Live long and prosper.

I don’t know many people who would opt to travel across country in a giant, pink RV. Then again, most people I know aren’t Shann Carr.

I’ve forgotten when I first met Shann - that is I don’t recall if it was at a leather contest weekend at The Ranch in Albuquerque or while I was on the road during my BDSM years - but we were fast friends. We were also the same size at the time, which helped when one of us needed pantyhose / socks / skirt / whatever on the road.

She was fun and funny, irreverent and kind, and never once made me, a noob to the community, feel out-of-place. She was so down-to-Earth that when I was told she was a former International Ms. Leather titleholder, I balked at the notion. She wasn’t nearly conceited enough, I thought.

When I stepped away from the national scene, I lost touch with her, as happened with so many other people in my life. When I ran across her profile on Facebook a few months ago, I was glad to see she was still doing what she does best: Making people laugh. I didn’t pay close attention at first, I just sent her a friend request, she accepted, and that was that.

Then my brother - the gay cowboy who lives in Palm Springs - sent me a text late one night that he was out at a club with someone who knew me. It was Shann, of course, and further proof (as if I need it at this point) of how small the world really is. The last message he sent me was just last weekend, about her upcoming tour.

So I checked out her website and guess what? She’s coming through July 9th and in that giant, pink RV, no less. I hope it will be at Lannie’s Clocktower Cabaret, but it’s not on their calendar as of this writing. Here’s but a taste of the lady herself (adult-oriented comedy is not generally safe for work):

PLUS, she’s getting married in one of the most beautiful, feminist-oriented publicity stunts I’ve ever heard. I donated to the cause not just because I know her, but I want to support any woman out there who’s not afraid to say it aloud.

Out loud and proud!

Here’s a nifty chart comparison of concealed-carry laws in all 50 U.S. States from 1986 to 2010.

Even the truly anti-gun politicians know that taking on gun control is a losing prospect these days. If anything, we’re getting more permissive about who gets them and where they are carried, not vice-versa. Anyone who tries to change things will lose their next election, nearly guaranteed.

As with most political hot potato issues, I am torn with this one. I like my gun - actually, my guns, plural - but I don’t see how to stop gun violence without stricter rules on their purchase and handling.

Then again, the actual gun death rates as reported by the Centers for Disease Control are pretty damned low and dropping lower every year.

Meh. Think I’ll go shooting next week.

Ladies shoot free all day Mondays at Firing Line.

Expectation without communication leads to disappointment.

People who have given us their complete confidence
believe that they have a right to ours.
The inference is false; a gift confers no rights.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche

I’ve been online for 20 years.

No kidding. My first experiences were with Galacticomm’s Major BBS systems and e-mail via FidoNet. I was not only at Comdex in 1991, the company for which I worked held an industry party for the likes of John Dvorak, Phil Katz, Jerry Pournelle, and Chuck Forsberg.

That’s right, kids: I worked for Telecomputing Magazine. No matter where you are or what you do in online geekdom today - programming, web design, gaming, social networks, blogging - I was right smack in the middle of the beginning of the whole shebang. I knew all the folks in the industry and I even got a copy of Mosaic - aka Netscape - in January, 1995, just a couple of months after its official release. There weren’t even more than about 100 gui (graphical user interface) pages at the time.

So yeah. A lot of geek street cred right there.

Even after I quit that job, I stayed online. I haven’t left but for very brief periods of time when money was exceedingly tight. One of those times I traded an old car for a working computer. Hey, I had to keep my freshly-minted website up somehow, right? I wasn’t going to let my first domain name slip away that easily. And the bus wasn’t that bad, really, for just the months it took to save for another one.

Now, going back that far, I can tell you I have a little experience with flame wars. In fact, I learned from the best - an old roommate of mine who was absolutely merciless in discussion forums - how to diplomatically tell someone to go to hell. In fact, I got so good at it that some people didn’t realize they’d been told where to go until long after they’d typed up and sent their overly-emotional, “fuck you” response.

Human beings are an emotional lot, aren’t they?

Anyway, I haven’t been involved in a real, honest-to-goodness flaming in years, but I can see one on the horizon. My previous post about the Obama prayer meme explains the topic pretty thoroughly and someone I don’t know - via a mutual friend on Facebook - referred to the prayer as a joke and that everyone should not “get their panties in a twist” and just “get over it.”

Uh-huh. A joke.

I don’t get it.

My rule since about 1997 is to never discuss religion or politics in person, let alone online. Such conversations only lead to trouble, so I leave the trolls and the idiots on forums and message boards to their own devices. But for some reason, I could not let this one go. A “joke” about wishing and hoping and praying that a world leader will die is just not funny.

