In which I make nice to evangelical Christians…

…to Louis C.K., not so much.

HAPPY NEW YEAR. Welcome to the dank, stinking, deep-webbed birth of two thousand nineteen C.E., the year born with a widow’s peak and with swastika-black cat-eyes wide open; the year that explodes from the belly already signed-up for Uber and deploying its influential personal brand. Two thousand nineteen is the malevolent offspring of The Storm who can read the runes, divine the sinister intent in the charred bones and slippery entrails of a former President’s funeral…

…Look! as the playback enters digital slo-mo and we zoom in on Laura’s face, hard and expressionless as stone. She turns with unnerving calm toward George, her downward glance at his right hand spun out to thousands of frames per second; he passes into her left hand an assassin’s final message… 

…White envelopes. In every shot, members of the congregation are handling large, sealed, white envelopes…

…A specialist commentator reads body language, like a sportscaster: Obama’s bored; Clinton’s agitated; Trump’s the only one engaged. She’s right, it seems, but Trump is simply projecting his fascination with his own inner dialog; he’s wondering who’s next he can sack or screw…

What is in the white envelopes? God, what is it?

What’s in the envelope? What is the most obvious supplement, at a state funeral, to the souvenir program and the hymnal? In the wacko world of The Storm, there’s a white envelope, but what is in it? What must it contain?

“Child pornography,” of course: Our sad, lonely epoch’s psychopathic fantasy, its omnipresent allegory of the unspeakable and the uncontrollable.

Child porn—which undeniably exists, but not, as hysteria would have it, around every corner or as a constant given in the lives of our enemies—like the “satanic ritual abuse” of the 80’s, is our generic catch-all for the worst and our ultimate smear tactic, our most indelible stain. It is Medea’s hideous gift of poison coat and coronet that adhere to the flesh and boil it off the bones.

Our desire to stain—someone, anyone, signals our outraged helplessness and our unbounded paranoia. Our innocence, which is to say our trust, has been violated; we have no one to turn to; we sense we can never be as before. Our acting-out is a cry for help not from, or even about, children, but from ordinary, once-sane adults, from you, your neighbours, relatives and friends.

We’re all reduced to faceless confused casualties, wandering in and out of shiny dioramas constructed for our distraction. We’re eaten alive: our most banal secrets pimped out for ready cash, our daily routines surveilled and mapped to the millimeter.

Our thoughts and even our dreams take only the tightly circumscribed, brightly lit paths offered to them, rat mazes continuously reconfigured by the insidious soul-snatchery of THE DEVICE.

And someone must pay.


WELCOME to another year in which Parkland’s traumatized students, their teen years abducted then wiped out by the goons of the NRA, continue their quixotic battle for gun-control and try to recall anything of life in the time before, the time when their lives were ordinary kids’ lives, with no dangers more serious than turf toe, a fight with your best friend, the awkwardness of a first kiss.

For their efforts they are mocked by sad-sack dirt-bag comedian Louis C.K., who asks rhetorically, in his new comedy routine, if they think having survived a mass shooting makes them “interesting.”

No, Louis, in fact they’re the only ones in the room who aren’t thinking of themselves or their image. They’re trying to extract what paltry healing or meaning they can from the spilt blood and torn bodies of their lost classmates.

They’ve put aside their private grief to work for the common good of all Americans—even you, Louis. The beauty of what they are doing breaks my heart. They are doing the work that adults have abandoned.

Unrepentant adults, derelict in their duty, were too busy concocting puerile, self-serving fantasies to safeguard their vulnerable children, and instead sent them to school, blind, deaf and dumb, innocent as snow, to be bloodied by bullets, sacrifices on the stone of their stupidity.

To honor the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America, to propitiate its gods, to affirm its overriding, universal importance, children had to die. They had to.

American life is a lottery: A madman gets a gun; Kids die. You win some, you lose some. This is— just the way it has to be.

The teens of Parkland are doing what no teen should ever have had to do.

