So which is it?

Armed protesters stand guard outside a drag show at Anderson Distillery & Grill in Roanoke, Texas. (Kelly Neidert)

Antifa is looking a LOT more like the Fascists than the “Enemy” they’re supposed to be worried about.

Anti Drag Shows for Kids protestors

Of the two groups which looks more like a paramilitary group?

Are guns only bad when they’re in the hands of conservative leaning people? Is the take away that ANTIFA is protecting decency, which is arguable at best?

Was it ANTIFA that attacked the Federal Building in Portland or not? Weren’t they the folks blinding officers and throwing fire bombs trying to kill folks assigned to protect the Federal Building?

Who was it that beat Andy Ngo damn near to death? Oddly it wasn’t normal law abiding folks. But apparently that’s to be swept under the rug.


This is all about a drag show for children in Texas.

I never thought I’d be writing a sentence that contained the words Drag Show and Children in it.

WTF?


I remember being in a gay bar late one night in Laguna Beach where a child came up to the 6’5” tall, muscular as all hell, ex military demolition specialist, doorman, asking for help.

The doorman scooped this frightened child up off the ground, walked into the bar told the bartender to stop selling booze, the Saturday Night Crowd made a path to the bar. The whole downstairs bar emptied out and this scary giant of a man, tended ever so gently to the child’s scrapes.

In his deep baritone he asked what had happened.

When he and several others nearby who were providing wet clean towels, who’d grabbed the first aid kit, and an unimpaired RN, heard;

Daddy and Mommy are fighting bad

The doorman very gently asked, “Can you tell me where they are?”

We’re on vacation. The hotel is across the street. I came over here because it sounded happy.

“Are they still fighting?”

I guess so, they fight a lot.

“Okay little one, I’ll go check on them.”

He and several other men went to the door. Over his shoulder he called to a bartender, “Get some juice for her, don’t sell any booze while she’s here, and call the police.”

There are a lot of things that made me proud of the community that night. The short list is this.

The men that followed the doorman out all knew how to handle themselves. They were either military, ex military, bikers or fighters of various stripes.
All the men in the bar stopped drinking
They all put their glasses on the upper Bar
They changed the music to something happy but not blaring.
The patrons adopted proper decorum and spoke quietly among themselves.

After 10 minutes, the doorman came back with bloodied knuckles, carrying a small boy who’d obviously been smacked around, followed by a dazed battered woman.

Without question the RN moved on to address the bruises and scrapes on the woman and little boy. The doorman, with easy familiarity grabbed a clean bar towel, filled it with ice from behind the bar and wrapped his right fist.

The little boy was watching the doorman closely, obviously curious about the towel and ice.

The doorman, smiled. He got up and made a smaller towel with a little bit of ice. He handed it to the little boy, “Hold this against your eye. It might hurt at first but the cold will make it feel better.”

The doorman rewrapped his fist and sat quietly watching the RN taking care of his patients. Eventually the RN got to the doorman’s scrapes & cuts.

The doorman tried to wave the RN away.

“Thad, let me do my job!”

The doorman sighed, “Okay, but I’m fine.”

The police arrived. They were obviously a little stunned. Usually, when they came into the bar it was rowdy and they were enforcing a noise complaint. Yet this time, the lights were on full and everyone was quiet and respectful.

The doorman, spoke briefly to them. A few minutes later an ambulance pulled up in front of the hotel.

Statements were taken and the woman and her children left with the police. Before they left, the children ran back to the table where the doorman was sitting and climbed onto him. They hugged him tight and he hugged them back with tears brimming.

“You’re going to be alright children. Take care of your mommy.”

Their mom said, “Thank you so much,” then collected her kids and left.


That is the gay community I remember. Yes, hated by many, but good men and women.

We at the time, were fighting for our equal place in society. We knew that equality would only come when we demonstrated in all other respects, except who we peopled our bed with, we were just like everyone else.

Drag shows are not the place for children. Gay bars are not the place for children. The LGB community knew that instinctively without question. The story above illustrates that simple fact.

What the fuck has happened to this community? Just because we were outliers then doesn’t mean we have to keep being outliers.

I know of no folks in the LGB community who would think for an instant that a Drag show should be attended by children. It’s adult entertainment for adults. You wouldn’t take children to a strip show. You wouldn’t take children to a bar with half naked go go boys dancing on the bar.

