Ned: A shy and timid typesetter at the Daily Weeds newspaper, who resembles Brad Pitt on a bad day. Ned is modest and unaware of his value and attractiveness.
The Cute Bartender (Alex): A charismatic and charming bartender at Lucky C who falls for Ned over their shared love of Shirley Temples.
The Daily Weeds Higher-Ups: The newspaper’s executives who take credit for Ned’s brilliant headlines.
Rival Newspaper Competitors: A scheming group aiming to kidnap and kill Ned to stop the Daily Weeds’ success.
The Gay Mafia: A secretive, protective group willing to go to great lengths to defend Ned, although he is unaware of their existence.
Plot:
Ned lived a quiet life, hidden in the shadows of the Daily Weeds’ newsroom. His days were spent crafting perfect headlines, a talent that brought his employer acclaim and success. Despite his crucial role, Ned remained unnoticed, timidly working at his typesetting desk. His self-esteem was low; he never considered himself attractive, even though he had a rugged charm that could be likened to Brad Pitt on an off day.
Ned’s life took an unexpected turn one evening when he narrowly escaped being hit by a runaway city bus. Disoriented and seeking solace, he stumbled into a bar he had never noticed—Lucky C. With its welcoming atmosphere and vibrant clientele, the bar was a stark contrast to Ned’s usually solitary existence.
At the bar, he ordered the only alcoholic drink he knew—a Shirley Temple. Alex, the cute bartender, was immediately charmed. Alex loved making Shirley Temples, a drink rarely requested by patrons. Their shared moment over this simple drink sparked a connection, and for the first time, Ned felt seen and appreciated.
As Ned began to frequent Lucky C, he started coming out of his shell. The lively environment and supportive community at the bar brought out a side of him he never knew existed. His newfound confidence began to reflect in his work, leading to even more captivating headlines that left the Daily Weeds’ competitors scrambling.
Unbeknownst to Ned, the rival newspaper had been closely monitoring the Daily Weeds’ success. Frustrated by their inability to keep up, they devised a sinister plan to kidnap and eliminate the source of their competition’s success—Ned.
They would wait until he left the Daily Weeds back office and throw a hood over his head. Then, two thugs would throw Ned into a waiting van and speed him to the outside of town near a seedy pond where he would be shot, still wearing the hood and a weight tied around his neck, and thrown into a boat. One of the thugs would take a boat and shove it away from the shore, and when it got near the center of the pond, the thugs would fill it with bullet holes and make it sink, with Ned inside, weighed down. Never to be found.
However, the rival newspaper and their hired mobsters were unaware of a secret force. The Gay Mafia, a clandestine group operating within the city, had liked Ned. They admired his quiet brilliance and were determined to protect him at all costs. They had been listening through their glitter correspondences. The glitter correspondences were a network of highly sensitive individuals who could pick up on people’s intuitions from across the room. They had been picking up vibes from the thugs at a local coffee shop for over a week. It is what caused the Gay Mafia to concentrate their attention on Ned. There was so much vibing there was almost concern they would have to call in a team from Philly to assist with the operation. With well-laid plans and assistance from the Gay Men’s Choir, a plan got hatched to pull off operation “SAVE NED” at 1700 Hours sharp! The driver, who made up the only civilian of the Gay Mafia, yelled to the rest of the non-mafia members that it was 5 PM, you guys. The rest of the Gay Mafia had belonged to the same Troop in the Middle East when serving the Country and understood military time.
The rival newspaper’s plot set off a chain of events culminating in a dramatic confrontation. As the thugs moved in on Ned, the Gay Mafia sprang into action. A chaotic collision of forces ensued—a battle that turned the usually quiet city streets into a more vibrant and exhilarating scene than any Pride Parade.
There were unusually high pitches of the singing of Hallelujah coming from the alleyway of the Daily Weeds Office area and then sudden flumes of smoke and glitter, followed by the pomp and circumstance of a Gay Mens Chorus of Lilly of The Valley. The evil thugs were tied up and left in a neat pile for the local police to find—all courtesy of the Gay Mafia.
Amid the chaos, Ned remained blissfully unaware of the true extent of his importance or the danger he was in. All he knew was that for the first time in his life, people were surrounding him who valued him, both for his talent and who he was. The experience saved his life and transformed it, making Ned realize his worth and the power of community. As he left the Daily Weed, he shut and locked the door and walked to the Lucky C, where he sat on a bar stool and asked Alex for a Shirley Temple.
Today ––– The Daily Weeds continued to thrive, thanks to Ned’s unmatched headlines. And Ned, no longer the unsung hero, became a celebrated figure in both the newsroom and the vibrant world of Lucky C. His story was a testament to life’s unexpected turns and the hidden strength within us all, yet to be discovered.
In the small, picturesque town of Elmwood, where traditions ran deep, and change was a slow, meandering stream, Lynn and Trisha found each other amidst the rustling leaves of adolescence. The year was 1974, when the world was still catching up to the notions of freedom and acceptance we now hold dear.
Lynn, with her red hair and curious green eyes, was the daughter of the town’s librarian. She spent her days buried in books, finding solace in stories that took her far beyond the confines of Elmwood. On the other hand, Trisha was the spirited daughter of a local fisherman in Seaside, a neighboring town. Beaming with golden hair and bright blue eyesthat mirrored the ocean, she was a breath of fresh, salty air. The scent of fish and saltwater, the sound of seagulls, and the feel of sand between her toes were all part of Trisha’s essence.
They met on a summer day during the annual Elmwood-Seaside fair. Lynn was helping her mother at a book stall when Trisha walked by, her laughter catching Lynn’s attention. ‘What’s so funny?’ Lynn asked, her curiosity piqued. Trisha turned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Oh, just a silly joke I heard,’ she replied. Their eyes met, and in that fleeting moment, an unspoken connection was forged.
‘Do you want to explore the fair together?’
Lynn found herself asking. Trisha nodded, and they spent the rest of the fair together, sharing secrets and dreams and eventually a tender kiss behind the carousel.
Their love blossomed in secret, as the world around them would never understand the depth of their feelings. They met in hidden glades, exchanged letters, and carved their initials into the old oak tree by the riverbank. But the shadow of societal expectations loomed large. Their clandestine meetings became increasingly fraught with danger and tension as the years passed. They were constantly on edge, fearing discovery and the consequences it would bring. Yet, they persevered, their love growing stronger with each obstacle they overcame.
One fateful night, an acquaintance saw them kissing, and their secret was discovered. The backlash was swift and unforgiving, a harsh reminder of the societal norms they had dared to challenge. Trisha’s parents, staunch traditionalists, sent her away to live with relatives in Flursville, far from the reach of Lynn’s love. Lynn’s parents, heartbroken and confused, forbade her from contacting Trisha. The two girls, now young women, were torn apart, their hearts left aching with the sudden void of each other’s absence.
Part II: A Lifetime Apart
As the years turned into decades, Lynn, unable to shake off the memory of her first love, immersed herself in her studies and eventually became a successful author. She wrote under a pseudonym, and her stories were often tinged with the bittersweet essence of lost love and yearning. She remained in Elmwood, surrounded by the familiar but always haunted by Trisha’s absence. Her heart, though scarred, still held a flicker of hope, a belief that one day, they would be together again.
Trisha, in Flursville, married out of societal pressure but found no real happiness. Her husband, though kind, could never fill the void Lynn had left. She had two children, poured her love into them, and eventually opened a small bookstore, a tribute to the memories of those sunlit afternoons spent with Lynn. Her thoughts often wandered back to Elmwood, the oak tree by the riverbank, and the girl with brown hair and green eyes. She often found herself wondering what life would have been like if they had been allowed to be together, her heart aching with the unanswered question. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t escape the feeling that something was missing from her life, a void that could only be filled by Lynn.
Part III: Reunited Hearts
It was the summer of 2004 when fate intervened. Lynn’s father passed away, and she returned to Elmwood to settle his affairs. She was now a middle-aged woman, her hair streaked with grey, her eyes still holding the spark of youth. One day, sorting through her father’s belongings, she found a box of old letters, including the ones she had written to Trisha but never sent.
On a whim, she decided to visit Seaside. Walking along the familiar paths, she felt the weight of memories. She stopped by the beach, where the waves kissed the shore, and there, amidst the crowd, she saw her. Trisha, older but still radiant, was there with her grandchildren. Their eyes met once more, and time seemed to stand still. The world around them faded into the background, leaving only the two of them, their love, and the years they had spent apart. In that moment, all the pain and heartache of their separation was washed away, replaced by a sense of peace and belonging.
Lynn approached, her heart pounding. “Trisha?”
Trisha turned, her blue eyes widening in recognition.
“Lynn?” She whispered,
tears welling up.
They embraced, years of longing and love pouring out in that single moment. They talked for hours, sharing their lives, their losses, and their lingering love. The world had changed, and the acceptance they had longed for was now within reach. The weight of their past struggles seemed to lift, replaced by a renewed sense of hope and joy. They were finally together, and nothing else mattered.
Part IV: A Love Rekindled
With renewed courage and societal acceptance, Lynn and Trisha decided to live the life they had always dreamed of. Lynn moved to Flursville, where Trisha’s children welcomed her with open arms. They bought a little house by the sea, filled it with books and memories, and planted an oak tree in their garden, symbolizing their enduring love. The world had changed, and the acceptance they had longed for was now within reach. Society had evolved, becoming more inclusive and understanding, allowing them to finally be together without fear or judgment.
Once hidden in the shadows, their love story blossomed in the open, a testament to the power of love and the strength of the human spirit. They spent their days writing, exploring, and cherishing every moment together. They were no longer bound by societal constraints, free to love and live as they pleased. Their love, once a secret, was now a beacon of hope for others, a shining example of the enduring power of love.
Lynn and Trisha’s story became an inspiration and a beacon of hope for many. In a world that had once tried to keep them apart, they finally found their forever, together.
Bud and Jake, two inseparable friends since childhood, shared a bond that was as strong as the fields and stables of their small hometown. As the sun came up on a crisp Saturday morning, they loaded their old pickup truck with supplies and hitched up the horse trailer, ready for the adventure ahead. Inside the trailer, their beloved horses, Star and Blaze, stood patiently, saddled, and prepared for the parade in Cleo Springs.
The air was charged with anticipation as Bud and Jake embarked on their journey, the Pride Flag they’d carefully packed fluttering in the wind. This year, they were resolute in their decision to ride in the parade and demonstrate their unwavering support for equality and love in all its forms. The flag, a beacon of their indomitable spirit, symbolized their commitment to standing up for what they believed in, no matter the odds.
As they drove along the winding country roads, their conversation was light and full of laughter. They reminisced about past adventures and planned the day ahead. However, their joy was short-lived. Out of nowhere, a car screeched to a halt in front of them, forcing Bud to slam on the brakes. Before they could react, two men with hardened faces and a menacing air approached the truck, guns drawn.
“Out of the truck, now!”
One of the thugs barked, his voice rough and commanding. Bud and Jake exchanged a glance, understanding the gravity of the situation. They complied, stepping out slowly with their hands raised.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Jake said calmly, trying to diffuse the tension.
The second thug, his eyes cold and calculating, shoved Bud roughly against the truck.
“We need a ride, and this truck and trailer will do just fine, the first thug snarled.
“Get in the back, and don’t try anything funny.”
With their hands tied behind their backs, Bud and Jake were forced into the truck’s bed, their hearts pounding with fear and uncertainty. The thugs climbed into the cab, and the old pickup roared back to life, veering off the main road and onto a remote, deserted path.
As the miles stretched on, Bud and Jake’s minds raced, searching for a way out of their predicament. They knew they couldn’t let these criminals escape, especially not with their horses. Bud caught sight of the Pride Flag, still within reach in the truck bed. An idea began to form.
“Jake,”
Bud whispered, his voice barely audible over the engine’s rumble.
“When I give the signal, we need to act fast. Trust me.”
Jake nodded, his eyes filled with determination. As the truck slowed to navigate a particularly rough patch of road, Bud made his move. With a swift motion, he grabbed the flag and lunged at the nearest thug. Jake followed suit, using his body to knock the second thug off balance. The struggle was fierce but fleeting. Bud and Jake, fueled by adrenaline and their unbreakable bond, managed to overpower the thugs and secure them tightly with the Pride Flag. Panting and bruised, they confined the criminals in the back of the truck, a testament to their courage and resilience.
Bud climbed into the driver’s seat, and Jake took a moment to check on the horses, who, though agitated, were unharmed. With renewed purpose, they headed back toward the main road, the thugs’ angry curses silenced by the engine’s roar.
As they neared Cleo Springs, the sight of the parade brought a wave of relief and triumph. They pulled up to the sheriff’s station, where sheriff’s deputies quickly took the thugs into custody. Hearing of their harrowing ordeal, the townspeople greeted Bud and Jake with cheers and admiration.
With the crisis behind them, Bud and Jake joined the parade, and their Pride Flag symbolized their resilience and courage. Riding side by side on Star and Blaze, they waved to the crowd, their hearts full of pride not just for who they were but for what they had overcome together. The parade continued to celebrate love, unity, and the indomitable spirit of friendship.
The Friendly Hotel, renowned for its around-the-clock security and welcoming atmosphere, primarily serves LGBTQI clientele. It features a restaurant and two nightclubs that cater to the gay community, making it a popular destination.
The front desk was abuzz with guests checking in on a bustling Saturday night. The diligent clerks worked hard, assigning rooms and ensuring the correct amenities. Meanwhile, security guards Steve and Jim began their shift at 8 PM. Their initial task was to patrol the Hotel’s perimeter, ensuring the safety of all guests, particularly the LGBTQI community. They also made regular rounds at the nightclubs, maintaining a vigilant presence. Steve and Jim were not just part of the Hotel’s security team but also recognizable figures in the community. Their reliability and assured presence brought peace and safety, reassuring guests and visitors alike.
As long-time officers at the Friendly Hotel, Steve and Jim were known for their no-nonsense approach. They wouldn’t tolerate any arguing or resistance, often telling it like it was and swiftly ejecting or arresting troublemakers. This firm handling of security contributed to the secure feeling that drew many guests to the Hotel.
On this particular Saturday night, a group gathered outside the hotel gates, shouting anti-gay slurs at guests. Due to their location, Steve and Jim couldn’t move them but kept a watchful eye, urging visitors to avoid the area for safety.
Around 2 AM, the crowd had dwindled to six individuals, who positioned themselves on both sides of the street in front of the Hotel. The street led to other nightclubs nearby, and patrons often walked between these clubs and the Hotel. Steve and Jim reported the dangerous situation to local police, warning that assaults could occur. However, the police did not respond.
At 2:39 AM, Steve and Jim, standing near the street on hotel property, saw two guests leaving the Hotel and heading towards other clubs. Suddenly, the six individuals attacked the two men with pipes, brass knuckles, and other weapons, striking them in the head, stomach, ribs, and legs. The two men collapsed, unconscious and bleeding heavily, as the attackers shouted anti-gay slurs. Steve and Jim rushed to apprehend the assailants, capturing five of them. They handcuffed the suspects and seated them on the sidewalk. Recovered weapons included nunchucks, brass knuckles, metal bars, mace, knives, and a shuriken.
The victims remained unconscious and continued to bleed profusely. The guards tried to apply pressure with whatever supplies they could find. Jim radioed the front desk to call the police, ambulance, and fire rescue. Steve asked if anyone in the crowd had medical training, but no one stepped forward. Emergency services took over thirty minutes to arrive, a typical response time in the gay community during the 80s and 90s.
When the fire department and ambulance finally arrived, they refused to touch the victims. Steve and Jim had to load the victims onto the stretchers and into the ambulances themselves, applying bandages to stop the bleeding. The police department sent only one unit, and the suspects were released a block away without charges. The police filed an incomplete report, and a follow-up investigation concluded insufficient information to pursue further action.
The two assault victims got so severely beaten that they had to be placed in medically induced comas for a week to reduce brain swelling. They lost most of their teeth, had their noses broken, orbital eye sockets crushed, chins broken, and ribs fractured. One suffered a punctured lung, and the other nearly lost an ear.
