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Over the course of the Summer, I have had one catalytic experience over and over… and over again.

It started when I went back into counseling and we identified that my only sense of “core value” was in what I could do or provide for others. Which of course is also looking for others to approve or be grateful of what I can provide for them.

Having a core sense of value means I value myself just because I am me; that I am worthy of love, dignity, and respect simply because I exist. I am valuable because I was born to be the treasure, and completion, I seek.

Notice all the personal pronouns? I am trying to share my journey, not be some sort of horse-sh*t fake life coach passing along the fast food version of life-advice.

OH yeah, I was going to write about the repeated catalyst that has helped me to start seeing what all this means. That catalyst culminated in a very vivid dream not too long ago…

I dreamt about standing outside of a tomb (like what they portray were used back in the Bible days) where a body wrapped in burial clothes was waiting to be sealed in. It was a young adult. I spoke aloud a prayer to the Mother and Father (actually saw them together) to help this soul crossover from this realm to ours. Then three lights shaped in a pyramid came down and rested on me and I woke up.

I KNOW! Kind of trippy but I promise I was not micro-dosing anything…lol.

Now this is the real trip in the trippy. I woke up knowing exactly what it meant. I was insecure at first about it but over the course of the summer every relationship, every spiritual search all confirmed my interpretation:

• The dead person was the version of me I developed in my early adult life that had helped keep me alive but was in itself had become a hindrance to my core value.

• That the Mother and Father are actually my energy(energies). I have been told in pretty profound ways (my journals, counselor, and even a psychic) that my masculine and feminine energies are perfectly balanced. I have never doubted or been unaware of that in my life. Not sure how or why but that is at my core and something I have always sensed as true.

• And of course the version of me praying is the one that has emerged from the tomb with acceptance that I am no longer the version of me I need and have evolved into something more true and powerful

• The three lights were a blessing to say all this is true and divinely blessed.

I was praying to me to help me let go of an older version of me. ← that cracks me up… you have no idea how blasphemous that would sound to evangelical “exgay” Randy. Now it’s just a statement of fact.

I am Divine. So are you! We are all sparks of the Divine.

As a result of this turn I have just “known” what to focus on, rest and be nurtured in and let go. My artisitic efforts are gaining speed, I am reading actual books again, I’m cutting out a LOT of noise (news sources and online shenanigans. And sleeping a heckuva lot better.

Part of this transition (resurrection?) is this Substack. Instead of following a play book of writing schedules about topics I think others would be interested in or benefit from. I am going to use this Substack to do whatever I want to do with it. Like…

• Probably feature a lot more about my art

• I want to write some book/movie/music reviews. Especially ones with great symbolism.

• Dream/symbolism Interpretation(s)

• Whatever strikes my fancy

This time around I am not excited to create a “plan” wrapped around providing content others might want and that I am good at. It’s a peaceful acceptance that I can just focus on whatever is on my heart. If others benefit, great. But I am doing this for my benefit.

So this Substack is about to look, feel and read different :)

Thoughts? Please respond to the email that subscribers get with this post or leave a comment below.

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We were the “first to go four” at Brentwood High School — the first freshmen to walk into a brand‑new building in 1982 and the first to walk out as graduates in 1986.

FORTY f**king years ago. Did you read that? FORTY.

It’s wild to think about how much life has happened since then, and how much of who I became was shaped by those four years — for better and for worse.

Brentwood back then wasn’t the polished, upper‑middle‑class enclave it is today. It was still half‑woods, half‑suburb, the kind of place where you could wander through thick vines with your dog and your brother and feel like the world was huge and wild. Those woods are mostly gone now, replaced by houses that cost more than my entire childhood.

The school itself did a fantastic job educating us. But it was also where I learned what it meant to be bullied, singled out, and scrutinized for something I didn’t even fully understand yet — my sexuality. Being perceived as “gay” in the mid‑80s wasn’t just dangerous; it was exhausting. Every hallway felt like a test I didn’t sign up for.

And yet, even with all that, I had three true friends who made those years survivable. I’m looking forward to seeing them again — and a handful of others I’ve grown close to over the past FORTY f**king years. But there are still a few who seem just as snotty now as they were then. Time may heal wounds, but it doesn’t always fix personalities.

I went to our 25th reunion in 2011 and had a surprisingly good time, even though I was deep in the far‑right/conversion‑therapy world. I’m sure it confused people. A few were probably relieved I had “found Jesus.”

