America, April, 2018

2006-2018  Gay Military Signal

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President proposes
US Space Force

Seriously, I was wondering what outrageous presidential scandal I could possibly write about this month what with all the White House departures and the firing of the Secretary of State and plans for the Baboon In Chief to personally meet with Fat Little Rocket Man.  I can just imagine those two shlubby savages crouching and throwing their poop at each other while jumping up and down and screeching like enraged monkeys.  Or maybe they'll take one look at each other and agree to exchange hair styles.  I mean, how much worse could our leader look with white walls instead of an orange comb-over?

OK, stay calm.  Here's his latest words, spoken in front of an audience of US Marines.  The president proposed that the US have a Space Force!  I'm laughing so hard, I'm farting.  You know, he makes this stuff up as he goes along, right off the top of his head underneath the orange toupee. (Imagine the shame of being his queer personal hairdresser, following him around wherever he goes, shelpping six cans of heavy duty hairspray, and a horse's butt grooming brush).  I think its a great idea and that he should be aboard the first space rocket shot into the void as a military orchestra plays Adios Asshole and Hail to the Chief.

So sure, why not?  A new US Space Force can be paid for with the blood of the poor.  In his incoherent remarks introducing his idea, he said there will be lots of "private money."  Private money paying for US Armed Forces?  WTF?  Maybe an erectile dysfunction drug company could sponsor the president's next birthday party.  There's the corporate and rich people's tax cut raising the national debt into the trillions, and the cost of the Great Wall, the trade war cost to the economy, and lets not forget about 30 million for the Military Parade.  So another 70 billion or so to fund a Space Force shouldn't be a problem.  We could even save money by buying the space ship toilets from China and the top secret secure software from Russia as we already do now.  I've already got an idea for the Space Force Anthem: "Somewhere over the rainbow" as sung by Judy Garland.  And the song of Space Force Headquarters would be "San Francisco" as sung by Jeanette McDonald as the city fell in ruins at her feet.

OK, now seriously, the Air Force grew out of the US Army Air Corps of WWII.  And now the Air Force actually is America's military 'space force' such as it is at present.  A few years ago there was an AF recruiting commercial, regularly broadcast nationally on network TV channels, it portrayed a 9 year old girl out in farm country staring intently at a brewing tornado on the horizon; her father had to pick her up and bring her inside as she continued fearlessly looking at the storm over his shoulder.  Then, the scene shifts to a young woman in an Air Force uniform aboard a space station actively monitoring meteorological displays; and the voice over says, "We've been waiting for you!"  Brilliant; best recruiting commercial I ever saw!  But, we don't even have military space stations like that yet.  And so far, the invading armada from Alpha Centauri is still thousands of years away.  So, methinks the president-who-never-served is suffering from premature militarization.

Now, about High Treason and the Collusion with Russia investigation: So far we've had nearly every crony appointed to the inner sanctum White House underwear cabinet having had 'meetings with Russians,' payments from foreign governments, and hidden piles of millions of money.  Even Cushy-Tushy had a plan to set up a secret back-channel line of presidential communication with Putinh via the Russian Embassy.... .  HOLY SHIT!!!  No Collusion?  If that's not treason, what is?  If it looks like treason, smells like treason, and tastes like treason; it's TREASON!

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Remembering Harvey Milk
by Denny Meyer

A review of the musical play A Letter to Harvey Milk
playing through June 30th at the Acorn Theatre in NYC

I'm a pretty cynical grumpy old gay veteran, so I didn't expect much when I got tickets to this play.  As a gay rights writer, activist, and national spokesman, I occasionally get invitations to plays and shows in hopes that I might rave about them.  All I got was two complementary tickets with no strings attached; I don't owe these folks anything.  So, my raving, here, is of my own volition.  I loved it.

I served in the US Navy and Army Reserve for a total of ten years and left as a Sgt First Class; I don't cry much, but this show moved me to tears, simple as that.  The play's premise seemed a bit dubious: a retired old Kosher butcher gets lonely, missing his long deceased wife, and goes to his local Jewish Senior Center in San Francisco, looking for something to do.  He sees a bulletin board notice about a writing class even though, as he put it, he's "never written anything longer than a check."  The young teacher turns out to be quite inspiring and, after a few practice writing efforts, assigns him to 'write a letter to someone who meant something to him,' or something like that.  He decides to write 'A letter to Harvey Milk.'  So, how the hell did we arrive at that unlikely eventuality as the premise of a play?

Well as it turns out, he knew Harvey Milk before he was assassinated, they'd become friends.  I'm not going to tell you the whole story, its too good to spoil, see it yourself.  Its just a really clever story.  What got me gripped by the tale is the fact that I actually knew Harvey Milk back in the day.  Everyone did who was there in San Francisco at the time.  How did a straight old man become Milk's friend?  Well, I can tell you, Harvey had that affect on anyone he met.  He was both intensely charismatic and at the same time totally down to Earth and unassuming.  You could walk into his camera shop on Castro Street for a roll of film and spend the next two hours there absorbed in his political vision of a future of full equality.  Its just the way it was there back then. 

In the late 1970s in San Francisco, the gods of the gay revolution walked the Earth like ordinary mortals.  After spending time listening to Milk in his shop on a balmy Saturday afternoon, I could stroll up to Castro and 18th and end up standing there on the corner and chatting with Leonard Matlovich for another two hours.  When I got home four hours later and my lover asked, "Where the hell have you been?!," all I could say was that I was "waiting for Gedot."  I couldn't have said that I'd been chatting with gay gods; at that time we couldn't have imagined that they would become our most inspirational martyrs.

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