I picked this up at my local queer bookstore on a rainy Friday. It was on a small table by the window. Bright cover. Bold words. For reference, the anthology Be Gay, Do Crime collects sixteen stories of queer resistance and survival. I laughed, then I felt a tiny sting. The title is a lot. I tossed it in my tote and read half of it on the Red Line home. The rest I finished in bed with my socks still on. I later poured those rail-car thoughts into a longer review, which you can read at Be Gay, Do Crime — the loud little book I finished on the train.
Here’s the thing: it’s not a how-to for breaking laws. It’s a zine-style book about queer life, power, and care. It’s about pushing back when the rules are unfair. It’s also goofy and tender in spots. It punches, then it hugs.
So… what’s inside?
It’s short. Think skinny book, thick with ink. It’s more zine than textbook. Essays, poems, comics. A few pages feel like manifestos. A few feel like diary notes.
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One comic shows a crew painting over slurs on a wall. The last panel is a dance party under clean brick. Simple art. Big mood. I smiled like a dork on the train.
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An essay talks about Pride and police lines. No step-by-step stuff. More like, why does joy need fences? It asks soft questions that land hard. I paused and stared out the window at my stop.
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A poem lists tiny acts of care: bringing water, watching bags, walking friends home. It calls that “keeping each other breathing.” I underlined that line. Twice.
Design note for the nerds: the margins have “gutter chatter” — little notes and doodles in the side space. It’s messy on purpose. Riso-style texture. Heavy black and a hot pink that almost buzzes. The kerning isn’t perfect, but that’s the charm.
How it felt in my hands (and my head)
I read it with coffee and then with street noise. It works both ways. The paper is toothy. The ink smudged my thumb. You know what? I liked that. It felt alive, like newsprint after a rally.
Emotionally, it swings. One page made me snort-laugh — there’s a fake recipe card for “rebel cookies” (flour, sugar, courage). The next page is about fear at night and holding your keys tight. That jump is real. That’s how life feels for a lot of us.
After I finished, I did something small. I put a rainbow sticker over the crack on my phone case. Then I asked my barber for the undercut I actually wanted. Tiny things, sure. But the book nudged me.
The title might scare your aunt (and maybe you)
Let me explain. The phrase is a slogan. It’s punchy on purpose. The book uses it to talk about history, power, and how we care for each other when systems don’t. The words also nod to a strand of queer anarchism that refuses respectability politics and challenges oppressive norms. It doesn’t tell you to go break stuff. It does ask why some people get punished for simply existing. That’s a big ask in a small book.
I read some pages in public and felt eyes on the cover. A guy across the aisle smirked. I slipped on a jacket over it. Later I thought… huh, the title did its job. It started a feeling, then a thought.
Real bits that stuck with me
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There’s a spread of handwritten “notes to our younger selves.” One says, “You’re not too loud. The room is too small.” I teared up on that one. Quietly.
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A single page lists ways friends kept each other safe after a march: texting when home, sharing snacks, bringing masks. I snapped a pic and sent it to my group chat. We used it the next weekend, minus the shouting.
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The back pages point to community groups and reading lists. No links, just names and short blurbs. I circled two and asked my library to order one of the books. They did. For even more recommendations, browse the curated shelves at Gay Book Reviews. And if your TBR pile craves stories where queer heroes take the mic, check out this roundup of books with a gay protagonist for fresh ideas.
The good, the messy, the “eh”
Pros:
- Fast, bold read; you can finish it in an afternoon.
- Mix of voices feels like a crowded kitchen — loud, warm, funny.
- Art pops; you can almost hear the marker squeak.
- It sparked real talks with my friends. Not online, like face-to-face talks.
Cons:
- Some essays assume you know zine culture and acronyms. Teensy bit gate-y.
- A couple pages are cramped. The gutter eats lines. I had to tilt the book.
- The tone swings might jar you. Joke, then gut punch. I liked it; my friend Alex didn’t.
- Reading the title on a bus can feel awkward. I used a bookmark as a cover flap. Worked fine.
Content notes: mentions of police, slurs, and protests. No graphic stuff, but the feelings are strong.
Who should read this?
- Queer folks who want a spark, not a lecture.
- Allies who listen more than they speak.
- Book clubs tired of dry texts; zine lovers who like ink on their fingers.
- Teens who doodle in the margins and ask big questions (with a grown-up to chat after).
Speaking of campus life, zines like this often get passed around dorm lounges between conversations about activism and dating. If your curiosity tilts toward the latter—specifically the straight-leaning hookup scene—you can dive into this guide to the best apps for hooking up with college chicks for a no-fluff rundown of platforms, safety pointers, and campus-tested etiquette that will help you meet people on your own terms.
Prefer something more low-key than swiping apps? If you ever roll through Pennsylvania’s Lehigh Valley after a protest or book-club night and your version of self-care is a tension-melting massage, Rubmaps Easton will walk you through which local parlors are reputable, what services they actually offer, and insider reviews so you spend your money (and your downtime) wisely.
If you need tidy chapters and footnotes, this might bug you. If you like punk shows, kitchen tables, and loud stickers, you’ll be happy.
Prefer to listen rather than turn pages? I shared my no-filter thoughts on the best (and worst) queer listens in my honest take on gay audiobooks.
My take, plain and simple
I kept three pages dog-eared. I lent it to Alex, and he gave it back with two sticky notes and a coffee ring. That feels right for this little beast.
My rating: 4.5 out of 5. I’d gift it with a pack of stickers and a pen. Read it on a train. Let it smudge your thumb. Then talk to someone you trust. That’s the magic here — not crime, not shock — just care that’s brave enough to be seen.