The story you have just read is an account of actual events experienced by the writer. The Hotel’s original name is no longer in use; it has since been changed and is operated by a different owner. The name used in this story is strictly to serve as a reference for the reader. Any name or likenesses may be coincidental; however, this incident occurred over thirty years ago. The reason for sharing this story is to highlight the results of severe prejudices and their actions in our daily lives. What we say, hear, and do genuinely matter. And how dangerous it can be to turn back the clock in an attempt to make things like they used to be!
The Melon Group was a crowd of friends that began in a small community as a support group. The members had found themselves there as a collective of the LGBTQI+ Community. They ranged from 18 to 80+ and had watched people come and go. Sadly, the group was gathering after attending the funeral of the Melon Group founder, Bennie. He had been the one back in 1981 who had posted an ad in the local paper inviting all the rainbow family members to join him for snacks and treats in the local park. It was a risky move in those days, but Bennie was like that; he took chances. Chances like that gave life to many of the hidden townspeople, who did not have anyone to turn to.
There was Joanne, a closeted lesbian, until 1984 when the help of Bennie’s meetings in the park gave her the courage to confront her family. Thanks to Bennie, Jill, her partner, met her at the park. Jon and Mike, a gay middle-aged couple, found support with the group after relocating to the community for their jobs. Then there were Jett and Freida, who were transgender. They found love from the group when their families had disowned them.
Others, too many to mention, had been through the Melon Group over the years. As they sat in a local coffee shop and began to recall the years that had passed, memories flooded back of those who had once been part of their vibrant community but were no longer there.
Paul, an older gentleman among the first members, always had a warm smile and a knack for baking the best cookies. He had passed away a few years ago, but his recipes lived on in the group, a sweet reminder of his presence. Maria, a young transgender woman, had found solace in the group after escaping an abusive household. She eventually moved to a big city to chase her dreams of becoming an artist, but her sporadic visits and heartfelt messages kept her close to everyone’s hearts.
Bennie, though, was the heart and soul of the Melon Group. His courage and vision created a safe space where none had existed. His laughter was infectious, and his wisdom, always shared with a twinkle in his eye, guided many through their darkest days. Bennie had a way of making everyone feel seen, heard, and loved. He remembered every birthday, celebrated every milestone, and comforted every sorrow. His passing left a void that felt impossible to fill.
The Melon Group wasn’t just a support group but a lifeline. In those early days, gathering in the park was an act of defiance, a statement of existence in a world that often refused to acknowledge them. Over time, the group became a second family. They celebrated, grieved, and, most importantly, stood by each other through thick and thin.
Samantha, a bisexual woman who had joined in the late ’90s, recalled how Bennie had helped her through her messy divorce and subsequent custody battle. “Bennie always knew what to say,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “He had this way of making you feel like everything was going to be okay, even when it felt like the world was falling apart.”
Jacob, who recently came out as non-binary, shared how Bennie had encouraged them to embrace their true selves. “Bennie saw me,” Jacob said. He saw the real me even before I did. He gave me the strength to be honest with myself and the world.”
The Melon Group had seen countless faces over the years: people who found a place to belong, who found love and acceptance, who found the courage to be themselves. Bennie’s legacy lived on in each of them, in the connections they made, and in the lives they touched.
As they sat in that coffee shop, sharing stories and laughter through their tears, they knew Bennie’s spirit was with them. They vowed to continue his work, keep the Melon Group alive and thriving, and be the beacon of hope and love that Bennie had always been.
The Melon Group had weathered many storms but stood firm, a testament to the power of community, love, and the enduring impact of one man’s dream. Bennie may be gone, but his light shone brightly in the hearts of all who had known him, and in the Melon Group, that light would never fade.
The story of Gay Pride Parades, also known as LGBTQ+ Pride Parades, begins with a backdrop of systemic discrimination, social stigma, and legal challenges faced by LGBTQ+ individuals. The need for such parades emerged from the historical struggle for recognition, rights, and acceptance. Here’s a concise history of how they became necessary:
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Early 20th Century: Discrimination and Marginalization
In the early 20th century, LGBTQ+ individuals faced severe discrimination and persecution. Homosexuality was criminalized in many parts of the world, and those who identified as LGBTQ+ were often subject to arrest, harassment, and violence. This era was marked by widespread societal stigma, leading many to conceal their identities.
1950s-1960s: The Homophile Movement
The mid-20th century saw the rise of the homophile movement, with groups like the Mattachine Society and the Daughters of Bilitis advocating for the rights of gay and lesbian individuals. These organizations aimed to improve the public perception of LGBTQ+ people and sought to decriminalize homosexuality. Their efforts laid the groundwork for more visible activism.
Stonewall Uprising: The Catalyst
The catalyst for the Gay Pride Parades was the Stonewall Uprising in June 1969. The Stonewall Inn, a gay bar in New York City’s Greenwich Village, was a frequent target of police raids. On June 28, 1969, a raid sparked spontaneous and violent demonstrations by the LGBTQ+ community, which lasted several days. The Stonewall Uprising marked a turning point, as it galvanized the LGBTQ+ community and led to the formation of activist organizations like the Gay Liberation Front (GLF) and the Gay Activists Alliance (GAA).
1970: The First Pride March
To commemorate the one-year anniversary of the Stonewall Uprising, activists organized the first Christopher Street Liberation Day March on June 28, 1970. This event is widely recognized as the first Gay Pride Parade. It took place in New York City and was followed by similar marches in Los Angeles, Chicago, and San Francisco. The purpose of these marches was to promote LGBTQ+ visibility, celebrate their identity, and demand equal rights.
Growth and Global Expansion
Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, Pride Parades grew in size and spread to other cities around the world. They became annual events, serving as a platform for activism, community building, and celebration. The AIDS crisis in the 1980s further intensified the need for solidarity and visibility, as LGBTQ+ communities faced immense loss and stigma.
Modern Pride Parades
Today, Pride Parades are held in cities worldwide and have evolved into large-scale celebrations that include parades, festivals, concerts, and educational events. They serve multiple purposes: celebrating LGBTQ+ identity and culture, advocating for legal and social equality, and remembering the struggles and achievements of the LGBTQ+ movement.
Continued Relevance
Despite significant progress, LGBTQ+ individuals still face challenges and discrimination in many parts of the world. Pride Parades remain necessary to combat homophobia, transphobia, and other forms of discrimination. They continue to provide a space for the community to express pride in their identity and to demand full equality and acceptance.
Conclusion
The necessity of Gay Pride Parades stems from a history of marginalization and the ongoing fight for rights and recognition. What began as a reaction to oppression and violence has transformed into a global movement that celebrates diversity, promotes inclusivity, and strives for equality.
Born in a county of less than 12,000 people in the southwest part of the state, Jason grew up in the shadow of his grandfather’s church. Papa Preacher, as he was known, was a fire and brimstone verse-thrower who would have been at home in the 1870s. He led the county revivals in a Save Your Soul from Satan telethon of services every Spring and Fall. Everyone showed up, or people’s names were trashed in the community.
Jason had heard since the time he could walk how homosexuals would be sent straight to the pits of Hell, with the gnashing of teeth, torture the likes never seen, and burning forever more. From birth, he was scared to believe everything his grandfather said was true.
When Jason began to get older and experienced puberty, his reactions to life differed from those of other teenage boys. His attraction to girls was nonexistent. He had no desire to look at a girl in a way that would be sexual. He had many girls who were friends, but he never wanted to date one or have any relationship other than friendship with any of them. However, when it came to his male friends and older classmates, that was a different story—one he didn’t understand. Jason had never known a person who was gay. He had never been around any books, magazines, or pamphlets that contained gay content. Nor had Jason watched any movies concerning gays. The only thing he knew about gays or the LGBTQI+ Community was that they slept with the same sex and were going to Hell forever!
Now, he was having intense feelings for other young men, and it was showing. In gym class, he began showing up late or not going at all to avoid going to the locker room. He got roughed up when showering once when he got an erection, and he didn’t mean to. He thought it was difficult enough just trying to hide his excitement walking through the hallways between classes. At least he could use his school books to cover up any problems that could arise.
What Jason couldn’t cover up was the summer vacation when a foreign exchange student from Germany was staying with a local family, and he was discovered by the local police necking and nearly nude while parked in Jason’s four-wheel drive. They were both in college and of legal age to make their own decisions, but the local police ensured Jason’s grandfather heard about it. The officer then went to the local coffee shop and told the local crowd about it, and soon, the whole town was talking. The foreign exchange student didn’t understand what the big deal was after all, to him, it was well-accepted where he came from, and this upset was so uncalled for. But for Jason, it was the end of his life as he knew it. And, he began to shut down. He was withdrawing and ending communications with everyone. He holed up at home for weeks, sleeping nearly all the time. Then, he began staying awake for days at a time. Finally, he had established a plan to say goodbye.
Jason sat in his dimly lit living room, the world’s weight pressing down on him. The gun in his hand felt heavy, not just physically but emotionally. His eyes, red from hours of crying, stared at the floor. The only sound was the steady ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner, a reminder of the seconds slipping away.
He had tried an hour earlier. As he pulled the trigger, his body betrayed him, flinching just enough to send the bullet harmlessly through the open window. He had cursed himself for his cowardice, not knowing that his hesitation had saved a life outside. In the quiet street beyond, a small dog had narrowly missed getting hit, the sound of the shot startling it but not injuring it.
Now, Jason sat there, lost in his thoughts. He had tried to change, to conform to the expectations of his family, church, and society. But he couldn’t change who he was. The rejection, the whispers, the outright hostility—they had all taken their toll. He felt alone, unloved, and hopeless.
Unbeknownst to Jason, the small dog he had unknowingly spared was wandering through the neighborhood. The dog, a scruffy terrier mix with a keen sense of empathy, was drawn to the house. Jason left the door slightly ajar, leaving it open in desperation and distraction. The dog slipped inside, its little paws padding softly on the wooden floor.
Jason didn’t notice the dog at first. He, too, was wrapped up in his sorrow, the cold metal of the gun pressed against his temple. It wasn’t until he felt a soft nudge against his leg that he looked down. Sitting in front of him was the scruffy terrier, its eyes wide and filled with a kind of unconditional love that Jason had never experienced before.
The dog wagged its tail, its eyes never leaving Jason’s. It was as if the dog understood his pain and wanted to offer comfort. Jason lowered the gun, his hand trembling. He reached out hesitantly, and the dog nuzzled his hand, licking his fingers gently.
Tears welled up in Jason’s eyes. He hadn’t felt such warmth in so long. The dog climbed into his lap, curling up as if it was fate to find him in his darkest moment. Jason hugged the dog tightly, sobbing into its fur. The presence of the small, warm creature gave him a glimmer of hope, a reason to hold on.
Hours went by as Jason sat there with the dog in his arms. The sun began to rise, casting a gentle glow through the windows. The new day felt like a second chance, a new beginning. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew he couldn’t give up.
The dog had saved him in more ways than one. It had given him a reason to keep going, a reminder that love and hope could come from the most unexpected places. Jason decided to name the dog Chance for the second chance it had given him. They would face whatever came next, knowing they had each other together.
In the following days, Jason began to reach out for help, reconnecting with supportive friends and finding solace in a community that accepted him for who he was. And through it all, Chance was by his side, a loyal companion who had come into his life when he needed it most. The love and companionship of his furry friend reminded him daily that he was worthy of love and happiness, just as he was.
That evening, Jason turned his television off, the only channel he had been told he could watch and remain a good Christian and child of God. While flipping to another TV station, he came across a public service announcement about PFLAG and went to their website out of curiosity to learn more. It was there that Jason heard about the Trevor Project and The Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender National Hotline. He reached out for direction and soon became part of the most prominent family he knew. And he grew to be the happiest he ever had in life. Today – Jason isn’t going through Hell on Earth trying to stay out of a place many people question. And he wakes up with a rainbow in his life every day!
Ethan Ryder Is Set Free From A Lifetime Of Pain And Rensentments…
Ethan Ryder had not set foot in Blare, Arkansas, for nearly twenty years. The dusty roads, the sunbaked fields, and the distant hum of cicadas were all etched into his memory, though the town held little warmth for him. The old farm, once a place of life and growth, now symbolized the past he was finally ready to confront. His parents had passed, leaving the property to him, and with a heavy heart, he decided it was time to sell and settle the lingering ghosts of his youth
. The farmhouse loomed at the end of the dirt road, its paint peeling and windows cloudy with neglect. Ethan took a deep breath, the scent of earth and decay mingling. Memories flooded back—memories of long, lonely days working the fields, of whispered slurs and judgmental glances from the townsfolk, and of the dark, sleepless nights filled with fear and self-loathing.
Ethan’s childhood had been a series of silent battles, trying to reconcile who he was with who the town expected him to be. As a teenager, he had realized he was gay, a revelation that brought a storm of confusion and dread. Blare was not the type of place where locals embraced this kind of difference. The town was small, its people set in their ways, and the intolerance he faced left deep scars.
He walked through the creaking door, the house’s interior almost unchanged. Dusty furniture stood as it had been for decades, and the old family photographs still lined the walls. Ethan ran a finger along the mantle, picking up a thick layer of dust. The house felt like a time capsule, a reminder of a life he had fought hard to leave behind. It was in the kitchen that Ethan found a tangible connection to his past: an old, weathered cookbook that had belonged to his mother. She was the one person who had always accepted him, even if she didn’t fully understand. Ethan could still hear her soft, comforting voice as she tried to console him during his darkest moments, a voice that brought him solace even in her absence. Ethan’s father, on the other hand, was a stern man bound by the town’s rigid expectations. When Ethan came out to him, the silence was more painful than any words could have been. The distance between them had grown insurmountable, and this rift had driven Ethan to leave Blare as soon as he could.
As he explored the farm, Ethan’s steps led him to the barn. This old structure, once his sanctuary, was where he could escape the harsh realities of Blare and dream of a life where he could be himself. Pushing open the heavy doors, he was greeted by the familiar scents of hay and leather, triggering a flood of memories. In this very barn, he had shared his first kiss with another boy, a moment that had both terrified and exhilarated him, marking the beginning of his journey toward self-acceptance.
Standing in the barn, Ethan felt a profound sense of closure. The fear and pain of his youth no longer held him captive. He had built a life far from Blare, surrounded by people who loved and accepted him for who he was. He had found happiness, a concept he had once deemed unattainable, and it was a feeling that washed over him, bringing a sense of peace and relief. With renewed determination, Ethan began sorting through his parents’ belongings, deciding what to keep and let go. Among the keepsakes was a small wooden box he had never seen before. Inside, Ethan found dozens of letters, all addressed to him. They were from his mother and written after he left. In them, she spoke of her regret for not being able to protect him better, her pride in his courage, and her unwavering love.
As Ethan read his mother’s letters, tears welled up in his eyes. Her words were a soothing balm to his wounded soul, healing the scars of a painful past. Even in her absence, he felt a deep connection to her, a connection that brought him peace and a renewed sense of self. Her letters were not just words on a page, but a testament to her love and understanding, a final gift of closure and acceptance.
By the time Ethan was ready to leave, the farmhouse felt less like a place of pain and more like a chapter that had finally ended. He had faced his past, laid his ghosts to rest, and was ready to move forward. As Ethan drove away from Blare for the last time, the sun setting behind him, Ethan felt a lightness in his heart. He was free.
Eric’s and Marie’s parents, Donald and Jasmine, married for thirteen years. They were a biracial couple and parents, of Eric and Marie, a set of twins about to turn twelve years old. At the end of the school year, Donald and Jasmine sat down with Eric and Marie and said they needed to talk to them.
As the end of the school year approached, the twins, Eric and Marie, found themselves in a state of anticipation. They hadn’t broken any rules or caused any major disturbances at home, so what could this conversation be about? Their minds raced with possibilities: Could one of their parents be seriously ill? Or perhaps a financial crisis had struck, forcing them to downsize their home?