So I mentioned that the majority of the leaders of Poland had died recently and commented that I’m sure the Polish people would have enjoyed the humor. I was met with a rant about censorship and how Larry Flynt (though his last name was spelled wrong in the respondent’s post) ” … fought all the way to the Supreme Court, and I might add won, against people like you! get over it already, it was a JOKE!!!”

All because I asked for the “joke” to be explained. I mean, the punchline bothers me. A lot.

I am certainly not an advocate of censorship and anyone who reads this space with any regularity knows that for a fact. In my original blog post and in my Facebook profile, I’ve posted that a) I would stand by the Obama prayer group’s right to exist, b) I will NOT join any competing petition groups to have Facebook remove them, and c) I would NOT de-friend anyone who joined the group. I am simply against a “joke” which calls for a world leader - any world leader - to die in office.

If anyone can explain how that’s funny WITHOUT a total overreaction and descending into essentially telling me to shut up, I would appreciate it. “It’s just a joke” is not a valid argument. Would you like the “joke” if I prayed to whatever deity I see fit that your mother roast in hell?

I thought not.

So, while I would like to have an adult conversation on the subject and find out the reasoning behind it, I get the distinct impression it will degenerate into name-calling and generalized bashing. Really, it already has, but I’m willing to allow someone time to hang themselves.

I’ve got yards and yards of rope and 20+ years of experience.

All joking aside.

He has something to say to anyone threatening death in the name of religion or politics.

Like I said, pretty much.

I found a Facebook group today titled - and I am not making this up, nor am I yelling the name (whoever started it typed it in all caps):

DEAR LORD, THIS YEAR YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTOR, PATRICK SWAYZIE. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTRESS, FARAH FAWCETT. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE SINGER, MICHAEL JACKSON. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW, MY FAVORITE PRESIDENT IS BARACK OBAMA. AMEN.

Let’s get one thing straight before I continue: I love free speech. I will happily defend this group’s right to exist and say whatever they want to about the President, even if they call for his death by deity.

Yet my reaction to the group is the same as hearing a thick, Southern drawl utter the N-word, reading the rants of the homophobic, hate-filled “Baptists” from Kansas, or seeing a misspelled tea party protest sign: It is hateful and moronic.

And the people on my friends list who have joined this group - which is how I heard about it in the first place - have each lost a bit of my respect.

Lest you think otherwise, I don’t much care for Obama. I haven’t really cared for any of our Presidents over the years and, as much as I abhorred George W. Bush, I never called on G-d or anyone else to kill him. (Notice I do not use the word “unpatriotic” here; dissent is as patriotic as it gets. What I don’t understand is why Obama has to DIE rather than be voted out of office. A lot of people waited a very patient eight years to be rid of his predecessor. What’s the hurry?)

Would this group (and others like it) exist at all if the man in office were Jon Kerry? How about Christopher Dodd? Ron Paul? Dennis Kucinich? How far left is too far? Or is it just because there is a man in the Oval Office who looks nothing like these other (former) candidates?

Most of all, I want to know what percentage of the group’s 700,000+ members consider themselves good Christian folk. Because asking G-d to ensure the leader of the free world is “called home” while in office is totally something Jesus would do, right?

Those who can make you believe absurdities
can make you commit atrocities.
~ Voltaire

When I was 9, my Dad got orders to move the family to Hickam Air Force Base, outside Honolulu, Hawaii.

We were living in upstate New York at the time - specifically the Utica/Rome area - and to this day, I don’t know the impetus for the decision to drive from there to Los Angeles. My Mom feared airplanes (among many other things), or they may have been told they would have to pay to ship the family car from one place to the other. Perhaps it was the prospect of taking four kids, ages 6 weeks to 9 years, on an airplane across country and then getting on another one to get over the Pacific. I think I even heard that the airlines would not accept an infant under 6 weeks old on any flights. Whatever the reason, there are many moments on that particular road trip I have never forgotten.

For instance, along the way, we ate at a Sambo’s Restaurant. Yes, a real-life, honest-to-deity, Sambo’s. This particular breakfast stands out because I remember my Dad ordering his eggs over-easy and I, not really knowing any better, ordered the same. He and Mom were surprised, but they let me learn my lesson about runny eggs (I made due with the pancakes). I’m glad that incident left an impression, because really, Sambo’s? About five years later, they were all but gone from the highway maps. Like Stuckey’s.

