Twenty years ago I boarded a plane in Phoenix and flew first to Minneapolis and then to DC for the March on Washington.

I was 29, was getting ready to move to Tucson to work for the same company I work for today, was somewhat socially awkward, had some self-esteem issues.

I stayed at Laura's house and my best friend from college, Les, and his then bf stayed there as well. I think every gay-friendly house was loaded with people.

We went to the March and ended up walking with the Minnesota contingent, waiting for hours for the other states to walk by (it was chronological by when they became states, if I had waited for Arizona it would have been hours more).

Les and Homer, 1993.

It was fun, but I don't know if the march accomplished anything. I went to Senator McCain's office and talked with his gay staff member. And here it is 20 years later and McCain is still a homophobic asshole.

I look at the picture of myself, so skinny and well, cute, and think about how my life has changed in 20 years. I have a house, a handsome boyfriend, tree cats and a dog. And yet here in Arizona gay people can't get married, the Republicans and the evil Center for Arizona Policy are doing everything they can to deny LGBT people civil rights. We have a long way to go, and probably a few more marches and protests.

Let's catch up! It is spring time and my backyard is bursting out in flowers.

Aster.

Last Saturday I loaded mother into the trusty Focus and we went to the San Agustin Presidio and watched the re-enactors re-enacting.

Allen was demonstrating flint knapping.

In the gift shop Mummy became Caroline Ingalls for a moment.

Carolyn.

We then went to India Oven for lunch.

Buffet.

I really like Indian food.

First plate.

We then did some other errands- Trader Joe, Library, and Safeway. I was exhausted, but decided I needed to trim my beard for the following day's annual meeting. I had a trimming accident and ended up with a big stache.

Stache.

Buddy has been getting more exercise lately, I've been taking him on walks, carefully planning the walks to avoid all of the barky neighborhood dogs.

Buddy.

The next day it was time to dress up for the annual meeting. I am now recording secretary.

Red tie.

To help raise money I assembled a raffle basket of Spanish and Mexican items. I sold 63 or so tickets at $5.00 each, and the money went to help pay for the annual luncheon.

Jeanne won, which was nice because my mother likes her.

Evan arrived in the afternoon. He was coming to work on an archaeology project for my company. That night we went to Rosa's and he had the avocado enchiladas.

Evan at Rosa's.

During the week we went for walks and one time we went to inspect the nearby enormous hole, which was once supposed to be a parking structure, but now is being refilled. In the north wall of the enormous partially-filled-in hole are bricks from the Tucson Pressed Brick Company, which once operated there. A tunnel is visible, lined with bricks and with a metal sliding gate. I am guessing it was used in the firing of the bricks.

Mystery tunnel.

Buddy likes Evan, as does Snowball, which is unusual.

Buddy taking Evan for a walk.

On one of our walks, Buddy admired the altar at Diana's house.

Pero!

Mummy left for Michigan on Tuesday. It became a nightmare. She got to Chicago and then her connecting flight was cancelled. She spent the night at a hotel, and then back to the airport. I spent three hours on hold trying to get her on a flight. I discovered that Orbitz call center employees are incompetent. On Wednesday several more flights were cancelled due to horrible thunderstorms. She finally arrived at Traverse City at 1:30 on Thursday morning.

Thursday night, to celebrate, Evan and I went to Desta for Ethiopian food. It was delicious.

Ethiopian food and an excited Evan.

He left on Friday to head back north, after having an exciting archaeological adventure (he found a turquoise bead and a large decorated sherd).

This morning I was up early and salvaged some bricks for the walkway between my house and the guest house. I manage to get an enormous gash on my left palm, which I will not subject readers too, because it is ghastly and red and nasty.

And here it is 8:59 AM on Saturday and I have no clue what to do for the rest of the weekend.

Buddy is playing with his blue chew toy on the floor next to me. The cats are locked up in the bedroom since they don't like each other.