It didn’t take long for Donald and Jasmine to clear the air. Donald began ––
“For years we knew we would one day have to talk to you about this and we always promised we would tell you when you are 12 years old. We’ve been preparing for this conversation, considering your maturity and understanding, and we believe now is the right time.”
Jasmine joined in ––
“That’s right, we feel you are at the age that you will understand what we are about to tell you and why we want to tell you this. It is important for you to know that we love you very much, and you both are the reason we did this. Our love for you is the foundation of this decision, and we hope you understand that.”
Eric and Marie, in their twin fashion, said in unison ––
“So what did you guys do, rob a bank and run from the law?”
Donald firmly replied ––
“No! What we have to say is more important than that, and this is about something that would have been much more severe if it didn’t work initially!”
The twins were shocked. What could be more severe than being on the run from the law?
Jasmine, wanting to direct the topic back to its intended purpose, suggested everyone take a deep breath. Saying ––
“What we are talking about isn’t Spy Stuff.”
Donald replied ––
“It almost was!“
Jasmine, tired of the kids and Donald’s propensity for dragging out any conversation to make it a lecture, much as he would a class of his at the University, took control of the room ––
“Look, we have to say what we are here to talk about. It isn’t up for guessing or beating around the bush. The kids are supposed to know now. Kids, your mother and father are gay! We have been since the day you were born. Since we both were born. I gave birth to you; your father is your real daddy. But we have never had sex. I became pregnant through in vitro fertilization. Do you know what that is?”
The twins both nodded their heads, again answering together,
“Yes, we learned about this year at school.”
Then Eric replied ––
I always knew Pop was gay, but I never thought it of you, Mom.
Marie sputtered out ––
“Well, I always thought Mom was, but I would have never guessed it of Pops!“
Donald and Jasmine just stood there, looking at each other, somewhat dumbfounded. Each wondered what they could have done to cause their children to make such conclusions. But that wasn’t as important as helping them accept the news they had heard.
Donald said to both children ––
“Kids, we want to ensure you know you can talk to us about this and are okay with asking questions.”
Eric and Marie sat silently for a moment, processing this significant revelation. Then, Marie broke the silence.––
“Are you both happy?”
She asked softly, looking between her parents.
Donald and Jasmine exchanged glances before Jasmine replied ––
“Yes, sweetheart. We are delighted. Our relationship works because we love and support each other. We decided to raise you as a family to provide you with a loving home. And we do love each other, just not in the way you might think of traditional marriages.”
Still absorbing everything, Eric asked ––
“So, does this mean you have other partners or are you just… like roommates?”
Donald took a deep breath and said ––
“We do have partners. We’ve kept this part of our lives private because we wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand. We both have partners who mean a lot to us, and they support and love you, too.”
Jasmine added ––
“We wanted to ensure you both felt safe and secure in our family before introducing you to anything confusing. Now that you’re older, you can understand and handle this better.”
Eric and Marie exchanged a glance. Marie asked ––
“So, when do we get to meet them?”
Jasmine smiled warmly ––
“We’ll introduce you to them when you’re ready. We want to make sure you get enough at a time. It’s important that you feel comfortable and smooth with this transition.”
Eric nodded thoughtfully ––
“It’s a lot to take in, but we get it. We want you both to be happy.”
Marie chimed in ––
“Yeah, we love you both, no matter what. It’s different, but it doesn’t change anything for us.”
Donald and Jasmine both felt a wave of relief. They knew there would be more questions and possibly some challenging moments ahead, but they had taken the first step. The important thing was that they had started this journey with honesty and love.
Jasmine said ––
“Thank you for being so understanding. We know it’s a lot, but we are here to support each other. Always.”
Eric and Marie smiled. Marie reached out and hugged her parents, with Eric joining in. They sat together, holding onto each other, feeling the strength of their family’s bond. In that moment, they knew that whatever challenges came their way, they would face them together, with love and understanding guiding them through.
As the twins headed to their private bedrooms, Eric said to Marie ––
“I told you Pop’s wasn’t sleeping in a separate bedroom because of his snoring!”
Marie replied ––
“And I told you it wasn’t because of Mom’s cold feet!”
Sergeant Bill Johnson, 45, served in the patrol division of the Dalfton Police Department and held the position of Range Master at the department’s shooting range for the last twenty years. Dalfton was a small Oklahoma City metro area department, and the officers often assisted other departments.
Officer Johnson was single and also secretly transgender; that is, he is living his birth sexuality but slowly dying to live his real identity. The trouble being in his life, Johnson can’t bring himself to do so until his parents die. When he turned 46, his father and mother both passed away of old age within days of one another. Following their funerals and while on bereavement leave, Johnson takes an extended leave for more than one year. During that time, Bill went to another state and underwent the necessary procedures to become the person he always felt his body called him to be.
Her return to duty after turning 48 as Billie Johnson surprised many, especially because she was female. However, her colleagues had a mixed acceptance. Officers she had worked with for over twenty years, backed up in the most dangerous situations, gave her a cold shoulder. She had explained to her Chief of Police that she wouldn’t be alive another year if this didn’t happen. She had barely managed to live the life she had, saying each day it was torture to exist in a man’s body. But, to have tried to change while her parents were alive would have killed them because of their strict religious views, so she lived a tortured life until they died only for them. Now, thanks to their passing, she is freed from their prison; love has set her free.
Sargent Billie Johnson returned to duty with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. As the Range Master, she had built a reputation for her expertise and dedication, but now she faced a different challenge. The Dalfton Police Department, though small, was a tight-knit community, and Billie knew that acceptance would vary widely among her colleagues.
On her first day back, Billie entered the station, her heart pounding. Chief Parker was first to greet her. He had always been a staunch supporter of her.
“Welcome back, Billie,”
He said warmly, shaking her hand firmly.
“It’s good to have you here.”
Billie smiled, appreciating the genuine welcome. She took a deep breath and made her way to her office, passing by officers who gave her nods, smiles, and the occasional curious glance. She noticed some of her colleagues whispering among themselves, but she chose to focus on the supportive faces around her.
Her first real test came during her first day at the shooting range. She gathered the officers for a mandatory training session, a duty she had performed countless times before. This time, however, she could feel the tension in the air. Some officers were visibly uncomfortable, while others were neutral or encouraging.
Billie addressed the group with confidence.
“I know this is a change for all of us,” she began. “But my commitment to this department and to each of you has not changed. Let’s focus on what we do best—keeping our skills sharp and supporting each other.”
Throughout the session, Billie demonstrated her usual precision and expertise. Gradually, she noticed that the focus shifted from her identity to the training itself. Officer Morales, one of her long-time colleagues, approached her after the session.
“Hey, Billie,”
Morales said, his tone friendly.
“I just wanted to say that it’s good to have you back. You’ve always been a great Range Master, and that hasn’t changed.”
Billie felt a wave of relief.
“Thanks, Morales. That means a lot.”
Over the next few months, Billie worked tirelessly to prove herself as the skilled officer she had always been and as a supportive and reliable colleague. Slowly but surely, the initial tension began to fade. Some officers, Like Morales, were quick to accept her, while others took more time. A few remained distant, but Billie focused on building bridges where she could.
The turning point came during a high-stakes operation in collaboration with neighboring departments. Billie played a crucial role in planning and executing the operation, showcasing her leadership and tactical skills. The operation was a success, and her colleagues began to see her as Billie Johnson and as the capable and dedicated officer she had always been. In the aftermath, Officer Simmons, one of the more skeptical officers, approached Billie.
“I have to admit, I had my doubts,”
Simmons said candidly.
“But you’ve proved you’re the same person—if not more vital. I respect that.”
Billie nodded, feeling a sense of accomplishment.
“Thanks, Simmons. We’re all in this together.”
As the months turned into years, Billie became a symbol of resilience and strength within the department. She continued to shine in her assignment, earning respect and admiration from those around her. While there were always challenges, Billie faced them head-on, knowing that living her truth had strengthened her.
Her journey inspired others in the department and the wider community. Billie began to advocate for greater awareness and support for transgender individuals within law enforcement and beyond. Her story became one of courage, acceptance, and the power of living authentically.
Sargent Billie Johnson, now 50, stood tall, proud of her journey and the person she had become. She knew that while the road had been difficult, it was worth every step. She had found her true self and, in doing so, had made a lasting impact on those around her.
Lemi stood at the threshold of his tidy apartment, staring at the email that had just ended his decade-long tenure at the executive office. He had been a critical player with innovative ideas and unmatched dedication. But the corporate world had no room for loyalty when profits wavered. The company’s polite yet impersonal farewell words blurred as he fought back the rising tide of emotions. The sense of loss and betrayal was overwhelming, and he found himself questioning his worth and identity. Yet, amidst the turmoil, a flicker of hope began to emerge, a whisper that maybe, just maybe, this was an opportunity for something new and fulfilling.
At first, Lemi saw it as a temporary measure. He printed flyers, set up a simple website, and spread the word. His first clients were mostly friends and acquaintances, curious and supportive of his new venture. The physical work starkly contrasted his former desk job, but he found unexpected satisfaction in transforming spaces from dusty and cluttered to spotless and serene.
The next few days were a whirlwind of updating resumes, connecting with old contacts, and browsing job boards. But as the days turned into weeks, the stress of bills and dwindling savings forced Lemi to confront a stark reality: he needed an immediate source of income. Yet, in the midst of this uncertainty, a flicker of hope ignited. He had always found a strange solace in cleaning, a control over chaos that was missing in his current life. And thus, Clean Slate Services was born, a testament to his resilience and adaptability.
One sunny afternoon, Lemi arrived at the grand home of his new client, Daniel. The man who opened the door was effortlessly handsome, with a warm smile that lit up his face. As Lemi introduced himself and got to work, he couldn’t help but notice Daniel’s frequent, friendly visits to the rooms he was cleaning. They chatted about everything from the latest books to favorite travel destinations. There was an undeniable spark, a twist in the tale that Lemi tried to dismiss as mere friendliness, but couldn’t ignore.
Days turned into weeks, and Lemi looked forward to his sessions at Daniel’s home more than any other. The routine of cleaning became almost secondary to their growing friendship. One day, as Lemi was packing up his supplies, Daniel invited him to stay for coffee. They sat on the patio, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow around them.
“Lemi, I’ve been meaning to tell you,”
Daniel started, hesitant yet sincere.
“I admire what you’re doing here. Not just the cleaning, but how you’ve turned things around after –– well, you know.”
Lemi felt a warmth spread through him at Daniel’s words.
“Thank you, Daniel. It’s been quite a journey, but it’s been more rewarding than I ever expected.”
Their eyes met, and the world seemed still for a moment. Lemi’s heart raced as he realized the depth of his feelings. But alongside this, a new realization dawned: he genuinely loved what he was doing. The satisfaction of making things clean and bright, the connections he was forming, and the control over his destiny were things he had never found in his corporate job. This realization filled him with a sense of fulfillment and contentment he had long been searching for.
As he drove home that evening, Lemi thought about the path ahead. He had always seen Clean Slate Services as a stopgap, but now he wondered if it was something more. The pride he felt in his work, the joy of seeing his clients happy, and the possibility of exploring his feelings for Daniel combined to create a new vision for his future.
A few days later, Lemi met with an old colleague for lunch. The conversation inevitably turned to job openings in the executive world. As his colleague spoke, Lemi felt a strange detachment. The allure of high-powered meetings and corporate ladders no longer enticed him. He thanked his friend for the information but politely declined to pursue any leads. He had found a new path, a path that was more aligned with his values and brought him true satisfaction. The corporate world, with its politics and pressures, no longer held the same appeal.
Returning home, Lemi sat at his desk, staring at the Clean Slate Services logo he had hastily designed months ago. He lifted up his cell phone and texted Daniel, inviting him to dinner. He felt a new sense of purpose, a feeling that he was precisely where he needed to be.
Lemi had found his true calling—not in the towering office buildings of the corporate world but in the simple, honest work of cleaning homes and the unexpected love blossoming with a kind-hearted client. Looking around his spotless apartment, he knew now was the time to embrace a new chapter with an open mind, arms, and heart.
A forgotten mansion, shrouded in mystery, stood in the heart of the old city, nestled among the cobblestone streets and gothic architecture. Its grandiose facade, though worn by time, still retained an enigmatic elegance. On a stormy evening, Victor, a man of mystery and resilience, found himself drawn to this mansion, its secrets whispering to him.
Victor, a man of mystery and resilience, had always been a seeker of the unusual, the arcane. His latest obsession had led him to this mansion, rumored to be the repository of a lost relic. He was a formidable presence in his black leather attire, adorned with silver studs and zippers. His attire, a blend of functionality and style, spoke volumes of his readiness for whatever the night might bring.
The mansion’s interior was a haunting blend of past grandeur and eerie decay. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows on the portraits of stern-faced ancestors that lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow him as he made his way through the dimly lit halls. The air was thick with the scent of old books and the faint, lingering traces of incense, and the floorboards creaked under his weight.
Victor’s destination was the study; a room said to contain a hidden compartment where the relic was concealed. He had done his homework; old blueprints and cryptic notes had led him here. With a determined stride, he entered the study, its heavy wooden door creaking ominously.
The room was a testament to the mansion’s former glory, with rich mahogany shelves lined with ancient tomes, a grand fireplace, and a massive desk that dominated the space. Victor approached the desk, his leather-clad fingers tracing the intricate carvings on its surface. He had a hunch that the key lay in the hidden compartment of the desk itself.
After a meticulous search, Victor’s fingers found a small, concealed latch. A secret drawer slid open with a soft click, revealing a velvet-lined compartment. Inside lay an ornate box, its surface inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver filigree. Victor’s heart raced as he carefully lifted the box and opened it.
Inside, nestled in velvet, was the relic: an ancient amulet, its center a polished obsidian stone encircled by symbols of power and protection. As Victor held it, a surge of energy coursed through him, confirming the amulet’s authenticity; this was what he had been searching for. The amulet, rumored to hold the key to immortality, was a prize coveted by many.
His triumph was interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing through the hall. Victor quickly stashed the amulet in his belt pouch and closed the drawer, his senses on high alert. He had been cautious, but it seemed he was not alone in his quest.
The door to the study burst open, and a figure clad in dark robes stepped in. ‘You have something that belongs to me,’ the intruder hissed, eyes glinting with malice. ‘You’re too late,’ Victor replied, his voice steady. ‘The amulet is mine now.’
Victor stood his ground, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his concealed dagger. “The amulet is not yours to claim,” he replied coolly. “It belongs to no one but itself.”
A tense silence filled the room, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder. The intruder moved with surprising speed, lunging towards Victor. But Victor was ready. In a swift, fluid motion, he drew his dagger and deflected the attack, the blade glinting in the dim light. His heart pounded in his chest, his senses heightened as he focused on the task at hand.
The fight was a whirlwind of intensity. Victor’s combat training and the intruder’s desperate aggression clashed in a flurry of movement. The air crackled with tension as they circled each other, each seeking an opening. In the end, Victor’s skill and determination prevailed. The intruder, defeated and disarmed, lay on the floor, gasping for breath.
Victor looked down at his defeated opponent, his eyes a mix of pity and resolve. ‘Leave now and never return,’ he ordered, his voice firm but tinged with a hint of sadness. ‘The amulet’s power is beyond your understanding.’
The intruder, cowed and beaten, scrambled to his feet and fled into the night. Victor watched him go, his eyes filled with a mix of pity and resolve. He knew his journey was far from over. The relic’s true power and purpose were yet to be revealed, and he was resolute in his determination to unravel its mysteries.
With the amulet safely in his possession, Victor left the mansion and stepped into the stormy night. Lightning illuminated his path, and the rain washed away the remnants of the battle. As he disappeared into the shadows, one thing was sure: Victor’s legend was only beginning.
