Making new friends in Oregon

I know this weekend is all about celebrating our freedom and independence and the once-welcoming and incredible country that we once were and that, I know, we will be again. But in light of everything going on, I want to celebrate something else this year: Community. Because right now, it feels like that’s the only thing that just might save us all.

Queer people have long been aware of the power of community. In some ways, it is one of the only things we’ve really had through our darkest days — that figurative sense of community that we can draw strength from as well as the literal places where we can gather as a community and find safety and support.

This feels like a summer of community for me. This weekend, we will celebrate with friends and chosen family, the majority of whom are queer. We will eat and drink and watch fireworks and play in and on the lake.

But we will also find solace in one another and remind one another — with nothing more than our presence, in some cases — that despite it all we have this.

We always have this.

We have one another.

I just returned from Queer Wine Fest in McMinnville, Ore., where winemaker and former McMinnville Mayor Remy Drabkin, founder and owner of Remy Wines, created community through wine. It was so empowering and hopeful to be among all of these queer winemakers — and queer wine drinkers — celebrating themselves and each other, especially since I live in a state that isn’t always the most friendly to us.

Over the weekend, I also visited all of these queer-owned places. While in Portland, I played at the immersive art gallery in Portland — Hopscotch Portland — which was deliciously fun and incredibly inspiring. Then I did some shopping at Wildfang, which is the home of the Wild Feminist crewneck.

In McMinnville, I ate at Bierly Brewing, a queer-owned and gluten-free joint. (And, holy smokes! the maple bars!) I visited Big Oak Flower Farm, which was basically heaven between the rows of flowers and the sweet dog who couldn’t stop bringing over a stick or ball for me to toss.

Even the transportation company I used is queer owed — First Nature Tours.

Here’s the thing about supporting queer-owned businesses: When we support them, we are supporting ourselves.

Pride Month may be over, but the need to connect to one another and raise one another up is never over. We are a community that needs community, and only we can build and grow community.

At the end of this month, I will head to The Land, where Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival was formerly held, for Big Mouth Girl, where queer women will gather for community as much as for music.

There is something about being on that dirt, among the oaks and the ferns, among the musicians and my fellow campers. It reminds me that as the founder of Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival Lisa Vogel said (and titled her book on the subject), “We can live like this.” We can live in community with generosity and joy and kindness and integrity.

We can.

It may be hard right now to hear songs praising the U.S. and extolling its virtues. It may be hard to see American flags flying. It may be hard to celebrate freedom when so many are losing it right here on this very land that is supposed to be a beacon of hope and light for those seeking freedom from oppression of all kinds.

So instead I will be celebrating community this July 4th and all summer long. Whether I am wrapped it in literally or only figuratively at any given moment, I will celebrate that we have one another.

I will celebrate the people making sure are lives are filled with art. I will celebrate those who create delicious things for us to eat and drink. I will celebrate those who create community, and I will celebrate those who are part of our community — all of them.

Here’s the thing: There will always be bad in the world. There will. Denying that doesn’t serve any of us in any way. And, in fact, it could stand to hurt us.

But there will also always be good — good people, good places, good food and drink and art and nature and celebration.

If we can hold on to that, we can hold on.

So Happy Fourth of July! Happy Summer! Happy Community Building!

This summer let’s celebrate ourselves and others. Let’s celebrate those doing the work. Let’s celebrate all of the good. Because darkness only begets darkness. But light begets light.

Let’s all not just light sparklers and fireworks this season, let’s be them.

Sparkle on, my friends.

Kiba Walker on stage with his “thoughts” in A Strange Loop

I often recommend area theater productions to friends — and sometimes strangers. But I’ve never recommended a show to a whole swath of people. Yet after watching Circle Theatre’s regional premiere of A Strange Loop last Saturday, June 21, in Fort Worth, I was shook.

I hope everyone who identifies as queer will catch it. But if you identify as a gay man, let me be direct: Go see this show.

Go see it not just because it won the Pulitzer Prize or because it swept Broadway with critical acclaim and Tony Awards.

Go see it because, as gay men, we rarely get to see our mess, our contradictions, our joy and our trauma put on stage so unapologetically, so specifically and so universally.

A Strange Loop is an atypical musical. The vibes are raw, provocative, hilarious and heartbreaking. The language and imagery is harsh. Written by Michael R. Jackson, the show centers on Usher, a Black queer man writing a musical about a Black queer man writing a musical — hence the loop.

But Usher is also a mirror, and I saw parts of myself staring back — several parts. I saw the parts I like, the parts I hide and the parts I haven’t even processed yet.

After that opening night performance, I hastily made my way to my car a couple blocks away and sat in stunned silence — not because I didn’t get it, but because I got it too much.

I then broke down in tears.

Before I go on, I’m compelled to say that I don’t want to appropriate this Black queer story as my own. But Jackson’s clever writing addresses so many issues that I think all gay men face: self-doubt, self-image, family, religion, ambition. Many elements of the story hit home with the grace of a bulldozer.

I’ve never seen our story told in a way that didn’t beg for straight validation nor did it soften its edges for mainstream audiences. Usher’s trauma — our trauma — wasn’t wrapped up with a tidy resolution hidden in a showtune. The musical made me laugh out loud and cringe uncomfortably, but so much of it spoke directly to the inner monologue many of us run on loop in our own heads: that mix of doubt, shame, desire, rage and a need for something more than what we’ve been taught to settle for.

Kiba Walker, in his first professional theater role, played Usher in a touching and beautiful performance layered with humor, intelligence and a shaky confidence. Usher is surrounded by intrusive thoughts portrayed by six incredible actors. They are mocking, seductive and cruel.

