I'm not gay, but...

(mask mandate observation #3)

A youngish professional, leaving his office for the day, tore…sigh…his mask off upon exiting his office building and onto the street.

I watched him out of boredom, expecting a mere readjustment, or a temporary removal for a relaxing end-of-day cigarette.

When he stuffed his hand and mask into his pocket and left them there my bored stare became a lustful hypnosis, bordering on arousal for freedom: 

He was choosing to walk around outside without his mask!!!

I’m still straight because this reminded me of the thrill of watching a woman eager to sunbathe, removing her bathing suit cover-up to reveal a sexy two-piece.

Two takeaways:

1. an ordinary moment can instantly become a gay one.

2. we have become so socially distant that a mask under the chin is the equivalent of panties to the side.

Steinem, Stickers, Spite

Walking home late one night I saw a book on a ledge and picked it up. (I once found a copy of Paradise Lost this way.) I groaned. It was a book by feminist icon Gloria Steinem. Instead of putting the book back on the ledge to be possibly picked up by someone else, I spitefully threw it into a nearby puddle.

On the cover, Steinem was no older than 50, but next month she is turning 87 years old. This book, and the ideas within, were older than me. Throwing it into a puddle was a belated act of rebellion against the feminist entrenchment in media, in government, in policy and in schools, and was the least I could do to stop its cancerous spread. In these times, every action, no matter how small, no matter how late, counts.

The next day I went to Planned Parenthood to prayerfully prepare for my ’40 Days for Life’ vigil. When I arrived, I had noticed that the stickers I had placed on a nearby streetlight had been spitefully torn off, though other stickers—one depicting Jesus as a black man, the other faded advertisements for moving services and guitar lessons—remained. No doubt they were removed by Planned Parenthood employees. My vigil annoys Planned Parenthood. But why?

Because this is a war.

Planned Parenthood is the Roman Empire of NYS. To call it a behemoth is an understatement. Despite being a business, it receives support from NYS taxpayers thanks to its connection to NYS legislators. It not only knows who I am and where I live, but it has the political power to crush me and my future if I lift the slightest illegal fingernail against it. (Peaceful, prayerful vigil is not illegal yet.)

Like Target or Microsoft, Planned Parenthood is a big business. As such, they only care about providing a service and making a profit, not “helping women.” (There is only one choice offered at Planned Parenthood; the choice that benefits their bottom line.) While I am hopeful that my vigil will make a slight dent in the armor of my neighborhood affiliate’s bottom line, the witness to prayer of passersby will make Planned Parenthood’s image worse in the long run than for its business in the short term. Planned Parenthood knows this.

Having taken a lesson from the Old Testament, Goliath is not underestimating David.

And just like the paranoid King Herod committed infanticide hoping to kill the Jewish Messiah, Planned Parenthood can tear down my stickers to discourage me from holding vigil. The Messiah was inevitable, just like the end of abortion is inevitable. Faith requires patience.

Death is inevitable too. Herod, like everyone, everywhere and for all time, died, and paid the price for his crimes against humanity.

And much like the publications that exalt her, Steinem, and her movement, is also dying. This is because Steinem’s---like Herod’s--is a movement of death. Feminists do not have—or want—children; they do not want to be shackled to a man, let alone a family. (Steinem herself got married at 66, too old to have any biological children of her own. She is slightly more consistent than the average hypocritical feminist, I’ll give her that.) Feminists are the ones proudly exercising their “reproductive right” of abortion to prevent the consequences of their actions, thus annihilating the future of their movement. God wants these babies born and their lives lived but feminists, with Steinem’s blueprint, prefer to kill them legally.

In that moment of an otherwise peaceful and solitary late-night walk, I took the reminder of Steinem’s temporary victory personally. To prevent the spread of this cancer, I destroyed a cancer cell.

But Steinem is just a pathetically old figurehead, she may have spent her life in the service of Satan, leading countless women into his grasp, but her life, and her legacy, is finite. May she enjoy her notoriety and her money for the time she has left, for her day of judgement draws near.

After Steinem’s death girls will still be referred to the services of Planned Parenthood by their PCPs, but they must walk past a prayerful vigil to get inside. ‘Why are people praying outside of a women’s health clinic?’ asks a receptive passerby. It is the first, faint lightbulb of truth going off in a person’s head.

Steinem is dead, and though her legacy of death continues, I am outside the Planned Parenthood clinic, armed with hope, joyfully willing to answer that question

There is joy in hope.

The end of abortion draws near.