Fred and Matilda had been retired for over ten years. They had passed their silver years and were entering their golden years. Both had begun to experience forgetfulness, which was not severe but inconvenient. Fred would forget his wallet when he left home to go to town, or Matilda would forget to put extra tissues in her purse. She needed them to keep her nose wiped due to spring’s seasonal allergy season.
Today, Fred and Matilda left their modest bungalow midcentury home on East Kiowa Street in Corprol, Oklahoma. They traveled thirty miles to see the couple’s son nearby. Due to Fred’s’ safe’ driving, the drive should take just over fifty minutes. He never exceeded fifty miles an hour and usually kept their ’53 Chevrolet Coup topped at 45 miles per hour. Matilda was known for always talking to Fred when he was driving. She never shut up.
Matilda would say to him –––
“Fred, ease to the left, honey; now go back to the right and watch it. Oh no—a car is coming! Now, someone is behind us. Wait, a car is approaching us; I think the guy behind us will pass us.“
Fred and Matilda’s son, Bill, looked at the clock at 1:00 PM. His parents should have been at his place at 11:00 AM. He thought they stopped by their old farm and got lost in time, recalling days when they had lived in the farming area for more than forty years, and everyone knew them. Even so, the people from those days mainly had moved on just as they had. So, it was unusual to find a two-hour distraction without calling him to let him know they would be delayed.
Matilda, a constant verbal navigational bird, was a familiar presence to Fred. Her chatter, a constant companion during their drives, was a source of comfort to him. He had grown accustomed to her voice, finding solace in the sound. Fred’s driving was noticeably worse when she wasn’t there, a testament to her voice’s role in his life.
At 3:00 PM, Bill was beside himself. Where were Fred and Matilda? He called their home to make sure they had not decided to go back home and make the trip another day; the phone just rang and rang. He called Fred’s and Matilda’s cell phones, but no one answered. Bill decided it was time to notify authorities.
Bill called the Ninekakh Police Department, and Officer Nadine Smith answered. Nadine had a strong ‘Okie” accent and a sweet demeanor.
“Ninekakh Police Department, Officer Smith, Who can I help today?”
Bill was stunned by the sweetness and tone of Nadine’s voice and how comfortable she made him feel just by answering the call he had placed. Bill said –––
“Hi, my name is Bill Roth. My parents, Fred and Matilda Roth, are late getting to my home outside Singer; they were driving here from Corprol.”
Knowing Bill was concerned and having met the Roths several times, Nadine knew they were not the type to disappear carelessly. Nadine asked –––
“Bill, honey, how old are your parents? Do you know what they are driving, and do you have any identification to help find them? And what were they doing today?”
Bill was quick to answer –––
My parents are driving a blue 53 Chevrolet Coupe two-door in their mid-70s. They were moving from Corpral to Singer to visit me today. They might have stopped by the old farm to remember old times, but I don’t know. They have never really been this late. Fred always wears grey pants, a white shirt, and a baseball cap, and Matilda usually wears a dress, blue or gray, that extends below the knee, with flat shoes; they both have gray hair. They quit taking photographs twenty years ago because both said it made them look like they were aging to get new pictures taken. They won’t even stand still for someone to get them in a cell phone, selfie-type picture.”
Nadine, taking a deep breath, said –––
Wow! Thank you. That is a whole lot of information, but it isn’t. I will get out and look at the highway between the two towns for them and any side roads. Also, I’ll put this out on the radio for other departments to be on the lookout for. Meanwhile, I suggest you stay where you are if they arrive at your place or call you.
Bill was a nervous wreck. Thoughts raced through his mind of where they could be, what could have happened, and then who could have taken them or could they have been robbed. They could have been running off the road by another driver in a road rage incident. Bill remembered the time he got lost hiking with friends and how much worry it brought his parents. He thought to himself, ‘Payback is hell!’ Exhausted from thinking, Bill yells out loud –
“At least they knew where to start looking for me. I was out hiking, and they had a starting point. Hell, I don’t have a clue where these two old farts are!”
As Nadine was patrolling from the Ninekah Sheriff’s Department heading south toward Corprol, she saw a roadside melon and vegetable sales stand, the type set up to sell from the back of an old truck. She pulled over and talked to the farmer who was selling his goods and asked if he had seen anyone matching the description of Fred and Matilda.
“Yep, I saw them! They were two feisty people. For their age, I was surprised.
Nadine surprised that her luck had paid off, asked the farmer what he meant, and he replied –––
“Well, this young guy was here too, and he had one of those cell phones out taking pictures of him and his girlfriend; it could have been his boyfriend. I couldn’t tell by looking. Anyway, he got a picture of the two older people and told them he hoped he and his sweety could be just like them when they got to be antique. And that is when all hell broke loose. The older adults didn’t want those pictures going anywhere. The young couple took off, and the others left behind them. I never saw two older adults driving like that. They were laying rubber.
Nadine called Bill and told him what the farmer told her, and Bill, in a chilling voice, responded,
“Christ, it’s Christmas 2015 all over again. They did the same thing when someone took a photo of them in the background at a convenience store on Christmas Eve of 2015. We saw them again in February. The family of the people who took the photos still hasn’t seen their people. The last report anyone ever heard was that they were trying to outrun an old couple driving a Blue 53 Chevy Coupe.”
Officer Nadine Smith ––– Adam 851 Clear from report at 1700 hours, 15 miles south of Singer, on Highway 41, clear.
Dispatch to Smith, Affirmative, 1700 hours, KMH 253.
Officer Smith drove to Bill’s home, where she discovered a blue 53 Chevrolet Coupe appearing to stick out of an outbuilding on the property. She went to Bill’s Door and rang the bell. When he answered, she asked if his parents had been in contact. He said they had not.
Smith asked Bill to walk out and look at the car in the shed, which, to his surprise, was his parents’ vehicle.
How did they get past me? And where are they now?
Fred and Matilda, in their enthusiastic but forgetful state, had indeed managed to return home unnoticed. Bill and Officer Smith, both puzzled and concerned, carefully approached the shed where the car was parked. The vehicle, though covered, was the distinctive blue ’53 Chevrolet Coupe.
“Bill, stay behind me,”
Officer Smith instructed, her hand resting on her holster just in case.
“Let’s check inside,” Bill suggested.
Together, they slowly lifted the cover off the car, revealing it entirely. The sight brought a mix of relief and confusion to Bill’s face. The vehicle looked unscathed as if a chauffeur had driven the couple from a leisurely trip.
As they peered into the car, they noticed the keys were still in the ignition, and Matilda’s purse was on the passenger seat. But there were no signs of Fred and Matilda themselves.
“Where could they have gone?“
Bill murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Officer Smith walked around the shed, looking for any further clues. Just then, they heard a faint, familiar sound coming from the back of the house. Following the noise, they discovered Fred and Matilda sitting on a swing in the backyard, calmly chatting and sipping on lemonade.
“Dad! Mom! What on earth happened?”
Bill exclaimed, running towards them.
Fred looked up, somewhat surprised but pleased to see his son.
“Oh, Bill, there you are! We were wondering when you’d find us.”
With a serene smile, Matilda added,
“We decided to take a little detour to the old farm, but then we thought we’d better come back home when it started getting late. We didn’t want to worry you.”
Torn between relief and frustration, Bill tried to keep his voice steady.
“Why didn’t you call me? We’ve been worried sick!”
Fred scratched his head, looking a bit sheepish.
“Well, son, we did mean to call you, but then Matilda realized she left her phone at home, and mine ran out of battery. By the time we returned, we were so tired we just sat down for a rest.”
Upon witnessing the heartfelt reunion, Officer Smith felt a wave of relief wash over her.
“Mr. and Mrs. Roth, it’s good to see you’re both safe. You gave us quite a scare.”
Ever the apologetic, Matilda said,
“We’re sorry, dear. We didn’t mean to cause any trouble. We’ll be more careful next time.”
Fred nodded in agreement.
“Yes, we’ll charge the phone next time and keep it with us.”
Bill sighed deeply, his worry slowly dissipating.
“Just glad you’re both okay. Next time, please, let’s avoid any more detours.”
Fred chuckled. “Deal. How about we all go inside and have some of Matilda’s famous apple pie? It’s been a long day.”
As they walked back into the house, Bill couldn’t help but feel grateful for the small blessings—his parents were safe, and despite their forgetfulness, they still had their spirited sense of adventure. It was another reminder of how precious these moments were, even when they came with a bit of worry.
George was a happy-go-lucky sort of kid. His father raised quarter horses, and together, they were buddies. They go nearly everywhere together. George and his father’s friend Maynord, an older gentleman, probably a few years older than George’s father, spoiled George, treating him especially grandly. George didn’t emphasize the letter ‘s’ in some of his words, and some words he would say might need to be clarified. His father was known as a horseman and stern man, yet respected by most people, eyebrows raised to the bible-toting folks.
Maynord had a grown daughter who had already left home, but he and his wife had never had a son. With George, Maynord had the time of his life. As did George. The two were better buddies than Maynord, and George’s father became. But George would never say that to his father. Maynord treated George to parades, cheeseburgers, and ice cream cones and even got him a dog. George named the pooch, Ryder after Maynord’s last name.
The two looked forward to Friday and Saturday nights. That is when George’s dad would take George and Maynord to auction barns in nearby cities where horses were sold. There, they would watch the many horses come through the sale ring, and the owners talk them up, saying how great of an animal the horse is, and try to sell it for top dollar. Of course, George’s father had always arrived before the auction to watch the horses lead in so he could see how they handled it and whether they were challenging to work with in getting to holding pens. He could also see if any auction workers tried to ride the horses before entering the sale ring and if the horses handled well. There were always little mishaps in the sale ring, a rider losing his grip and falling off, or a horse doing what the owner said it would not do. Or donkeys would be brought in, which always made George and Maynord laugh. They would jokingly suggest George’s father buy several to go with his quarter horses. The biggest thrill of the sales barn adventures was the cafe located within; that is where, halfway through, George and Maynord would slip away and eat cheeseburgers and drink soda pop.
The horse sales, as George and his father referred to them, caused the problem. Maynord didn’t help with the situation because he referred to the auctions as horse sales. And he had never referred to the auctioning of horses as anything else.
It was in the classroom one Monday morning when the third-grade teacher asked the class for each student to stand and say what the most fun activity they took part in over the weekend was. The town had just had a fair, and the teacher expected the students to explain their actions while visiting the celebration. And that is what the students did until coming to George.
George stood and said –––
“My dad and our friend Maynord took me to the city horse sale, and my dad bought two.
While George was speaking about horses, the teacher heard ‘whore sale.’
The teacher said –––
“George, you went where, and your dad what?”
George replied –––
“My dad took me to a horse sale and bought two. His friend Maynord helped with one of them. They made me watch from the pickup.”
The teacher, turning pale, said –
“George, stop talking; that is enough! Class, that is enough of what we enjoyed this weekend. I will have George explain what he did to the principal.”
George was perplexed. Hasn’t anyone ever watched a horse being sold and loaded into a livestock trailer? Why would the principal need to hear about it? Indeed, he knows about people selling horses.
In the office, the principal was being informed by the teacher about what she had heard and how terrible it was that this father and his friend had taken an 8-year-old boy to whore house and had him watch the goings on with two women. The principal then asked George what exactly did you say to your teacher?
Which George explained –––
“I just told her ––– My dad, Maynord, and I went to a horse sale, where my dad bought two horses. They made me get in the pickup and watch them while loading the horses so I wouldn’t get hurt or in the way. There have been days, I have even held on to some guys horse when he had too many to handle. But I didn’t get to explain it in such detail because the teacher told me to stop talking before I could tell more about what I was talking about. We go to horse sales every weekend. I don’t know what the big deal is!”
The principal and now the school’s superintendent were both in the office. Their faces were beet red, and they were trying to keep from laughing. The teacher, now understanding the situation, felt overreactive and apologizing.
Meanwhile, George is confused and asks everyone in the room –––
“Haven’t you all ever heard of horse sales? Horse sales? Horse Sales! A Place where a man can sell his horse? My dad, Maynord and I go to them every Friday and Saturday night, you should come with us and see what it is all about. If you get bored with the horse sale, you can get a cheeseburger, as I sometimes do. I don’t understand what this is all about just because I told my story about going to the horse sale with my dad and Maynord.”
George’s dad, the town barber, was called and told of the situation. He later held court in his barber’s chair with his shop’s regulars. There, they had the bursts of laughter the school officials experienced.
Leaving the office, it was the loudest laughter George can ever remember hearing to this date. It wasn’t until he was older did he understand the rhyming of the words between horse and whores and how it could sound to others when saying to them –––
“You are headed to a horse sale to see what you can find.”
Kick off Pride month with a 5-day festival celebrating our community’s legacy and exciting contemporary stories Showcasing film premieres, filmmaker Q&A’s, and social events May 30 – June 3, 2024
NewFest Pride has it all — premieres of the year’s most anticipated queer films, conversations, parties and outdoor screenings! Check out the full lineup below.
Get A Pass
Membership Plus Members + above get free Virtual Passes.
A HOUSE IS NOT A DISCO (Opening Night Film & Party)
Dir. Brian J. Smith
A compelling, lovingly-captured portrait of Fire Island as queer paradise that sees past and present blur within the iconic beach town as it celebrates its collective legacy and redefines itself for a modern era.
Ticket includes entrance to Opening Night Party at Slate.
MY OLD ASS
Dir. Megan Park
In this fresh coming-of-age story, an 18th birthday mushroom trip brings free-spirited Elliott (Maisy Stella) face-to-face with her wisecracking 39-year-old self (Aubrey Plaza).
HAZE
Dir. Matthew Fifer
A young journalist returns home to investigate the unsolved deaths at an abandoned psychiatric center in this eerie, evocative psychological thriller from writer/director Matthew Fifer (CICADA)
CLOSE TO YOU
Dir. Dominic Savage
Producer and co-writer Elliot Page stars in this emotionally observant drama about returning home as yourself and finding hope in potentially rekindled relationships
FANTASMAS (Episodes 1 & 2)
Dir. Julio Torres
A delightfully wry new series from the imagination of creator, star, writer, and director Julio Torres (LOS ESPOOKYS, PROBLEMISTA)
THE QUEEN OF MY DREAMS
Dir. Fawzia Mirza
Grad student Azra feels worlds apart from her seemingly rigid mother yet uncovers their unexpected connections on a trip to Pakistan in this vibrant festival favorite (TIFF, SXSW) from writer/director Fawzia Mirza. Ticket comes with entrance to Women’s Afternoon Out pre-screening reception
SEBASTIAN
Dir. Mikko Mäkelä
A freelance writer and aspiring novelist on his way to ostensible success in London’s cultural spheres finds a different kind of exhilaration as a sex worker in this Sundance sensation.
AM I OK?
Dirs. Tig Notaro & Stephanie Allynne
Dakota Johnson stars in this uplifting comedy from co-directors Tig Notaro & Stephanie Allynne about self-discovery, life changes, and friendship.
BLACK QUEER PRIDE SHORTS WITH VIMEO
Join NewFest & Vimeo for a celebratory short film showcase by and about Black LGBTQ+ lives, joys, and experiences.
COMING AROUND
Dir. Sandra Itäinen
A young queer woman stands at a crossroads with her devout Muslim mother in a clash between identity and tradition.
THE SUMMER WITH CARMEN
Dir. Zacharias Mavroeidis
While enjoying a day at a clothing-optional queer beach, an aspiring filmmaker and their handsome friend collaborate on a screenplay in this whimsical summer treat.
WE’RE HERE (Season 4 Finale)
Dir. Peter LoGreco
Join NewFest and HBO for an advance screening of the Season Four finale, followed by an exclusive virtual conversation with creators and cast.
TRIXIE MOTEL: DRAG ME HOME (Series Premiere)
Tune in for an advance screening + exclusive virtual Q&A as Trixie and her partner David explore and design a dream home fit for two!
