#LoveWins to the #Christian #Horror of #myDadDick


I grew up like any conservative Christian Boy Scout would: hearing endlessly from my father how the nation would come to ruin due to the “homosexual agenda”.  To hear “Dick” (he’d prefer you not call him “Richard”) tell it, you’d think America was on the verge of Armageddon a la “The Walking Dead”.  Gay people were the zombies.  Almost as bad as communists.  This according to the careful anthropological analysis of #myDadDick, informed by such scholars as Pat Robertson and whoever passed the collection plate last Sunday.

What I’ve come to find is that being gay is about as dangerous to the moral fabric of the nation as Donald Trump’s marital success.  In the immortal words of Depeche Mode, People Are People:

Now the LGBT community finally share the right to marry with #myDadDick and the rest of the Puritans who still plague the fruited plain.  How do I feel?  Why do you ask?

I’m a divorced dude who likes The Smiths, comedy and acting.  I took Shakespeare in high school.  I’ve been caught in acts of kindness towards animals.  I hate monster truck rallies and never had a desire to go hunting.  Like Greg Proops “I’m not gay and I make absolutely no case for it.”  Hell, I listen to the Greg Proops Vodcast.  Both Tom Cruise and Tom Lennon follow me on Twitter.  I voluntarily dress like this:

FFIREHS tram

What more evidence do you need?  The latest Gallup poll of my grade school playground, back when Led Zeppelin were live in concert?  Clearly I’m a fag.

So I’ll celebrate today’s court decision with great fanfare.  I’ll go out to The Las Vegas Strip to busk as Vegas 90210.  Perhaps I’ll raise my awareness via the generous insights of passing tourists.  (I’ve discovered quite a bit of my sexual identity is revealed by what I wear, especially when this actor plays a character.)  Then I’ll come home.  To my girlfriend.  And perhaps a little Miles Davis before some old school X-Files or groovy new Bojack Horsman on the Netflix.  And muse over why so many homeless men, women and children are forced to live in the sewers underneath all the wealth of Las Vegas.  Because that’s how this fag rolls.

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President Cool


I frankly can’t even remember the last time I voted.  What I have personally experienced as an academic scholar and as an artist in my life gives this Eagle Scout difficulty in respecting the United States of America.  Of course my narrow experiences vanish in the dark shadow of how the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave STILL treat those who are not male, white, adult and upper middle class or above.  But in an age when a celebrated Rat Pack tribute act in Las Vegas can be bumped for Duck Dynasty the Musical (that failed and quickly), this moment of class, cool and composure has me proud to be an American, and proud the face of America is President Barack Obama:

 

Vegas Avoids Problems & Destroys Social Fabric by Criminalizing Buskers


Here’s my response to a recent article in The Las Vegas Sun:

No city officials have “worked” with me.  Unless you count LVMPD Metro issuing me a misdemeanor warning for a “toy weapon” (a Dollar Store fluorescent green and orange squirt gun) on The Las Vegas Strip.  On a Friday.  Which is why my Vegas 90210 character now carries in his holster … a banana.  Can’t wait for that to be deemed a dangerous “toy weapon” as well.  Vegas officials clearly care more about harassing buskers than solving issues like water, kidnapping, homelessness and real crime.  Busking is not a crime, it is constitutionally protected expression.  I am not a problem.  I am a busker.  I am an American.  I am a human being.  I’m also a father, a SAG-AFTRA actor, a writer and an Eagle Scout who attended college on American Legion and other academic scholarships.  Harassing artists does not solve the city’s problems.  It simply undermines confidence and trust in the social and political institutions we’re told we should instruct our children to respect.  If you consider me a criminal simply because I’m a busker, should I then consider any elected official to be a Denny Hastert, a Rod Blagojevich or a Vladimir Putin?