In this show, he’s told by his family, his hook-ups, his agent and himself that he is too much, too loud, too Black, too fat, too queer. How often those similar sentiments flood my own brain.

This isn’t a show for escape or catharsis. The show is here to offer truth — truth for gay men — especially gay men of color. How radical is that?

If you’re white and gay, Loop will challenge you. Gay with a side of religion? The show will almost call you out but embrace you as well. If you’re thick like Usher — or whatever your body image is — in a community that’s obsessed with ripped perfection, A Strange Loop doesn’t flatter us, but it sees us.

What makes this show brilliant (for a review, visit DallasVoice.com) is its bold outness.

Fabulous songs and characters bring this magical show to real life despite most of us living through our Instagrams and TikToks.

This Black gay experience is revolutionary and unabashed and is helping me find peace still in my own identity as a brown gay man.

What a gift Jackson has bestowed on the world — and on us.

OK, but also, this show is funny as hell, even amid the racial and queer slurs that Usher uses on himself and the perpetual abuse. The emotional weight is heavy, but that levity is what queer people have been doing forever. Jackson gives us a familiar strange loop —– how we move between pain and humor to survive.

A poignant moment for me was at the curtain call when Walker was holding back tears facing a standing ovation. I like to think he conquered his own doubts in that moment — or stepped closer to that. In many ways, he was us — or perhaps, me. At the same time, he was inspirational.

The selfish part of me only wants the queer community to see this show. I ended up seeing it alone, but it was meditative, and I could absorb it all. I hope to get back with any of my queer friends to share this profound experience.

As a gay man, I felt this in my bones, and I would almost guarantee you — you other gay men — that you will too. We all aren’t Usher, but we are all navigating something internally.

If you’ve ever felt not gay enough, or too gay, or like you didn’t belong even in spaces made for you — see this show.

If you’ve wrestled with your image, your size, your income, your mental health or even your racial identity that all intersect with your queerness — see this show.

Please. I am literally begging you to take your friends, your inner child, your unresolved issues, your joys, fears and shame — and they will be named and sung out loud and hopefully understood a little better.

Honestly, I’d take you all myself if I could.

The other day, apropos of absolutely nothing, an ad appeared in my email box from, of all hoary antiquities, J. Peterman. (Yes, that J. Peterman — Seinfeld’s J. Peterman.) Its headline read, “For the Well-Dressed Enigma,” followed by a tagline directly beneath: “Because Mystery Never Goes Out of Style,” with some pithy little text to accompany:
“She orders the espresso, lingers by the window and disappears before you think to ask her name. The clothes — well chosen, never showy — only deepen her mystery. A jacket with a past. A print that hints at passport stamps. You don’t dress to be understood. You dress to be considered.”

In other words, though certainly a creative ad, it’s aimed at my exact polar-opposite.
So, here’s my question to you: Is there nothing left anymore that’s NOT AI-generated? And why does it always land so far off the mark?

The James-Bond-movie intent is evident, but I’m hardly an Ian Fleming freak. Nor does the Far East interest me in the least. I’ll even wager that Kimono Girl is probably gazing at some murdered ingenue — the one who died via skin pore suffocation from being spray-painted solid gold.

Let’s just get all golden-fingered/deep-fake right to it, shall we?

Oh, where to begin? How about global civilization as a whole? I mean, our Fourth Reich sure flickered out creepily quick, did it not? Unraveling, 100 percent, within a span from only this past January to June — a mere SIX months to turn inside out, trading Pax America for Pox America. Who now trusts even vaccines anymore? Truth has gone the way of USAID. We’ve reached that glaze-eyed, raging nymphomaniacal phase — Hitler’s bunker’s final hours, all its inhabitants engaging in frenzied, orgiastic sex as the world ends.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” voiced a friend of mine, recently returned from New York City. “Six months ago, the sex there was still semi-normal. Now, suddenly everything’s a fisting party. Every guy I met, overnight, all into sticking their arms up people’s bums… for pleasure! When did fisting turn vanilla?”

When did Vanilla turn Rocky Road? And what does a J. Peterman ad from this century, having nothing to do with me, speak of Adolf Hitler from last century, whose sexual perversions I equally had nothing to do with?

All I know for sure is that I smell a conspiracy theory afoot somewhere. But then, who doesn’t nowadays?

From what I recall in history class (another subject too taboo to teach high schoolers here in our cowardly new world) is that the 1,000 Years’ Third Reich fully lasted only 12 years, ending in May of 1945, with WWII’s demise following the Fuhrer’s. He’d proven a tough demon to slaughter. Every single one of his assassination attempts — and there were many — failed, ultimately forcing him, along with the few loyalists he still retained within his inner circle, to swallow cyanide capsules. Their children, too. His body was then burned, to ensure what the Russians did with Lenin’s corpse could never be repeated in Germany.

Our Fourth Reich, in contrast to Hitler’s Third, lasted a well-lived lifespan of exactly 90 years, only imploding from its own accord in conjunction with NATO’s demise from Trump’s rise. L’Orange’s military birthday parade this month merely sealed Democracy’s tomb solidly shut.
Thank God though, we’ve got The Golden Dome for America to look forward to. Wow! Yet, what less could we have expected? Everyone just knew some sort of golden salvation for America must have been up our own Fuhrer’s sleeves, soon as we got a first gander at his newly gilded Oval Office: carpet to curtains and crown moldings, too — all his shiny, gimcrack gewgaws lacquered in gold spray paint, aligned in troop formation across our (the people’s) fireplace mantle!