Hell, if you’re a responsible person you wouldn’t even show a movie with such depictions to children.

It’s not even about morality or puritanical religious squeamishness.

It’s about protecting a child’s innocence!

We all find our various kinks when we’re of age, when we’re ready for it, and when we’re old enough to handle it.

Let a child be a child, for God’s sake!


Then we have in Texas, a drag show with armed ANTIFA in black out clothing forming a perimeter. What the hell kind of message does that send?

What does a child think of that?

Especially after Uvalde and all the noise about AR-15s being dangerous. ”Only bad people carry AR-15s, run and hide if you see someone with one of those”.

Then 6 weeks later that same parent is saying, “come on in here don’t worry about the rifles.

You’ve already got a confused child, then you subject them to bad drag.

If that doesn’t cause a fear of clowns and makeup, I’ll be surprised.

Pennywise from IT

It’s long past time for the LGB community to stand up. It’s time for us to put a stop to this because we’re uniquely in a position to do so. The trans activists have hitched their wagon to the LGB community and the community has allowed it.

So now it’s our responsibility. We allowed this mess to be made it’s on us to clean it up!

Are we willing to let everything we fought so hard to gain be corrupted and stripped away by the actions of a fringe group of trans activists?

Are we willing to be shamed back into the closet by 1% of the population who simply choose to hitch their wagon to ours?

Will we allow all that we’ve accomplished to be degraded back to things like; Gays can’t marry, can’t have jobs, can’t have places to live, sodomy laws, and all that we managed to fix so that we can be thought of as equal?

I for one refuse!

I like being LGB and being treated with respect and normalcy. I like being able to get my freak on without worry of someone ratting me out to the cops for immoral behavior.

This trans activist bullshit has got to stop.

There are things that Trans folks need to have addressed. But not everyone is Trans!

How dare Trans activists imply that if someone likes the same sex they’d be happier transitioning to the opposite sex. There are little boys and little girls right now who would probably grow up CIS and LGB and be quite happy about it.

Those children deserve to discover their preferences in their own time, in their own way. How many boys and girls will have that joy of discovery ripped away from them by people deciding for them?

Isn’t that the same thing the Trans activists are saying is so wrong, when they say things like a Doctor assigns sex at birth?

Where have all the heroes gone? I’m sure as hell not a hero but if I’m all there is, then I’ll do my best.


Not Thad. But they’re cut from the same cloth

Thad – where ever you are now. 40 some odd years ago, you taught a green young man being gay or bi didn’t make you less a man, as men we still had responsibilities to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. You taught me that gay or bi didn’t have to be my whole personality, it was just a part of who I was. You gave me a memory of decency and strength. I’m eternally grateful.

30 Years

I’ve been a little blue the past few days. I’m not sure why that is.

On the other hand God knows there’s a lot that I could be blue about. Almost all the news is bad. I find myself waiting for the next new atrocity to come out of some country or our own government.

Yesterday was particularly tough. I wasn’t sure why, but the day seemed just harder than usual. To be fair, the day started out with a glorious sunrise. The smell of fresh brewed coffee wafted from the kitchen. The dog sniffing my face asking, “Are you awake yet?”

I scanned the headlines, pausing to read one of the many articles about the new preponderance of IRS agents. I smiled thinking about my Dad he’d be having a shit fit about it.

Dad really didn’t like the IRS, and apparently the feeling was mutual.

Then it hit me. It was the 30th anniversary of my Dad’s death.

Whoa! I thought I was doing the math wrong. I wasn’t.

I hadn’t really been paying attention to the number of years that had passed, but I wonder if some part of me was acknowledging the anniversary without bringing it to my conscious mind.

30 years ago, by this date it had been a rough couple of months. Little did I know at the time, but things were going to get a lot rougher before some semblance of “normal” would return.

In that moment 30 years ago, I had only what was immediately in front of me. A family that I barely knew telling me how they thought I should do things.

My younger Brother, (who was old enough to carry a gun in the DMZ in Korea and later Desert Storm, but couldn’t buy a beer,) who I was trying to protect at least from the most egregious of the “Helpful” suggestions? Commands? Demands?

My Dad had been through some rough times in the last few years of his life, he was trying to stand up a business doing something that he seemed to love. He’d left the state he grew up in, and moved in with his mother in her home state. I think his plan was to jump start the business and then purchase his own home in a, sort of charming, small town in The South.

