I visited Southern California last June. I got to hang out with friends. I ate fish tacos and sushi. I went to the beach, and I got to walk on the Oceanside boardwalk. I saw pelicans and sea lions. I had a great time. You might remember this. But near the end of this trip, I started to suffer from some shoulder pain. I thought it was just a pinched nerve, probably from sleeping on a teenage girl’s bed. No, she was not in the bed at the same time. She was in Ireland. The pain lasted for a few days, but vanished after I had gotten back to Virginia.
I had a pretty good summer. I went to the National Cartoonist Society’s convention in Boston for just an afternoon. I visited New York City for a few days, and I saw my good friend Alexandra. I went to the annual convention of the Association of American Editorial Cartoonists outside of Washington, DC, and I won the Rex Babin Award for Excellence in Local Cartooning. It may have been the best time I’ve ever had at one of our conventions.
Next on my agenda was a trip to Europe. I was going to visit Berlin, then fly to Sweden, then take a train and visit Copenhagen, then Hamburg, and then Amsterdam, where I was going to visit the Van Gogh Museum. I was going to spend a night in Brussels, then spend a few extra days in Paris, and see the Louvre. I was going to wrap up my trip by revisiting old friends in London and Dublin. And a week before this European trip, my shoulder started to hurt again.
I thought the pinched nerve had come back. On Monday, October 6, the pain came back with a vengeance. The shoulder pain from June was no comparison to the pain I had two weeks ago. While the pain was brutal, it didn’t stop me from getting down on my hands and knees and cleaning my toilet because my Landlady and a plumber were coming to my apartment the next day. By Thursday, with my European trip just four days away, I thought there was no way I could go jet-setting with this sort of pain. I was still thinking about Europe that morning, but by that afternoon, I was thinking about the hospital.
The pain was at its worst on Thursday. I took some aspirin in the morning, and a couple of hours later, I took some ibuprofen. I worked on the day’s cartoon, not knowing it would be my last for a while. But a point came where I just had to lie down, even before my cartoon was done. I lay down for a short while, and when I got up, I noticed I was a little lightheaded. When I walked to the bathroom, my hands were along the walls so I wouldn’t fall. I finished my cartoon and realized that I was having a hard time putting the Apple Pencil where I wanted it to go. It was about this time that I started to think about the hospital.
I was in the mode of thinking that the hospital was kind of silly. I Googled about my shoulder pain, and I saw that it could be a symptom of a stroke. I thought, “Not on the right side, right?” Yes, even on the right side.
I decided to eat something first because I didn’t know when I would get a chance to eat again. I started to make some Chef Boyardee, which I don’t like at all, but I just needed to get something in my system. And I realized then that my right leg wasn’t really working. I could stand and I could walk, but I was kind of dragging my leg. A few hours later at the hospital, my entire right side pretty much collapsed.
I have a lot of friends here in Fredericksburg, but I thought of who would get me to the hospital the quickest. I thought about who would come running right away. Who would come running when I cried? I thought Melisa Casacuberta would be the quickest. I sent Melisa a message, simply asking if she could do me a favor and take me to the emergency room. I didn’t tell her why. She was at my house within 10 minutes. First, I had to navigate my stairs, which I did while having both hands on the handrails. I live above a restaurant, and as I stood outside waiting for Melissa, I leaned against a pillar, pretending to be Joe Cool as customers walked past me.
I live close to the hospital, so it didn’t take long to get there. I packed my iPhone, MacBook, and iPad (I was thinking I could still draw some cartoons) with me in my backpack. The security guard at the hospital made me walk through security three times because something in my backpack kept making the metal detector go off. Never mind, I was having a stroke. I didn’t sit and wait in the waiting room as the staff saw me immediately. Within minutes, I was in an MRI.
Yup. I had a stroke.
As you probably already know, I am now at the rehab center. Each day is filled with physical therapy as well as what you might call mental therapy. When I’m not in therapy, and I’m lying in my bed, I am working on some of my therapy. Today was Sunday, and I was supposed to have it off from therapy, but one of the trainers, one I had never worked with before, came in and asked if I wanted a workout anyway. She said she had some time and asked some of the other trainers who she could work with, and she was told I was pretty much good to go. She kicked my ass.
