Oh, babies, what to do with you

Ah, the sanctity of life. A fetus come to term — having survived nine months inside another person — is ready to become its own person, no longer living inside another body that may or may not have been such a great host.

Either way, that fetus is now somebody!

Somebody who had absolutely no say in where or why they were born.

Somebody who has inhaled smoke, second or third hand, because everybody inhales smoke (because it still OK to expose others to toxic cigarette fumes).

Somebody who's eager to cry, sleep, laugh, crawl, walk, talk, become a child, play like a child, dream like a child, grow up like a child, become an adult, like all children.

Somebody whose brain, genitalia and gender may not line up perfectly with what's considered "the norm."

Somebody who — before even making it into this world — must undertake a harrowing journey that many fetuses ready to be born don't survived: passing through an Indiana-Jones-like birth canal, then all at once, that somebody must be able to breathe, keep breathing and survive in a suddenly non-sterile world.

Just like that, that somebody is now a baby, completely dependent on the world for survival for some years to come.

If that baby is born in the United States of America, should that baby be afforded the rights afforded to all babies born in United States of America, as determined by the laws of United States of America?

Or should that baby be turned away, rejected, mandated to go elsewhere because of the actions of the vessel that gave birth to the baby?

Ah, the sanctity of life. As long as the life giver is a United States citizen.

Does that mean it's OK for illegal immigrants to have abortions?

Would that be better for the fetuses not yet come to term, still waiting to be born? Soon as they become somebody, arrest them (whenever you find them), then deport them and send them elsewhere — anywhere that is not the greatest country on earth?

Which is the better alternative: allowing illegal immigrants to have abortions, or letting those fetuses to come to term, then getting rid of them?

To paraphrase disgruntled teenagers arguing with their disgruntled parents, "I didn't ask to be born (in this country)."

Can you have it both ways? Can you be pro-life and anti-birthright citizenship?

Ah, the sanctity of life.

Of Men and Earrings

My 22-year-old cousin wears an earring. His grandmother asked him why.

“I dunno,” was his response.

Why, men wear earrings to feel pretty, I could have told him.

In the latter part of the last century, women began taking more control over their lives and men began doing things previously reserved for young ladies out to catch a man: earrings, getting one’s hair-did, fancy jells and perfumes, excuse me, colognes.

Cover boys acting like Covergirls. Fashion statements that state: somebody declared this fashionable and I’m into fashion! Don’t I look pretty? Don’t I smell pretty?

Men who are man enough to admit to having sex with other men need to come up with new terms to describe themselves because heterosexual-identified men who wear earrings and cover up the scent of a man with fancy concoctions in a bottle have given new meaning to words like “gay” and “queer.”

Yes, you all look pretty. Very, very pretty.

The Emperor Has No Debt Crisis

What if this summer’s blockbuster event—the Debt Ceiling Debate—was the crisis that wasn’t? What if the threat of weapons of mass debt are just as non-existent as Saddam's weapons of mass destruction?

Why do most economists say another stimulus is needed, not spending cuts? Makes you wonder, especially after checking out two stories from Time Magazine and the PBS Newshour.

I Kissed a Guy

The fall of the ban on gays in the military, also known as “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” is the most important event in Gay American History since Ellen came out as, gasp, an openly gay comedienne.

So what’s next on the Gay Agenda?

The official next cause de célèbre won’t be decided until the Big Gay Convention, scheduled for 2012 in Oslo, Norway. Kidding! It doesn't take a vote to imagine the next closet door opening up: pro sports.

"Now, the concept of the gay soldier is real."

Pro athletes still don’t ask and pro athletes still don’t tell, but it’s only a matter of time. My prediction: by 2020, we’ll be watching, gasp, an openly gay pro athlete. Or two. Or more.

The cultural signposts are obvious: “guy on guy” is steadfastly becoming what “girl on girl” has become over the last 15 years: an acceptable source of eroticism in the media.

Macho actors play gay lovers on the big screen. Handsome male celebrities joke about doing other handsome male celebrities.

Two men kissing is an increasingly popular act on TV and in the movies. Pro athletes are coming out as gay-friendly.

Can the male equivilent of the hit song “I Kiss a Girl” be far behind?