I don’t know. He never shared his plans with me. I can say that Dad had reduced his possessions considerably and become a minimalist. Whether that was due to financial need or life choice I also don’t know.

Somewhere along the line, he’d discovered he had cancer and it was too far along for any effective treatment. Perhaps that was part of the drive toward minimalism on his part.

When he died, as the eldest Son, the responsibility for all the “after life” decisions fell to me.

My Brother had been raised by my Dad more so than I. It only seemed right that he should be calling the shots so I gave my Brother as much control as he wanted. I took on the things that were “too much,” given the circumstances, and the role of running interference with the family.

I’d like to think that Dad would have appreciated the arrangement. Especially when he understood my reasoning.

All of this flooded back crashing into my brain. Suddenly, I was reliving it in a way.

I felt terribly alone.

Many times over the past 30 years I’ve wished Dad was around. I’ve wished that I could chat with him, discuss politics, have a drink, go shooting, or get his take on trouble spots in my life. I’d have appreciated his wisdom even if I went my own way. While I wouldn’t have appreciated his knowing grin when going my own way blew up in my face, I’d like to have had the experience.

I suppose I could use a bit of a pep talk from Dad. Over the past 5 years or so, I’ve felt like I’m being kicked and beaten, then kicked again while I’m already on the ground. I’m having a very hard time getting up and wonder, “why bother” often enough that it worries me.

I’m losing the game, and have no more plays. I’m out of clever tricks. Why not just take my ball and go home?

I could really stand to hear, “Son, you’re alright. Rub some dirt on it, walk it off! Get up off your ass, FIGHT! Tear the fucker’s throat out. I’ve got your back.

Encouragement like that would be welcome right about now, just as it was when I was a boy.

Yeah, I’m 60+ but my Dad is still my Dad, and I’m still his Son.

Hmmm… Okay Old Man… Message received. I’m getting up off my ass, give me a minute.

I miss you Dad…

Oh why can’t my life just be simple?

This week started out pretty good.

The neighbor whose house and cat I’ve been looking after is apparently getting better and may be coming home. His Niece and her Husband came down to clean up his house and make it suitable for someone using a walker.

It meant for me that I didn’t have to look after the cat and for at least a few days had the opportunity to look after my own affairs. That was a relief and my mood was pretty good.

For my assistance, and their using my dump access card, they agreed to save some space in one of their dump runs for various yard trimmings that I’d piled up around the yard. They’d rented a large pickup truck and my yard stuff would fit nicely on top of the other stuff they were tossing from the house.

I was out in my yard bagging the stuff to make it easier to load.

It was a lovely spring day and I was in a good mood. The sun felt great and for the first time in months I was warm and cheerful. Progress, warmth, and getting things done always makes me a happy camper.

Apparently the crazy lady in the neighborhood was enjoying herself wandering up and down the main street that all the residential streets intersect with. Aside from her occasional outbursts I was in my own little serene world.

This all went to shit.

I was almost finished with my chore when the crazy lady starts screaming the name of a dead woman who lived across the street from me. While she’s screaming the dead woman’s name she’s walking toward the gate of the house.

The house in question has been sold, purchased, and renovated entirely by the new owner. Seeing crazy heading toward the house, knowing that the former occupant was dead, and that crazy had previously kicked the door in, terrorizing the former occupant I was left with a choice.

I could watch the fun as she pounded on the door, or kicked it in, setting off the alarm system and summoning the police… Or I could say something.

In future, I’ll keep my mouth shut and enjoy the live police show.

On this occasion I simply said loud enough that she could hear me, “She’s dead. She’s been dead for over a year.”

This simple statement of fact resulted in crazy targeting me. As I’ve mentioned occasionally elsewhere in this blog, Crazy has a mouth on her that could make the entirety of several military forces blush at once. The fury of her insanity spewed forth in a rabid staccato of nonsense and obscenities and she started walking back down the street toward me. She was practically frothing at the mouth.

This sort of thing has happened before and she usually sputtered out then wanders off.

Wednesday, she didn’t sputter out.

She demanded to know who I thought I was telling her that the neighbor was dead. She further said I was a liar because she’d just spoken to the neighbor.

I replied, “As you wish,” and went back to my work. This enraged her further, she picks up her pace assuming what I suspect she felt was an appropriately intimidating and aggressive walk. Were she a 4 year old and not spewing foul obscenities every step of the way, it would have been funny.