It bothers me that yesterday was No Kings Day, and I didn’t get to do anything with it. Several of my friends, even a few who visited me here, like Melissa Colombo, participated. I have cartoon ideas every day, and it kills me that I’m not drawing them. I wonder if there are any cartoonists out there who would actually want to use my ideas? Not that I would give them to them.
I think from this point that I should start blogging about news instead of just about myself. I don’t want to be a broken record. I am already a broken human. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to write about the stroke anymore, but I need to start writing about the attack the fascists on this country. I have time to think of the columns when the nurses forget I’m in the bathroom. Yes, they do that.
The columns are still hard to write as I am doing them by dictating into the MacBook microphone and typing with one finger. If you see any mistakes or boogers, you’re just gonna have to live with them, like boogers. That was a boo-boo.
I’ll leave you with something funny I’ll leave you with something funny.
One of my trainers is very serious. I have yet to hear him laugh. He is a nice guy, and he’s not strict. I just don’t think he laughs.
Yesterday. I was in a session, and I was walking in the gym. This requires a lot of concentration while I am walking. The trainer is right in front of me, and usually, there’s another trainer right behind me with the wheelchair ready for me to fall into it.
There are usually several trainers and patients in the gym at the same time. I could hear one trainer talking to his patient while we were walking, and he asked the patient what his favorite food was. The patient said his favorite food was baloney sandwiches. I looked at my trainer while I was walking and said, “Baloney sandwiches? Bleah!” I finally made my trainer laugh.
This is Melissa Colombo. She has been a godsend. She has checked my apartment, briefed my insistent Roomba, brought me clothes so I would not walk around here with my ass hanging out, checked my mail, taken out my garbage, thrown spoiled food out of my fridge, visited me in rehab, and has even done some of my laundry.
Growing up as someone who is different from the majority is difficult no matter the circumstances. For the LGBTQ+ it is horrific when just your very existence is called an abomination and you are equated with the worst being in history. Especially when your parents and your god are pushing the idea that you are a monster who can only be cured if you follow their god, their church doctrines, have their feelings about everything in your life. Hugs.
A guest essay by Sean Robinson – Spencer’s boyfriend.
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When I was around 10 years old, I remember horsing around in the grass with my oldest brother. I asked him the meaning of homosexuality, a word that I had heard from my parents and from the New Order Amish and Mennonite communities I was surrounded by growing up in upstate New York and rural Virginia.
Sean and his dad Upstate New York. Photo courtesy of Sean.
While I wasn’t certain what the word meant, I knew it was bad and I was pretty sure it was me. So when my brother responded to my question by saying that homosexuality is “demonic,” I pushed those thoughts down.
A few years later, my dad told me that once someone becomes a homosexual, they will “want more and more and more” and it will lead to a sexual desire for “children, then animals, then blood.”
Sean and his dad through the years. Photos courtesy of Sean.
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Hearing these ideas persistently and consistently made me feel like there was this horrible thing inside of me that I just hated. I had learned that it was akin to being a pedophile, and that’s how I felt about myself.
These feelings created so much shame and fear but most of all a level of embarrassment that was so intense that I vowed to myself I would take my secret to the grave.
Sean and his parents. Photo courtesy of Sean.
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But I didn’t. When I met just one gay person at Danville Community College, I felt a small but significant rumbling of hope. This encounter gave me the courage to leave. So at 17, I told my parents I was moving to New York City to pursue the performing arts.
While I was semi-interested in being on screen, I saw NYC as a symbol of a new life where I could be my authentic self. A few months after I moved, I came out to my mom over the phone, who later told me—through a puddle of tears—that I might as well have died in a car accident.
I had to dig to make a life for myself with few people in my corner. I utilized NYC social programs like SNAP benefits, free health care and low-income housing. These services gave me the bootstraps I needed to pull myself up.
The years of familial and community rejection and efforts to change me through conversion therapy took more than two decades of treatment, medication and supportive friendships to help me find a formula where today—at 40 years old—I can manage my depression, anxiety, tics (that were at one point debilitating), no-contact relationship with my parents and low self-esteem.
I am so grateful to the heroes who helped me through these years: Paul Warner, Jerry Meadors and countless others. You lifted me up, taught me the ropes, allowed me to couch surf and showered me with love.
