David Gerrold says I am a screechweasel :)

He also lies. Says I blocked him, when, in fact, I only unfriended him. HE is the one who did the blocking.

Would somebody who hasn't left his feed point him to my last two blog posts? 

Looks like I totes got into his skull. 🙂

I did not call him a transphobe. I called him a transphobe LOVER, because he believes its okay to hand your money and time to that transphobic cunt, Rowling.

And we proceed:

The Myth of the Neutral Platform

In her own hateful words

There is a common misconception that providing a stage for extremist viewpoints is an act of "objective journalism" or "free speech advocacy." However, when you give a KKK leader, a Nazi, or a bigot a microphone, you aren't just observing them; you are participating in their expansion.

Fuck YOU, David Gerrold

Let me make this infinitely clear.

I have three kids, Lis, Ian, and Ava. They are my pride and my joy. I support them in their identities, their lives, their very beings.

Two of my kids are transgender. I am their number one ally. I will go to the mats against anybody who wants to tell me my kids are mentally ill for that, or that they are the gender that they were assigned at birth, or that they should be forced to use a room full of urinals instead of toilets, or any person who SUPPORTS somebody with those fucking ideas in their head (David Gerrold, I am looking at YOU, motherfucker!)

Ink, Strings, and Serenity OR Happy Little Clouds

There is a specific kind of silence that happens the moment I cap my pen after finishing a Zentangle. My hand is usually a bit cramped from the precision of the patterns, but my mind is finally quiet. To keep that peace from evaporating, I reach for my ukulele. The transition from the visual rhythm of ink on paper to the literal vibration of strings against my fingertips is where I find my center.

It’s a world of tiny, deliberate wonders. One hour I’m watching a Shrinky Dink curl and toughen under the heat, and the next I’m assembling an angel keychain, bead by bead. These aren't just crafts; they are anchors. In a world that feels increasingly loud and disposable, these small acts of creation are how I claim my space.

Marshmallow Peeps Are Proof That God Has Forsaken Us

I don't know about you, but when I look at a Marshmallow Peep I don’t see a treat; I see a chemical glow that has no business existing in nature. It’s a neon warning sign in the shape of a bird. Then comes that first bite - that weird, gritty mouthfeel where the sugar crystals scrape against your teeth like fine-grit sandpaper, followed immediately by the soul-crushing squish of a marshmallow that feels less like food and more like a damp, sugary tire.

Beyond the Lip Service

 

I remember the first time I saw Boy George. It was 1981 or 82, I honestly forget which. I was in a bar with my guy, Scott, having a beer, and they had MTV on. Do You Really Wanna Hurt Me came on, and I saw Boy George and my jaw hit the fucking floor and I started laughing in hysterics.

I was utterly astounded that this queer looking guy had the sheer guts to be on TV dressed like a woman. I was amazed that MTV allowed it on their programming. I was too caught up in staring at him and being half amazed, half grossed out, to notice that that motherfucker could SING. I think back now to how I felt, how I was kind of horrified and freaked out, and I think...

Jumping the Shark: The Fonz’s Funeral and Henry Winkler’s Last Laugh

It's a classic case of a show becoming a victim of its own success. What started as a grounded, nostalgic look at 1950s Milwaukee - centered on the Cunningham family - eventually morphed into the "The Fonzie Show," and that’s where the wheels started to come off.

The Surrenderist Guide to Optimized Existing

 

Lets be honest, the rise and grind culture is exhausting, and most life hacks are designed for people who actually have goals. If I see one more suggestion about waking up at 4 AM to drink goddam lemon water and manifest productivity, I'm going to fucking scream into a pillow until I pass out for another six hours. We do not need to optimize our workflow or shred for summer; we need strategies for when the mere act of perceiving reality feels like a full time job with no benefits. This isn't about winning at life - it's about negotiating a peaceful surrender with the pile of mail on the counter.

The Script Never Changes: War Crimes in the Middle East

The script hasn't changed; only the resolution of the news footage has. We're still watching the same gray dust settle over the same shattered concrete, wondering how strategic interests always seem to require the calculated dismantling of a third grade classroom.

It is the ultimate, horrific groundhog day. We’re told these wars are necessary, but the only measurable output is a growing tally of war crimes and a generation of girls whose only education is learning the difference between the whistle of an incoming shell and the roar of a jet. There is no legal or moral framework that justifies turning a school into a gravesite, regardless of the acronyms used to defend it. It's not a "conflict", it's a fucking WAR! It's a repetitive, illegal slaughter that proves we’ve learned absolutely nothing.

“If This Goes On—”: A Side-by-Side Look at Heinlein’s Warning and the United States Today

I've been working steadily on this article since mid-January. It has been harrowing, absolutely frightening, and just a little bit too close to reality these days for me..

I just reread Robert Heinlein’s “If This Goes On—” for the umpteenth time, and I can’t stop thinking about how quiet it is. Not the writing itself, but the way the collapse happens. No sirens. No big moment where everyone agrees something has gone wrong. Just a series of choices that all seem defensible at the time. That’s what got under my skin.