…because it’s pretty depressing. I can’t imagine that Louisiana’s is much better, but at least our creepy, backwards-looking, misogynist, white supremacists have been quieter about it. (And lazier: they haven’t posted an update to their obnoxious 2008 platform.)

Anyway, here are some of the high low points. There’s a lot more here. Not recommended on an empty stomach. Or any stomach.

Homosexuality – We believe that the practice of homosexuality tears at the fabric of society, contributes to the breakdown of the family unit, and leads to the spread of dangerous, communicable diseases. Homosexual behavior is contrary to the fundamental, unchanging truths that have been ordained by God, recognized by our country’s founders, and shared by the majority of Texans. Homosexuality must not be presented as an acceptable “alternative” lifestyle in our public education and policy, nor should “family” be redefined to include homosexual “couples”.

Texas Sodomy Statutes – We oppose the legalization of sodomy. We demand that Congress exercise its authority granted by the U.S. Constitution to withhold jurisdiction from the federal courts from cases involving sodomy.

Protection from Extreme Environmentalists – We strongly oppose all efforts of the extreme environmental groups that stymie legitimate business interests. We strongly oppose those efforts that attempt to use the environmental causes to purposefully disrupt and stop those interests within the oil and gas industry. We strongly support the immediate repeal of the Endangered Species Act. We strongly oppose the listing of the dune sage brush lizard either as a threatened or an endangered species. We believe the Environmental Protection Agency should be abolished.

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It’s summer in New Orleans — and it has been for a month or so — which of course means it’s time for Running With Scissors’ summer show.

This year, we decided to do things a little differently. We wanted to mount a full production, but we also wanted keep some of the wackiness found in our annual staged readings.

As it turned out, our cast member, Jack, had penned a radio play of Alien a couple of years back, so we paired it with a similarly reworked script from Titanic and, voila: An Alien Home Companion & The Titanic Comedy Hour was born.

There are a couple of catches, though:

1. We’re performing at the AllWays Theatre, where we haven’t been in over ten years.

2. We’re only running for two weeks. Because, you know, some of us need vacations. Desperately.

Bottom line: grab your tickets early, and head on down to 2240 St. Claude for a night of naughty, retro radio hijinks. The fun starts tomorrow night…

Hello, fans!

First, I’d like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the flowers, cards, and scotch that you’ve sent over in recent weeks. Things are a bit unusual on this side of town — it’s like living on the set of Boom! — but all in all, everything’s fabulous. How could it not be?

Michael says “hi” by the way. And for the record, that doctor is guilty as fuck.

But on to important matters. I know that many of you are concerned about the upcoming movie of my life and its alleged “star”. Please don’t worry, I have it all under control. FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE. BWA HA HA.

(So, so sorry, I had to try that. The studios never let me play a ghost. Type-casting.)

Anyway, as I was saying: I don’t have anything against Lindsay Lohan personally. In fact, we have a lot in common. We were both child stars, we both went through rough patches, we both got fat (just wait), we both know the pain of being kicked while we were down, and our stage names both start with the letter “L”.

Also, we both love sex. In fact, I love sex so much, I thought that was why they titled the biopic Liz and Dick. Then I remembered. Poor Dick.

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Being a mammal is a drag, right?

Sure, the guys enjoy having fur. (Well, except maybe the professional swimmers who seem keen to shave it off, but why would any of them be reading an article on how to fit into a swimsuit? It’s what they do for a living, right?)

Heck, even some of the gals like having fur. Are you with me, bearded ladies?

What was I saying?

Oh, right: being a mammal is a drag. All this business about gorging on food during the winter, just so we can make it through the lean months? That’s for the birds. (Who, now that I think of it, also do the gorging thing. So, being a bird sucks too, I guess.)

Take my own waistline, for example. I packed on a good 10 pounds last winter without even realizing it. My junk tried to give me a heads-up, but by then it was too late. Now, summer’s here, and not only do I feel obligated to squeeze into last year’s swimsuit, but I also feel obligated to wear it in public.

