August 16, 2020


I’m still on Facebook. Now look it, before you throw red paint at me or point at me and scream “shame!”, I will say that I have no idea why I’m still on Facebook. It’s not particularly innovative. It’s a gross perversion of development skills. It’s an abuse of network connectivity and it’s an abomination of technology, essentially raping society of all its useful resources.

But it’s how people keep in touch. I hang my head in shame.

For the past 48 hours the big kick on Facebook has been to show your support for the United States Postal Service. People are posting avatars and photos and showing other signs of support by saying things like, “if you live in a very blue neighborhood, drive to a red leaning neighborhood post office to mail you ballot!”.

Oh golly gee isn’t that a great idea.

Here’s the thing, how about we convince the elected officials we’ve put in office to do their job and get the postal service working the way it was intended to work.

I have a package coming to me from Cincinnati, Ohio. I have no idea what this package is but I got some email with a tracking number proclaiming the arrival of this Priority Mail package from Cincinnati, Ohio last Monday.

Cincinnati, Ohio is 295 miles from where I sit right now. We are on day 10 and the damn package still hasn’t arrived. I don’t know what the package is, I don’t care what the package is, but quite frankly it was sent by Priority Mail and it basically hasn’t found its way across the state of Indiana in 10 days.

The folks at the Post Office know nothing. I know nothing. The tracking number app knows nothing. No one knows anything.

This is what makes America Great. Right? Susan Sarandon and her friends say there was no difference between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton so you might as well vote for the woman that sat on crystals. What was her name? Jill Stein? Yeah, it took a Google search for me to remember that. And I have a memory like a steel trap.

Susan Sarandon can go rotate on a lawn sprinkler shooting out boiling water for all I care.

It’s 2020 and we don’t even have a functional post office. Yet I have friends and families declaring that things are wonderful under Trump and life is great again in America. What the hell is wrong with these people?

Things are not great. When we need to publish guides for voters to drive to “more white” areas of the country to reliably mail their ballots we have something seriously wrong with these “United” States. Small wonder Angela Merkel is now considered the most powerful world leader.

But people post things on Facebook like it’s going to make a difference. Wreath wrappers on their picture. Ribbons. Rainbow colors. Postage stamp graphics. It doesn’t make a difference. Posting your protest on Facebook is a feel good maneuver and nothing more.

You know what makes a difference? Making phone calls. Screaming at switchboard operators that don’t want to forward you to voicemail. Voting. Putting up signs. Going to protests. Making your voice heard.

Facebook? It’s a waste of time. Your update is like screaming into an echo chamber. It’ll generate ad revenue and nothing more.

Do something. Make a phone call. Make someone cry. Make a difference.


My first “real” sci-fi novel was “The Demu Trilogy” by F.M. Busby. I’ve read the book over three dozen times. I recounted my experience with this book in a blog entry from 13 years ago.

Once in a great while I’ll do a Google search on “The Demu Trilogy” to see what others have to say about it. Usually the comments are not favorable. I find the reviews to be quite pedestrian. I think folks don’t get it or approach the series from a preconceived notion as to what it should be, and then are disappointed when it doesn’t meet expectations. Why should folks have an expectation when they start reading a book?

Recently I was going through the book shelf and came across my only copy of the book; it’s the second copy I’ve owned. I purchased it used back in 1993 after my original copy was eaten by my roommate’s cocker spaniel. I don’t think the dog enjoyed it as much as I did. It’s time for me to read “The Demu Trilogy” again.

I think I read “The Demu Trilogy” at my most impressionable time; there are elements of a casual approach to sex and relationships present in the book that I’ve had in my adult life. I suppose it’s just a manifestation of the way I’m wired, but back in the day I was never one for beating around the bush when I wanted to know if someone shared a mutual attraction. This is what made building a relationship with my husband so simple; I would just say what I was interested in, and he would honestly answer if he was interested in the same sort of activity. There were no games, no coy text messages, no hidden secrets. I knew I loved him, he knew he loved me, we said it, we did it, forever and ever, amen.

Perhaps if we all lived our sexuality honestly the country would be a better place. The problem is, the American soap opera would have never come to fruition.

One of the main hangups with relationships is jealousy. I’ve shared this thought before: jealousy is a feeling that comes from within. It’s an insecurity. It’s competitiveness. No one can make you jealous; only you can make yourself jealous. “What do they have that I don’t?” So many relationships end because of jealousy. So sad. I have several insecurities in my life, but those leading to jealousy are not among them. I’m just wired differently, I guess.

I’m reminded of the hilarity around an episode of “Maude” where a college professor of some sort comes out and says that he wants to sleep with Maude and then the Norman Lear hilarity of dialog ensues. The episode was actually filmed twice, the unaired version starring Bea Arthur’s then-husband Gene Saks.

I digress a lot.

One of the themes in “The Demu Trilogy” has to do with the humanoid race the Tilari. They’re very sexual beings. They are open and honest about their sexuality. Quite frankly, I’m surprised my great-aunt and uncle included this book in the box of books they gave me when I was 13 or so years old. Maybe they didn’t know the contents of the box, after all, this book was sandwiched between two copies of “Everything You Wanted To Know About Sex (But We’re Afraid To Ask)”. I read one of those two copies of that book in the box that was gifted to me by my Uncle Pete; I learned a lot of outdated things about being gay.

If people were just honest about who they are and what makes them tick.

I’m rambling. It’s been a while since I’ve rambled on the blog. Can you believe this blog turned 19 years old last week? Where has the time gone? I started writing this thing when I was 33 years old. Wow.

There is no forethought into the construction of this blog entry. I’m just letting the words flow, uninhibited. My husband says I get too hung up on my inhibitions and that I try too hard to try to fit into societal norms.

COVID-19 prevents us from congregating, but this is the type of dialog I would have with my husband and family around a campfire at the gay campground. We’d all be shirtless. I’d be drinking a craft beer. Something with some octane. Others would be drinking other things. We’d be relaxed.

And then we’d continue the conversation as this blog entry comes to an end.