Of course, I came out in 2015.

Since then, I made a comment on a classmate’s post about a non‑binary acquaintance who turned out to be a criminal. Some classmates unfriended me over it. Oh well. I’ll live.

But here’s the thing: most of my classmates have never met me as a healthy, stable, mature gay man. They’ve never met my husband. They’ve never seen the version of me that finally feels like himself.

So yes — I’m nervous.

I don’t want to walk in feeling judged or awkward, like I’m 16 again and trying to shrink myself to avoid attention. I don’t want to deal with lingering negativity from the Facebook fiasco. I’m concerned about homophobia from a few of the guys. I don’t want my husband or me disrespected. And I definitely don’t want to watch old social hierarchies snap back into place like a rubber band.

But I also know I’m being judgmental. Time has tempered a lot of things, including my own perspective. The class as a whole wasn’t as awful as I thought they were. And I haven’t exactly given them a chance to know me outside of the pain I carried back then.

They haven’t seen the healthy gay man I am today. And I’ve never interacted with them as him either.

Last week I wrote about struggling with a “core sense of value” — the belief that I matter simply because I exist, not because of what I can do or provide.

So I’m going to this reunion for one reason: Teen Randy deserves a champion.

He deserves someone to stand beside him and say, You were valuable all along. Those four years — not just school, but everything around them — stole any sense of safety and worth I had.

I’m rich now in all the ways that matter: love, relationships, self‑awareness, stability, peace.

Teen Randy deserves to be seen as an equal among his peers, even if I’m the only one who knows that’s why I’m going.

And my classmates deserve something too — the chance to be seen outside the lens of my old pain. Just like they haven’t met the man I am today, I’ve never met them without the armor I built back then.

Who knows? We may have an absolutely fantastic time.

Well, sh*t. Just gave myself another compelling reason to go.

Life is weird, people are complicated, and apparently I have a lot to say about both. Subscribe (free or paid) and I’ll deliver fresh stories, reflections, and the occasional bad joke straight to your inbox—saving you from having to remember to check Substack yourself.

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So, this is happening, is scanning us now. I don’t like it, but not alarmed by it. Should I be?

Substack has incorporated an AI detection tool called Pangram. So anyone can “Scan for AI” on any post submitted from yesterday(?) going forward. What is Pangram? Glad you asked:

• Pangram flags writing as human, AI‑assisted, or AI‑generated.

• It also claims to have precision it doesn’t fully have (well documented in the research I found).

• It misses nuance, voice, and context.

Creepy is the vibe. It’s a faceless-context-missing-judge watching writers. It will create labels that readers may not fully understand (example, AI assisted vs AI generated.) Plus, Substack is subversively pushing a narrative about trust and reinforcing an already existing bias that all AI use is evil or will produce evil.

For me, AI has been helpful but NOT my ghostwriter.

I write my own words, sentences, paragraphs, confusing metaphors and kind of tacky jokes with eloquent ninja-level cuss words. AI helps me with outlines (mostly bullet points), sometimes titles, and most of the graphics — speaking of potentially confusing metaphors, it sometimes (not all the time) is the article’s scaffolding, not the soul.

Oh excuse me, let me restate with an air of ninja-level cussing eloquence: it’s the f**king articles scaffolding and not the gosh dang it soul.

Trust comes from voice, consistency, and honesty. A machine‑generated badge at the bottom of a post isn’t going to make a difference but I don’t like it. That said, in today’s environment I do think writer’s need to be honest about how they use AI (if they use it). 1) to be transparent and 2) to displace the stigma with real helpful use-cases.

To be clear, I will keep writing the way I always have. You know my voice better than any detector ever will. If the Substack overlords want to scan my work, fine. Just don’t use it to “teach” the AI.

:::one eyebrow arched::: you hear me Substack?

And in the spirit of full disclosure, I use AI as a quick, collaborative tool that helps me sharpen ideas, shape article structure, and build the graphics (currently Copilot and Substack image generator). I write every word myself; AI helps my very random brain stay on track so I can publish my articles consistently… that’s it.

That said, my book WHY: A Memoir is 100% me and zero AI assistance.

What do you think about all of this? Agree, disagree, have strong opinions… all are welcome and encouraged to chime in.

I can’t promise answers, but I can promise questions worth wrestling with, stories that occasionally make people laugh, and the occasional sacred cow wandering into traffic. Subscribe free or paid and join the conversation.