Sean in his teens. Photo courtesy of Sean.
Fighting the demons of my past, including years of religious trauma and physical abuse disguised as “corporal punishment,” is something I’d wish on nobody. When I read Uncloseted stories that discuss how nearly 40% of LGBTQ kids seriously considered suicide in the last year, my heart breaks because I know that could have been me if my path had veered a degree in a different direction.
Sean with Spencer and his psychiatric service dog Carson. Photo courtesy of Sean.
Flash forward 20 years and I’m sitting next to Spencer, who’s helping shine a spotlight on the very thing I tried to suppress in the darkness of my mind. I am now a video editor at MTV, working on RuPaul’s Drag Race, the groundbreaking television show that has helped so many queer kids across America feel seen and feel safe—something every child deserves.
I’ve always been resilient and tough.
But finally, I feel calm and free.
Response from Sean’s Dad:
In a text message to Uncloseted Media, Sean’s dad, Chris Robinson, wrote that he remembers saying that “when the moral fabric of societies begin to decay it usually starts with the sin of not acknowledging Almighty God, the Giver and Sustainer of life. [If] that condition of man continues then more sin comes [including] adultery, fornication and general unfaithfulness. The next level is men allowing women and children to rule. This would have been the feminist movement of the 60’s. Next comes homosexuality then bestiality and finishing up with child and adult sacrifice and much shedding of blood. This progression is recorded in Genesis and through the Chronicles and Kings in the Bible.”
In response to Sean’s references to corporal punishment, his dad wrote that he remembers being “shocked at [Sean’s] fearless defiance to [his] authority … as being the one responsible for order in the home” and that he would punish him—after multiple verbal warnings for misbehavior—by giving him “4 or 5 good licks with the switch and [would then] give him a hug and prayer and hope he got the message.” His dad added that he and Sean had many good times too and that he “still shed[s] a tear at times in memory of [his] little Seany.”
Response from Sean’s Mom:
In a text message to Uncloseted Media, Sean’s mom, Michelle Robinson, does not remember telling Sean after he came out that he might as well have died in a car accident. “My mind is blank for anything specific,” she wrote.
In response to Sean’s reference to corporal punishment, his mom says that out of the hundred times where corporal punishment was administered correctly through biblical spanking done with love, there were “a handful of times when his father admits he acted more in anger as [an] immediate reaction because of Sean’s behavior and he realizes he should’ve done that differently [and that his dad] always immediately apologized and they always had special time together and they worked through that.”
“We believed in honoring God with our life. We were not perfect but our heart was to please God,” she wrote, adding that Sean was treated with love as a child and through adulthood.
Sean’s brother did not respond to Uncloseted Media’s request for comment.
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I recently transferred to the rehab center, which is just across the street from the hospital. Today I took a cognitive test, I took a speech pattern test, and I took a physical test. Every day from here on out, I will be taking a physical test, which we call PT. They usually wanna work people till they wanna quit, but they haven’t had that problem with me yet, not because I’m super amazing or awesome, but because I really want to beat this shit as quickly as I can.
My friend Melissa Colombo came by and brought me some clothes. Nobody can go on Facebook and ask people to bring them shorts, T-shirts, and underwear while they’re in a rehab center, but I can. Hell, I once got people to send me self-addressed stamped envelopes for messed-up business cards. But I sent out a request on Facebook for someone to bring me some shorts and T-shirts to the rehab center. All I had this morning was just a road in the hospital, and my ass was hanging out.
A few people offered to ship me stuff, but that wasn’t the issue. I have money. I could easily order something. But I need something now because, let me put that again, my ass was hanging out. So my friend Melissa brought me some clothes. Funny thing is, someone else went ahead and quickly ordered me some stuff, and that was Leslie Elliott.
I want to thank Melissa and Leslie for literally saving my ass.
The next 10 days are going to be more PT. I am expected to be in this place for at least 10 days. After that, I’m expected to go home. The thing is, I live in a second-level apartment, and I want to be able to walk into my apartment and take care of myself again. Unfortunately, I’m nowhere close to that yet. Walking, taking steps, things are extremely difficult right now, and even grabbing things is impossible, but I am further today than I was yesterday.
