David Rakoff had a strange sense of humor, on par with David Sedaris, but drier, sadder, smarter.

Or maybe that’s just how I imagine it. I first encountered him on the radio show This American Life, where his curious voice and beyond-deadpan delivery alone were enough to keep me smiling, even before he’d made his point or reached the punchline. It’s hard to separate that voice from his voice as a writer: I can’t read the latter without hearing the former.

Rakoff’s health problems began early. In his 20s, he was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Disease, which he frequently wrote about in a moving and, yes, funny way. A couple of years ago, he was diagnosed with cancer again. This go-round, he was not so fortunate.

He died yesterday at the age of 47.

If you have time, take a moment or two or seven out of your day to remember this superlatively gifted author, who discussed being sick, Jewish, gay, and Canadian with an uncommon sense of humor. You can listen to many of his recordings on his author page at the This American Life website.

Goodbye, David. You’ll be deeply missed.

(Note: in that headline, I almost said “ferret out”, which would’ve delighted the handful of wingnuts who occasionally stop by to leave me messages.)

Homosexuality is technically illegal in Lebanon, but the law forbidding it isn’t frequently enforced. That’s not especially surprising: Lebanon has strong ties to LGBT-friendly Europe — especially France — and compared to other countries with large Muslim populations, Lebanon is very socially progressive.

But on occasion, people are arrested on suspicion of being gay, and for law enforcement to prove its case, suspects have frequently been subjected to anal exams, which are somehow meant to identify gay men by measuring the anus and rectum. This is exactly what happened to 35 men following a recent raid on an adult theatre in Beirut. (That raid, FYI, was allegedly triggered by an MTV host in Lebanon, Joe Maalouf, whom LGBT activists claim is a closet case. Big surprise.)

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The overlap is instructive, no?

Compared to the vastness of the universe, distances on Earth are nothing.

When you consider the yawning span of 941,000,000,000,000,000 miles that separates the Milky Way from one of its nearest galactic neighbors, the Large Magellanic Cloud, the space between New Orleans and the tip of Cape Cod is no wider than a freckle.

But it feels like a light year. Maybe two.

Leaving Provincetown on Monday, I drove slower than usual. I kept thinking that I’d left something behind, even though I’d checked Jonno’s summer cabin at least three times for socks, keys, cables. But what I’d left a few stone’s throws from the salt marshes was far more important and impossible to pack.

I zeroed out the trip button on my odometer and watched the distance tick by:

12 miles.

21 miles.

32.

47.

As I passed the curiously named town of Orleans, I asked myself: was it really just an hour ago that I was sitting on Jonno’s bed, watching him through the screen door as he played with the hounds? Has it only been 60 minutes since we stood on the deep green grass and kissed one another goodbye?

And more to the point: am I really this weepy saying goodbye to him after 15 years? Am I on the verge of tears, even though I know he’ll return to New Orleans in six more weeks? Am I really that completely, stupidly in love?

It’s funny how emotions can sneak up on you. But then, what else are they supposed to do?

I feel exactly as I did all those years ago, when we said our first goodbyes at the corner of 9th Avenue and 23rd Street, him standing in front of his favorite diner and waving until I was just a distant speck on the sidewalk. There have been plenty of goodbyes since. None have been easy.

I’m happy to be back in New Orleans, a city I love, even in deepest summer. But I’ll be happier next month.

Gore Vidal has died at the age of 86.

By all accounts — including his own — he was an asshole. He was difficult to work with. He was a privileged, over-educated snob, a proud member of America’s ruling class. He was the scion a sprawling, aristocratic family and was related, in various ways, to President Jimmy Carter, Jackie Kennedy, and Al Gore, among others.

In my book, Gore Vidal had two redeeming characteristics:

1. He was unapologetically gay, long before Stonewall. He was no champion of gay rights, mind you — in fact, he often said that “there are not homosexual people, only homosexual acts”. And frankly, the only reason he was able to come out of the closet was because of his social pedigree. (The wealthy often forgive one another their eccentricities.) But the bottom line is, he liked to kiss boys and he made no secret of it.

2. He was a brilliant author. I’ve often claimed that the opening chapter of Myra Breckinridge is among the most beautiful collection of words ever assembled in the English language. (The movie? Not so much, but at least I can say that my uncle attended the premiere.) Vidal’s memoir, Palimpsest, is equally fascinating, even though it tends to reiterate his status as an A-grade douchenozzle.

And now he’s gone.

If you’ve somehow managed to miss the “Myra rides Rusty” sequence from Myra Breckinridge, do yourself a favor: watch it and realize that an important piece of America’s gay, literary history has slipped away in the night.

You’ve seen this kind of thing before, but it bears repeating. And repeating.

P.S. The infographic’s designers didn’t do the best job explaining their use of data, so I’ve linked their sources below. What can I say? I’m thorough. You’re welcome.

SOURCES

• New York Times: “The High Price of Being a Gay Couple“
• Maryland Reporter: “Same-sex marriage bill moves closer to passing Senate“
• New York Times: “Bucks Blog: The Cost of Being Gay” (ongoing series)
• USA Today: “Average family health insurance policy: $13,375, up 5%“

A lifelong friend has changed overnight, and I am deeply, deeply concerned.

Not for him. For myself.

Some backstory: I first met Mr. McSquiggles by the side of a pool. I don’t remember if I was in junior high or high school. I don’t remember if I was at a friend’s house or if I was on vacation with my family. I just remember lying in a lounge chair with my eyes closed, reeking of baby oil and iodine, and being startled by Mr. McSquiggles’ sudden appearance.

Had he always been hovering there, on the inside of my eyelid — my skittish, ghostlike friend? Why couldn’t I look directly at him? Where did he go when I opened my eyes?

I pretended to care about the answers to those questions, but really, I was just happy to know that I now had a more interesting playmate than my brother. (He only wanted to play with his Star Wars figures, which would’ve been fine if he’d had an ounce of imagination. Like, let Han and Luke open a B&B or an intergalactic dress shop — how awesome would that have been? Answer: VERY.)

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Film buffs, I apologize in advance. I’m about to denigrate one of your demigods.

But the truth is, although I enjoy a fairly wide range of movies, Bernardo Bertolucci  has never done anything to grab my attention.

Except one: an excruciatingly brief, failed three-way between a young Robert De Niro, an equally young Gerard Depardieu, and Ellen Schweirs as a possibly epileptic prostitute (I was never sure) in the five-hour-long slog known as 1900.

I didn’t know about that scene when I sat down to watch the film in the late-mid-90s. I only knew that I’d recently seen Johnny Guitar, and I was on a Sterling Hayden kick.

Around about the time that I popped in the second of three bootleg VHS tapes, I thought to myself, “Would it have killed Bernie to put in a splashy musical number?” Sadly, the thing remained as flat as a Roman pizza.

The saving grace was this short scene, which is sort of climactic and anticlimactic all at once. Climactic because De Niro fiddles with Depardieu’s junk (which struck me as weird), but anticlimactic because, well, because of obvious reasons:

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