Forty years ago, America was shocked when athletes started grooming themselves and hawking beauty products. Thirty years ago, America pushed back by saying, "Real men don’t eat quiche."

Twenty years ago, lesbians weren't part of our Basic Instincts. Ten years ago, men didn’t have bromances.

Now, the concept of the gay soldier is real.

I kissed a guy. Now, I can hardly wait for the first openly gay president.

What Makes Being a Fag Worthwhile

A video campaign tells young gay kids, It Gets Better, meaning life gets better after you grow up and no longer have to be gay-bashed at school.

Take it from this 48-year-young gay kid: oh, how it gets better.

The best sign of better things: You'll be in the middle of some really great sex--hot, sweaty, passionate--and you'll think to yourself: This is why I'm a fag.

This is why I put up with all the world's shit about men who have sex with men: to feel this good with another man, this alive, this free, this connected, this content, this much on fire, this much in love with sex and life.

And men. And cock. Or ass. Or holding onto another man, kissing another man.

Or just lying naked together, talking about nothing or everything or anything. Or doing whatever the fuck we want.

This is why I'm a fag. This is what I survived my youth for, what fought for the right to be. Me.

This is me. This is where I want to be.

This is what makes being a fag worthwhile.

Cigarettes: the Real Gateway Drug

What makes an innocent little baby turn into a sweet playful kid who turns into a shy and quiet preteen who turns into a wayward youth who turns into one of the criminals on the long running TV show Cops?

Cigarettes, the real gateway drug to a life of crime and unproductive behavior: lying, cheating, stealing, the kind of shit lands you in handcuffs.

Most kids learn very early on that smoking is bad, as in not acceptable to authority, the law, your lungs. After all, if smoking were so universally righteous, we'd all be doing it everywhere all the time, like we do breathing, drinking water, eating veggies.

"No matter their crime, the criminals on Cops just gotta take a drag off their cigarettes."

Even if one's parents smoke, that's no out. All babies grow up in a world that doesn't let you smoke where you want, when you want. Otherwise, daycare workers would be doling out nap mats and cig breaks.

New American Dictionary for Angry White People

Once upon a time in America, the world was a-changing and a lot of (mostly) white Americans (who viewed themselves as conservatives) were very upset about all this change.

They wanted no part of change. They wanted the world they inherited from their parents and grandparents. No a-changing here.

So they revolted. Threw a tea party to express their anger. When that didn't work, they declared, fought for, and won their independence from the King of England.

"Restore America [to an earlier time when white man ruled and darkies didn't aspire to be President.]"

Along the way, they created an entire mythology around the war, obscuring one of the reasons they went to war: England was ridding itself and its empire of the institution of slavery and Americans wanted no part of it. The world was a-changing.

And that is the lost reason for the American Revolution.

We Interrupt this Interruption!

I've got something very important I want to tell you.

Could you be in the grips of a new disease that's ruining your life?

Have I got news you won't want to miss.

It's urgent. It's information you need to survive in this ever-changing, increasingly scarier world.

It's news that only I can tell you. News you need to know. News that I'm going to reveal. After the break.

"A phone used to sit and wait for us. Now we sit and wait for the phone."

We interrupt this important announcement with another important announcement.

One simple tweak of your voice mail system could help change the world. That's right. Save the world time because time is money.

Tired of listening to a voice mail's automated voice tell you over and over again ... "to leave a voice mail, press one, or just wait for the tone. To leave a text ..."

How much collective time would the world save without having to wait for this message (doesn't matter that pressing 1 helps. Most people don't know this).

Do your part to end the voice mail madness. Save yourself and everyone who calls you the pain and misery of an automated voice telling you over and over again ... "to leave a voice mail, press one, or just wait for the tone ..."

How? To find out how to terminate the automated voice, stay tuned to the next break of this interruption ...

Back to the matter I was blogging about before I interrupted myself: I opened this post by saying I had something very important to tell you. I hinted at a gripping new disease.

Then I mentioned that it was news that only I could tell you, granting myself an exclusive, slowly building your interest in this vague story I'm telling you.

Like modern TV shows, I'm giving you this recap of what I told you before the break, just in case your multi-tasking brain went elsewhere and forgot my message, the one I was telling you before my other message about automated voice mail messages consuming the world's precious time.