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Welcome back to the Micro‑Anxieties Olympics, the only global sporting event where every competitor is me, every event is unnecessary, and every medal ceremony involves me staring into the middle distance like a Victorian ghost.

This week’s games were intense. Records were broken. Sweat was shed. At least one judge (also me) cried.

Let’s recap the highlights.

🥇 The “Quick Question” Email Sprint

The starter pistol fires the moment an email arrives with the subject line: “quick question.”

My heart rate spikes. My soul leaves my body. My calendar spontaneously combusts.

It’s never quick.

It’s never a question.

It’s a quest.

A side‑mission.

A multi‑level boss battle disguised as casual correspondence.

I opened one this week and immediately needed electrolytes.

🥈 The 3 AM Mystery Noise Marathon

The rules are simple:

Hear a noise.

Panic.

Lie perfectly still like a possum pretending to be dead.

Was it the house settling?

A ghost?

A raccoon with ambition?

My brain insisted on a full investigation. My body refused to participate. Elite athleticism.

🥉 The “Hey…” Text Balance Beam

A single “hey…” with ellipses is emotional parkour.

Are you mad?

Are you pregnant?

Are you outside my house?

Why the dots?

Why the suspense?

Why am I sweating?

I performed a full routine on the balance beam of overthinking.

Honorable Mentions

• Self‑Checkout Judgement Trials — the machine knows I didn’t “place item in the bagging area.” It knows.

• Doorway Effect Relay — walked into a room, forgot why, walked out, remembered, walked back in, forgot again.

• Did I Lock the Door? Pentathlon — I did. I always did. I still checked twice.

Closing Ceremony

By Friday, I had collected enough imaginary medals to open a small anxiety‑themed museum.

But here’s the Thrive twist:

These micro‑anxieties are ridiculous, yes — but they’re also proof that we’re doing our best in a world that keeps throwing tiny emotional dodgeballs at us.

We’re still here.

We’re still laughing.

We’re still competing at an Olympic level in events no one asked us to enter.

Happy Friday, friends!

May your weekend be free of ellipses, mystery noises, and checkout machines that judge your bagging technique.

I can’t promise answers, but I can promise questions worth wrestling with, stories that occasionally make people laugh, and the occasional sacred cow wandering into traffic. Subscribe free or paid and join the conversation.

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The other day someone called me “bro.”

Not ironically. Not sarcastically. Just a simple, friendly, “Thanks, bro.”

I smiled, replied in kind, and went on with my day. Then, about thirty seconds later, my brain finally caught up with the conversation and thought, Wait a minute… did someone just call me “bro?”

I’ve decided this is one of the stranger milestones of getting older.

I know exactly what the word means. It’s not really “brother.” It’s a handshake in verbal form. It’s a way of saying, “You’re good. We’re good.” It’s warm, casual, and strangely inclusive. Complete strangers can become “bro” within seven seconds of meeting each other, and nobody seems to question how that happened.

I actually like it.

What makes me laugh is that every time someone calls me “bro,” a tiny part of me wonders if I’ve been accidentally adopted by a younger generation that’s just trying to make the old guy feel included.

I realize that’s ridiculous. Nobody is looking at a fifty-eight-year-old man thinking, “Let’s make Grandpa feel welcome.”

At least… I hope not.

When I was younger, we had our own vocabulary. Everybody was “man.”

“Hey, man.”

“Thanks, man.”

“What are you doing, man?”

We managed to use one word to express greeting, confusion, sympathy, celebration, disappointment, and occasionally mild annoyance. It was remarkably efficient. Somewhere along the way, “man” quietly packed its bags and moved out, and “bro” bought the house.

Language does that. It evolves while you’re busy paying your electric bill.

One day you’re speaking perfectly normal English. The next day you’re reading an article explaining phrases like “it’s giving,” “mid,” or “no cap,” wondering if you’ve accidentally stumbled into a graduate seminar on ancient languages.

The funniest part is that I genuinely enjoy watching language evolve. Every generation invents its own shorthand. My grandparents were probably baffled by things I said in high school. My parents certainly were. I distinctly remember hearing, “Is that what the kids say nowadays?” more than once.

Now I hear those words coming out of my own mouth, and I don’t appreciate the role reversal nearly as much as I thought I would.

Every once in a while, I get brave enough to try using “bro” myself. It never goes well.

It sounds natural when a twenty-three-year-old says it.