The U.S. Golden Dome mission defense-shield project is pure manna from Trump heaven. Never shy about inventing reasons for needing to keep America’s last century great, his Golden Dome is no exception: Both laughable and horrifying, as anything Trump ever schemed up it is another ludicrosity that will naturally end up backfiring on him, to the suffering of everybody excepting Trump. The only difference this time will be that — assuming our orange orangutan’s Golden Dome for America achieves any liftoff, at all — about half of our country’s civilians will, transactionally, be killed-off in the melee rebuttal. Something more akin to The Golden Culling of America will be its more permanently lasting moniker.

If you’ll recall, way back in the ancient history of last year’s pre-Trumpian Constitution-grab, those countries comprising the continent of Africa were collectively known as “developing nations, ”— glibly referenced now by our dear leader as “failing nations.” Any future they now get depends on how exploitable they’ll be of natural resources, particularly, rare earth metals, and how compliant they’ll be in laundering Trump’s new crypto billions. It has never been easier for Silicon Valley’s truth-filterers to create deep fakes of ordinary people.

Welcome to technofeudalism’s dawn! In real-time, the media is in a death spiral. The daily absurdities and atrocities and internecine violence only snowball. (Think Trump calling in the National Guard to squelch fake uprisings in LA.) Elites are in a daze. Reality collapses. MAGA’s minions love it. Can martial law be far behind?

We’ll exit now on a spiritual note of high-dudgeon marvel. There exists but one answer, and one answer only, to the following question: How on God’s verdant Earth did an unknown American clergyman from Chicago, Cardinal Bob, suddenly find himself elevated up to religion’s most rarefied edifice of radiance, becoming anointed, literally overnight as Catholicism’s newest pontiff, Pope Leo XIV?

And the correct answer would be what, kidz? Uh huh. You guessed it right: Donald J. Trump. For there ain’t no way in hell the Italians would ever put an American cardinal on their throne were they not petrified that our very own Orangutan L’Orange may very well indeed be the Antichrist. Our Fourth Reich went history. Beelzebub, eat your heart out!

— Howard Lewis Russell

Independence Day is right around the corner, folks! Get your red, white & blue celebratory groove on, right here along with me at AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.

G’day mates. Y’all know I love me some horror movies. When I was a kid, I was obsessed with all things horror. I had a subscription to Fangoria magazine. I did random gore make-up on myself and walked around our apartment complex just trying to freak people out.
I would try to convince friends that I was a werewolf or a vampire. Once I even told someone that I was secretly a mermaid.

I was a weird kid

After high school, I went to the Art Institute of Pittsburg to study industrial design. It was one of only three schools in the country, at that time, that had classes in make-up and special effects for movies. I wish I could say I was a more dedicated student, but that’s about the same time I started being super gay.

Boys became more important than school, so I dropped out, came home and felt like a huge failure.

Plus, having never been out of the state of Texas before I moved to Pennsylvania, I was lonely and always on edge. It is so comforting now to know that, if I needed help for any reason, I have a bunch of people I can call, day or night, who would be there for me. I didn’t have that in Pittsburg, and it fucked with my head.

Dammit! I went off topic! Horror movies!

Why tha fuck do so many horror movies come out in the spring? Hell of a Summer, Sinners, Until Dawn, Clown in a Cornfield, Final Destination: Bloodlines and Bring Her Back all premiered this spring. But I like my horror in the fall, when there is a chill in the air and dark clouds fill the sky and permeate your soul.

One of my biggest pet peeves with horror movies right now is the PG-13 rating. Stop that bullshit!

I want all horror movies to be able to go there. I want blood, guts, gore and a decent amount of cussing. Otherwise, it just ain’t realistic. I am mostly speaking of slasher flicks, here. They should always be rated “R,” at least. Same with zombie, vampire or possession movies.

Another big annoyance for me is a crappy, low-budget horror movie that looks low budget.

White contacts do not a zombie make! I am so sick of getting excited for a movie because of the name, poster or synopsis only to be let down by crap lighting with crappier make-up.

I can overlook a little bad acting in a horror movie, sometimes it is my favorite part. Think Linnea Quigley in Night of the Demons or Linnea Quigley in Return of the Living Dead. She was so bad that she was great — like E.T. being so ugly he was cute.

Other times I can’t overlook bad acting. Think Keanu Reeves in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Bless his heart.

I miss old-school practical effect horror movies. CGI has its place, but there is nothing like a goofy, unrealistic-looking prop being filmed and lit in such a way that it freaks you out or creeps you out.

Fake blood that is just a shade off, so when you see it spurting and covering the walls and everyone around, you’re not too icked out. It’s disgusting but not so hyper realistic that you wanna throw up. I’m talking to you first 15 minutes of Saving Private Ryan.

I hate when someone asks me, “What is your favorite movie?” I just cannot answer that without more info. Are we talking action? Horror? Drama?

When it comes to favorite horror movies, I have a list. I could never say just one: Nightmare on Elm Street part one and Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors. Night of the Demons from 1988, Evil Dead 2, Fright Night (the original, not the horrible one with Colin Ferrel). Silver Bullet. Zack Snyder’s Dawn of the Dead. The Crazies. An American Werewolf in London. The Mist. It Part 1. Cabin in the Woods. Train to Busan. The first Resident Evil. When Evil Lurks. The Exorcism of Emily Rose.

I could go on and on and on.

A good horror movie is my happy place. I’m not sure what that says about me. Weird as a kid, weird as an adult. Fuck it!

Remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! What is your favorite scary movie? XOXO, Cassie Nova

Good day my beautiful friends. I want to let you all know a little secret about me: When I wake up in the morning after a show, I have a panic ritual.

The second I wake up, even if it is just to go pee, I lay wide-eyed and wide-awake in bed, thinking of every word I said in the show the night before. Did I say something awful or so stupid that today is the day I get cancelled and lose everything?