Now that you're fully up to speed again, here's the original breaking news you won't want to miss:

The digital age had produced an alarming side effect in human behavior.

That side effect: distractaphobia, the fear of missing out on that which is transmitted digitally.

A signal from the digital gods is a Clarion call to interrupt life and pay homage to the signal.

Answer that phone. Listen to that voice mail. Read that text. As soon as you're called upon, forsake all others and bow down to the interruption of life.

And if you can't respond immediately, you owe the gods an explanation for your failure to worship, complete with details, like:

"I was just getting out of the shower, picked up the phone, got it all wet, had to wipe it off, and by that time, it stopped ringing so I figured I'd dry myself off and put some lotion on before I called you back ... and now I'm getting your voice mail, so I guess ... oh, wait, this is probably you calling back on the call waiting while I'm trying to leave you a voice mail, hold on while I call you back while you're calling me back ..."

We interrupt this interruption to get back to my point.

A phone used to sit and wait for us. Now we sit and wait for the phone. Or text, or email, or voice mail.

When the call comes, the call becomes all there is, above all else, including that which is in front of us, to see, to feel, to touch, to engage. Those have become the things we do between the interruptions, which have become more of what life is all about.

Twisted I know. Only you can't twist it back.

Don't run like Pavlov's dog when the bell rings, forsaking that which you were doing before the interruption. Tongue hanging out, salivating over what comes after the bell.

Ask yourself: what else can I be, besides someone who keeps interrupting myself? Think about it, during this brief interruption, or station break.

So how do you stop your callers from suffering through the automated misery of an automated voice saying, "to leave a voice mail, press one, or just wait for the tone ..."

It's easy. Most voice mails have "user options." Most user options include a BYPASS AUTOMATED INSTRUCTIONS option. Just think, if you use it, and tell one person to use it, and they tell one person to use it, and maybe Tyra Banks or another beautiful celebrity does a public service ad, we could all bypass that automated misery.

What would you do with all that spare, uninterrupted time?

Anyway, sorry for that little interruption. Wait, what was I blogging about? Writing this post has taken longer than I expected. I had to stop to listen to two voice mails. One was hard to hear, so I had to send a text, asking for clarification. If that text or call comes in, I have to interrupt this piece again.

Like I was saying, distract yourself from distractaphobia. Don't be in such a rush to answer that bell. Terminate the automated instructions on your voice mail. But remember: always to stay plugged in to Randy Boyd's Blocks.

We promise less interrupted disruptions. And now back to our previously scheduled interruption.

The Blogger Who Inspired Me

His name was Michael. His blog told of his quest for a liver transplant.

His photos revealed a handsome man who had traveled the world over.

By the time I discovered his existence, Michael had died, leaving behind his blog featuring photos of a life well lived.

Why would I ever do a blog, I once wondered. After discovering Michael's Liver Transplant, I had my answer.

I blog as another way of shooting all my wads while I can, as a writer, as a creative artist, as a human being.

Thanks, Michael.

Acting Out at My High School Reunion

August 1990: Saddam Hussein invades Kuwait, igniting the first Gulf War; Madonna is world touring with her blond ambition; and one overachieving but under-socialized black man is acting out at his 10-year high school reunion in Indianapolis.

In this case, acting out means: donning a crazy, MTV-awards-show-inspired outfit (I dubbed it rock and roll formal) and letting the North Central High School Class of 1980 know that the "black geek you assumed was a fag" is happy, healthy, hunky and still here, direct from Hollywood, dressed like a freakin' rock star fairy or something. And he's a great dancer, too! Take that!

"The photos were simply more evidence that I wasn't one of the beautiful people."

White tuxedo shirt. White jeans. Bolo tie. Tiger-stripped cummerbund. Leopard print boots.

What was I thinking? lol ... I wasn't. I was feeling. Feeling all that resonating energy from high school still bottled up inside me, in need of uncorking.

Afterward, I felt let down. What had I really accomplished, save proving to myself, once again, I can create a challenge, then meet it?

Whereas I didn't go to the prom or other social functions in school because I was socially retarded and alone, I went to my reunion, still alone but now comfortable with myself (enough to go rock and roll formal, mind you!)