There are other memories between Sambo’s and Denver, but it’s in Denver that this story takes place. My parents had been in touch with old friends who insisted all 6 of us stay with them for the one night we were stopping. We rolled into town, found their house and it was kid heaven! They had two children, a boy and a girl slightly older than I was, a trampoline in the backyard, and a houseful of board games and other fun distractions. They had a giant, suburban house. They had CABLE television. It was pretty sweet.

With the exception of my then 6-week old brother, we were all having a fantastic time until about 6pm, when it was announced we needed to clean up to go to dinner. “Awwww, Mom” and “But … ” followed from both my sister (then aged 6) and I. Mom gave us “that look” - you know the one I mean - so we sulked and went inside to wash our faces.

We didn’t know we were going to (drum roll, please) … Casa Bonita.

The place had literally just opened a few months before our arrival and the friends with whom we were staying hadn’t actually been there yet, either. Let me see if I can explain those first impressions …

Well.

There was …

And the divers …

Mariachis …

Damn.

Screw it. I can’t describe it. Seriously, it’s like trying to describe the colors in Avatar to a blind person.

What I can tell you is that South Park did a great episode on it. The depiction is so accurate, in fact, that Westword calls it a documentary. Really, the place is so incredibly, wonderfully bizarre that creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone didn’t have to change a thing to add it to the show’s repertoire of weird places. Here, just watch the episode. I’ll wait.

There, Cartman’s reaction to the place? That’s exactly what it was like for all 10 of us as we were seated.

I don’t remember where everyone else was at the table, but I do remember I was to the left of and across from the older of my two brothers, then 3 years old. Not long after we settled in, the people on my side of the table noticed that a giant, pink mouse was creeping toward our party. Of course, it was an adult in a giant, pink mouse costume, but 3 year olds aren’t aware of such possibilities.

The giant, pink mouse loomed over my brother’s chair until my brother, finally sensing there was something there, looked up and back at the giant, pink mouse.

I’ve never heard a scream like that, before or since. We all jumped and so did everyone at every other table in the room. Some people out in the other dining areas did, too … in fact, there were probably people in their cars in the parking lot who said, “What the hell was that?!”

The giant, pink mouse realized quickly that my brother was stuck in a terrified-but-would-not-take-his-eyes-off-the-giant-pink-mouse mode, so (being the adult) he retreated from the room as quickly as he could.

But, not being able to see outside his giant, pink head, he tripped over at least one table and several chairs on the way out.

I’m not sure if that’s when the laughter started, but it went into full chorus then. Sure, we felt for the kid - he was scared and crying and my Mom had to console him for a long time afterward - but it was funny, too. Damned funny. I’m smiling at the memory as I type this. (Mucho apologies to my bro, but I’m sure he’s got stories on me that do the same. Start a blog, dude.)

For years afterward, my Dad would tell the story and mention that “To a 3 year old, Mickey Mouse is just a giant rat.”

I’ve been in Denver for 6 years and no, I have not returned to Casa Bonita. I have zero interest in spending time at what is essentially a huge Chuck E. Cheese with a South-of-the-Border twist. Well, that and the food, I’m told, is better at Taco Bell, a place I have not eaten in close to 10 years.

And really, it just wouldn’t be the same without a terrified 3 year old.

This is not my beautiful house.

The depth of any transaction is limited by the depth of the shallower party.

Very interesting reading this evening.

There’s this writer’s group I started. Well, I didn’t exactly start it; I mentioned it would be a good idea, but I was was traveling and had other events in the way, so a friend and fellow writer got the initial few weeks going for me.

Last week was my first with the group and I gotta say, it’s a boon to my creativity already. Not just because I have two hours wherein I focus on writing, but because it’s a small group of creative people who can – and will happily – support each other with our projects.

I am sitting with the group as I write this and there are three people typing plus two artists drawing. Five of us is just about right. That is, as much as I’d like to invite a lot more people – I am quite a social animal after all – I think 5-7 people is just the right size for a group like this. More than 7 and conversations might get in the way; less than 3 and there is no creative energy on which to feed.

There is one person I’d like to invite to these Sunday shindigs and, though he wouldn’t call himself a writer, I like to read the items he posts on social networks. He’s quite talented, yet I find myself hesitant to invite him. It’s not because he wouldn’t enjoy it or he wouldn’t fit in with the rest of us, he’s just a morose personality type. Melancholy is a trait one can work into creative endeavors, but a total pity party isn’t really conducive to the group setting.

You know what? To hell with it, I’m going to send him a note about next week. Maybe this group is exactly what he needs.

Then again, the road to hell is paved with Good Samaritans.