If you have donated to me either by becoming a paid subscriber to my Substack, or donated through PayPal, or donated through Venmo, or donated through Zelle, and I have not sent you a message, please accept my apologies. I want to thank everybody who has supported me through this. The outpouring of support has blown me away. In fact, it’s blown away the entire cartooning community. We are all very impressed and overwhelmed by your support, especially me. I just wanna say thank you. I’m never going to stop saying thank you.
And on that note, I was just visited by a former photographer from the Free Lance-Star, Suzanne Carr Rossi. She brought me pants.
And now the Facebook updates from the past few days.
Today, October 16, 2025
Remember when Donald Trump took that cognitive test and bragged about it? Remember that he had to repeat “person, woman, man, camera, TV”. Trump said. “They said nobody gets it in order, it’s actually not that easy. But for me it was easy. And that’s not an easy question.” He is right.
It’s not an easy question when you have to answer five minutes later.
It’s not easy when the question is “bridge, Sarah, justice, banana.” It’s not easy when you have to remember photos that include car keys, a comb, and a helicopter five minutes later.
It’s not easy when you have to remember letters and numbers in the sequence of 1, A, 2, B, 3, C, 4, D, etc, to ten.
It’s not easy to count backwards from 20.
It’s not easy to have to draw a clock and other shapes with your left hand when you’re handed and your right hand is kind of dead from a stroke.
It’s not easy to do any of the stuff after having a stroke, but I did it. The thing is, nobody told me I was great or amazing for it. Sicophants didn’t fawn over me for it. Nobody threw a parade for me because I remembered five words. Idiots didn’t go until late-night TV to tell me I was a genius for it.
Donald Trump wants you to treat him like a baby for remembering five words.
Donald Trump never suffered from a stroke.
So why was Donald Trump given this cognitive test?
Who knew that my stroke would become part of my research?
October 16, 2025
Ok, Peezeheads!!! Who wants to volunteer to help out a stroke victim, and possibly an opportunity to see my ass?
I am at Encompass in Fredericksburg. I need someone to bring me a few button-up shirts. I can’t use a T-shirt because my shoulder is messed up from the stroke. I also need a pair of shorts. I just need athletic shorts, nothing with buttons or belts, or zippers. 
I could also use some underwear.
At this time, I am still wearing the gown from the hospital, and my ass is hanging out. Fortunately, the entire nursing staff has told me that my butt is not too hairy, but maybe they’re just being nice. 
Update: I am only asking local people to help. I need this stuff today, not delivered by Amazon. Thank you.
Update update: Melissa Colomboto the rescue, and then Leslie Elliott, and my friend Suzanne.
October 15, 2025
So many people have touched me this week, and I’ll never be able to you how much it means to me.
As I was being rolled out on a gurney to be taken to the rehab center, an old friend I hadn’t seen in nearly a decade was waiting outside my hospital room to see me.
I want to cry. I love you, Rhonda.
October 15, 2025
I had an MRI this morning after the procedure scan my heart. They were looking to see if there was a hole or any other abnormalities in my heart that may have caused the stroke. As it turns out, there’s nothing wrong with it.
But the MRI was brutal. You can’t move, your back hurts, you don’t know when it’s going to end, you are continuously being asked to hold your breath, and they’re playing 90s music made by other people. Instead of Pearl Jam, you’re getting Pearl lame.
It’s time to go. They want more blood.
October 15, 2025
I am being moved tonight to a rehab facility. I think this is good news. 
October 15, 2025
One of my nurses was training another nurse this morning. Just as the trainee was applying alcohol to my skin, in order for me to inject myself with insulin (yes they are making me inject myself), I decided let out a little scream. AAAAAGH! The trainee jumped, and the other nurse laughed her ass off, and said that was great.
They both said that they’re going to remember me.
Damn straight.
This is the GoFundMe set up by Kevin Necessary and Jack Ohman
This is a cartoon drawn by John Buss.
How to draw Peezy by Dave Whammond, and he’s trying to get more cartoonists to join in. I hope it happens because I would love to see more of my colleagues’ renditions of our favorite pizza.
is today in Peace & Justice History. Feeding people is my main “thing,” so I’m featuring it today. There is so very much that has happened on October 16, and it can all be seen on this page.
