I want to take a moment to publicly thank Kendall Clawson, Sam Adams, Bob Speltz, Judge Kemp, Robert Goman, LeAnn Locher, Anne Viola-Krause, Tim Healea, Paul Fukui, Glenn Goodfellow, Neola Young, Nash Jones, Karen Petersen, Stacey Rice, Susan Kocen, Noah Wood, Dede Willis, Heather Nichelle, Ali Williams, Mary Emily O’Hara, Brian Charles Johnson, and all the other countless, caring, compassionate people who have bravely stepped up over the years to found, fund, build, sustain and, several times, fight to save the vital community resource that Q Center was designed to be.

Despite smoke and mirrors from my record label at the time, when I came to Q Center in 2010 I had nothing. Less than nothing, actually. I was traumatized by violence, was recently in recovery from a 16 year addiction to crack and alcohol which had left me ravaged physically and emotionally, had been freshly divorced while simultaneously being chewed up and spit out by the music industry, and I was living in a stranger’s converted garage. I was completely broke, starving, freezing at night, and, frankly, wanted to die.

One afternoon I found myself at Q Center and for the first time (maybe ever), I felt safe. I belonged. No one cared that I was broken. No one was scared of my need. In fact, they didn’t even see me as those things. They only cared that I was alive and that I was there — because that’s what family does.

Kendall invited me to come back the next day, so I did. When I got there, I told her I wanted to cancel my tour midway through, fire my team, turn my album into a fundraiser for the center, and keep showing up as long as I could be of use — and that’s what happened. I felt useful for the first time in years, and I stayed for the next 5 years.

While many of us have gone on to become successful after our time at Q Center, the truth is that none of us had much of anything back then — but we always had each other; And the people who did have resources gave everything they had to build a home for our community.

We fought for each other. We loved each other. We protected each other. And, most importantly, we created the first safe space many of us had ever experienced. We did all of this together, brick by brick, dollar by dollar, as a community, using our blood, sweat, intentions, and tears as the mortar.

When I literally had no food in my fridge and was too “famous” and ashamed to ask for help, Kendall fed me. I know she also had very little back then, but her care and concern for me and for all of our communities was always front and center. There were many days where the only food I ate was what was leftover at the end of the night after Q Center events, and I know I was not the only queer or trans person having their basic needs met within those walls, because I was often the one wrapping up to-go meals for other hungry queer and trans people.

Q Center saved my life, and it has saved countless others. This Portland Pride weekend, I’m using several copies of The Oregonian as a potty pad for my dog, and I’m celebrating Kendall and all of the people who made this big, gay, community magic possible to begin with — from founding board members and donors, to volunteers and program participants, to staff and community partners along the way.

I SEE YOU.
🌈❤️

“It’s been my experience that nothing triggers this type of toxic masculinity culture more than a gay man who isn’t afraid,” Lynn says, “and I can’t think of anything I am less afraid of than a bunch of fragile dudes who can’t deal with my existence.”

Read the full story in People Magazine HERE, or click on the screenshot below.

…and here’s some backstory:

Back when all of this super intense homophobic trolling started up again a few months ago, it was worse than ever before. Since my time on TV back in the early days of Logo I’ve been a target of this disturbing trash, but I’ve always found ways of using it as a motivator, and it has fueled my queer activism.

A lot of it has turned scarier than usual since the last election when I put out that Satanic puppet video where I put Donald Trump in jail (where he belongs), but this past January I finally made a deal with myself (and my mom) that I was just never going to look at what poison strangers are saying about me ever again — not even for the sake of comedy or advocacy — and I haven’t.

Anyone who follows me has watched me spend years taking screenshots and mocking the truly endless hate I get as a punchline, but I’m fucking tired and homophobia has completely lost its charm. Even with a team of people working with me on managing it all, the bigotry is still painful, and the content of the trolling is so twisted and personally triggering, it can be really hard to find a punchline.

Whether you are a 24 year old comic in Portland attempting to make a name for yourself by publicly dragging mine through the mud, or you don’t like someone famous that I’m connected to, or you are an Evangelical murderer who wants to burn my house down because you hate gay people, or you are one of the 26,000 MAGA dudes who listen to the Opie and Anthony Radio show and insist on creating and distributing violent memes about me, or you are just mad because you think my songs suck, I really, truly have stopped caring. I literally CAN’T care, and haven’t cared for some time.

This is what wellness looks like in 2019: Blocking your own name on the internet. Read the rest of this entry »