TO WONG FOO, THANKS FOR EVERYTHING! JULIE NEWMAR (Outdoor Screening)
Kick off NewFest’s new partnership with Universal Pictures – “Pride Summer Movie Nights at Rockefeller Center”
IN-PERSON + STREAMING VIP All Access Pass — $185 Discount for NewFest Members All in-person screenings and events (including Opening Night Film & Party, and Women’s Afternoon Out) and virtual screenings. Early access to theater and reserved seats. Learn how to fulfill passes here.
IN–PERSON Individual Film Ticket – $19.50 Discount for NewFest Members In-Person access to a single screening. Does not include A HOUSE IS NOT A DISCO or Women’s Afternoon Out Tickets.
Opening Night Film + Party Ticket – $50 Discount for NewFest Members In-Person access to the Opening Night Film A HOUSE IS NOT A DISCO and the following party.
In-Person All Access Pass — $115 Discount for NewFest Members Includes all in-person screenings, including Opening Night Film & Party, and Women’s Afternoon Out. Learn how to fulfill passes here.
STREAMING Virtual Pass — $30 Discount for NewFest Members Virtual access to select screenings. Does not include in-person Q&A’s, however there are a select number of virtual Q&A’s available. All films screening virtually are available May 30 at 12 PM EST through June 3 at 11:59 PM EST. Streaming anywhere in the United States. Individual tickets are only available for WE’RE HERE and TRIXIE MOTEL: DRAG ME HOME.
When a child gets lost in the forest a mother’s wisdom saves the day!
Once upon a time, in a small town located far away from the big cities between rolling hills and lush forests, there lived a young child named Alex. With their adventurous spirit, Alex was always eager to explore the world around them. But one sunny day, their curiosity led them into a problematic situation.
Alex ventured into the woods near their home on a warm summer afternoon. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, and the sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting a dappled pattern on the forest floor. With a sense of excitement bubbling inside them, they wandered deeper and deeper into the dense foliage, chasing after the fluttering wings of butterflies and the rustling of unseen creatures.
As the hours passed, Alex became utterly lost in the enchanting beauty of the forest. But as the sun began to dip below the horizon, panic started to set in. They realized they had strayed too far from home and had no idea which direction to go.
Frightened and alone, Alex’s heart raced in their chest. They called for help, their voice echoing through the trees. But there was no response, just the eerie silence of the forest at dusk. Tears welled up in their eyes as they sank to the ground, feeling a mix of hopelessness and fear.
Meanwhile, in the town, Sarah’s worry had transformed into a fierce determination. When her child didn’t return home at their usual time, she didn’t hesitate. She rallied a group of neighbors and friends, her unwavering love for Alex fueling their efforts.
With flashlights and determination in their hearts, they combed through the woods, calling out Alex’s name. Hours passed with no sign of the lost child, and fear gnawed at Sarah’s heart. Her worry turned into a desperate ache, her determination fueling her every step.
Just as she was beginning to lose hope, Sarah heard a faint cry in the distance. With renewed energy, she followed the sound, pushing through the underbrush until she stumbled upon a clearing where Alex sat, trembling and exhausted.
Relief washed over Sarah like a tidal wave as she rushed to her child’s side, her heart bursting with joy. Tears of happiness streamed down her cheeks as she whispered words of comfort and love, her voice a soothing balm to Alex’s trembling form.
Wrapped in their mother’s arms, Alex felt safe and protected, knowing that no matter their adventures, their mother would always be there to guide them home. And on that fateful day, Sarah’s unwavering love and determination saved Alex’s life, proving that a mother’s love knows no bounds. In the aftermath, they both learned the importance of staying close and the strength of their bond.
AT 16 YEARS OLD I VOLUNTEERED AS A DISPATCHER FOR OUR POLICE DEPARTMENT AND AMBULANCE SERVICE. I DROVE HALF THE PEOPLE IN OUR TOWN TO THE HOSPITAL THIRTY MILES AWAY.
In the quaint town of Binger, nestled amidst rolling hills and whispering woods, life moved at its own unhurried pace. It was the 1970s, and I, at the tender age of sixteen, found myself immersed in the h.eart of the community as a volunteer dispatcher and ambulance driver.
Binger boasted a modest population of 850 souls, a close-knit tapestry of neighbors who looked out for one another. Our town’s medical emergencies were once tended to by the local undertaker, a man of solemn demeanor and a heart of gold. But as time marched on, age had caught up with his trusty driver, rendering him unable to steer the old ambulance through the town’s winding streets.
With a sense of duty and a touch of nostalgia, the undertaker donated his faithful 1962 Buick station wagon to serve as our makeshift ambulance. It was a relic of bygone days, rigged with flashing lights, a wailing siren, a sturdy stretcher, and a precious oxygen bottle. Thus, a new chapter unfolded in Binger’s history, with a rotating roster of ten volunteers, including myself, standing ready to answer the call of distress.
In those days, the rhythm of life was punctuated by the shrill ring of the telephone, summoning us into action. I would leap into the driver’s seat, adrenaline coursing through my veins, as I raced through the streets, navigating the twists and turns with practiced precision. The urgency of the situation would lend wings to my feet as I rushed to the aid of my fellow townsfolk.
The years rolled by, and Binger evolved. In 1978, the benevolent gesture of the Chevrolet dealer brought a gleaming new station wagon into our midst, a symbol of progress and prosperity. We felt like modern-day heroes, equipped with state-of-the-art technology to serve our community.
But as the 1980s dawned, change swept across the land. The state enacted stringent laws mandating EMT training and certification for ambulance attendants, a noble but burdensome requirement. Our volunteer organization, unable to meet the new standards, faced dissolution.
With heavy hearts, we bid farewell to an era marked by camaraderie and selflessness. The nearest ambulance service now lay twenty-eight miles away, a stark reminder of the passage of time and the inexorable march of progress.
Yet, amidst the bittersweet farewell, the spirit of Binger endured, a testament to the resilience of small-town values and the enduring bonds of community. And though our roles as volunteer dispatchers and ambulance drivers may have faded into memory, the echoes of our service reverberated through the annals of time, forever etched in the fabric of Binger’s history.
In the vast expanse of the Indian Territory, amidst the rugged terrain and the promise of new beginnings, two souls found each other amidst the chaos of land claims and dreams of prosperity. Vol Wilhelm Groff, a spirited young man with a penchant for adventure, and Joseph McElroy, a quiet and contemplative soul, crossed paths in the unforgiving landscape of Oklahoma in the year 1905.
The Indian Territory was a land of opportunity, where dreams clashed with harsh reality, and where individuals staked their claims in the hopes of carving out a future for themselves. Val and Joseph were among those brave souls, drawn to the promise of a better life on the frontier.
Their meeting was serendipitous, a chance encounter amidst the chaos of land rushes and bustling settlements. Val, with his infectious enthusiasm, captured Joseph’s attention from the moment they first locked eyes. Despite their differences in temperament, they found a deep connection that transcended words.
Val and Joesph Photo Taken In Okarche Oklahoma
As they worked side by side, staking their claims and building their homesteads from the ground up, their bond grew stronger with each passing day. Amidst the challenges of frontier life, they found solace in each other’s presence, drawing strength from their shared dreams and aspirations.
But theirs was a love that dared not speak its name in the harsh reality of the early 20th century. In a world where societal norms dictated strict conformity, Val and Joseph had to tread carefully, concealing their love from prying eyes.
Yet, despite the obstacles they faced, their love endured, a beacon of hope in a world fraught with uncertainty. Through the trials and tribulations of frontier life, they remained steadfast in their devotion to each other, finding solace in the quiet moments shared beneath the starry Oklahoma sky.
As the years passed and the Indian Territory evolved into the state of Oklahoma, Val and Joseph’s love stood the test of time, a testament to the enduring power of love in the face of adversity. And though their names may have been forgotten by history, their love story lived on, a reminder that true love knows no bounds, not even the vast expanse of the American frontier.
In the picturesque fusion of a town that captures the charm of Mayberry and the boundless frontier of Star Trek, two hearts found a love that defies time and space. Meet Ben and Steve, a couple whose love story is as enchanting as it is enduring—a beacon of hope and resilience that inspires all who witness it.
Ben and Steve
Steve, whose eyes sparkle like the constellations he admires, has always been a dreamer, casting his gaze toward the heavens with wonder and curiosity. On the other hand, Ben embodies justice and bravery, fearlessly chasing down thieves and reclaiming stolen cars. His badge shines brightly as a symbol of his commitment to protecting others.
Their worlds may seem galaxies apart, with Steve whispering messages to the cosmos through his microphone and Ben upholding the law with unwavering dedication. Still, these very differences make their love story so captivating. United by a love transcending boundaries, they lean on each other, their bond unbreakable, and their passion ever-growing.
Their love story began over four decades ago, a chance encounter that set the stage for a lifetime of shared dreams and unwavering commitment. Fourteen years ago, they leaped into matrimony, not just as a legal union but as a testament to their enduring love and resilience. In the face of uncertainty, it was a promise that their love would remain steadfast and accurate, and no matter what challenges lay ahead or rights that might be under threat, they would forever be united.
As the years have passed, their love has only grown stronger. They still greet each day with breakfast together, their laughter and companionship a testament to their enduring friendship and love. When future generations look back, marveling at how they managed to keep the flame of love alive for so long, the answer will be simple: it’s because of Ben and Steve and their unwavering passion and commitment to each other.
So, here’s to the kisses shared and the laughter exchanged, the dreams dreamed, and the challenges overcome. Their happiness is a daily reminder of the power of love, a beautiful reality that reminds us all to believe in the magic of true love. Cheers to Ben and Steve, whose love story inspires and enchants us all, proving that true love is timeless and everlasting.
This election isn’t about pitting the young against the old. It’s about ensuring that Gen Z and Millennials, who constitute a significant third of our nation’s population, have representation that mirrors their presence.
David Hogg Leaders We Deserve PBS Interview
Although remembered as older, numerous influential leaders initiated their activism in their youth. We aim to support these leaders—like John Lewis, who embarked on a mission for vital change at a young age and became one of our country’s most pivotal and influential leaders.
Our goal is straightforward: elect more youthful leaders capable of introducing fresh perspectives into our government.
Numerous barriers have historically prevented young people from entering public service and achieving the representation they deserve. Those who support America for all should make every effort to assist young candidates in overcoming these obstacles.
Visit Leaders We Deserve
After the setbacks of 2016, the 2018 blue wave brought the Democratic Party a renewed recognition of the influence young voters wield. In 2020, Joe Biden’s election, which was largely driven by the substantial turnout from Millennial and Gen Z voters, showcased the power of youthful participation. Your voice matters, and your vote can shape the course of our nation.
Vist The Post On Leaders We Deserve Winning!
In 2022, young voters reaffirmed their electoral influence, thwarting the anticipated “red wave.” Emerging young leaders like Justin Jones in Tennessee and Maxwell Frost in Florida gained prominence. Groups like “Leaders We Deserve” also celebrated their first endorsement success with Nadarius Clark’s election in Virginia.
Listen To Interviewof radio interview
The benefits of electing young leaders extend beyond Gen Z and Millennials; they enrich the nation and shape our future. Commencing political involvement at a young age capitalizes on time, making it a potent political ally. Gen Z’s potential longevity in Capitol Hill eclipses many, underscoring the urgency of their ascent to power. The time to act is now.
If you resonate with a mission and aspire to bolster the election of deserving leaders in 2024 and beyond, please act to support feasible campaigns like “Leaders We Deserve” to support their endeavors or find a campaign that will help elect a Democratic Candidate to office.
A Vote For Trump Is A Vote Against Democracy! Remember, Vote Blue When You Do!
My household has always maintained a relatively liberal understanding of the country’s homeless situation. We disagree with outlawing their right to exist and have a place to live and shelter. They are, after all, doing the best they can with the current housing, employment, transportation, or other issues they face. Let them be!
That is what our stance has been all along, until we went out to breakfast this past weekend and the police department was herding a group along the main boulevard we take to our restaurant. They appeared to be the characters you don’t want to run into in a dark alley at night—or daytime, for that matter. For Christ’s sake, were they planning to put roots down behind our neighborhood. We have a wall around the place, but salespeople always jump in and try to knock on doors. We have security but are not the type that can handle these characters. Every winter, we have a homeless troupe that typically arrives and camps near a river, but they are the same people every year, and they are like the snowbirds who flow in and out of the area from the north. These new homeless characters were of a family we never experienced before.
And that is what is scaring so many in America. The police found a suitable place for the troupe to travel on to, and there were no more sights of them after that initial spotting. But that is different for many in the country. These homeless populations inundate their communities, and it is an issue they have never before had to face. What if they are following suit? How many more will come? What problems will they bring with them? Will the property values deflate wherever they plant a stake? Jesus, are they diseased?
California has spent billions of dollars trying to fix its homeless problem and has failed to find a solution. The issue is greater there now than ever. Affordable housing remains unobtainable to those needing it. California is asking people to build tiny homes in their backyards, garages, wherever there is space, and make them available to house people. The problem is, if folks don’t want them in their alleys, will they want them in their garages?
Locally in Phoenix, Arizona. My husband hired an unhoused person years ago and knew she was, although she had not disclosed so on her introduction form. He worked with her schedule to make sure she kept her employment, and within six months, she was able to get a studio apartment, moving from her car. She then told him. He said he knew all along, and that is why he had worked so hard to keep her going, and she turned out to be one of the best employees. Such an example may not be the case with every person, but it is an example of how we can attribute ourselves to improving the situation one person at a time.
While feeling uneasy about sudden changes in your community is natural, it’s important to remember that homelessness is not a choice for many people. They often face a variety of challenges, including mental health issues, substance abuse, lack of affordable housing, and unemployment, which can contribute to their situation.
As for the broader issue of homelessness, it’s clear that a comprehensive and compassionate approach is needed to address the root causes and provide effective solutions. This approach may include increasing access to affordable housing, expanding mental health and addiction services, and providing job training and employment opportunities for homeless individuals.
The Supreme Court now has the issue, and the Lord only knows what they will come up with. But no doubt Texas will pass a law ordering the execution of all homeless people after 30 days of being homeless.
Joe Biden has taken 382 vacation days off to date. That equates to over one full year on vacation out of 3 years as US president. Is he the most ineffective US president in history?
Answered by Benjamin via benandsteve.com
We take your word it was 382. I need President Biden’s schedule to confirm such details. Since the job is 24/7, 365 days a year, you never have any privacy, nor a day without less than twenty interruptions, even when on vacation. The vacation days alone don’t necessarily reflect a president’s effort. Being president is a demanding job that comes with its own set of challenges and responsibilities. While the president must take breaks and maintain a work-life balance, one should consider the number of vacation days in the broader context of one president over another president’s performance, decision-making, and leadership.
Every presidency has challenges and circumstances, and comparing one president’s vacation days to another does not give a comprehensive view of their effectiveness. When evaluating a presidency’s effectiveness, it’s also essential to consider the accomplishments, policies enacted, and challenges faced.
The information provided may be more accurate or presented better to portray a specific narrative. It’s always a good idea to fact-check information and consider multiple perspectives before forming an opinion.
For a fact, here’s what Biden didn’t do:
He never only started his work days around 11 am or 11:3AM, crisis or not.
Never made an ass out of himself on a global stage.
Never has had disregards to promises made during his campaign.
He Never has been impeached.
Biden didn’t get impeached a second time.
Biden never had to survive a Senate trial that most senators later – admit that they should’ve voted and should’ve been guilty.
Biden didn’t get indicted – FOUR TIMES.
It wasn’t Biden who tried overturning the People’s Will in the 2020 *Election by inciting an insurrection!
No Biden didn’t call the Georgia Secretary of State and attempt to *Strong arm him into creating 12,000 more votes in his favor.
Biden didn’t take papers from the national archives and refuse to return them to the United States Government. Going as far as to tell employees to hide the location of the boxes that contained them from authorities. Then, he agreed to return them and never did so. Then, having the stated allegations recorded on the video camera and denying it was real, lying to the FBI (also a crime.)
The list of things President Biden never did could go on, but it would be easier if you tuned into Court TV Monday through Friday.
Those are the differences you can make between Biden and Trump, which is just the start!