They are making, Louis, the changes that you are too limp to effect, impotent as you are with the pathetic, needy impotence of the flasher. The extent of your comic genius is to diminish their hope, ridicule their bravery and discount their terrible rite of passage, to spit your contempt. You’re revealed not as a fiery preacher of intellectual freedom but as an angry, bitter flop. No, Louis, it’s you who wants to be “interesting.”

Instead, you’ve revealed yourself as a rapist: a rapist who uses words to violate his victims instead of his cowed flesh-puppet, but whose mind is every bit as guilty as if he’d pinned them down until he’d finished.


RECENTLY I STARTED a new daily regime that involves, as its core feature, acknowledgement of the existence of people other than myself.

You know, and can I just say, seriously: It’s been hell.

This all developed from my attempt to figure out, via highly structured, in-depth research, why more people weren’t paying attention to me. Well, slice me to ribbons under the Queen streetcar if it doesn’t turn out that if you pay more attention to people, they pay more attention to you.

I was fortunate enough to quite randomly pay attention to Mark Landry, whose blog is at Peacehacks.com, and he in his turn, as God is my witness, paid attention to me—just as the Newtonian Law of Blog Attraction predicted.

Then I discovered—in-depth, remember—that he was, and that his blog was targeted to, evangelical Christians.

Ah, yes. Evangelicals. Nineteen sixty-nine marked the riotous start of gay rights at the Stonewall Tavern, and subsequently that new visibility of the gay sub-culture that was like having all our protective camouflage ripped off and being herded into a clearing, ready for the Evangelicals’ open season. And the buttoned-down but very burned-up Anita “Come to the Florida Sunshine Tree” Bryant, as fellow freshman fag-seniors will recall, was perfectly positioned to light the straw at the foot of the stake as Christ’s perky, big-haired Joan of Arc.

Bryant was so effective in her noxious anti-gay crusade that—true story—every fag and every fag bar in North America boycotted Florida orange juice, thereby getting her fired from the Florida Citrus Commission’s ad campaign and utterly destroying any tiny remaining flicker of social cachet that still dangled from the tiara of the Screwdriver, nature’s own breakfast cocktail.

Save Our Children was the slogan of Bryant’s campaign, a once-whispered sentiment now finally heard loud and clear. She was adamant that gay men were out to recruit the young ‘uns and instruct them in our deplorable lifestyle, a toxic untruth that still, sixty years later, blazes barely contained under the surface of the discussion, like the Centralia mine fire of homophobia.

I don’t know if Bryant is dead, yet, but I’m definitely not. On peacehacks.com I gingerly offered my two nickels (inflation) on a post by Mark in which he had suggested his fellow Christians should get with the program and stop vilifying the caravan of Central American desperate and poor. (“Heaven is a gated community!” one gentleman offered; I didn’t check to see if he worked for ReMax or was offering time-share.)

Mark responded to my comment in a way that made me feel completely right and even appreciated for having participated. Later in the day I noticed that he had visited my blog and commented in his turn. Within minutes, I’d received his friendly invitation to write an article for his blog. You can see the results online.

So, pay attention to others and they’ll pay attention to you. I know it seems like desperately uncongenial work, filling in for people’s laziness in not completely re-ordering the universe to put you at the centre.

But it’s all we have.


» Read my essay on grace, compassion and the power of non-judgment, “Pivot Chords,” on peacehacks.com



Big Gay Pope David : Let the healing begin!

Hey Francine! BFF♥!!! Lookin' good girl!! (He just won't listen to me about the white-on-white thing. Let. it. GO!)

The Other Pope,  Francine!  Shout-out!! BFF♥!!!   Lookin’ good, girl!! (He just won’t listen to me about the white-on-white thing.)

