisfying resolution, you won’t find them here. The ambiguity is part of the point, but it can also leave you feeling frustrated. Personally, I walked away from it with more questions than answers—about Lucas, about the justice system, and about how we consume true crime as entertainment. It’s the kind of book that lingers in your mind long after you’ve finished it, for better or worse.