Thankfully, I am not alone. I know that many of you bear the same terrible burden. And so, here is some dieting advice that you won’t find in Cosmo. Unless, of course, one of you is an editor for Cosmo. In which case, yes, this article is available for publication in your fine magazine. Call me.

Just For The Gays: 5 Tips To Help You Fit Into That Summer Swimsuit!

1. Beef belongs in the bedroom, not on the dinner table. (Or the coffee table, you trashy whore.) The fleshy parts of cows, pigs, and even seed-sucking birdies in the sky are calorie-rich. More calories = more waist.

But forget about that. Most importantly, cow and pig give us leather and suede. So basically, every time you eat a burger, you’re generating more animal skin for the international leather market. And you’ve taken Econ 101, so you know what that does to the value of those Marc Jacobs chaps you bought last year as an investment piece, right? Fuck all, is what.

Skip the meat, and your wardrobe portfolio will skyrocket in value. Can I get an amen from the Carries in the house?

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“Well hey, Richard!”

I’m not looking in her direction, but I know it’s my mother. She turns “hey” into three syllables, “Richard” into seven. It’s a gift.

I turn around and there she is, looking much better than the last time I saw her, which was probably three years ago. Maybe more.

For starters, her hair is dark brown, like when I was a kid. And it’s cut nicely, framing her face, not pulled back in ponytail. Some people can pull off that severe look, I suppose, but not mom, and certainly not mom at 70.

She’s wearing more makeup than I remember. And although I’m not sold on the celery-colored suit that my sister-in-law-to-be picked out, it fits mom perfectly. Honestly, the only thing that needs fixing are the white pumps — chunky patent leather things that look like they came out of the dollar bin at Walmart. Which, in fact, they probably totally did.

I hug her with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I might be feeling better if I weren’t encased in a horrible rental tuxedo, but it’s not my wedding, so I didn’t get a say in the matter. However, if my youngest brother should ever get married again — in May, in New Orleans — he and I are going to have a little talk about breathable fabrics.

I lead mom inside, to the air-conditioned reception room. I order myself a Diet Coke from the bar and ask if she wants anything. She asks for a glass of white wine. I wonder if she can see me wince. This isn’t likely to end well. (Mama’s relationship with alcohol has been somewhat less than awesome.)

We talk about nothing in particular, which as Southerners, we do masterfully. She asks if I know where to find a bottle of Champs Elysées, a Guerlain fragrance I bought for her a dozen years ago. Given mama’s iffy mental state, I’m surprised she remembers it, but I tell her I’ll get a bottle and send it to her.

Eventually, we part ways. She has to take her seat for the wedding, and I have to go hand out fans, which double as programs since the ceremony’s outside.

Did I mention the polyester vest? I’m drenched.

Later — hours later — mom and I are back inside sitting together, trying to carry on an empty conversation over the blaring music from the cover band. She asks about another of my brothers, the one who’s nine months younger than me: “Where’s David?”

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I don’t really like Venice.

I know that I’m fortunate to have visited. I’m even more fortunate to have visited twice. (Though the second time around, I went to please someone else who’d wanted to see Venice her whole life. How could I say no?)

Ironically, Venice left me disappointed for the same reasons that New Orleans leaves many visitors disappointed: I never felt like I was seeing the “real” city. It was all facades and alleyways and quaintness and Rick Steves tours. I’m sure that there’s much more to it, but unlike here in New Orleans, I don’t know how to get around the front gate.

And yet, despite those feelings, I’d gladly go back to see an exhibit currently running at the Palazzo Fortuny called “Diana Vreeland After Diana Vreeland“.

Vreeland was a magical creature. Her memoir, D.V., is amazing — full of apocryphal stories, mis-rememberings, and utter bullshit, but amazing nonetheless. The few people I’ve met who knew her say that it describes her to a T.