October 16th every year
United Nations’ World Food Day is recognized every year.
(I love the top piece, but after reading the story, I also love the second one! Wouldn’t they be great to color? -A.)
Another project I will start and probably never finish, but will enjoy until I forget to do it again. by Jenny Lawson (thebloggess) Read on Substack
Hello love!
It is spooky season and so I’ve been doodling dark little things. Last year I started writing and illustrating an eerie little children’s book that I will almost certainly never finish because I am the queen of distraction. I have a true crime story about my family I’ve written but has never published. I’m working on another weird project now about invisible women that I suspect will never find a publisher but is a passion project I can’t let go of. And then this week I started doodling and found myself accidentally making an alphabet book for dark children.
Will any of these projects ever get further than being shared with friends like you and then packed into a box for my maybe-grandchildren to be baffled by when I am gone? Doubtful. But still, I create. And I hope you do too. Because there is such delight in seeing something strange come out of your head and become real, even if no one ever sees it but you.
The doodle above this sentence came with a story in my head about a monster named Fred who was sad that none of the tiny beings ever built a hat on him. I wanted to find a way to show him licking the little boat but every time I tried to draw a tongue coming up from the water it looked like a penis and that’s not really the story I wanted to tell (but is one I’d read) so instead I’m imagining that his tongue is under the water and is keeping the little boat afloat because the man inside doesn’t realize there’s a hole in the bottom of his boat. He floats along…keeping his eyes peeled for sea monsters…unaware that he’s only alive because of one. There’s a story there. Maybe one day I’ll write it.
But not today because today I’m doing final-final-final edits on my new book (did you know that you have to do edits over and over with different types of editors?) and I’m STILL finding stuff to fix. I’m so worried about this book. It’s so different from anything I’ve written before. I hope it finds a safe harbor, with people who will love it even though it is so very strange. But no matter what, I’m giving myself a high-five for finally (almost) finishing a project. Celebrate those wins, y’all.
Robin Abcarian, Los Angeles Times on Published in Op Eds
I had a difficult time reading the gut-wrenching accounts from the parents of gay children who are part of the Supreme Court case about conversion therapy bans and freedom of speech.
All claim their family relationships were seriously damaged by the widely discredited practice, and that their children were permanently scarred or even driven to suicide.
The case, Chiles vs. Salazar, arose from a 2019 Colorado law that outlaws conversion therapy, whose practitioners say they can change a minor’s sexual orientation or gender identity to align with heterosexual and cisgender norms. The therapy is considered harmful and ineffective by mainstream medical and mental health organizations.
At least two dozen other states have similar laws on the books, all of them good-faith attempts to prevent the lasting harm that can result when a young person is told not just that they can change who they are, but that they should change because God wants them to. The laws were inspired by the horrific experiences of gay and transgender youths whose families and churches tried to change them.
The case was brought by Kayley Chiles, a licensed counselor and practicing Christian who believes, according to her attorneys, that “people flourish when they live consistently with God’s design, including their biological sex.”
Colorado, incidentally, has never charged Chiles or anyone else in connection with the 2019 law.
Chiles is represented by the Alliance Defending Freedom, a conservative Christian law firm known for its challenges to gay and transgender rights, including one brought to the Supreme Court in 2023 by Christian web designer Lorie Smith, who did not want to be forced to create a site for a gay wedding, even though no gay couple had ever approached her to do so. The Court’s conservative majority ruled in Smith’s favor. All three liberals dissented.
As for conversion therapy, counselors often encourage clients to blame their LGBTQ+ identities on trauma, abuse or their dysfunctional families. (If it can be changed, it can’t possibly be innate, right?)
In oral arguments, it appeared the conservative justices were inclined to accept Chiles’ claim that Colorado’s ban on conversion therapy amounts to viewpoint discrimination, a violation of the 1st Amendment’s free speech guarantees. The liberal minority was more skeptical.
But proponents of the bans say there is a big difference between speech and conduct. They argue that a therapist’s attempt to change a minor’s sexual orientation or gender identity amounts to conduct, and can rightfully be regulated by states, which, after all, lawfully impose conditions on all sorts of licensed professionals. (The bans, by the way, do not apply to ministers or unlicensed practitioners, and are generally not applicable to adults.)