The documentary “1946: The Mistranslation That Shifted a Culture” delves into a controversial and thought-provoking topic that challenges conventional beliefs about the Bible and homosexuality. Directed by Sharon “Rocky” Roggio, the film examines the claim that the Bible originally did not mention homosexuality and that references to it were added due to mistranslation and misunderstanding of ancient Greek terms.
The film highlights the work of Christian scholars who delve into forgotten archives at Yale University to uncover the origins of this mistranslation. It argues that conservative Christians began to propagate this mistranslation in the 1970s to scapegoat the LGBTQ+ community and oppose their growing liberation movement.
Roggio, who identifies as a lesbian and is the daughter of an evangelical minister, engages in dialogues with her father throughout the film, attempting to find common ground and challenge his beliefs about homosexuality being a sin. This personal narrative adds depth and emotion to the documentary, as it explores the complexities of faith, identity, and acceptance within a family divided by differing views on sexuality and religion.
The documentary sheds light on the potential harm caused by misunderstandings and misinterpretations of religious texts, highlighting the real-world consequences faced by LGBTQ+ individuals who have been marginalized, discriminated against, and even persecuted due to these beliefs.
Overall, “1946: The Mistranslation That Shifted a Culture” offers a compelling perspective on a contentious issue, urging viewers to question and reevaluate long-held beliefs and encouraging dialogue, understanding, and acceptance.
Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender National Hotline 1-888-843-4564. “The Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender National Hotline provide telephone and email peer-counseling, as well as factual information and local resources for cities and towns across the United States.
Indeed, the economic conditions at the end of Trump’s term were challenging due to the pandemic, and Biden inherited an economy facing significant headwinds. The pandemic’s impact on the economy was unprecedented, affecting employment, consumption, and global demand.
However, public perception and political narratives often prioritize certain aspects of an administration’s performance while downplaying others. People’s opinions become shaped by various factors, including media coverage, partisan affiliation, personal experiences, and messaging from political leaders.
Trump had shut down the United States of America, a fact that nearly every American forgets today. They need to remember the closed stores, the empty shelves, the closed restaurants, the doctor’s office that had to refuse patients, hospitals that were so full no one could visit, and nursing homes where loved ones had to stand outside and wave to loved ones from the street, and Funeral Homes so full they were using rental refrigerator trucks to store bodies—the toilet paper shortages. That was Trump’s Administration. Biden had to clean it up. He received much blame for what must occur to get the nation back on track. But he got to work, and the country got back to life.
Here are a few points to consider when thinking about why public opinion might differ between Trump and Biden regarding the economy:
Partisan Bias: Political affiliations can heavily influence people’s views on the economy. Republicans may be more inclined to credit Trump for positive economic developments during his term and blame external factors like the pandemic for any downturns. Conversely, Democrats may be more critical of Trump’s handling of the economy and more forgiving of the challenges Biden faced upon taking office.
Messaging and Framing: Political leaders and media outlets shape public opinion. How economic data and policies get reported can influence people’s perceptions of the economy’s performance. Trump was known for touting positive economic indicators during his term, influencing public perception despite the broader challenges.
Another significant factor that shapes public opinion on the economy is personal experience. People’s direct economic situations, such as job loss, financial hardship, or financial gains, can profoundly impact their views. For instance, someone who experienced a job loss or financial hardship during Trump’s term might have a negative view of his economic policies. Conversely, if someone benefited from tax cuts or saw their investments grow, they might have a more positive perception. Complexity of Economic Issues: Economic conditions are influenced by a multitude of factors, including global trends, monetary policy, fiscal policy, and more. It can be challenging for the average person to parse through these complexities and assign credit or blame to a particular administration accurately.
In conclusion, public opinion on the economy is multifaceted, and partisan biases could dominate messaging, personal experiences, and the complexity of economic issues. While the data presented paints a challenging economic picture at the end of Trump’s term, public perception is by broader factors. And it is conveniently forgotten!
When A Law Maker Takes Amen Corner To The People’s House
In a scene straight out of a dystopian movie about America’s collapse into christofascism, here’s a video of Arizona State Senator Anthony Kern and his group of anti-abortion zealots on their hand and knees in the the AZ State House Chamber of the state capital, engaging in tongues-praying for the reinstatement of a near-total abortion ban from 1864.
Image is not that of any person appearing in report.
Kern — a former code enforcement officer who was fired for lying and “string of other disciplinary problems” — can be seen on the carpet with his gang of extremists circled around the Arizona state seal in the carpet, babbling fervently for divine intervention to resurrect a Civil War-era law.
As Public affairs strategist Tony Cani points out, the real kicker is that they didn’t even need to pray; the groundwork for this moment had been meticulously laid out years prior.
That sounds like a striking and controversial scene, blending elements of politics, religion, and history. The image you’ve painted paints a vivid picture of the tensions surrounding issues like abortion and the intersection of religion and politics in American society.
It’s always concerning when political figures engage in such public displays of religious fervor to push a specific agenda, especially when it involves legislation that could significantly impact people’s lives. The blending of state and religious symbols in a governmental chamber can raise questions about the separation of church and state, a foundational principle in the United States.
The fact that Senator Anthony Kern has a history of disciplinary problems adds another layer of complexity to the situation. It raises questions about his credibility and the motivations behind such a public and symbolic act.
Tony Cani’s observation about the groundwork being laid out years prior underscores the idea that these moments are often carefully orchestrated for maximum impact. It highlights the strategic nature of political theater and the lengths to which some will go to advance their agenda.
It’s essential for citizens to remain informed and critically evaluate these actions, ensuring that decisions made by elected officials are in the best interest of all constituents and uphold the principles of democracy and justice.
One could bring up a valid point about the intersection of religion and politics, especially when politicians use religious displays as a means to appear more righteous or to gain public support for their agenda. The scripture from Matthew 6:5-8 that is mentioned highlights the importance of sincerity and humility in religious practice, cautioning against performative acts of piety.
When politicians engage in public displays of religious fervor, it can raise questions about their sincerity and motivations. Are they genuinely acting out of religious conviction, or are they using religion as a tool to advance their political goals? The line between genuine faith and political opportunism can become blurred, leading to skepticism and mistrust among the public.
It’s essential for voters and citizens to be discerning and critical of such displays, ensuring that they hold their elected officials accountable for their actions and motivations. Blind acceptance of religious or political rhetoric without critical evaluation can lead to the exploitation of faith for political gain.
Ultimately, the misuse of religion for political purposes can undermine the true essence of faith, which should be centered on love, compassion, and genuine connection with the divine, rather than on power, control, or political advantage.
Florida has a new law that is designed to fill prisons.
‘We will catch you and we will prosecute you’: Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis is cracking down on retail theft – how he’ll ‘distinguish’ the state from ‘lawless jurisdictions’ https://t.co/ksBOXG9D7V via @flipboard
— benandstevecom Galaxy8News (@benandstevecom) April 17, 2024
Commercial Incarceration Facilities Prospering In Florida. Investments in private prisons contracted with Florida show favor with new laws designed to provide continous population on a rotational basis.
The growth and prosperity of commercial incarceration facilities in Florida have been a topic of debate and concern for many. Investments in private prisons have indeed increased in recent years, and this growth can be attributed to several factors, including new laws and policies that aim to maintain a steady population within these facilities.
One of the key issues often raised regarding private prisons is the potential conflict of interest that arises when profit motives intersect with the administration of justice. Critics argue that the financial incentives associated with running a for-profit prison may lead to practices that prioritize cost-cutting over the well-being and rehabilitation of inmates.
Proponents of private prisons, on the other hand, argue that these facilities can operate more efficiently than their public counterparts, potentially saving taxpayer money. They also point to contractual agreements that often include occupancy guarantees, ensuring a consistent revenue stream for investors.
However, concerns persist about the quality of care and services provided in private prisons, as well as the potential for abuse and neglect. Reports of overcrowding, inadequate medical care, and safety issues have raised alarm bells among advocates for criminal justice reform.
In Florida, the state has entered into contracts with private prison companies to house a portion of its inmate population. With new laws designed to ensure a continuous flow of inmates into these facilities, investors in private prisons may see this as a lucrative opportunity for growth.
It’s essential to approach the topic of private prisons with a critical lens, considering both the potential benefits and drawbacks associated with their operation. As the debate continues, policymakers, advocates, and stakeholders must work together to ensure that any expansion of private prisons prioritizes public safety, justice, and the well-being of inmates.
It’s essential to approach discussions about transgender issues with understanding and openness rather than defensiveness. Each person’s experience and understanding of gender identity is unique, and our language should reflect that diversity.
Acknowledging the differences between transgender and cisgender individuals doesn’t diminish anyone’s identity; it respects the nuances of each experience. Language is a tool for communication, and its meaning can evolve over time. It’s crucial to listen carefully and ask questions to ensure we understand each other’s perspectives accurately.
The rigid social structures of the past are giving way to more fluid and inclusive understandings of gender and identity, especially among younger generations. Embracing this change and learning from it can help us create a more inclusive society for everyone.
As older generations, we have a responsibility to engage in these conversations and advocate for understanding and acceptance. Our experiences can offer valuable insights, but we must also be willing to learn from the perspectives of younger generations.
We must stand together against discrimination and fight for the rights and dignity of all individuals, regardless of their gender identity or sexual orientation. By educating ourselves and others, voting for inclusive policies, and speaking out against hate, we can work towards a more just and equitable society for all.
Looking for hope sometimes comes from a variety of hard-to-find places. When you are a member of the LGBTQI Community, a blind superhero, a nudge has always been as good as a wink.
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Why aren’t mental health promotions displayed on billboards near places of worship, including churches, synagogues, and grand arenas where tele-evangelists solicit donations from vulnerable individuals? It’s perplexing why legal representatives don’t advertise near such venues, highlighting issues like false representation, fraud, and misrepresentation. The transformation of ancient tales shared among nomadic shepherds, later manipulated by rulers to instill fear and exert control over the populace, remains a baffling concept for those who adhere to the belief in a divine being. The notion of a selective higher power, arbitrarily favoring one individual over another, is particularly confounding to those who attribute life events to divine intervention.
Welcome to our home chat page, where you will find a wealth of information. Thank you for stopping by. You can visit the main page of our website which has all the goods, this is only a primer! If you go there, you can check the various pages and find on your tour there are plenty of subjects to conquer any interests most people may have. If you are a member of our community and we are missing a view contact us through our contact pages. Again thank you for finding benandsteve.com find a sample of things here!
This Is An Important News Tip That You Should Take Note Of -And, It Should Be In The Mail Boxes Of Everyone You Know!
These 40 House Republicans voted against millions of dollars in federal funding that they secured for their districts
83 House Republicans voted against a bill to fund large portions of the federal government.
40 did so despite securing millions of dollars in funding for their districts.
It’s another example of “vote no, take the dough.”
On Wednesday, 83 House Republicans voted against a roughly $460 billion package of bills to fund large swaths of the federal government.
Forty of them did so despite requesting — and securing — millions of dollars in federal funding for a variety of projects in their districts.
Take Rep. Lauren Boebert for example. The Colorado Republican announced on Wednesday that she would vote against what she dubbed the “Swamp Omnibus,” slamming the bill as a “monstrosity” that “funds the Green New Deal.”
That’s despite the bill including more than $20 million that she herself had requested for projects across the state’s 3rd congressional district, which she recently abandoned to seek reelection in a safer district on the other side of the state.
Read the complete report by visiting BUSINESS INSIDER HERE!
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Congressman Mark Pocan (D-WI) has laid out a path forward for LGBTQ+ equality, which prioritizes defeating Donald Trump in November and pushing the right’s more extreme elements out of the mainstream Republican party. Americans can be convinced to support LGBTQ+ rights, but Trumpism — or, in Pocan’s words, “that hate, base-only mentality” — must be divorced from the Republican party.
Because, outside the most right-wing parts of the GOP base, there isn’t much support for lawmakers spending so much time attacking LGBTQ+ rights. Continue reading the report here…
Missing My Dad’s Funeral
At thirteen, I went to sleepaway camp, consumed by crushes, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and my father’s worsening battle with aids. By Emily Ziff Griffin
The Last Dance with My Dad Emily Ziff Griffin on a trip with her father before he died of AIDS.
My first memory in life is of my father moving out. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a carriage house on a quiet, dead-end lane in Brooklyn Heights. It was 1980, and he was leaving because he’d finally admitted to my mother that he was gay. I watched from the doorway of my room as my dad and his friend carried a wide wooden dresser down the stairs. I was two years old, and that moment etched itself in my mind, along with the texture of the apartment’s kitchen floor—white linoleum with little black specks.
My dad eventually settled in the upper half of a brownstone a few blocks away, in a three-story apartment that became the headquarters of an advertising agency my parents started together soon after they separated. I spent Wednesday nights there, along with every other weekend. After work, my father would come downstairs and prepare a small bowl of Lay’s potato chips, and we would watch “CBS Evening News” with Dan Rather. A story about the hijacking of T.W.A. Flight 847, in which passengers with Jewish-sounding names were isolated and threatened, left me concerned. My father wasn’t religious, but he was Jewish, and so was our last name. “They usually let the women and children go,” my mother assured me later when I suggested I use her German name if I ever got a passport.
After the news, my dad would listen to Ella Fitzgerald and cook dinner—steamed artichokes, maybe roasted fish—and I would play “office” alone at one of the desks upstairs, writing important memos and answering phantom calls. “I’m sorry, he’s unavailable—can I take a message?” I’d say, satisfied by the smooth click of the phone connecting with its cradle. My father was a marketing executive who had worked with the Brooklyn Academy of Music in the seventies before he and my mom started their company. He would often take me to see modern dance in Manhattan. Alvin Ailey, Trisha Brown, and Paul Taylor were all clients, and he took every opportunity to expose me to their work. Walking through the lobby of City Center was like striding alongside a prince. My dad was tall, handsome, young, and at the height of his creative powers. He dressed in Armani suits and bold neckties that signaled a hint of irreverence. Everyone in the dance world knew him. It was Dad’s domain, and I felt important because of his identity. In my regular life, I was terrified that my friends would discover that he was gay and that my family wasn’t like everyone else’s. In the theatre, the lights would dim, the curtain would rise, the music would start, and my father would take my hand as the dancers took the stage. For my father, it was one way we connected. We never learned to discuss hard things, but we shared this liminal space where bodies told stories, and words weren’t necessary.
It was very different at my mother’s house, which was quiet and small, a mere six hundred square feet, and where she often seemed tired or, as I imagine now, being a mother myself, weighed down by things. On Sunday nights, we watched the detective procedural “Murder, She Wrote.” Unlike in the world chronicled by Dan Rather, in this show, the crime—the problem—was always solved. On Mondays, it was “Kate & Allie,” a sitcom about two divorced moms who share an apartment. Perhaps their story gave my mother comfort as a young woman whose livelihood intermingled with her ex-husband, who had unceremoniously left her for another man. At the very least, these shows provided enjoyment and filled empty spaces when we didn’t feel like talking.
I found myself looking for normalcy in other people’s real-life families. I would often go to the Millers’ down the street (all names except those belonging to family members made a change in this story). Their daughter, Callie, was around my age, and if I slept over on a Saturday night, on Sunday, the family would invite me to church, where Callie’s father was an Episcopal reverend. We were not religious ourselves—my father didn’t go to the temple, and my mother was a Midwestern Protestant who referred to Christians as “God people.” But, even at seven and eight years old, I loved going to church, the smoke of frankincense and organ tones so deep and rich they seemed to vibrate inside my body. There were no surprises, and I liked bing told God would take care of me. And then, when I was nine, my mom and I left the neighborhood for a slightly more prominent place. We were just a mile away, but I quickly drifted apart from Callie and her family. As I moved into adolescence, I longed for the feeling of escape and safety I had found with them. By then, my father had been diagnosed with aids, something I did not feel I could discuss openly with anyone, not even my parents.