It sounds so stupid even saying it, but that is a reality in life of a drag queen, comedian or just about anyone that holds a microphone.

I will toss and turn for hours while praying to the universe to not let that thing I said last night be taken as anything other than the joke it was. I often say shit I almost immediately regret, but rarely is it ever said with hate or malice.

My humor is dark. My mind always goes to the worst possible place, and my mouth, 90 percent of the time, says exactly what I am thinking. Imagine the stuff I don’t say out loud.

My shows can be a little vulgar. I say things for the shock value. I love it when people laugh through the cringe. I love the looks people give to each other after I say something ridiculous or awful … as long as they are laughing.

I also know not everyone likes me, not everyone likes my humor and not everyone even pays attention to me when I am on stage. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, and I am totally okay with that.

I know some people fucking HATE me, and I kind of live for that too. There is no better motivator than a hater.

So often I am tossin’ and turnin’, trying to get back to sleep but can’t because I have to replay every single joke in my head. Because I’m wondering if that’s the one that is the step too far.

The straw that broke the camel’s back. The bridge too far. The last gasp of a gassed canary.
You get my point.

I hate that I have to worry or lose sleep because of the possibilities. One thing taken out of context or found to be offensive by one person can turn into a shit storm of life-ruining lightning strikes. The anxiety is real.

That brings me to my next point: When did so many people that go to drag shows decide to be so fucking un-fun. Was there a meeting of — mostly white — women who decided they are going to be offended by everything, be offended for other people and sit through every drag performance as if they are smelling shit?

I see it happening more and more. These “ladies” always sit in the front of the audience with their arms folded and a stank face on. Ladies, if you are not enjoying yourself, it is totally okay to leave.

There is an epidemic of these groups coming to the show, usually celebrating their friend’s birthday or the “we’ve never been to a gay bar before” bachelorette party, complete with bad wigs, dick straws and a pushy maid of honor.

The second the show starts, and before I can even say welcome, we are bombarded with screams of “IT’S HER BIRTHDAY!” or “SHE’S GETTING MARRIED!” “OMG, GET HER!” “BRING HER ONSTAGE!”

And the second they feel they didn’t get enough attention or we didn’t make the entire show about them, that’s when many of them turn into Smelling Shit Sheilas. It really makes me miss the days when gay people were not as accepted or as “trendy” as we are now.

They do not care anything about the show or the entertainers. They want to be the show. I don’t mind throwing them a little love and attention, especially if they are tipping (Yes, I can be bought, but attitude goes a long way). It’s the entitlement that bothers the fuck out of me. So many of them grew up in a world where they were never told “no,” and it shows. That’s why I smile inside when they go from “Woo-Hoo!” to “Boo-Hoo!”

Truthfully, it is almost never the birthday girl or the bride that ends up mad. It’s always that one pushy friend that the other girls in the group secretly hate. The one that gets drunk the quickest, gets mad the easiest and is always the reason the group goes home early.
Y’all: Don’t be that friend.

Here are a few tips for you woo-hoo girls that want to come to a drag show and have fun:

1. Be respectful. We tend to give what we get. If you come at us loud, demanding and disrespectful, we respond with some form of that same energy. A bitch will put a bitch in their place.
2. Fucking tip! We can put up with a lot if the price is right — most of the time, but sometimes no amount of money will appease the gods once we hate you. But truth be told, if they hand me a big bill, I am much more likely to at least pretend like I care about whatever bullshit they are celebrating. It’s like when you find out that ugly guy has a big dick, and, suddenly, he ain’t that ugly.
3. Freakin’ relax. I find that these groups have a better time if they go with the flow, instead of trying to force a good time.
   That’s it. Respect! Tip! Chill! Then everyone will have a great night — until the next morning and my mental freakout happens.
   Oh well, c’est la vie! Have a great day!
   Remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nova

The month of May is always one of those nature anomalies that, no matter who you are or where you live, forever conjures up the same pastoral imagery: wildflowers abloom, the closure of another school year, nesting birds chirping noisily in the trees and, always, sunshiny, beautiful weather overseeing a grandeur of gardening here to stay through Labor Day.

May is every year’s fairytale month

Just this very morning I counted the explosive number of potted plants coming into flower on my balcony, sweatily pondering why I spend three solid hours, daily, maintaining such an Edenic paradise high up here in the Texan sky (I’m at that tricky gaydom age where one must take up improbable hobbies entirely separate from those previously practiced in the past: i.e., porn addiction, penis-preying and partying poolside).

Excellent plastic surgery can, of course, deliver an entire mirage of delusional youth. But alas — even with regular Botox and planting one’s balcony in begonias, reality distractions these days are, at best, only short-term diversions from a long-term ugliness now accruing in every crack. All avenues of volunteerism are suddenly being eradicated quicker than one can say, “Goodbye, Meals on Wheels.” Everything involving even one scintilla of empathy, L’Orange seems hellbent on erasing just as fast as he can.

Protected sea habitats now welcome fishing trawlers. Our national forests have turned lumberyards, and all medical/science research is suddenly taboo. And then, of course, our Felon in Chief’s wackadoodle obsessions with nonsense — from berating low-flow showerheads, to changing the geographical names of large bodies of water — belie the undercurrents of America’s newly pernicious hatreds, with the LGBTQ community being the beacon of MAGA’s favorite.

Trump’s packed Supreme Court revived his ban on transgender troops after he’d already scrapped nearly $900 worth of earmarked research into the health of the LGBTQ community, “abandoning studies of cancers and viruses that tend to affect members of sexual minority groups and setting back efforts to defeat a resurgence of STDs,” according to The New York Times. “Of the 669 grants canceled by the National Institutes of Health, nearly half of them related to LGBTQ health,” ending studies on antibiotic resistance, undiagnosed autism in sexual minority groups and certain throat and other cancers that disproportionately affect those groups.