It sounds… rehearsed when I do.

The words leave my mouth, and somewhere in the distance I can hear my knees making sounds they didn’t make twenty years ago.

The truth is, I don’t mind getting older nearly as much as I expected I would.

Sure, I have reading glasses in more rooms of the house than I’d like to admit. I make noises every time I stand up, and I’ve reached the age where a good mattress feels more exciting than a sports car. Those are simply the terms and conditions of the membership.

What surprises me is how much freedom comes with aging.

When you’re young, there’s enormous pressure to know what’s cool, wear what’s cool, listen to what’s cool, and somehow always be one step ahead of whatever everyone else is doing. It’s exhausting.

Somewhere along the line, that pressure quietly evaporates.

I don’t need to understand every trend anymore. I don’t have to know every slang word or every viral dance or every social media platform that appears out of nowhere and disappears six months later. I can simply watch it all unfold with curiosity and a healthy sense of humor.

That’s a pretty wonderful trade.

I’m fairly certain today’s twenty-year-olds will experience the same thing someday. Forty years from now, some bright-eyed kid will greet them with whatever futuristic version of “bro” exists in 2066, and they’ll smile politely while wondering whether humanity has finally given up on complete sentences.

Then they’ll catch themselves laughing.

Because that’s really what aging is if we’re lucky. It’s not becoming disconnected from the world. It’s becoming comfortable enough with yourself that you don’t mind if the world changes its vocabulary without asking your permission.

So please, keep calling me “bro.”

I’ll smile every time.

Just don’t be offended if it takes me another thirty seconds to realize you were talking to me.

If this made you laugh, you’ll probably fit in around here. Subscribe (free or paid) for weekly essays about life, faith, aging, healing, and whatever else my overthinking brain wanders into. No promises I’ll ever be cool… but I’ll always be honest.

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Happy 4th of July—and happy 250th birthday, America!

I’ve had the privilege of visiting every major U.S. city...

...except San Francisco.

Which, considering I’m a gay man, feels like admitting I’ve never been to Palm Springs because I have never been there either!

One of my favorite things about traveling this country is discovering that every state has its own personality. New York thinks it’s the center of the universe. Florida is basically America’s group project where nobody is supervising. Texas would like you to know it’s Texas. And every small town has at least one diner that serves pie capable of healing emotional wounds.

America is weird.

Beautiful.

Infuriating.

Generous.

Loud.

Contradictory.

We’ve done incredible things. We’ve also done things that should haunt us forever. Slavery. The treatment of Native peoples. Japanese internment. Plenty of wars we should have thought longer about. And yes... we’ve occasionally elected people who make you stare into the middle distance and whisper, “Well... that’s certainly an evil WTF choice.”

Some of y’all know exactly who I’m talking about. The rest of y’all think I’m talking about someone else. That’s kind of the point.

But here’s what keeps me hopeful.

This country has repeatedly reinvented itself. We’ve changed the world through science, medicine, technology, music, literature, entrepreneurship, aviation, space exploration, and enough cultural exports to convince half the planet they need blue jeans, barbecue and a pet dragon.

Freedom has never been something America perfected. It’s something we’ve argued about for 250 years.

Sometimes we’ve expanded it.
Sometimes we’ve restricted it.
Sometimes we’ve forgotten who it was supposed to belong to.

And somehow, despite all our spectacular ability to make a mess of things, we keep dragging the conversation forward. And for me…

That’s worth celebrating.

Not because America is flawless.

Because America is unfinished.

Happy 250th birthday to this loud, complicated, occasionally embarrassing, often inspiring experiment in democracy.

May we keep arguing, keep growing, keep laughing at ourselves, and keep becoming a country our great-grandchildren won’t have to apologize for.

Now somebody explain to me how I’ve managed to visit every major American city except San Francisco.

I really need to fix that. 🇺🇸

If you enjoyed this ramble, consider subscribing. I write about faith, politics, sexuality, culture, mental health, travel, and the wonderfully messy business of being human—with equal parts humor, honesty, and the occasional side-eye. Subscribe for free to get new posts in your inbox, or become a paid subscriber to support my work and help fund the coffee, questionable life choices, and stories that somehow keep turning into essays.

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To celebrate America’s 250th birthday, I’m rolling back my subscription prices... well, at least a little.