I still didn’t take her as a threat, in part due to her size and in part due to the comical walk. That being said, I was monitoring her approach. She demanded I produce ID as she stomped onto my property. I asked her what good that would so since our ID has our post office address, not our actual physical address printed on it. ID tells her nothing.

This seemed to cause a momentary pause in her diatribe. Perhaps some logic process attempted to engage, and was promptly choked to death by the crazy raging in her brain. She then told me that she owned my house and that I needed to get off her property.

This annoyed me a lot. Her rage and aggression directed at me in close quarters was starting to really piss me off. Not to mention her yappy ill behaved Chihuahua that has on more than one occasion tried to bite me while I was doing yard work, by sneaking up on me from behind.

One of these days that little piece of shit is going to tangle with my weed whacker!

I said, “If this is your goddamned house show me the cancelled checks!” I know this was the wrong thing to say, I knew it the minute it left my lips.

Some part of me recognized that I was being drawn into her crazy and that wasn’t the way to go. That part of my brain gave me a disdainful “Tut tut tut” and called me a dumbass.

This internal dialog stopped me from peppering Crazy with a bunch of followup questions like, “What’s the mortgage payment? Who holds the mortgage? What was the sale amount of the house? Is there a second?” I think in my growing anger I was still considering the possibility that I could somehow win.

When she said, “The checks aren’t canceled,” I realized that you can’t win with reason against this kind of crazy.

At around this point she punched me…

I registered impact and minor damage on my right upper chest. Now I was facing a crisis.

Let me explain, and please remember all of the following happens in two or three heartbeats.

When someone hits me, I tend to instantly lose control. The world narrows to the person who hit me and I’m looking for openings and weaknesses. I start looking for ways to break bones, dislocate joints, and I’m not thinking about things like fair fight or Queensberry rules. I’m thinking about how to efficiently terminate the threat while looking around for potential weapons at hand.

In the past, this has resulted in epic rage and coming dangerously close to killing. In those instances it was only friends being present, dragging me bodily away that stopped me. Even so, whoever hit me from then on would literally crawl out a second floor bathroom window to avoid me.

That rage scares me more than anything else in my life. During the rage, I’m not there, when it’s over I have little to no memory of what I’ve done. At most, I’ll retain images or almost sexual gratification, but no clear timeline of events. It’s a monster that I keep chained in my head and never let out because I fear that the monster would overwhelm me then I’d lose myself in it.

This time I was completely alone, and that part of me that I fear most, was breaking free.

It also didn’t help that every bit of psychological, emotional, and most physical abuse perpetrated on me throughout my entire life has been inflicted by women.

Women who were bullies and knew they’d get away with it because when no one was looking they could. They knew they had the upper hand, if I responded, they’d immediately revert to the victim and poor defenseless girl roles.

Then as I was taking whatever punishment for raising my voice, or responding to their aggression they’d smile slyly through their fake tears, knowing that they’d won, because they’d baited me, or goaded me into exactly the situation they wanted. Far too often they’d do it just for fun, or a promotion, or just because they didn’t like that their obvious crocodile tears didn’t elicit sympathy from me.

Hey bitches, you say you’re equal. If a man cried you’d humiliate him about it, why should your tears get people falling all over themselves to make you stop? Fair is fair.

Here was yet another woman striking me, assuming that she’d get away with it.

Some of the chains holding the beast, snapped.

“After all it’s only the two of us standing in my driveway… Who would know?”

Crazy is a threat to my peace and quiet, a disturbance to the neighborhood, an ever present worry. She’s defective. A waste of DNA. She at one time may have been simply mentally ill but over the 20 years she’s lived in this neighborhood she’s gotten much worse and may now be using drugs other than those prescribed.

I do my level best to ignore her and shut her out of my consciousness. Going so far as to close my house up and run the A/C with the windows and doors locked even on beautiful breezy spring and summer days while she screams horrific obscenities at the top of her lungs .

Questions I rarely consider are, “Why are her rights more important that all the rest of the people in this neighborhood? Why does she have the ability to imprison us in our homes with her insanity?”

More of the Beasts chains snapped.

“Her neck is thin as a chicken’s… Who would know?”