And, it goes without saying that any further HIV research is history. What we don’t already know now about HIV, we’ll never know. All further research into PrEP is kaput. Work on all other sexually transmitted illnesses have equally been terminated.

So, the HIV epidemic is going to explode all over again. I lived in New York City during the 1980s and am old enough to remember the walking skeletons covered in lesions. Hard to believe we’re headed back there, yet already young researchers in sexual diseases are abandoning ship in droves.

But nothing quite puts into focus a higher power being on your side than, say, experiencing the unanticipated explosion of your two right tires after striking construction debris in the middle of a busy highway and still managing to simultaneously maneuver your car safely to the side of the road whilst achieving bodily injury to no one. Involuntary reflex take the reins, but so severe was the blood pressure spike that I handled, it decided to handle me back that evening. Suddenly I noticed my computer’s keyboard going blurry; the following morning I began walking like a drunkard. Then I put my shoes on the wrong feet, wondering why they hurt so much.

A visit to a neurologist seemed in order — good luck snagging any immediate neurology appointment via cold-calling!

But I’m blessed with a son-in-law whose greatest virtue is the possession of an utter, shame-free fearlessness when it comes to handling medical crises: “Screw waiting around forever to get an appointment,” he scoffed. “Howard, lemme grab my keys real quick; better, always, to just show up at their office and dare the fothermucks not to see you.”

Hence, only upon my son-in-law’s insistence did our commandeered neurologist indifferently grant me permission for an MRI, squeezing my appointment in as his last patient on a Friday afternoon. Impatiently, they were already turning out the lights just as my veins were being injected with iodine dye.

The weekend silently passed, then Monday, then Tuesday. Still, no word back from our neurologist. No news seemed good news, and the keys on my computer screen were already gradually coming back into focus. Must have been just nothing.

Then came Wednesday. I was standing in the middle of Walgreen’s when the call came in during what had started off as just another day of errands. A panic-stricken voice trembled, “Uhm, Mr. Russell, this is Dr. _. You came to me last week for an MRI.” His voice sounded as though experiencing some difficulty getting enough oxygen. “Mr. Russell, no need for you to panic, sir, but you’ve had several strokes, and I highly recommend perhaps heading to the nearest emergency room. Immediately.”

These aren’t exactly words one typically ever expects to hear. Thank Heaven, I’m completely immune to panic at my age. The sheer volume of death knells I’ve previously triumphed over within my lifetime embody a veritable grab-bag of disconnected horrors ranging the gamut rendered those words into carrying about the same urgency of weight as, oh, “No need to panic, sir, but the troops are running low on quinine.”

I sighed, “So, what am I supposed to say to admissions when I show up at the ER?” This query seemed to utterly stump Dr. Do-Little: “Just, er . . . just tell them you’ve, er, had several strokes, and they’ll know what to do.”

Luck that Wednesday was on my side; the Baylor ER was closest with their crackerjack neurological team, second to none. “Wanna see your brain?” they asked me, pointing to a TV screen. Aghast, I inquired, “What’s that bright white Harry Potter lightning bolt there on the top right side?” Bemused, the staff chuckled, “Why, that would be your stroke, Mr. Russell.

But, don’t you worry, you’ll be good as new again.”

And true to their word, three days later I walked out the door. Miracles ain’t for sissies.

— Howard Lewis Russell

Remember, we’ve some biggies coming up in June next month, not only in the observances of Gay Pride but also Juneteenth, Father’s Day, national Moonshine Day, Rocky Road Ice Cream Day and Hug-Your-Cat Day! Send me anything and everything you got, guys, to AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.

Good day beautiful people. Life fucking sucks sometimes. Shit happens — like really awful stuff happens in this world. But one of the most wonderful things in life is the unwavering, unconditional love you get from a pet.

So, when you lose one, it can really fuck you up

The day after Easter, our sweet Benji passed away.

We made a huge mistake about 13-to-15 years ago and took in every dog that needed us. I say “mistake,” but I don’t mean it. It was just the way it happened. A pup would come into our lives and while trying to find them a forever home, they made it clear that they had already found their forever home … and it was with us.

At one point we had six dogs. All of them found their way into our home and into our hearts.

One was rescued from a junkyard where he was being mistreated, so my husband, Jamie, snatched him up and said, “He’s going with me.”

One walked up to me outside of a pharmacy in Oak Cliff and just stood next to me. He was filthy, malnourished and horribly matted, but I knew within a few seconds that he belonged with us.

One came from my niece. She got a free puppy outside of a Wal-Mart and it took her about two weeks to realize how much work goes into being a pup parent, and she was ready to tap out. So she showed up to our house and asked us to find him a home. It was an I-told-ya-so situation, and yes, I said it.

The thing we did not realize at the time was that all of these sweet little dudes were close to the same age. The past three years, it has seemed that we have had to say goodbye to one of our babies every five or six months. It has felt soul crushing at times, and some days are really hard. But I wouldn’t change a thing.

They needed us. They made our lives better and made us smile every day. They loved us. To me, the years of love — the snuggles, the companionship, the calming effect they have on my soul — all of those things and more far outweigh the pain you feel at the end.

Please don’t think saying goodbye is easy or that it gets easier just because it keeps happening to us, because it fucking doesn’t. Each one hurts in a completely different way.

Each death is a separate wound that time and good memories help to stitch up. But there will always be a scar.