Each competing brief whipsawed my emotions. The 1st Amendment is sacred in so many ways, and yet states have a critical interest in protecting the health and welfare of children. How to find a balance?
After reading the brief submitted by a group of 1st Amendment scholars, I was convinced the Colorado law should be ruled unconstitutional. As they wrote of Chiles, she doesn’t hook her clients to electrodes or give them hormones, as some practitioners of conversion therapy have done in the past. “The only thing she does is talk, and listen.”
Then I turned to the parents’ briefs.
Linda Robertson, an evangelical Christian mother of four, wrote that she was terrified when her 12-year-old son Ryan confided to her in 2001 that he was gay. “Crippling fear consumed me — it stole both my appetite and my sleep. My beautiful boy was in danger and I had to do everything possible to save him.”
Robertson’s search led her to “therapists, authors and entire organizations dedicated to helping kids like Ryan resist temptation and instead become who God intended them to be.”
Ryan was angry at first, then realized, his mother wrote, that “he didn’t want to end up in hell, or be disapproved of by his parents and his church family.” Their quest to make Ryan straight led them to “fervent prayer, scripture memorization, adjustments in our parenting strategies, conversion therapy based books, audio and video recordings and live conferences with titles like, ‘You Don’t Have to be Gay’ and ‘How to Prevent Homosexuality.’ ”
They also attended a conference put on by Exodus International, the “ex-gay” group that folded in 2013 after its former founder repudiated the group’s mission and proclaimed that gay people are loved by God.
After six years, Ryan was in despair. “He still didn’t feel attracted to girls; all he felt was completely alone, abandoned and needed the pain to stop,” his mother wrote. Worse, he felt that God would never accept him or love him. Ryan died at age 20 of a drug overdose after multiple suicide attempts.
As anyone with an ounce of common sense or compassion knows, such “therapy” is a recipe for shame, anguish and failure.
Yes, there are kids who question their sexuality, their gender identity or both, and they deserve to discuss their internal conflicts with competent mental health professionals. I can easily imagine a scenario where a teenager tells a therapist they think they’re gay or trans but don’t want to be.
The job of a therapist is to guide them through their confusion to self-acceptance, not tell them what the Bible says they should be.
If recent rulings are any guide, the Supreme Court is likely to overturn the Colorado conversion therapy ban.
This would mean, in essence, that a therapist has the right to inflict harm on a struggling child in the name of free speech.
Miss Major Griffin-Gracy, a legendary transgender activist who had been in the movement since Stonewall, died Monday at age 78.
Her death was announced by the House of GG—Griffin-Gracy Retreat and Educational Center, which she founded. She died “in the comfort of her home and surrounded by loved ones in Little Rock, Arkansas,” says a statement from the center. “Her enduring legacy is a testament to her resilience, activism, and dedication to creating safe spaces for Black trans communities and all trans people — we are eternally grateful for Miss Major’s life, her contributions and how deeply she poured into those she loved.”
Miss Major had suffered from health problems for some time and had recently begun receiving hospice care.She spent more than 50 years fighting for the “trans, gender-nonconforming, and LGB community — especially for Black trans women, trans women of color and those who have survived incarceration and police brutality,” the statement continues. Major’s fierce commitment and intersectional approach to justice brought her to care directly for people with HIV/AIDS in New York in the early 1980s, and later to drive San Francisco’s first mobile needle exchange. As director of the TGI Justice Project, she’d return to prisons as a mentor to her ‘gurls’ inside.”
She founded House of GG in 2019 as “a space for our community to take a break, swim, enjoy good food, laugh, listen to music, watch movies, and recharge for the ongoing fight for our lives,” the statement goes on. “Miss Major fought tirelessly for her people, her love as vast and enduring as the universe she knew herself to be a part of. She was a world builder, a visionary, and unwavering in her devotion to making freedom possible for Black, trans, formerly and currently incarcerated people as well as the larger trans and LGB community. Because of her, countless new possibilities have been made for all of us to thrive — today and for generations to come. She affirmed that our lives hold meaning and that we stand on the shoulders of giants like her, whose courageous love and relentless fight assured our right to live with dignity. We will forever honor her memory, her steadfast presence, and her enduring commitment to our collective liberation.” (snip-MORE good history and story on the page)