"I can now see beauty in myself, where I couldn't see it in high school."

When the evening was over, I returned to my childhood home, still occupied by my mother. Mom and I chatted about the reunion, then she noticed the unused film in my camera.

On the floor of the den, I began posing for my mom, making her laugh hysterically. Typical behavior for us, me making my mom laugh. I love making my mom laugh.

When I first saw the results of my impromptu photo shoot, I could barely look at them. To me, the photos were awkward and simply more evidence that I wasn't one of the beautiful people, the ones living the good life, as seen on TV and in the movies.

Cut to me twenty years later, coming across those same photos and falling in love with the young man posing to make his mom laugh, looking so young and fresh. I guess that means I can now see beauty in myself, where I couldn't see it in high school, then couldn't see it ten years later, at my 10-year high school reunion.

At age 48, I love those post-reunion pics. Randy @ 28. Still young, still glowing, still me. That impromptu photo shoot turned out to be the best part of reunion weekend, the bonding with my mother, the laughter, the images of myself I can now appreciate (see more post-reunion pics on my "sexy" blog).

My 30-year high school reunion happened earlier this year. Didn't go. I was 2,000 miles away. I'm taking it as a good sign that I no longer need to act out at my high school reunion.

15 Things I Wish I Knew When I Was Young, Gifted and Black

Once upon a time, I was a young black man with a bright future. Educated. Articulate. Well-adjusted. Good grades at good schools. My long departed ancestors, the ones who only knew slavery, they would have been proud of me. Matter of fact, I think they'd still be proud today.

At age 48, I may not be as young, but I'm still gifted and black. I haven't let my talents nor my ability to adapt and survive go to waste. College Degree. Four novels, five Lambda Literary Award nominations.

But what if I could hop in a DeLorean, travel back in time and give myself a little advice? I've made a list, in no particular order, just in case I happen to find the right vehicle to get me to the past, then back to the future:

1. The only people who matter in your life are the people who always need to know: Are you dead or alive? Are you well, and if you're not well, is there anything I can do to help?

College Daze: 25 Years Later

This time 25 years ago, I graduated from UCLA with a BA in Sociology. This time 30 years ago, I graduated from North Central High School in Indianapolis, Indiana. So how did this native Hoosier end up on the west coast?

I had been planning my escape from Indiana since age 14. That was about the time I'd seen enough of Three's Company, Charlie's Angels and ChiPs to know California was the golden kingdom where anyone's dreams can come true, even mine.

I only applied to four colleges, UCLA and USC (because only a major university with good sports teams would do); San Diego State (my west coast backup); and Wisconsin because they sent me their application and there was no application fee. I thought that was nice of them, so I applied to be a Badger if my California dreams fell through.

"First memorable moment: Being called nigger."

No way was I gonna stick around Hoosierville. Growing up as a young black man who refused to be somebody else's stereotype in a state that still held on to Klannish ideas was not an easy challenge in 1960s and 70s Indianapolis. I was gonna split, it was simply a matter of where.

High School Highlights: 30 Years Later

80, 80, we're the best
we're the class above the rest
yeah, rah, 80!

This time thirty years ago, many of us Kennedy babies were glowing with the glow of a newly minted high school graduate. Here's to the Class of 1980. We're still the best!

If high schools are like little cities, my North Central was New York.

Located in the northern most regions of the north side of Indianapolis, North Central High was the crown jewel of schools in the "nicest" part of town.

Three grades. Three thousand students. Mostly well-off white kids but naturally integrated, no busing needed. National acclaim for its academics. Statewide acclaim for its athletics. And since the state is overpopulated with overachieving Panthers, most people in Indiana have heard of North Central.

For three years, I was one of those overachieving students. I went in with the breathless excitement of someone arriving in a legendary metropolis, and left there a high school graduate who tried to do and be everything. Almost literally.

Soccer club; newspaper staff; newspaper feature editor; (the first black?) newspaper editor-in-chief; choir; repertory theater; the Sidney Poitier role in Lilies of the Field; National Honor Society; supporting role in the Skin of Our Teeth; the co-creator of “News, Weather, Sports,” part of the big high school musical known as Junior Spectacular, a blockbuster of an annual production involving the entire junior class.