My narrowing vision was increasingly tinted red. The Beast was awake, the rage was growing uncontrollable. Blood pumping warm adrenaline felt like life and youth returning to my old bones. Life around me slowed, I could see the fly hoping for a meal suspended in front of her face. Dust motes froze mid air reflecting the sunlight.

More chains snapped.

“That fly looks hungry, why not feed it and 1000 generations of it’s line… Free me, let me serve you, some of those branches would make excellent clubs… Who would know?”

The rational part of me had been busy processing that I’d just been hit with no provocation came back. That part of me just couldn’t understand why she’d hit me at all, it made no sense and was therefore an unresolvable question. The answer that came back was, “this bitch is crazy,” then the rational part screamed in my head, “you don’t have to be crazy too!”

The Beast snapped its jaws at the rational part of my brain but began retreating to sulk in his dark dungeon.

Tenuous control of my anger and rage began to reassert itself. Rationality rebooted fully.

If I responded to her attack she’d win. I’d go to jail, and she’d smile. I’d lose my freedom and complicate my life in endless ways. I live in California. Women always win here, they’re always right, even when they’re not. Women who commit brutal murders get much lighter sentences than men, those who commit assault are lightly punished if at all.

The police would have no choice but to take me away. At the time, I thought California had some stupid law in place that said I, the victim, had to retreat and let the criminal take whatever they wanted.

My internal dialog said, “Choose a better option.” The part of me that is the Beast, accepted this proposition but added if she hits me again all bets are off.

I looked Crazy in the eyes and quietly said, “I don’t want to do this today.”

I knew the rage still burned in my eyes. The very few people who’ve seen my like that, described it as seeing Death looking at them, out of my eyes.

By some miracle, Crazy decided to leave. Her expression was one of confusion. She walked away without looking back, swearing and calling me names. Two that stick out were “misogynistic bastard” and “fucking fag”.

It cracks me up that when a woman is jonesing for a fight with a man, if he refuses to fight her, the woman always calls him a fag. Jesus! The deck is stacked against men!

Her one last parting shot was this, “You’ve always looked down on me since I moved here.”

As I stood there feeling the sun on my skin. I though, “Yep, you’re right about that because you’re trash, and always have been.”

The rational part of my mind acknowledged the defusing of the situation without additional violence as a win.

But the masculine, male, proud part of me, and the Beast were both wounded. By not responding as she so richly deserved, the bitch still caused me injury. She emasculated me. Not in front of the neighborhood but in front of the one person that I can’t ignore.

Myself.

It’s not about wounded pride, that heals.

This is about my fundamental right to defend myself. Am I now too old to fight? Am I weak and feeble? Am I not a man anymore? Have I caved into the bullshit and now too afraid of legal shit or consequences to even defend myself?

I was a proud apex predator, what am I now? Old? Used up? Useless? Should I just wander into the forest and die?

Will I forever hide behind the police and the law, will I forever be a victim?

The police were called. They dutifully took statements. They advised me that I could have her arrested for assault but that she’d be out in 8 hours or less. They suggested a better legal approach was to file a restraining order against her.

Either way, I know she’ll retaliate. She’s a vindictive bitch. I know of at least two other assaults she’s committed against neighbors which were unreported because the victims feared her retaliation.

I know that I must file a restraining order. Not just for me, but because it puts Crazy on the radar of the legal system. Long term, that benefits all the neighborhood. Unfortunately it also puts me on the same radar. Worse though, this feels like I’m hiding under my mother’s skirt.

The rational part of me is trying to convince the Beast that using the legal system against Crazy is satisfying because it’s using her own tools against her.

The Beast isn’t buying it. The legal system is long and drawn out and requires lots of energy to be expended. The Beast is about instant gratification and the almost erotic joy of vanquishing an enemy definitively in the moment.

The Beast is pissed off, that yet again a woman fucked him over with self inflicted wounds.

One good thing came out of my conversation with the police. They told me that I absolutely had the right to defend myself on my own property. They suggested that I get a security camera with recording ability so that in the future, once the restraining order is issued I’ll have a record of whatever transpires.

The Beast is happy about that. “If she comes at me again… Who cares who will know?”

Another bright spot is that the visitors cleaning up the neighbors house were video taping the exchange from his property.

That will make the legal process a bit easier. But it will still take time and effort and trips to the court house on my part. All of which costs me money while Crazy incurs no expense, no punishment, no inconvenience, basically… she gets to win again.