The pup we got from my niece was Benji. We were so creative when naming him: He looked like Benji from the movies in the ’70s and ’80s, so Benji was his name. He was a handful, but he was smart and learned quickly. He almost immediately fit into our growing little pack of misfits.

Benji loved to be outside in our backyard. When I would yell for him to come inside, if he wasn’t ready to come in, he would hide from us. That is how the “Where’s Benji?” game came to be. I would take a pic of him hiding from us — usually just the very top of his head, from the eyes up — and post it on Facebook.

I was always so surprised at how many of y’all would look for him like he was Waldo. He really thought he was slick. He thought, “If the daddies don’t see me, I don’t gotta go in.” We’d usually pretend to give up looking and let him have another five minutes before I would have to go out and stomp my foot. The foot stomping let him know I was serious and for him to get his ass inside.

Benji was adorable but shaped weird. He was stocky and short, built like a tootsie roll on thin legs. We had no idea what breed he was. He looked like a terrier of some sort, but we were clueless about his lineage. So Jamie did a doggie DNA test on Benji, and it turns out that he was 50 percent dachshund and 50 percent Chinese crested. Something tells me that he was an accident, and I am sure there is a story there — like Benji’s parents were young star-crossed lovers. Their love would not be denied, but her parents made her put her child up for adoption so not to ruin the family name.

Benji was a goofball. He barked way too much and probably thought his name was “SHUT UP!” He hated baths and would growl the entire time he was being groomed, but he always seemed apologetic when it was done. He might have been bipolar. He had the most beautiful, expressive eyes that always had a twinkle in them — a wonderfully devilish twinkle that I can’t believe I will never see again.

Our once large and chaotic household is now small and quiet. It’s just me, Jamie and our five-pound behemoth, Riley. One dog — I have not had only one dog in more than 25 years. And before you ask me to take in your friends’ dog or encourage us to get to a shelter soon — please don’t. We will know when it’s time.

Right now, it is all about Riley and making sure he feels loved. To be honest, I think he is starting to get annoyed with us. He will go and sit on his bed with his back to us, as if to say, “I need space, dammit!”

Riley just turned nine years old, so hopefully we have a bunch of years left together. We gotta make those memories while we can. Love on your babies for me and cherish every day with them, and remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nova

Checking out the Driskill

When I got married, I hit the jackpot when it came to second families. I love my new family, (and, despite them being from the Midwest and liking cheese more than I could ever possibly understand) and me from the East Coast (and knowing that pizza should always be triangular and foldable), we get along better than I could have ever imagined or dared hope for.

That is especially true when it comes to my cousin Emily. She’s not actually my cousin. She’s my cousin by marriage — is that a thing? Her mother is the daughter of my father-in-law’s sister. So … I’ll let you do the math.

Anyway, we got along famously from the moment we met, despite our 17-year age difference. She’s super smart and hilarious. And she’s as free a spirit as they come. She’s game for any of the shenanigans I come up with, including traveling with me whether it’s a cruise to the Caribbean or a Texas road trip.

Our most recent trip was the latter. Her son was off to Mexico with friends for Spring Break, so she asked if I might have any adventures in my back pocket. And, of course, I did.

Here’s the thing about traveling with Emily and what makes her literally the perfect traveling companion. She is truly cool with whatever. She doesn’t just say she is and then sigh when she sees the menu or the hotel or the day’s activity. She is literally wide open to whatever the day might bring and finds joy in every moment, every interaction, every activity.

So when I suggested we head to Austin to check out the famous Driskill Hotel and eat our way through the city then head to Camp Lucy in Dripping Springs, she was more than happy to oblige. I ordered us the obligatory matching crewneck sweatshirts and tees, and we hit the road.

The Driskill is a super cool old hotel. Our room was charming, and the hotel itself is gorgeous. Now, rumor has it its haunted but only by friendly ghosts. Don’t worry. And, I will admit, we did DIY a Ouiji board, which we used to great success.

Or maybe that was the cocktails. Either way, it made for a very fun evening.

We did literally eat our way through Austin, starting with brunch at Cafe No Se, a chic little coffee shop with the best beverages and bites and a totally inviting space.

Then, after spending some time exploring the incredible ballrooms and shelves of books and massive mirrors at the Driskill, we went to Social Hour at Lutie’s — DO NOT MISS social hour at Lutie’s. From the simple entrance to the hundreds of plants hanging from the ceiling to the decadent and inventive menu, I cannot stop thinking about this place.

We had fritto misto, snapper crudo, roasted carrots, crispy chicken wings, Yonderway Pork and pistachio matcha soft serve, and the not-to-be-missed-under-ANY-circumstances Sourdough English muffins. I would drive to Austin just for those.

Although we could have happily stayed there all evening, off to our reservation at The Kitchen we went. And we were glad we did. They have an impressive menu already, but they even made Emily a custom menu for her birthday, complete with images of her favorite things all printed up in her favorite colors.

The food was delicious. But it was the staff and the vibe that made for such a nice evening.

The next day we enjoyed lunch at Uptown Sports Club with its super-groovy old-school bustling vibe, high wooden booths, lunch counter service and a charming staff wearing “Gumbo Weather” sweatshirts.

The tuna crudo was out of this world. And — I am saying this as someone who is not a major gumbo gal — their chicken and sausage gumbo is perfection. Plus, their spiced chai is definitely worth writing home about.

That night we had dinner at Aba, and I think we ordered almost everything on the menu — mostly sharable, small plates, my favorite way to dine. We had hummus, kabobs, Brussels sprouts, crab cakes, chicken thighs, orzo — it was enough to feed an army and SO delicious.

The next morning, we ended our Austin feasting with brunch at Serenade on the ground floor of the W Austin. It is so incredibly chic, from the entrance to the décor to the plating of their fabulous food, including their house-made gougères, roasted rainbow beet salad and buttermilk pancakes with cinnamon apples, candied pecan butter and caramel.