As involved as I was, I was socially retarded and mostly alone. Perhaps had the world been better prepared to deal with boys fucking around with boys ... but that wasn't the case for the North Central High School Class of 1980. Still, I was engaged, I tried, I achieved and I have a full high school resume to remind me of the highlights.

How I Became Educated

Growing up the youngest of four kids, not once did I ever see my older siblings study or concern themselves with school. In fact, it was the reverse. One of my earliest memories is of my brother and sister cheating their way through a summer reading program at the children's library (while I took pride in reading and completing the assignments).

So how did I become a UCLA grad in 1985?

Despite my siblings' efforts, my parents did emphasized the importance of education. And of not being just another statistic, e.g., another black man wasting his life away. My father was a reader and a thinker who encouraged me to be a thinker. My mother went to college in her 40s and earned her BA and Masters.

"My rebellious sibs caused beaucoup de hell, giving me a steady course in how not to act."

Once, my parents tried to enroll us kids in a private school. My older siblings laughed their way through the admissions exam while making fun of me, the nerdy little brother taking the test seriously. Since I was the only child who passed, my parents decided none of us would attend Heritage Christian.

Their next move: moving us from the decaying inner-city of 1960s Indianapolis to the suburbs, specifically Washington Township, one of the finest school systems in the country.

You might say, I benefited most in the timing department. I was only age seven, still impressionable, still ready to be molded and eager to assimilate. Whereas my older sibs were already entrenched in their ghetto state of mind, I adapted to my new world much more easily.

"For two years of junior high, my father sent me to an all-white private school."

I also had some serious motivation: my rebellious sibs caused beaucoup de hell with my parents, giving me a steady course in how not to act if you want to avoid trouble. They became my reverse role models. I embraced the role of the good guy and made a conscious choice not to be like my disobeying, non-studying, borderline juvenile delinquent siblings, who earned the ire of parents and teachers alike. No thank you very much.

For two years of junior high, my father sent me to an all-white private school. At Park-Tudor, I was a fish out of water, acting out due to my parents bitter divorce. However, upon returning to the public school system, I found myself near the top of my class.

When my counselor broke the news that I was ranked 35th out of over 1,000, mostly white students at North Central High School, I privately relished the fact that my fate was sealed. There was no turning back. I was going to be a proper-talking, good-grade getting, over-achieving Negro, who was a college graduate and thinker, for life.

How I Became Homosexual

I never said I didn't want pussy. In fact, I've never not wanted pussy. I've dreamed of eating pussy since forever. The maze of life just hasn't taken me there yet.

I was raised in a male-dominated sports world where females were not so accessible, emotionally or physically, and males were violent and abusive but accessible through sports, my second language.

Upon my birth, my older sister was told she had a new baby sister. “That explains it,” said my mother years later. At age seven, sis taught me cheerleading. From that day forward, I became an athlete and a cheerleader. As far as the neighbor kids were concerned, I also became a fag. I never said I didn't want pussy!

"I checked HOMO on the imaginary sexual census form out of social convenience."

From junior high to my college graduation, I was socially retarded and basically alone. By high school, I quit playing sports and focused on academics, journalism and theater. Then in college, I finally got to live out my childhood cheerleader dreams. As far as the world was concerned, all of it made me a fag. I never said I didn't want pussy!

In my youth, there were little or no opportunities to articulate or explore my sexual nature with my peers. But a hard dick finds its own compass, and since I was already more bonded with males, emotionally and physically, and indeed craved a best buddy with whom I could bond, emotionally and physically, and since the world had already anointed me fag ...

My penile compass found its way into the world of men who have sex with men, beginning with adult bookstores. Most of the men were far from stereotypical fags. Many of them were married. Very few of them saw themselves as gay.

"Never had a partner. Never had a lover. Never had a boyfriend."

One month after college, the AIDS hysteria hit. I made a pledge to avoid the new “deadly disease,” but inwardly I knew: I was already infected. I needed a miracle. Or two.

The first would be surviving AIDS. The second: finding my best buddy, even though school was over, and that buddy and I would have to journey through the AIDS crisis together.