For a limited time:

🇺🇸 Monthly Membership — $2.50/month
🇺🇸 Annual Membership — $25/year
🇺🇸 Founding Member — $75/year

Whether you’ve been reading since day one or you’ve just wandered into this strange little corner of the internet, I’d love to have you along for the ride.

Expect thoughtful essays, honest memoir, humor, stories from life after the exgay movement, faith that asks questions instead of demanding certainty, and the occasional rabbit trail that somehow ends up making sense.

Think of it as celebrating 250 years of free speech by supporting one guy who uses it a lot, like enthusiastically a lot. And, sometimes it is even eloquent :)

Thanks for reading, for sharing, and for being part of this community.

Happy Independence Day! 🇺🇸

If you haven’t read Matthew Vines’ recent guest essay in The New York Times, it’s worth reading before you read my response:

Original article: Matthew Vines: “Queer Politics Has Failed Gay People”

Matthew Vines’ essay argues for a vision of gay identity that is more familiar, more stable, and ultimately more acceptable to the broader culture. I understand the instinct. We’ve spent decades trying to convince our neighbors that we’re not so different after all.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was reading a different version of the Christian legalism many of us spent years trying to escape.

Legalism doesn’t always sound religious.

Sometimes it simply sounds certain.

One of the lasting wounds from my years in the ex-gay movement wasn’t just being told what to believe. It was being told there was one correct way to understand complex human experiences. Every question had a definitive answer. Every gray area had to become black or white. Every mystery had to be solved before anyone could belong.

I hear echoes of that certainty whenever someone insists they’ve discovered the “mature,” “healthy,” or even “biblical” way to be gay.

Matthew Vines has spent years making the biblical case that loving, committed same-sex relationships are consistent with Scripture. I respect the courage it took to challenge the theology many of us inherited, and I know his work has been life-giving for countless people; including myself.

But in reading his latest essay, I found myself wondering whether the framework itself has changed as much as the conclusions. While he rejects conservative answers, he still seems to be searching for the correct Christian model—the faithful pattern against which other expressions of LGBTQ+ relationships are measured.

That’s the part that gives me pause.

Having spent years inside evangelical Christianity, I’ve grown wary anytime someone claims to have finally discovered God’s blueprint for complicated human lives. I don’t care whether the conclusion is conservative or progressive. The instinct feels familiar.

It’s the instinct that says, “We’ve finally gotten the interpretation right.”

To me, that’s simply another form of Christian legalism.

Legalism isn’t defined by the conclusions it reaches. It’s defined by the confidence that there is one divinely sanctioned answer for everyone—and that faithful people should all arrive there.

The irony is that many LGBTQ+ people fought for the freedom to escape rigid categories, only to find ourselves creating new ones.

I don’t particularly care whether someone calls themselves gay, queer, lesbian, bisexual, or something else entirely. Those words are useful until they aren’t. They help us communicate, but they should never become fences that define who belongs and who doesn’t. Language evolves because people evolve.

What concerns me more is the assumption that there is one ideal expression of LGBTQ+ relationships.

For centuries, marriage itself has been anything but static. It has been economic, political, patriarchal, romantic, egalitarian, sacramental, contractual, and countless combinations in between. Even heterosexual marriage has changed dramatically over the last hundred years.

So why, after finally winning the right to marry, would we assume there is only one acceptable model for gay marriage?

That question isn’t theoretical for me.

My husband and I are living in that in-between space ourselves. We aren’t questioning our marriage. We aren’t questioning our commitment to each other. If anything, we’re more committed than we’ve ever been.

What we’re questioning are some of the assumptions we inherited about what marriage is supposed to look like—assumptions shaped as much by modern Western culture and patriarchal traditions as by any timeless understanding of love and commitment. We’re discovering that building a healthy marriage may require more curiosity than conformity.

I don’t have neat answers yet. In fact, I’m intentionally resisting the urge to have them.

We’re in the middle of a conversation about what expressions of marriage and sexuality help us become healthier individuals and a healthier couple. It’s still very much a work in progress. Frankly, I think that’s exactly where growth happens—not in certainty, but in curiosity.

Don’t worry. This isn’t the prelude to an announcement. It’s simply a growth opportunity for both of us, and one we’re navigating together with honesty, respect, and a great deal of love.

Maybe that’s why I found myself pushing back against Matthew’s essay. I appreciate his desire to ground LGBTQ+ relationships in Christian faithfulness. I simply no longer believe there is one biblically prescribed template for healthy gay relationships—or for healthy marriages in general.