Then it was off to Camp Lucy. The only bummer is that it was cold — like, really cold. Like, freezing cold. Like can-barely-walk-from-the-car-to-the-restaurant cold. Luckily our room was fantabulous, thoughtfully appointed with anything one could need, including pour over Vietnamese coffee! And the décor is unreal. It’s like stepping into an art museum where you’re allowed to sit on the furniture.

We got to say hello to the adorable llamas. (We’ll have to go back in order to have our planned hike with them.) Emily did yoga, which she loved. And we got to briefly visit the chickens, who graciously gave us the prettiest colored eggs.

All of the other activities — things like archery and fly fishing, which I cannot wait to do — will have to wait for a fair-weather visit.

We were just happy to be tucked into this beautiful hideaway, making our visit all about the food. We enjoyed breakfast, lunch and dinner at their onsite restaurant, Tillie’s, and the only thing better than the food — everything was delicious — was the service. We also got to enjoy afternoon tea and a bubbles tasting/pairing with chocolate-covered strawberries and charcuterie.

It was heavenly. All of it. And I cannot wait to go back.

When you get married, the second family you get, is well, the second family you get — for better or worse. So I feel terribly lucky and incredibly grateful to have gotten the one I did, especially when it comes to Emily. The only question now is, where shall we go next?

Hello beautiful people. As you all know by now, I need a constant flow of entertainment or activities to keep me occupied. At any given time, I will have a book that I am reading, a book that I am listening to, tickets to an upcoming movie, musical or event and, usually, a planned vacation on the horizon.

I always feel like I have to have something to look forward to, and, if I don’t, I honestly get depressed.

Luckily, I almost always have something. Even if it is months away, something to look forward to keeps me going. Like right now, I have tickets to see the horror movie Until Dawn; then, a week later, tickets to see Thunderbolts*. I have also pre-ordered Stephen King’s next book, Never Flinch, and have a nearly-planned quick little vaycay with the hubby set. And I’m sure there is something else after that.

I am not sure if that makes me weird or not, but random things like that get me going each day.

I know a few people — mostly family — that never really have anything going on and have no drive to make anything happen. That baffles my mind. How can you live without the desire to want more out of life? How do you get up each day without something to look forward to?

Something to motivate you?

Sure, the excuse of being broke is an absolutely valid reason to not do some stuff. But being broke is my biggest motivator.

I always hated being broke and not having the funds to get what I wanted when I wanted it. I got my first job at 13 because I hated that feeling.

Now, I ain’t rich by any standard; I still have to save up sometimes before I splurge on something big. But that motivates me more. I work hard so I can live a life that satisfies me and makes me happy.

I hope I don’t sound like a complete douche bag by talking shit about unmotivated people, but I also do not care about their feelings anymore. I know that sounds harsh, but I doubt that the “friends and family” I am talking about will read this.

If they do and I have upset them? Good! Get mad and prove me wrong! I love a good ol’ “I’LL SHOW YOU!”

That reminds me of a story: One night in my mid-twenties, I met a guy while playing pool at the Village Station. He was kinda cute and had a very nice body. He was wearing a low-cut tank top that showed his lovely pecks, a pooka shell necklace, ripped acid-washed jeans and combat boots — 90s fashion was, well, interesting.

We started flirting and placed a bet that whoever won the next game of pool got to choose how our night was going to turn out (i.e. got to choose who was gonna be top and who was gonna be bottom).

I did not care; I was young and horny, and a guy with a great body was into me. It was going to be a great night regardless.

I am not a horrible pool player, but I let him win. Better to let him think he was in control, right?
We ended up at my apartment and had a lovely session. It started with a fabulous make-out session and ended with us both feeling completely drained — both physically and testically.

As soon as it was over he started to get dressed to leave, which I was totally okay with. But before he left, he got in my face, seemingly angry, and said, “I can’t believe you don’t recognize me, James Love!” using my whole name like it was a slur.

I was confused, I thought we just met that night. He didn’t look familiar to me at all. Then he said that he had asked me on a date five years ago at the Wave, but I told him no because he was overweight.

(For the record, I have no memory of that interaction, and I am 99 percent sure I didn’t say that was the reason. I was a much nicer person back then, and, as horrible as I am today, I still would not have said that.)

Then he gave this pathetic little giggle as he said, “I got you! Yup, I finally got you. You were the reason I lost weight! I was gonna show you what you missed out on! So, ha, Bitch! I got you!”

Then he walked out and slammed the door.

I sat there on my bed, (it was an efficiency apartment, so the front door was pretty close) and thought, “You sho did show me. I got dicked down and you got healthy, so win-win. But I’m glad you found your motivation.”

I think he thought I was supposed to be upset or that I would feel used or disrespected. I wasn’t upset; I was flattered. And I did feel used and disrespected — but just the right amount to curl my toes

So …. Sorry! Thank you! My bad. Congratulations!?

I’m not sure what he wanted me to say, but since he slammed the door, I didn’t have to say anything. I just rolled over and fell asleep pretty quicky.

Now, in the memory of that story, there is an 80s montage of him working out mad and losing weight to Blondie’s “One Way or Another” before he tracks me down at the club.

The sad thing is I don’t even remember his name. I’m a horrible person!

Be somebody’s motivation and always have something to look forward to. (God, I sound like the worst guru ever!)

Remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nova

“Oh, here comes Peter Cottontail/Hoppin’ down the bunny trail …… Happy Easter, kidz! I’ve a question for y’all, my hoppity little hares: See this following list of words and phrases? If you’d be so kind, children, give it just a quick read-through, please?

