During election season, most readers are looking for escapism or something to help prepare them for the divisive conversations they are bound to have. But this new title is somewhere in the middle: ‘Louie on the Rocks‘ by Meredith O’Brien (February 4, 2025, SparkPress), a former newspaper reporter and investigative journalist. Told from three perspectives – a MAGA older father, a liberal LGBTQ daughter, and a middle-of-the-road mother from beyond the grave – this is a timely novel for those trying to navigate polarizing times.
Set against a backdrop of bitterly partisan Facebook feuds and a Trump flag set aflame in a driveway, ‘Louie on the Rocks’ follows the disintegration of the Francis family six months after the premature death of their matriarch, Helen. In his wife’s absence, retired MAGA patriarch Louie descends into an alcoholic spiral and his liberal, queer, bookseller daughter Lulu responds, in a clumsy attempt to save her father from himself, by taking him to court to seize control over his finances. Told by Louie, Lulu, and Helen, this is the tale of a trio with very different takes on the messy events of 2019.
This darkly comedic story about family dysfunction amid 2019 Trump-era political firestorm tells a universal tale about caring for one’s aging parents – with alcoholism and financial stress. ‘Louie On The Rocks’ gives readers a humorous comfort read that’ll help them feel seen and signal that they’re not alone with their political hangovers.
Below is an excerpt we were lucky enough to share in the lead up to November 5, 2024, as people head to the polls to make their choice between Vice President Kamala Harris an former president Donald Trump.
LULU FRANCIS
FEBRUARY 6, 2019
Beer, Tits and Guns.
What.
The.
Fuck.
I initially didn’t believe it when one of my friends gave me a heads-up to look at Louie’s Facebook page. I’d been muting his account on Facebook because of the ignorant and hateful bullshit he’d been putting on there since Trump was elected. My friend Bruce texted me last night saying, “Louie’s last meme is a doozy. I’m sorry.”
“Louie created a meme?” I replied. I couldn’t imagine that Louie knew how to create a meme.
“No,” Bruce texted back. “He shared a meme he found from some page called Beer, Tits and Guns.”
I sighed a hundred years’ worth of sighs. This country, its president, and his stupid, hateful supporters are exhausting me. Damn, do I want all of this divisive shit to be over.
I don’t look at whatever Louie was up to on Facebook right away. Since I’m working at the store for the afternoon/evening shift, I’d gifted myself the chance to sleep in. After brewing a big-ass pot of coffee, I leisurely lower myself onto one of my rickety kitchen chairs and open my laptop. Steaming coffee in my Elizabeth Warren “Nevertheless She Persisted” mug in hand, I log on to Facebook and unmute Louie’s account.
Louie has shared the Beer, Tits and Guns meme three times. The top half of the meme is a photoshopped image of the Democratic congresswomen who wore white to the State of the Union address. There was New York Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Massachusetts Sen. Warren, and newly-minted House Speaker Pelosi with exaggeratedly scary faces, like a middle schooler’s idea of a funny Snapchat filter; they were likened to witches brewing up Marxist toxins to release into America’s bloodstream. The bottom half of the meme featured several buxom “real women” carrying long guns and wearing American-flag clothing that was stretched to the very end of the fabric’s limits across their porn-star-sized breasts.
Ever since Louie and my mom had a big fight over the Trump flag he tried to put on the house before the 2016 election, I’d stopped looking at Louie’s Facebook page. Mom encouraged me to ignore his posts so I could “still respect him and not see the equivalent of Trump every time I visited the house.” But knowing that people with whom I went to high school can see what Louie is sharing makes me worry that the hateful nature of his posts will blow back onto me.
“This meme is insanely sexist. It’s filled with errors and demonizes women,” I write. I want to blast him, but am trying to maintain a façade of civility for Mom’s sake. “The statistics in this meme are incorrect. Here’s the link to accurate information. Please don’t share such destructive and inaccurate posts online. It doesn’t do anyone any good.”
I’m proud that I restrained myself. I don’t call him an ignorant, uneducated, hateful fool who’s been duped by a con man, whose deceased wife would be ashamed of him. I scan the draft multiple times to make sure I don’t have any spelling mistakes because that would make me a big fat hypocrite. I double-check the link to make sure I have the right URL and that it references the right information to correct the misinformation Louie is peddling. Then I post it. I gulp down the rest of my coffee, click over to the Boston Globe’s website to read their coverage of the State of the Union address—with Democrats in charge of the House of Representatives! Happy day! I log out and get ready for work.
When I get back home at close to nine o’clock, my phone pings as I’m unlocking the apartment door. Bruce texted. I drop my heavy bags onto the kitchen table and myself into a chair. Coat, scarf, and hat still on, I read it: “I think you made it worse by replying. I know what you were trying to do but your dad kinda went bonkers.”
I shake my head, put the phone on the table, and get myself a glass of red wine. The bottle Julia and I opened a few days ago is still on the counter. It might be bad now, but I don’t like to waste things. I grab a glass from the cabinet and can already tell as I pour the wine that it has turned. I sip it anyway.
I unwind the scarf from my neck and dump it, my hat, and my coat atop my bags on the table. I open my laptop, and my Facebook page appears as the machine whirs to life again. I have notifications that there have been other comments on Louie’s post.
Louie’s reply to my post was published at 8:30 p.m., after a bunch of his friends had already lit me up as an out-of-touch elitist. Looking around my teeny apartment filled with secondhand furniture and Target linens and housewares, I snort at the idea of anyone calling me “elite.”
Louie replied to my comment with:
enough from you libs leave me alone stop acting like asshole because you dont like my facts
Before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, I quickly type out: “This meme has no facts. It’s a sexist attack that contains inaccurate information. Argue policy all day long if you want. But there’s no need to use sexism or to employ lies.” I hit Enter.
To Hal, one of Louie’s bar friends, who replied by calling AOC a “slutty hooker” and Nancy Pelosi “an old, ugly crone with saggy tits,” I write: “Why don’t you put down the handle of whatever you’re drinking and go to bed, Grandpa. And don’t forget to tuck in your balls.”
Yeah, I know. That last one. Not a good look.