I’m living proof that real marriages don’t always fit tidy categories. They evolve. They ask new questions. They invite us to keep learning about ourselves and each other.

The moment we begin insisting there’s one faithful pattern that everyone should follow, I worry we’ve wandered back into the same certainty that wounded so many of us in the first place.

Some couples embrace traditional roles. Others intentionally reject them. Some structure their relationships around strict monogamy, others around negotiated openness, and many find themselves somewhere in between. Healthy relationships aren’t measured by how closely they resemble a mid-century suburban ideal. They’re measured by honesty, mutual care, consent, and the ability to flourish together.

Too often our public conversations reduce these questions to binaries: respectable versus radical, gay versus queer, traditional versus progressive. Real life refuses to cooperate with those categories.

Perhaps that’s because human beings are wonderfully untidy.

I’ve become increasingly suspicious of anyone—including myself—who claims too much certainty about how other people should build meaningful lives. The older I get, the more convinced I am that humility is a better guide than certainty.

I spent enough years believing God had handed us an instruction manual for every complicated question. Experience taught me otherwise.

Maybe the healthiest communities aren’t the ones that agree on every definition or every model of marriage. Maybe they’re the ones spacious enough to admit that faithful, loving, flourishing lives can take more than one shape.

That isn’t moral confusion.

It’s intellectual humility.

For most of my life, I confused certainty with faithfulness.

Today, I suspect humility may be the more faithful posture.

I don’t know exactly what the future of marriage will look like—for straight couples, for gay couples, or even for my own. I’m finally okay admitting that.

After surviving certainty, humility feels like freedom.

I can’t promise answers, but I can promise questions worth wrestling with, stories that occasionally make people laugh, and the occasional sacred cow wandering into traffic. Subscribe free or paid and join the conversation.

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There’s a particular kind of clarity that only comes after you’ve been doing something the hard way for long enough.

You don’t notice it while it’s happening. You’re too busy figuring out plugins and category IDs and whether your featured image is the right aspect ratio and why the block editor just ate the last three paragraphs you wrote. You tell yourself this is just part of it. This is what having a real blog looks like.

And then one day you sit down to write something that matters to you — something personal and a little raw and maybe even important — and you realize you’ve spent forty-five minutes on formatting and approximately eleven minutes on the actual words.

That’s the moment.

I built a space on WordPress because I wanted ownership. Control. The ability to make it mine in ways that a platform couldn’t take away. And those things are real. WordPress delivered them. I’m not here to throw shade at a tool that did exactly what it promised.

But here’s what I didn’t fully account for: I am a writer. Not a webmaster. Not a developer. Not someone who should have strong opinions about DNS settings or plugin conflicts or whether the mobile version of my site is rendering correctly on a Samsung Galaxy S22.

I have opinions about words. About stories. About the particular kind of honesty that only happens when you stop performing and just tell the truth.

WordPress is a fantastic platform for people who want to build a website that also has a blog. Substack is a platform built for people who want to write, full stop. And somewhere along the way I forgot which one I actually am.

So here’s what’s changing. All of it.

Mugwump Ramblings. Wayfinder. Thrive. The whole operation has moved to Substack. Every vertical, every category, every post I write from here on out — it’s all happening there.

No more block editor. No more plugin drama. No more spending a Tuesday afternoon troubleshooting why my featured image looks fine on desktop and completely unhinged on mobile. Just writing. Actual writing. The kind where the only thing standing between a thought and a published post is whether I have something worth saying.

And honestly? I almost always have something worth saying. You know I am right… right? I mean really, like all the time :).

Substack does something WordPress never quite cracked for me: it makes the relationship between writer and reader feel like a relationship. Notes. Replies. The sense that we’re in a conversation rather than me shouting into a website and hoping the algorithm decides to tell you about it. You’ll get the posts in your inbox like letters. You can write back. We can actually talk.

That’s the version of this I’ve wanted all along.

So what happens to randyscobey.com?

It becomes what it probably should have been for a while now — an archive and a home base. The memoir page stays. The about page stays. The years of posts stay, exactly where they are, not going anywhere. But the living, breathing, weekly writing? That’s moving to Substack, effective immediately.

Glad you are here! Subscribe. Tell a friend. Bring snacks.

The duckknuckles have migrated, and there’s plenty of room.

randyscobey.substack.com

Thanks for coming with me. The next chapter’s already started.