So circa my mid-twenties, I signed onto this “whole gay thing” and checked HOMO on the imaginary sexual census form out of social convenience. I immersed myself in the gay world, went to gay bars, danced in gay clubs, started calling myself gay, searched for a buddy, aka, gay partner, fought for gay rights, all while trying to survive AIDS and find a buddy-for-life.

I never said I didn't want pussy!

Twenty-five years later, I'm living out the first miracle, having now survived a quarter of a century, more than half my life, with HIV/AIDS. The second miracle, the buddy dream: still elusive. Never had a partner. Never had a lover. Never had a boyfriend.

Now that I'm all grown up, I realize: I'm no longer a homo, just a guy who enjoys the company of men, who wants to bond with a special buddy, emotionally and physically, and who is open to but has yet to experience sex with women.

I never said I didn't want pussy!

How I Became a Writer

While growing up the youngest and most vulnerable in a violent household, I learned a valuable lesson: to survive, use silence and stealth. So I went inward, told myself stories from a very early age.

My challenged childhood also taught me another important lesson: the value of choosing words carefully. Wrong word: pain. Right word: pass.

My family's life revolved around sports, and so did my stories. Here Come the Tigercats! was one of my earliest efforts. A ragtag bunch of kids who end up winning it all in basketball.

"A seminal moment in college made me a wordsmith for life."

In high school, I became a journalism student. By senior year, I was (the first black?) editor-in-chief of my school paper, the Northern Lights of North Central High School in Indianapolis, Indiana.

I continued telling myself stories throughout my youth. A fan of the soaps, I created my very own version of Dallas. Fate willing, I'll be returning to Tulsa in an upcoming novel.

A seminal moment in college made me a wordsmith for life. It happened during my third year in school, while back at home, recuperating from an illness.

I was in the midst of a yearlong literary frenzy where I was more interested in reading fiction than textbooks. I buried myself in classics like Catcher in the Rye and A Separate Peace, and works by men like John Irving and Anton Myrer, author of The Last Convertible and the great war epic, Once an Eagle.

"My writing is like my gold, forged in a hellish childhood."

During my recovery, while reading Myrer's A Green Desire, a dramatic twist struck me as so magically brilliant and creative, it inspired a spontaneous outburst from within: I wanna do that! shouted my inner brain. Like a kid seeing a magic trick that sets fire to his soul.

From that moment forward, I aspired to be a storyteller who, like Irving and Myrer, could spin tales and like a magician, pull words out of a hat in a way that makes people go, ahhhhh.

I've come to realize: my writing is like my gold, forged in a hellish childhood where a boy's imagination was his only escape. I can't change that childhood, but I can be thankful for my gold and I can also use it wisely.

After all, my gold is the best I resource I possess in this life.

We Are the Kennedy Babies

We were born during Camelot. We were the little cheeks he kissed and welcomed into the world. We were born in his America. We are now running America.

We are the Kennedy Babies.

We are the children born during the 1000 days of the John F. Kennedy Administration.

We were in our mothers' arms, by our fathers' side, in our cribs, getting our first glimpse of the world, between the time President Kennedy was inaugurated and assassinated. Too young to understand but not for long. Our mothers and fathers and the world would fill us in soon enough.

"... being in my mother's arms while she watched coverage of Kennedy's assassination."

President Barack Obama is a Kennedy Baby.

Any child born in America between January 20, 1961 and November 22, 1963, is a Kennedy baby.

I am a Kennedy Baby, born in 1962, the only full year of his administration.

By the time I understood that there was something called a Catholic person, it made no matter to me. Yet it had been such an issue at the time of JFK's election. By the end of my first decade, I saw man land on the moon six times, unaware a young president had once made a promise.

The first Kennedy who garnered my young soul's attention was Bobby. My brother and I were playing in Tarkington Park in Indianapolis. The year was 1968. I was age six. Suddenly, a motorcade passed by. Red lights swirling on top of police cars! My brother, age eight, put it in context: a man named Bobby Kennedy was running for president and campaigning in Indianapolis.

A handsome tan white man sat high atop a convertible, waving to onlookers on the sidewalk. We probably looked on until the motorcade passed, then went back to playing in the park.

Later, I learned of Bobby's brother, who had been president when I was born. More than once I heard the story of being in my mother's arms while she watched coverage of President Kennedy's assassination.