In December of 1991, when I was thirteen, I took the train to Baltimore to visit my best friend from sleepaway camp. Samantha Silverman took up space. She played lacrosse and was opinionated and seemingly unafraid of boys and life. She was also the youngest of three—her older sister was away at college, and her brother Teddy was in high school. Teddy was tall, played water polo, and was obsessed with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I had never heard of the band, but when I visited Sam, I pretended I had.
I loved being at their house. Sam’s mother, Carol, worked part-time at a local news channel but was first and foremost a mom. She’d put a package of Velveeta in the microwave with a jar of salsa and served it with a mountain of chips and a direct gaze that said, “Come, sit, be, enjoy.” She wore voluminous cashmere sweaters that draped over her soft middle; hugging her felt like embracing a warm cloud. She was a mom who smiled and giggled. They had money—Sam’s dad was a surgeon—and plush wall-to-wall carpeting and a family room with a giant L-shaped sofa and a wide-screen TV, where we spent all our time. It seemed inevitable by then that my father was going to die. I was still afraid to talk about his illness with anyone, yet it was always there, hulking like a monster’s shadow. At least at Sam’s house, the shadow stayed outside, banished by the delicious snacks and the warm cloud of a mother, by a good friend and her handsome older brother. The Chili Peppers’ “Blood Sugar Sex Magik” had been released only a few months earlier, and Teddy would disappear into his room to blast the album. At the same time, I would think of excuses to talk to him, never mind that he was five years older and had a girlfriend and that I was just a kid.
On New Year’s Eve, the Chili Peppers performed on MTV, all shirtless and buff, sweaty with effort. The lead singer, Anthony Kiedis, his long hair swaying behind him, sang “Give It Away,” whose lyrics we (or maybe even more accurately, I) interpreted at the time as unabashedly demanding a girl’s virginity. A silver handprint was pressed onto the crotch of his black skater shorts, like a ghostly mark of desire. Watching him, I imagined that Teddy wanted to cradle a bass guitar and feel the thump and hum of the music surrounding him, to be held by a crowd, to be cheered for and adored. I don’t remember if it was that night or the next, but I found myself alone with Teddy in the family room at some point. Everyone else had gone to bed. We were watching a movie and decided to watch another when it ended. He lay on the floor; I sat on the couch. I pictured him getting up and moving toward me. He would kiss me, and I would let him. We would laugh at the impossibility of it even as it was happening. I would, at that moment, capture this elusive other life I wanted so badly—one where I was unique enough to overcome such barriers as the girlfriend, the age difference, the “sister’s friend” status, and, though it was something he didn’t even know about, the gay father with aids. I don’t know if Teddy was engaged in a parallel fantasy because I didn’t dare to ask, and he never made a move.
The next day, my mother called. My father had been found in his apartment unconscious and was now in the hospital. He was stable, but he couldn’t walk, and he was having trouble speaking. They suspected an infection. They thought he would be OK, but given the nature of aids, they weren’t sure. I said nothing about any of this to the Silvermans. Now, it seems outrageous and heartbreaking that I felt I needed to keep silent, but at that time, many people were afraid to come near an HIV-positive person. The Silvermans might have been angry. They might have been worried. Worse, they might have loved me anyway, and I found it necessary to hide my vast need for their love.
I took the train back to New York and gazed through the window at the bare trees. I felt heat coming through the vents and inhaled the smell of stale coffee drifting down the aisle. I thought about wanting the impossible: Teddy to kiss me, my father to live. The two desires had no overt relationship, yet they seemed to exist in tandem, as though one miracle could make the other possible.
Back in Brooklyn, I went to the local record store and bought “Blood Sugar Sex Magik” on CD. The album was like the tides—throbbing, aggressive tracks like “Suck My Kiss” and “Give It Away” interspersed with softer, more contemplative songs. It sounded like I felt. I wanted to scream into a microphone. I tried to kiss Teddy Silverman and tell him that I thought he was hot and my dad was dying.
That night, I spoke to my father on the phone, and the cord wrapped around my fingers like an anchor. Slurring his words, a mix of fear and steadfastness in his voice. Despite how he sounded, he was calling to let me know he was OK. I told him that I loved him. I didn’t allow myself to cry.
Later, I looked out my bedroom window at the dark winter sky, the neighborhood asleep as Kiedis’s voice drifted through the air: “It’s hard to believe that there’s nobody out there. . . .”
Within days, I went back to eighth grade, and my father went to stay with his parents at their home in Rye, New York. My grandparents, Ruth and Solomon, raised my father and his sister in the Bronx, then, as their circumstances improved, moved to Chappaqua and eventually to Rye, on the other side of Westchester County. Solomon had managed a successful career as a paint distributor, but Ruth had built most of their wealth as an advertising executive.
Their house was grand—two sprawling stories overlooking Long Island Sound, most covered in cream carpeting, like at the Silvermans’. The bathrooms smelled like baby powder and old lipstick. It was late January, cold and barren outside. My father had been relegated to a guest room downstairs, far in every sense from the upstairs living spaces where the family would gather on holidays. As the Sound churned silently beyond the windows, he worked on walking again. My father had been there for a couple of weeks by the time I went to visit. On my first morning, my grandparents and I watched from the hallway outside his room as he slowly made his way up the wide, carpeted staircase. We acted amazed, like encouraging a toddler’s amble across the floor. When he reached the sixth step and turned to come down, my grandmother said, “Tomorrow it will be seven.” My father’s face fell. Decades later, I understand her comment more as a defense against reality than an attempt to shame him into progressing faster. She, too, was trying to keep the monster’s shadow at the door.
In any case, my father wanted to return to his apartment, and within several weeks, he was well enough to do so. By then, he was living in a one-bedroom on the Upper West Side of Manhattan—a lifelong goal. I slept on a convertible sofa in the living room when I visited. My dad was back home, but he still couldn’t walk. Kaposi’s sarcoma now covered his legs in purple lesions. During the day, he had a nurse named Lester who would lift him in and out of his wheelchair and take him for walks. One of his friends, or sometimes my mother or I, would stay with him at night. I don’t remember what we did for dinner—I must have helped serve takeout or bake a frozen pizza. I also don’t remember discussing anything in particular, not how sick he was. One night, while staying there, I was awakened from a deep sleep. My father was calling for me. I stumbled into his room, and he showed me his bedpan, full of excrement. He told me to get surgical gloves from the bathroom, come back and retrieve the pan, dump the contents in the toilet, remove the gloves, and wash my hands. His eyes were glassy, his voice soft—he was embarrassed. I nodded and left his room. I turned on the bathroom light and saw myself in the mirror. Small breasts. Pimples. Long, wavy hair. I was a child and yet not a child. Had I ever even been a kid? I was shaking slightly as my hands reached for the bedpan. I wondered if I could catch aids. Afterward, I went back to the living room. I thought about the Millers and the prayer that they would say at bedtime, which ended, “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. . . .” Those words were supposed to be a safeguard against eternal suffering after death. But what about eternal suffering before death? I didn’t want the Lord to keep my father’s soul. I wanted my father to survive.
I didn’t know, as I lay there in the dark, my hands still damp from washing them, that this would be the last night I would spend in my father’s home. After, my parents concluded it was too much responsibility for me to be there alone, too complicated, too risky. They were right. Spring came, and my father got sicker and sicker, more and more frail. School ended, and it was a relief to know I was heading back to Evergreen, the sleepaway camp in Maine where I had gone every summer for the past five years. It was the same camp my father had attended when he was young, and I would be there for eight weeks. The day before I left, my mother and I went to my father’s apartment to spend time with him. I stood on his right as he lay in bed. His fingernails were longer than they should have been. His hands were skin and bones, nothing like the strong hands I had once held in the dark at City Center. I bent down and kissed his hollow cheek. I told him that I loved him. I told him I would miss him and see him when I got back, though there was little doubt in my mind that this was our last goodbye. He kissed me and nodded. Yes, he said. We’ll see each other then. I walked out, past the wide wooden dresser he’d once carried down the street, and into the stark hallway of his modern doorman building, my mother behind me. The following day, I went to camp. It wasn’t until I was sitting with Sam Silverman under the pine trees the first night, loons calling on the lake, a campfire crackling against the chill, that I felt I could breathe.
Days passed, and I settled into camp life. I water-skied over the lake’s glassy surface, my legs solid underneath me, the hum of the boat’s engine the only Sound. I played tennis, where I raged against the ball, screaming through every shot. I thought about my father, but the sunlight, the familiar routines, and a crush I was developing on a boy named Ben Goodstein kept the dark shadows away. On Saturday, July 4th, I woke up in my cabin, which I shared with Sam, two other girls, and a counselor. It was drizzling. The five of us dressed brushed our teeth and hurried to breakfast in ponchos and duck boots. Halfway through the otherwise unremarkable meal, Lynn, the camp director, came to our table and told me she needed to see me after breakfast.
A weird electric wave spread through me. I knew what this meant. I looked at Sam. “You have to come with me,” I said. But she had no idea why Lynn wanted to see me, no idea that seven months earlier, I had left her family’s home in Baltimore while my father was at the hospital in admittance. In some ways, she had no idea who I was.
When Lynn returned at the end of the meal, I asked if Sam could come with me, but Lynn said she needed to speak to me alone. I followed her out the side entrance of the dining hall, across the grass, to the bungalow she shared with her husband, Bill. I glanced at the wood structures that dotted the path: the sailing shed and the other cabins. How long had they stood there? The camp had been in Lynn’s family for decades. My dad had been a camper, then worked there, building the radio station and heading up the theatre program. He and Lynn were the same age; they had been friends. Were these buildings here when they were kids? Had my father walked this exact path before me?
We entered Lynn’s cabin, where Bill awaited us, and we all sat down. “I think I know what this is,” I said. Bill told me that my father had died that morning. I didn’t think about it at the time, but my dad’s death was a loss for Lynn, too. Bill said that I should call my mother.
I went to the phone in the next room. The windows faced the lake. No longer bright and blue under the shining sun, it was almost black as clouds twisted overhead. I dialed my father’s number. My mom answered. Her voice was high and bright with emotion. She said everyone was there—my father’s parents, sister, long-distance boyfriend, and best friend. She said they thought he was gone the night before, but he wasn’t. “He waited for the Fourth,” she said, “so there would be fireworks.” That was very him, I thought. He had always had a sense of occasion.
And then my mother asked me, “Do you want to come home?” Though I had known on some level that my father would not survive my two months away, I hadn’t considered what would happen when he died. I had made no plan. My mother said that my aunt was adamant that I come home and that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t. But my mom had once told me that when I was born after the chaos of delivery had passed and she was alone with me in her arms, she had looked down at my face and said, “You are not my property.” I was a child, yes, but I was also my person, capable of making decisions about my life. So what did I want to do?
I pictured myself surrounded by adults with tear-stained faces. They’d squeeze my shoulders and leave lipstick marks on my cheeks. Worse, some might be hysterical, and everyone would be looking at me. That poor girl, they’d be thinking as they watched to see what I would do, what I had to say. I didn’t have anything to say. On the way to the dining hall, I wanted to be with my friends, see the pine trees overhead, and feel the crunch of gravel under my feet.
“I want to stay at camp,” I told my mother. “OK,” she said. To this day, being able to stay at camp is one of the greatest gifts my mother ever gave me. My father’s illness had made everything about my life feel abnormal. I didn’t want to go back to that, not yet. Though Lynn and Bill knew the truth, we told my cabinmates that my dad had died of cancer. It seemed more manageable and safer that way. Everyone looked at the floor; none of us knew what else to say.
Because it was raining, there was bingo in the dining hall. I went, but because my dad had just died, I didn’t have to play. I sat alone on the upper level, watching the other campers play below me. My thoughts filled with spaces of drones and letters that were the announcer calls. He’s gone. Gone where? Should I be crying? I didn’t want people’s pity.
I got up and went outside. I walked down to the lake. My father used to swim in this water. I pictured him in the distance as a boy, his arms gliding like oars, his legs kicking to keep him afloat. I thought about him in his apartment where I’d left him, in the bed across from the expansive wooden dresser. I looked to the sky. I wanted a bolt of lightning—a bird. I wanted my father to appear, glowing like a saint. I wanted him to tell me that everything would be all right, that he was still with me. A row of Sunfish sailboats rattled against their moorings. I could feel the kids inside looking at me through the dining hall windows. I went back inside.
After lunch, I found Ben. I told him that my dad had died that morning. He looked confused, then concerned. He reached forward and hugged me. “I’m sorry,” he said. I said that it was OK, the way you might after you accidentally dropped a sandwich on the ground, like, It sucks, but, hey, that’s the way it goes sometimes.
That night was the Fourth of July carnival. Everyone dressed in red, white, and blue and went to a clearing by the lake where partiers placed games. Somebody gave us paper tickets that we could use for throwing a whipped cream pie at a counselor or swinging a sledgehammer like an axe to ring a bell. There was the buzz of girls gossiping, the hoots and hollers of prize-winning kids. The tug of Sam’s hand on my arm—Let’s go here, now there—meant I could be like every other kid that night. I could run, play, laugh. I could whisper about the guy approaching her or how good Ben looked in his chambray button-down and jeans. I could put aside everything except what was right in front of me.
At the end of the carnival, we all headed to the lakefront for fireworks. Fireworks. My mom’s words rocketed through my mind as I sat on the damp ground. My father waited for this. The show was for him, and my being there, watching it, meant that we were together. I sat, with Sam Silverman on one side and Ben Goodstein holding my hand on the other, looking out at the water as the first bloom of sparkling light erupted overhead. I heard the Chili Peppers in my head: “The stare she bares cut me / I don’t care, you see, so what if I bleed?” What if I had told my father a real goodbye? What if I had told everyone the truth? What if I had let people see me cry?
I had entered an alternate reality, not like the one found in a chapel or the rooms of someone else’s house. One that was real—indelible and mine. One in which there was loss, yes, but there was also light bursting in the sky. There was a hand in mine. My mother was back home, honoring my father in the way he deserved. There was my grandmother, Ruth, telling the stories of her son’s young life. And somewhere, there was music, a curtain rising, and dancers ready to take the stage.
~CREDITS~
New Yorker Favorites • A reporter’s relationship with Kurt Cobain before and after the singer’s death. • Who owns London’s most mysterious mansion? • The politics behind the creation of “Harriet the Spy.” • The aesthetic splendor of “The Simpsons.” • Fiction by Alice Munro: “Passion.” Sign up for our daily newsletter to receive the best stories from The New Yorker. Emily Ziff Griffin is a screenwriter, producer, author, and essayist. Her début novel, “Light Years,” was published in 2017.
Because LEVITICUS is so damn important to daily living, and the Christian nation this world is.
The verse tells us we are wasting billions yearly by blocking the borders of nations. If we believe in a God, it is all one, and there are no lines of division. The arguments over the border are sinful in that we are saying God’s people are not allowed to generate among their own. Attempts to vote in favor of those who would cast a vote to block the borders of a nation would be an act of blasphemy. Rev. Groff, Roads End Ranch Chapel.
I recently sat down and tackled a project I had avoided for years. It involved a collection of hundreds of photos of my family. Photos, as far as I can tell, ever since the invention of the camera. Family members I knew, knew of, or who had died before I was born, all there staring back at me. I recollected many of the stories told to me by my grandparents, dad, and mother. So, with these stories, I want to begin sharing some photos with my regular mix of information. There are several already posted at benandsteve.com on the home page. You will also find updates on other pages on the site. ✌️🏼
Billy Idol was doing a cover of “Mony Mony“…a song written and performed originally by Tommy James and the Shondells in 1968. The meaning of MonyMony is simply…Mutual of New York Insurance Company. M-O-N-Y.
Tommy James explained in an interview: “Originally, we did the track without a song. And the idea was to create a party rock record; in 1968 that was pretty much of a throwback to the early ’60s. Nobody was making party rock records really in 1968, those big-drum-California-sun-what-I-sing-money-type songs. And so I wanted to do a party rock record.