A great big Hail Mary, Hello Alice to all my flock of gay dudes, lesbian dudettes and those who have not yet found The Way, The Truth and The Lifestyle™!  This is Big Gay Pope David, your “host with the most Host”! ™

You didn’t hear?  Well, yes indeed, my fine feathered friends, and in case you missed the smoke signals, I’ve just elected myself Big Gay Pope, which can only mean one thing –


I’ve spent the last twelve hours at The Golden Griddle, blowin’ a few Hallelujah clouds of glory with Francine and some of the other local trannies while we brainstorm best practices for framing apologies, re-framing our prejudices and winning back the trust of “The Gays”.

Don’t you just go all shivery when I call us that?!  “The Gays”.  Admit it!

You may be wondering about certain impediments to my being Pope.  Oh ye of little faith!. Yes, it’s true, I am a practising homosexual. But Francine (BFF!!! ♥) says that’s OK – I just have to keep practising and practising until I get it right!!!

Kidding!!!  LOL !!! Big Hugs ♥!!  Love you guys!!!  In a Big Gay Pope-y way of course!

And guess what else?  Shhh!!! Secret!!!  Francine says the apology portfolio is mine!    So me and that annoying dove that keeps flapping around, you know, with the circle of gold rays emanating from its head, we’re gonna get that apology bit between our teeth and knock it right outta the ballpark!

Oh lord, I beseech thee – heal my metaphors!

Kidding!! Love you guys!! Big kiss, no tongue!!!

luscious lavori

Luigi, one of my team of luscious, hand-picked lavoratori, on his cappuccino break!  Ciao, bellissimo!!

But first, a couple of urgent, as opposed to important, tasks – top priority is whipping my hand-picked team of luscious half-naked lavoratori into shape as they slap some cheerful Debbie Travis pastels on that, and pardon my French, but, totally OTT,  fucked-up Sistine Chapel ceiling.

Sistine Chapel! As Francine likes to say, “Oi ve voy!!” which is Latin for “talk about gloomy!”.

You know, here at the Palace of Popery it’s all S & M, all the time, but hey, Vatican – change your pace, no disgrace!  How about a little gnocchi-naughtiness for us vanilla girls?  Seriously??  After all, you know what they say:

“The religious classes
avoid those masses
where all they can see is
Michelangelo’s asses!”

It took a bit of convincing, but after a heated brainstorm with Joshua bar Joseph I chose ‘Crucifixion’ Chartreuse edged with ‘Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me’ White. So when the ceiling’s done, and Debbie says it’s gonna need at least three or four coats, there’s the swag curtains – I’m thinking moss or maybe taupe – some “faithful flock” wallpaper, and a disco ball, obviously, for a little altarnative – geddit – nostalgia!

big gay sistine

Work proceeds apace on the Sistine Chapel refresh – devout yet cheerful! Shown:  “Crucifixion Chartreuse” edged with “Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me White”.

I tell ya, once my Intelligent Redesign is complete, this place is gonna scream ‘devout-yet-cheerful’ from here to Des Moines!

The second task is spritzing a little spiritual Agent Orange worldwide to completely defoliate all that shrubby homophobia, ’cause I’m sorry to have to tell ya, but those friggin’ Evangelical Protestants are at it again.

Evangelicals!!  Not a flicker of humor in a clapboard chapel full of you!   Church-going isn’t supposed to be like attending the annual reunion of the Hillary for President campaign, you hear what I’m saying?

Methodists!  Oi ve voy!! Hillary’s the kind of girl who’d sit in Grade 9 biology class with a box of tissues on her desk, vivisecting a frog with one hand and blowing her nose with the other, and telling everyone to shush. It didn’t work then, and it didn’t work now!

All good practice for freshman year at college, when she entered the charity swimsuit competition then spent an hour in the Green Room sitting on a wicker chair! Downersville!

Which is just your li’l freckle-faced Big Gay Pope rascal gently suggesting to Evangelicals—take a tip from us Cat-lickers, have a little confidence – pizzazz, even! –  and think Broadway musical!

You know, and could I just say, but really. How about some clouds of incense, or a few of those plastic Jesus statues that wink at you – a couplea nuns with guitars – turn some Wonder Bread into the Body of Christ, make it live up to its name!  Up your game a little!