It was only much later in life that I learned that childhood moment with Bobby Kennedy happened in the same year he spoke to a mostly black audience in a inner-city Indianapolis neighborhood, urging calm, the night Martin Luther King was assassinated.

I've come to know much more about the Kennedys in the nearly half century since I was born. The longer I live, the more I witness their legacy, and the more I'm proud to have been born under their watch, especially during that bright shining moment that was Camelot.

Thank you, JFK.,
A Kennedy Baby

The Sins of Big Government

For most of history, there was no government. First there were wandering clans, then tribal leaders, then feudal lords and kings and queens. A short time ago, government was born, at first as a mediator between royalty and the rest of us.

Eventually, government became big enough to topple the power of kings. Let's see what big government and all that red tape has done with our lives ever since:

Big government created laws ending child labor, freeing up thousands of American kids from dank, dangerous mines and factories.

Big government created public schools for those newly unemployed kids to attend, and for their kids to attend, and their kids, and their kids and your kids.

Big government created all those roads and highways Americans drive on, complete with stoplights, speed limits and maintenance (ever since the US auto companies convinced said big government to build paved roads for the newfangled horseless carriage).

"Big government is the only way to get your money back when a bank folds."

Big government keeps the drug war that's happening this-close to our southern borders--the war that's killed over 20,000 in the last few years--from spilling over to a neighborhood near you. So far.

Big government locks up pedophiles.

Big government gives you access to a list of said pedophiles.

Big government locks up killers, Bernie Madoffs, Timothy McVieghs, shoe bombers.

Big government is responsible for most older Americans having money every month, or medical care when needed. Or wheelchairs. Or home nursing. Or nursing homes.

Big government gives us the military, a place where many a wandering young soul has found his or her purpose and way in life.

"Big government makes mistakes, like any human endeavor."

Big government keeps your food safer. When's the last time you died from eating something?

Big government makes it possible for most Americans to go to college.

Big government is the only one who has a newly unemployed person's back.

Big government is the reason your home is built better and safer than homes in places like Haiti and Mexico.

Big government is the only way to get your money back when a bank folds.

Big government is the only entity capable of granting and enforcing the rights of peoples that would otherwise have no rights: blacks, Native Americans, women, gays, Latinos, atheists, dissenters, people who don't own property, and so on.

Big government is the engine that makes possible the electricity in your home, the water coming out of your faucets, the stop sign on the corner, the park your dog poops and plays in. Try getting those things without big government.

Big government makes mistakes, like any human endeavor, but big government is the thin line between modern civilization and living in a lawless land. Take your pick.

Long live big government.

Breaking News: There's Good News on TV!

Once upon a time, television news gave us important information, thoughtful opinions and intelligent analysis.

Then came the modern, 24-hour-cable-news-era, with its "breaking news" about car chases, celebrity breakups and "tonight's special episode of Dancing with the Stars."

Believe it or not, there still exists one newscast that gives us important information, thoughtful opinions and intelligent analysis.

It's newest name is the PBS Newshour, but their game is the same as it ever was: simply the best news on TV with the least amount of celebrity hype and hyperbole.

Want better TV journalism? Check out the Best News on Television.

What Is God?

"God is like a mind. A great, powerful, super-intelligent mind.

The mind is the only thing that exists in the entire universe. There is nothing else outside this mind. The mind is all there is and knows it is All There Is, therefore the mind knows it is all-powerful and can be anything.

But what is there to be? There is nothing because there is nothing else. There is only the mind and the darkness inside.

"Go make something of yourselves, so that I may know what my mind is capable of."

But the mind wants to know more about itself than the mere fact that it is All There Is, so the mind summons up all its power and explodes into an infinite number of pieces that are off in search of whatever the mind can think of and create, all so that the mind may know itself and what it is capable of.

The mind called these pieces energy. And the mind told the energies:

‘Go make something of yourselves, so that I may know what my mind is capable of; and what I am capable of, so that, by separating myself into pieces, I may know myself, and myself in relation to another form of me, which is merely a reflection of myself, the mind, God.’"

—from Walt Loves the Bearcat
by Randy Boyd
A Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Romance

"Warm-spirited ... resonates with soulful queries into the nature of love and life." Bay Area Reporter