And we went in the studio, and we pasted this thing together out of drums here, and a guitar riff here. It was called sound surgery, and we finally put it together in probably a month. We had most of the words to the song, but we still had no title. And it’s just driving us nuts, because we’re looking for like a ‘Sloopy’ or some crazy name – it had to be a two-syllable girl’s name that was memorable and silly and kind of stupid sounding. So we knew what kind of a word we had, it’s just that everything we came up with sounded so bad. So Ritchie Cordell, my songwriting partner and I, are up in my apartment up at 888 Eighth Avenue in New York. And finally we get disgusted, we throw our guitars down, we go out on the terrace, we light up a cigarette, and we look up into the sky. And the first thing our eyes fall on is the Mutual of New York Insurance Company. M-O-N-Y. True story. With a dollar sign in the middle of the O, and it gave you the time and the temperature.
I had looked at this thing for years, and it was sitting there looking me right in the face. We saw this at the same time, and we both just started laughing. We said, ‘That’s perfect! What could be more perfect than that?’ Mony, M-O-N-Y, Mutual of New York. And so we must have laughed for about ten minutes, and that became the title of the song.”
The Story Of My Grandparents May Hold Guiding Strengths For Us Today
(gifted clock)
The story of my grandparents’ union goes back to August 10th, 1910. They wed on the Caddo and Washita County Line near where SH-152 is today, West of Cobb Creek. On that day, my grandfather, Benjamin Harrison Groff I., known as “Pop,” and my grandmother, Florence Lula McElroy, known as “Mom,” received a clock from Pop’s brother-in-law and sister, John and Laura Alice Groff Dowty. A piece of further history, Pop’s father was born in Switzerland, and Mom’s Father came into the world in Louisianna before its statehood.
It was in 1908 that Florence traveled with some of her siblings to the area to visit her brother Jim, who had married into the McLemore family. While visiting, she met Benjamin and fell in love; in those days, Ben was to ask her father for a hand in marriage before asking the bride. But Florence’s father was in that 3-state area of Texas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas and unable to travel due to his age. Economically, the to-be groom could not travel to the area. So, the agreement was that the bride’s oldest brother, John, would come to Eakly and consider Benjamin’s request for her hand in marriage. And John rode a horse from far southeast Oklahoma to Eakly, Oklahoma, for the request. The answer must have been yes because they wed.
Mom’s family lived in Southwest Arkansas, Southeast Oklahoma, and parts of Northeast Texas. They were within rock-throwing distance, and they never knew which state they were in. Her father was a Baptist preacher who led a fire and brimstone ministry and led by strict rule. He had fought in the Civil War, but on which side I never knew. The only answer I ever got was, “he fought on the right side.” There were twelve kids in the McElroy family. Some of them were dead by old age when I was born in 1963.
Groff BARN
The Groff family migrated from Illinois, where Pop’s father was a farmer. He was known for having a huge barn in the community. It is one of the only to have been built by his sons and stands without a single piece of iron or nail. The Groff Barn built by Ulrich Groff and his sons remained put together using carpentry skills Ulrich Groff’s father taught him from the old land as late as 2000.
Above a rowdy bunch together the Groff Brothers who built the all wood barn in Illinois, in the 1800s.
OTIS GROFF
in 1905 two sons, Otis and Benjamin, took advantage of the opening of land in Oklahoma and claimed property west of Cobb Creek, north of SH-152 and Highway 58. It was then known as 41 Highway and Alfalfa Road. The brothers built two homes; Benjamin’s was on the property where, over sixty-five years later, the baseball player from Eakly, Michael Moore, and his family would live. It is the same home where the couple, Mom and Pop, would later raise three children and adopt another unofficially, taking in others in need. The father of the boys, Ulrich, came to Oklahoma, but word was he was afraid of being attacked by Indians, so he went back to Illinois.
(Mom & Pop Wedding Day)
On the day of their wedding, sitting in a buggy along a dirt road west of Cobb Creek, a photographer was on hand to record an image of the couple, and then John Dowty handed them a new clock he had bought from a hardware store in Eakly. To keep their love from running out of time. The clock remained in their home, ticking every day since.
The couple had three children: Bennie Ulridge, Dortha Eliouse, and JD.
JD GROFF 14YOA. 1936
My dad, JD, is named after John Dowty. But the Mom and Pop wished to honor a man known as either Big John Dowty or Uncle John Dowty by using just the two initials, without an abbreviation. It sometimes appeared as a curse for my dad because he would go through life telling people who placed periods with J and D that they had incorrectly spelled his name. I have heard him say, “It’s two letters, and you mess it up!”
Ben H. ‘Pop’ Groff I
The Clock: Even after retiring from their farm and moving to town, they took the clock, which remained essential to their lives. It remained running, being cleaned at a clock repair once, only when Mom and Pop watched over the repair man like hawks. When they passed, it came to my parent’s home, where it sat on the fireplace mantel and went silent. When the day came for our family to sell our homeplace, I retrieved the clock and brought it to Arizona. My first task was to clean it. It keeps time great. It is picky and must be balanced, and its ticker has to be ‘set’ at just the right spot, or it will stop. It is picky about the key turning the spring up tight. The springs are old. So it is like an old violin and has to be handled with kid gloves. The wood is brittle and old, and the design is very ornate. It may not be to the liking of every modern setting. But, it is over one hundred years old and dear. And it holds many hours of memories of sitting at my grandparents, hearing its tick-tock, listening to their stories, worries, and hopes for the day.
Mom & Pop Groff
The older people were our glue. They would hold yearly family reunions after the harvest had ended. Celebrate every holiday grandly and make weekends and summers the most incredible escapes. Plus, they oozed with class and style. The character and morals they possessed are qualities sorely missed and that are needed today as we try to soar in this world of divided opinions.
When Good Guys And Gals Still Finished First. They Were Made To.
JD Groff & his Horse My Molly’s Reed
My dad was known for doing such things unselfishly. He had a reputation throughout Western Oklahoma as a trustworthy horseman and businessman. I found this article while going through clippings. I discovered that it had been stored in an attic at my parent’s home after my mother sold it to move in with relatives due to her age. I was born in 1963 and have never heard this story. I had listened to my grandmother speak of a story in national newspapers about my dad helping a man, but I thought it had something to do with his being in World War II. He never spoke much of the past and only looked to the future. Something that I became used to and have often found myself doing until I found boxes of memories that took me into the lives of my parents and grandparents and a life that I am proud of bragging about.
(The following piece was first presented on Quora when a question was poised by a Trump supporter.)
I’m a little perplexed by your attitude here – why does it need to be so adversarial?
Let’s be straight here, though: Democrats don’t want to stop you voting for whoever you please. That’s the nature of a democracy: everybody gets a voice, and you can use that voice as you see fit. If you want to vote for Donald Trump, go right ahead – just know that you’re telling us quite a bit about yourself when you make that choice, and it’s not a positive one.
This is the part, I suspect, that some Republicans don’t understand. Democrats largely wouldn’t want to stop you from voting, although we can’t say the same for Republicans, because they do want to stop people voting, judging by all the state-level attempts at voter suppression. What we want is for you to stop making such god-awful decisions when you do vote. We want you to pick someone that raises your aspirations and wants something better for you, rather than the lowest common denominator.
We get it: you want to “own the libs”, and you want someone that will aggressively go after those people who don’t agree with you. I can understand that: you guys don’t like your lifestyle or beliefs being challenged, and when you feel that way, you probably feel under threat, and the response some will take in that situation is to lash out. You’re letting people like Donald Trump do that on your behalf.
Problem is, when you make decisions like that, you’re only thinking about yourself or your local bubble, rather than what’s best for everyone. The United States isn’t a religious, social or political monoculture: it’s an inclusive society that has a diverse range of beliefs, opinions and choices. Any effective government exists not to promote just the well-being of a single group (e.g. white ‘conservative’ Christians), but rather to promote what’s best for everybody.
Your choices aren’t something I’d consider laudable: I won’t stop you making them, because you have to let people make mistakes in order to learn from them. But you’re out of your mind if you don’t think I won’t advocate better choices, or at least encourage you to see your mistakes for what they are.
So, by all means, vote for Donald Trump if you must, but recognise that I’ll disagree with your choice, and encourage you to make better ones. When I look at who to vote for, I’ll always aim for the person who has higher aspirations for the country, for who has a clear desire to break past partisan bickering and legislative logjam, and aim to do what’s best for everyone, including you. You and I both know that Donald Trump is mostly out there to do what’s best for himself, and that you’re okay with that provided he hurts those you don’t agree with.
Just remember that these things have a way of backfiring. You put an aggressive, adversarial and ignorant President into office, particularly one known for cheating, philandering and lying his ass off, and it’s only a matter of time before he turns against you, particularly if he doesn’t feel the need for you anymore.
I think you can do better. Actually, I think you must do better. That’s what being a “true American” is all about, after all: striving towards something that was better than what came before it. It’s rather worrying that too many Americans have forgotten that.
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INFORMATION AND MORE THAT MAY BE USEFUL IN DAILY LIFE.
We are glad you found benandsteve.com —- this post brings you to a site where you can learn more about different individuals born into this world trying to find normalcy. I often call it “Being Straight In A Gay World!” For so many, they are forced not to live their true selves. And lies are sometimes fatal.
For hoots and to offer you relief from the hard-hitting info and news, we sometimes find pieces to keep a chuckle in the heart from deep inside the benandsteve.com files.
Live on!
Benjamin
You know why I am Gay? Because God Made Me That Way, or That’s The Way The Genes Flow. And It’s NObody’s Damn Business But Mind. You HEAR!
SCOOBY DOO! Looks Like Someone Is Going To Get A Scooby Snack!
Every day, anti-trans rhetoric is spreading and becoming more virulent. Conservative forces in statehouses across America are pushing bills that would strip trans people of rights, including access to vital medical care. In some places, these laws have already passed. This is all part of a concerted, coordinated effort, as Madison Pauly’s reporting shows. Paul
WHEN ANYONE GETS DENIED A RIGHT AFFORDED TO ANOTHER, WHETHER THE REASON FOR WITHHOLDING IS CIVIL OR PRIVILEGED, IT’S DENIAL TO ALL. BECAUSE IT IS A NEED FOR MANY – THAT – THE FEW ARE TOO PREJUDICED EVER TO UNDERSTAND.
About Gays And Why Laws, Book Bans, School Boards, And Other Restrictions Attempting To Bash And Attempted Genocide Against Queer Peoples Won’t Stop More People From Increasing The Populations In The LGBTQI Community!
We all remember that day. It may be a Spring afternoon following a light rain shower, with flowers peaking from beneath their winter hiding place for a first glimpse of the season’s sun. There we sit. We were pondering between the two choices. Will we be straight or gay? Surely everyone remembers that day, for if it is a choice, everyone faces the same options. You can choose both, they say. That needs to be clarified.
To be or not to be, when we were teens, first discovering who we were, for some, it was challenging to accept, and it took years for those who grew up in communities that were closed-minded and set to one way of life to finally get into their head that they were who they are and not who others expected them to be. They had tried to take the path of least resistance and attempted to take the straight route, not given another choice. But every piece of their biological body screamed at them, telling them something wasn’t right. They were misleading others, lying every minute of their life, and never being their true selves. They either had to leave and be their authentic self or die. Some tried to marry, but after a period, the inner madness kept them from carrying on, and their either killed themselves, came out and took the hell and damnation from the small communities in which they lived, or packed up and disappeared. Many may have turned to alcohol or drugs, appearing to believe it was better to be an addict than what they felt was their true self. If they were lucky, they met their soul mate and were rescued from the prison that so many are forced into by a society that is cruel and judgmental of others. Fortunately for others, they meet their lifemates just out of high school. They seem to know how to manage the world around them and find a world to live and operate in a life they would have otherwise missed out on, creating long-term relationships and being grateful things turned out as they do. They would not have wished to miss on so much love and so many adventures.
Forty-one years later, another couple still see simple rights afforded to their neighbors, rights that are threatened to be stripped from them by bigoted and power-hungry maga-republicans. So a question is asked to these groups suggesting they can kill off the gays. When did they choose to be straight? And, why is allowing this couple to live in peace so bad?
All the books, movies, and internet sites in the world may get banned; however, that will not stop the same amount of new homosexual and bisexual men and women from populating the earth each year. Some evil act does not make them. They are born, just like the couple you are reading about.Just like you!
One couple originates from small towns in Western Oklahoma. Growing up, they were never acquainted with gay anything. Both were church-attending, straight-laced lads all the way. Still, each began slowly dying from living in a suppressive community that had conditioned them to believe they were the worst people on the earth and were going to Hell. That worked until they met after high school and finally began to breathe life through one another. It took a lifetime to overcome the damage God-fearing sermons placed on them. They chose to move to a larger city and begin to grow privately, not making themselves the center attraction of life, but their community knew they coupled. As life continued, so did their love and energy, and now they live in a retirement community. But their rights are under threat daily. Because their property, retirement, and physical and fiscal security are in danger by daily threats of changing laws and bigotry. Research has discovered there should be signs on every front door of any religious establishment reading “for entertainment purposes only, because it does not produce a benefit for the community as a whole, just for the few!”
So When Did You Choose Your Sexual Preference?
And To Screw With It Would Cause Extinction!
This passionate talk from Dr. James O’Keefe, MD, gives us a deeply personal and fascinating insight into why homosexuality is a necessary and instrumental cog in nature’s perfection.
Research shows those making up the LGBTQI Communities are responsible for keeping the human race alive.
So When Did You Decide? When Did You Make Your Decision On Who To Be?
LGBTQI? It Is Natures Response To Maintaining The Magic Balance In Life – And To Screw With It Would Cause Extinction.
Maintaining The Magic Balance In Life
For those desiring more proof that the existence of gays is “born” to history and that the members of the LGBTQI Community do not simply choose to be Gay, this history lesson may help if you are an individual with a mind with enough room to learn new and factual information.
Another way to arrive at the understanding of whether LGBTQI members are born or are made of people choosing a lifestyle, ask yourself when you decided to be heterosexual (straight). What day did you choose between the options available and determine what life you wanted? Then consider who would ever pick a life where their being would face prejudices, denial of employment, housing, and services if they had a choice not to have to face the constant bigotry bashing them daily.
If you believe in a Higher Authority, a God. If this is your premise and you still object to these beings walking the earth, take it up with Him. When you do, if you believe scripture, consider Genesis 1:26-28, which announces that human beings are unique and all are in the image of God.
§Then God said, 'Let us make man in our image, according to our likeness, and let them rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the sky and the cattle and over all the earth. Genesis 1:26-28
IF HE IS TRUE. AND THERE IS AN ALMIGHTY. AND HE DID SOMETHING WRONG IN DESIGNING CERTAIN INDIVIDUALS TO BE DIFFERENT. THEN YOU SHOULD TELL HIM HE IS WRONG!
Viewing the windows to the right will allow the Facebook Posting to open so the original content can be read.
Remember It…The Day You Decided!
This Is Not A Paid Advertisement
If you are God Fearing, then this message is for you!–Our supposed sins will not send you to Hell. But God will ask about yours, i.e., judging others, planting seeds of strife. So the sins you commit are the only ones you should be concerned with. We are fine in answering to the top, should there be anything to comment on. You take care of your side of the street. We will tend to ours!
A poster of Demi Lovato wearing a black colored bondage-style outfit and lying on a crucifix-shaped bed is being banished for causing offenseiveness to Christians.
The title of the singer’s new album clearly alluded to a swear word and, together with the image, linked sexuality to a sacred symbol, the UK’s advertising watchdog found.
Polydor Records said it was artwork designed to promote the album and did not believe it to be offensive.
The poster received four complaints. And, now days that is all it takes!
READ ALL ABOUT IT! Visit the original posting for this report by visiting this website by clicking here!
It’s the hottest place in town regarding most business models in the industry. “Everyone is dying to do business with the local funeral directors and cemeteries,” one potential client said!
People Checking Out And The Funeral Industry – how funeral homes are making killing off people dying!
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A Note From Benjamin