I say this with love, which gives me just the tiniest stirring of a woody, because maybe- and don’t get upset – but maybe with a bit of quality distraction you wouldn’t, like—get all full of yourselves and start imagining people were taking you seriously.

There, I said it.  I mean, I’m sorry, and as Big Gay Pope I should probably soften the blow. But hey.

Anyway,  there I was, reading Francine’s piece on MSN, about how gay people are finally going to get some apologies, and maybe a box of Laura Secord “Turtles” and a Metropass – fingers crossed!! –  for all of the thousands of years of genocide and persecution and hypocrisy and child abuse and unspeakable torture and all that.

You know, “Catholic Outreach”.

And I was getting in the groove, thinking about how I might actually travel north of Bloor Street now, and then I saw them – not just Protestants –

Twat-estants!  Evangelicals!  With their Lakes of Fire and their “One Way” and, well, just listen to our wee Scottish-ly-named homophobe Charles here:

“The end of days is closer than you think… and as the Pope, you are wrong to ask forgiveness of Gays.  Do you think that God will be a forgiving God.  Maybe you should read the Bible again.”

Would you get a load of that!  Telling the Pope to read the Bible!  I called Francine right away on her hotline to tell her, and she was like, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

So there was nothing for it but to roll up my hand-embroidered Balenciaga sleeves and compose my very first encyclical – that’s Big Gay Pope for “bitchslap” –  and in fluent Scottish, so Charles will be sure to understand!  – Miracolo! miracolo! – Thanks, annoying dove with the circle of gold rays!

June 28th, Year One

The Big Gay Pope David His First Encyclical

Signed, sealed and bitch-slapped from the
Ruby-Encrusted Honeymoon Suite of the Blessed Jacuzzi
Vatican Hilton

To Charlene and all my overly earnest sad-sack flock

Inasmuch as

I, His Royal Majesty Big Gay Pope David is moved by the annoying dove with the circle of gold rays to speak to ye – and if ye’re too Protestant to get me drift, it’s like, I’m not just “la crème de la crème”, I’m Miss Jean fuckin’ Brodie herself, OK? –

I hereby exhort ye all

to prick up those ears, cause the Communion wine is startin’ to wear off and I’m losin’ me Job-like patience!

This is a matter of extreme urgency, which is why I decided not to just text you “Sup dude?” from the blessed jacuzzi, but to write to you on priceless vellum with a real quill pen, and what’s more, I “Nair”‘d me legs. That alone should tell ye something!

I’m just gettin’ the feel for this pontiff-y stuff – and to tell you god’s truth the robes are startin’ to ride up me crack – so forgive me if I’m blunter than a pair of lamb shears on Maundy Thursday, but Christ Almighty, lad!

I just read yer post on MSN and I have to tell ye, yer makin’ me all nervy with yer dour tone and yer evangelical ways, angry god this and brimstone that, and tellin’ me to read the Bible!

Well it’s a serviceable book, I grant ye, but yer takin’ it so close I’m beginnin’ to think you want me wee job!

Now I’m only going to pontificate this once: Take that oatcake out o’ yer arse if ye can manage to find it, let yer soul flounce out of it’s dark hidin’ place and – speakin’ now not as a Big Gay Pope, but as bonny lad to bonny lad – flip up yer sporran, waggle yer haggis and have a wee bit o’ fun with the boys afore ye croak, hen!

By the hairy balls o’ Christ, Charlie, it’s all a big fuckin’ leg-pull!

There, now I hope yer feelin’ a bit more pastoral and all that.  If ye be needin’ a prayer or a votive candle with a picture of me and Jesus on it, or just something tasteful for the home like a refurbished choirboy, be in touch with the Vatican adoption services gift shop. You’ll be glad ye did once the cold winter nights close in on those bloody Hebrides!

Hail, Mary!   Pope David loves ye!  Big kiss, no tongue!  LOL!!

Salvatore ferragamo genoa via roma ..
Salvatore ferragamo genoa via roma …