Early morning.

He's a good old doggy.

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So the little town of Bisbee passed a bill allowing residents to form Civil Unions. Marriage-lite. And the Arizona Attorney General Tom Horne has his panties in a bunch over this, claiming that it is against Arizona's constitutional amendment.

Horne went to the Supreme Court last year, arguing that the state of Arizona should not be forced to offer insurance benefits to homo partners and their kids, because that would somehow damage the state. For instance, it would hurt tourism. For real. And other fucking nonsense.

Tom Horne (photo credit, AZ Daily Star)

Of course he is a total hypocrite who was busy fucking his female employee, a woman he was paying more than $100,000 a year, in a job he had to do some legal work to ensure she could actually be hired for. I mean, he is just a macho stud, I can see how the female employee accidentally got naked at her home, at lunch hour, and somehow Tom's polish sausage somehow got inside her. Only a short time after he rammed his gold Jaguar into another car in a parking garage, driving off without leaving a note, because he was in such a hurry to accidentally put his cock inside a woman he was not married to.

And yet, it the same sex partners and kids of state employees that endanger "traditional marriage" in this state. And lesbian and gays cannot even have a second-rate civil union because that is naughty. So says Tom Horne, who cannot remember which vagina his penis is legally allowed to fuck. It is, after all, illegal to commit adultery in the State of Arizona, as well as to commit a hit and run with a car. But I somehow doubt this man will be punished for those crimes.

Happy 13th Birthday Joey and Puff!

Joey and Puff.

We drove southeast to Bisbee, stopping at the San Pedro House for lunch. Mother likes to go to Bisbee, it is a quaint town with cute little houses. I do as I am asked. At one antique store I found the prices had been raised. I took a picture.

Going to an antique store with my antique mother is always scary. If she is holding one thing when she sees something else she may knock something else off. This is the reason she isn't allowed to drive anymore. We wandered up the street and mother wanted a cup of coffee so we stopped at a saloon.

A long-dead javelina watched us.

Mother bought a t-shirt and I purchased a vintage Hawaiian shirt at the second antique store. On the way back to the car, I asked Mother to take a picture, this is the only one where she didn't make a weird face.

Mother in Bisbee.

I washed my new old shirt and put it on this morning.

Hawaiian Homer.

Every so often someone posts a drawing on Facebook, something like, "If we spanked/paddled/beat kids they wouldn't be so rotten."

When I was 10 my evil grandmother sold the land that was supposed to have gone to my father, "Promises mean nothing," that wicked woman told him. So my father decided to have his first mid-life crisis and quit long-haul trucking and become a dairy farmer, something he was completely unsuited for.

My parents bought a farm in Buckley and sold the house in Traverse City and we moved to this shitty little town and even before we got there my father probably realized what a mistake it was.

One day my parents and my three siblings and I were moving in the enormous table that had once belonged to my great-great grandmother Edna, and my father lost it. He gave me a look and suddenly he was chasing me through the kitchen into the laundry room with its cold concrete floor and he knocked me onto the floor. There was a bin with firewood next to where he was standing and he grabbed a 2x4 and started to beat me with it. I tried to ward off the blows, screaming over and over again, "What did I do? What did I do?"

Except I had done nothing except be the child my father did not want me to be- book smart, a weakling, probably a bit on the girly side. By the time he finished striking me with that piece of wood I had bruises all over my ass and legs and was lying there sobbing. What did I do?

Whenever I see those postings on Facebook extolling the wonders of beating children as "discipline" I flash back to the 10-year-old me on that floor. My mother claims she has no memory of it. My sister Susan is the one who remembers the 2x4, which would soon burn in a stove. It disappeared. The memory of what my father did has not. He's been dead for 17 years and whenever I think about him only the bad things he did, and there were plenty, come to the surface.

Child abuse isn't funny. Facebook postings about beating kids are not funny. And don't expect me to not tell you off if you post them.