• abortion • advocacy • antiracial • biased • biologically male • biologically female • Black • clean energy • climate science • cultural differences • disabilities • discriminatory • diversity • equality • fetus • gay • gender diversity • Gulf of Mexico • Hispanic • inclusive • inequality • LGBTQ • marginalized • marijuana • measles • minorities • multicultural • pollution • pregnant people • prejudice • privileges • pronoun • racial diversity • racism • science-based • sexual preferences • social justice • socioeconomic status • stem cell research • stereotype • transgender • transexual • underrepresentation • undervalued • vaccines • victims • vulnerable populations • woman • women.

We in the gay community are, of course, quite familiar with all that’s indexed here. But there is also a currently undisclosed common denominator binding together every single word on this list.

Anyone care to take a stab in the dark at what said similitude might be? Think it out amongst yourselves. No rush. Still stumped?

What you’ve all just read here, bois and gurlz, is a partial smattering of the now more than 250 newly-listed words (so far) that shall never, ever again see the light of day in Washington D.C. Uh huh. Scrapped, scrubbed clean and banned from every government website these words permanently forever now are. In perpetuity.

That’s right, folks: Outright censorship, courtesy of our Felon in Chief, is here.

Pay no mind to those cracking timbers you hear splintering ’neath the Capitol dome; tis nothing more than the collapse of our First Amendment’s rotted girders. “Jailed, at last!

Thank God Almighty, freedom of the press is jailed at last!”

Hence, rise and stand, everyone! Time to bow our heads, reverentially, cue the choir, pump the organ and sing: Bringin’ every girl and boy/Baskets full of Easter joy/Things to make your Easter bright and gay!

According to PEN America, who compiled our federal government’s newly-banned words list, “Any topic that has received recent attention from Congress, or widespread or critical media attention, may be subject to deletion or alteration. Even the term ‘cancer moonshot’ — which refers to a program that aimed to cut the nation’s cancer death rate by half — has been targeted for erasure, solely because it was started under the Obama administration, then championed by Joe Biden during his term.”

And how about those universal tariffs? Your Costco cart feeling ’em yet? What about your friends on campus? They still accounted for amidst L’Orange’s slipshod deportations, with his Black Marias snatching undergrads off the streets in broad daylight?

Apparently, even just a parking ticket now brands a foreign student as nothing more than dumpster trash, deserving of immediately revoked visas, with no explanation provided other than, “Get out of our country tomorrow, or we will escort you out the following day.”

Like, whatever happened to due process? Did this, too, just slink away ’neath the shadows of our complicit Republican majority?

In simultaneous goosestep with said majority, L’Orange is now requesting of Congress another $50 million or so to ramp up construction on our undocumented squatters’ concentration camps — excuse me, their “holding facilities” — with apparently only unfashionable clothing and/or tattoos necessary in order for someone to be rounded up and enjoy permanent residence within America’s new gulags. The official ICE argument is that anyone who’s dressed for picking peaches and sports permanently-inked patterns on their skin is, obviously, a gang member.

Bernie Sanders said it best: “We are the most selfish nation in the world.”

He’s got jellybeans for Tommy/Colored eggs for Sister Sue/There’s an orchid for your mommy/And an Easter basket, too!

I recall an interview from a foreign exchange student once. He said, “The only thing Americans can’t tolerate is inconvenience.” Boy, are we in for troubles ahead.

Of all the psychoanalyzing that the media is forever turning summersaults over, in their vain attempts to normalize Trump, not one single political pundit ever remotely mentions the infiltrating elephant loafing about Washington’s congressional chambers. It’s called Bone Laziness. Obviously, none of our elected officials are either mentally capable or professionally ethical enough to, God forbid, tolerate any consideration of a two-party-system compromise — despite this being the sole reason we hired them!
Meanwhile, defined by unruffled defiance and indolence, the smaller-than-life L’Orange scarcely can muster enough oomph to even think which golf clubs to have his caddy pack.
Trump’s doppelganger is hardly the wily Stalin, or Hitler, or even that portly plutonium-monger, Kim Jong Un. No, it’s Oblomov for whom L’Orange’s aspirations seek their zenith.

As in, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov.

Never heard of him?

Agreed, it’s a bit puzzling as to why author Ivan Goncharov never quite reached Tolstoy heights, especially considering that Goncharov’s depiction of Ilya Oblomov remains the original gold standard by which humanity can be so easily manipulated under L’Orange’s perfected alchemy of laziness, negligence, and stagnation: “A thought would flit, bird-like, randomly across his face, glint briefly in his eyes, light on his gently folded fingers, hide the furrows of his careless brow, and suddenly vanish from want of energy; then his face would radiate an even glow of unconcern.”

Hmm, remind you of anyone familiar, kidz? President Trump, in picking Putin to be his fuck buddy, clearly chose the wrong soulless Russian to emulate.

And, lastly, to be filed under Useless Trivia of the Month: The dire wolf — having vanished from planet Earth eons ago, and in no small thanks to a generous sprinkling of Jurassic Park magic and every pimpled gamer-nerd’s ridiculous Game of Thrones infatuation — has now been brought howling back from extinction! My, what a brave, new world is ours? In fact, if you ask my humble opinion, I’m thinking we may have just found Trump’s official new White House pet — at least until the dodo is brought back.

Now, ramp it up, my little bunnies! Time for our big finale! Pour your soul into it!

Try to do the things you should/Maybe if you’re extra good/He’ll roll lots of Easter eggs your way. Hippity hoppity, happy Easter day!

— Howard Lewis Russell

Please, send me your merry, merry month of May queries, all ye tender, young green sprouts: AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.