I’ve never had Vreeland’s knockout fashion sense. I’ve certainly never had her class. But our shared hatred of nostalgia would be enough to justify a few days of dodgy food among grumpy Venetians.

When last we heard from U.S. Representative Jeff Landry, he was complaining — complaining that too much money was being given to FEMA to counter national disasters without any thought being given to spending cuts to balance out FEMA’s share.

For reference, you should know that the guy comes from New Iberia, Louisiana, which sits about a dozen good stone-throws from the Gulf of Mexico. Prime hurricane territory.

Translation: the guy’s a dick. An elected dick.

So on Earth Day, it wasn’t really a surprise when Landry — who holds a degree in environmental and sustainable resources — downplayed humankind’s impact on the environment:

“What amazes me is the environmental groups believe they hold the answer,” Landry said. “On Earth Day, we should be recognizing that there is a being that is the creator of the Earth and it is not them. Mother Earth has been here a lot longer than them and has weathered a lot more calamities that occurred on this planet way before the human race even exited. To believe that the human race can somehow destroy this Earth is ridiculous.

Which shows that Landry has completely missed the point.

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NB: The only thing worse than being awakened at 4:00am by a loud, screechy, false alarm on your home security system is being awakened at 4:00am by a loud, screechy, false alarm on your home security system and subsequently lying in bed with the voice of hipster harlot Lana Del Rey* stuck in your head.

Okay, yes, technically I suppose that the only thing worse than being awakened at 4:00am by a loud, screechy, false alarm on your home security system is being awakened at 4:00am by a loud, screechy, actual alarm and, you know, having to deal with a fire or a burglar or killer bees or whatever.

But still: Lana Del Rey is pretty fucking awful.

* At 4:15am, as I tried in vain to get another hour of sleep, my husband shared a little known fact about Lana Del Rey: she’s like the Candy Man. If you say her name three times while looking in a mirror, she’ll materialize behind you, wearing a vintage maxidress from this cute little vintage shop down on Orchard Street. Or maybe it’s on Ludlow? No, definitely Orchard. And when you turn to ask her the name of the place — because you pass it ALL THE TIME and never remember the name, and you have this friend who’d look perfect in something similar, only a different color, maybe coral or aubergine or a soft baby blue — Lana hands you a six-pack of PBR, which she magically extracts from the chasm between her boobs.

No one knows what happens next. No one’s lived to find out.

Fifteen years. Jonno and I have been together 15 years, today.

I’m terrible at talking about our marriage. Partially because I’m embarrassed by it.

I’m embarrassed because I feel lucky, like I stumbled into it. I feel like that guy in the casino — you’ve heard stories like this, right? — who’s waiting for a friend to come out of the bathroom, half-heartedly drops a quarter into a slot machine, and walks away a million dollars richer, while the retirees who’ve been plugging away at every other machine in the place turn and scowl.

Except the difference is, if I were the guy in the casino, I’d share my winnings with those around me, share the luck. I can’t do that with Jonno. Well, not in the same way.

I’m also embarrassed because, by all rights, our marriage shouldn’t work. Like a bumblebee, if you look at it logically, it makes no sense. The prosecution presents the following evidence:

• I’m a Southerner; he’s a Yankee.
• I like small towns; he prefers big cities (Provincetown excepted).
• I like staying put; he loves traveling.
• I like spending Saturdays at home with the hounds; he’d rather get out and do something new.
• I hate shopping; he enjoys few things better.
• I like theatre; he likes museums.
• I’m in bed by 10pm; he’s at his best when the sun goes down.
• I’m left-brain practical; he’s right-brain visceral.

The list, it goes on and on.

But the amazing and wonderful thing about love, I suppose, is that none of that matters. I don’t know what love depends on — attraction, trust, friendship? — but it definitely isn’t logic.

Fifteen years (and one official marriage ceremony) later, and I know no more than I did when I started. But it’s nice to be here.

Happy anniversary, Jonno. I love you as much as I did then. Even before then.