You have to hand it to the Alliance Defense Fund: they may be douchebags, but they are relentless douchebags.

Their latest legal endeavor (and waste of perfectly good taxpayer money) involves suing the City of New Orleans. In a nutshell, the ADF is mad about the city’s domestic partnership registry, which was instituted way back in the 1990s to facilitate the city’s efforts to provide health insurance to the partners of city employees. A couple of years ago, the ADF found six local dupes willing to stand up in court and whine that “the registry violates state laws against same-sex marriage and that local governments have no authority to govern such arrangements.” (Why did it take the ADF so long to file suit? Maybe the people of New Orleans are smarter and more tolerant than they thought.)

In 2005, the case was thrown out, with judges deciding that the plaintiffs had no standing to sue. The ADF appealed to the Louisiana Supreme Court, which said, no, the six totally had standing, so the case went back to trial. The ADF recently asked for summary judgment in its favor; judge said “no”. The city asked for summary judgment in its favor; judge said “yes”. Oh yes she did. Over and done.

No word yet on whether the ADF will appeal again and send the case up to the Supremes, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Even though the registry is rarely used and little-known (Jonno and I have been together for nearly 12 years, and we’re not on it), it represents a chipping away at what the ADF likes to call “traditional marriage”. Between the Prop 8 backlash and the growing number of states moving toward marriage equality and the new, diverse, very non-traditional, very GLBT-friendly administration, the ADF is terrified of what the future holds. They’re pulling out all the stops in an effort to stop time.

After eight years of being on the defensive, bracing for failure, it’s nice to feel the tiniest bit optimistic (especially here, deep in the heart of a deeply red state). I won’t make it a habit, though.

You may have heard: there was an accident the other night.

Only, maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe it was intentional. Maybe the kid meant to pull the trigger. Maybe someone mouthed off and he wanted to teach that someone a lesson. Or maybe he wanted to show off to his friend, his accomplice: I can do this too, y’know.

But for personal reasons, I want to believe it was unintentional, an error, a fluke. I want to believe that he was just a confused teenager, some wannabe gangbanger, out for his first mugging. Maybe something startled him: maybe someone was walking a new puppy, and the puppy saw his own shadow for the first time, cast by the once-gas/now-neon streetlamp, and the puppy had never seen his shadow before, and it scared him, and he barked innocently and earnestly and that bark startled the kid with the gun, and the kid didn’t mean to, he really didn’t, but he kindasorta pulled the trigger. But guns aren’t built for kindasorta, they’re fired or they’re not, and this one was fired. And the boy looked at his friend, whose eyes were wide with astonishment, and he looked at the woman, whose eyes were wide with astonishment, and the next thing he knew, he was home, and things were very, very different….

* * * * *

For the record: I didn’t know Wendy. I have plenty of friends who did, and chances are good that at some point, in some barroom, she and shared a cigarette or a beer or a story in that casual, boozy, wonderful late-night way that friendships fade in and out here. But no, I didn’t know her.

However, I am unfortunately familiar with the pain her friends are suffering: the suddenness, the need to be together, the fear of being apart, the need to memorialize. How they’ve got stories to tell about her–funny stories, sad stories–and they’re reminded about them by every other crack in the sidewalk. Oh, this one time she and I were sitting on this very stoop when her boyfriend came walking by. Oh, this one time, she and I were out too late, and we’d been at Molly’s, and Laura had served us one too many shots of tequila, and right here, on this curb…. Oh, oh, oh.

I’m also familiar with the block where the accident or non-accident occurred. I’ve traveled it a thousand times, sometimes with hounds in tow (or more often, being towed), sometimes tipsy, sometimes groggy and trying to remember where I parked, but almost always nonchalantly, never worried. In fact, the boyfriend and I had driven down that block just minutes before the accident or non-accident happened. Obviously, we will all think of it differently now….

* * * * *

Since I never knew her–never really knew her–all I can do is put myself in her position, or in the position of her friends: think, What if it had happened to me? Which is a very selfish thing to do, and completely irrelevant to Wendy or her family or her friends. But it’s how we empathize. At least, it’s how I do.

And I when I put myself in her position, I wonder: what would have happened if it were Jonno and I walking down that block, on the way to a party or to pick up a friend? Would I have kept my head down? Would I have kept quiet? What would I have done if the kid had started asking questions?

Do y’all live around here?

No, no, we’re just going to get something to eat.

Is this all y’all have?

Yes, but my bank card is right there. There’s money in the account. I won’t cancel it. You can use it.

Y’all are faggots? (Said in that curiously New Orleans way, derived from the French, which knows the answer before the question’s been asked.)

We’re just walking down the street, man. Just walking down the street.

It’s the same sort of thinking, the same sort of daydreaming that survivors of tragedies often do: What would I have done differently? What would I have done to save the ones I love? How would I tell them goodbye? In New Orleans, sometimes it’s hard not to have some survivor’s guilt, even when you have nothing to feel guilty about.

(NB, and I’m not just being Catholic here, because I’m not Catholic: Is there ever a time when we have nothing to feel guilty about?)

* * * * *

On the upside–and it’s not much of an upside–the mugger and the murderer have been caught. Well, actually they turned themselves in. Given our city’s overworked police force, that’s probably the only way they would’ve found their way to a jail cell.

So there may be some closure to this story–more than many families here and elsewhere ever get, but also more closure than Wendy’s family and friends had ever imagined or wanted.

Well, this is a change:

One significant addition to WhiteHouse.gov reflects a campaign promise from the President: we will publish all non-emergency legislation to the website for five days, and allow the public to review and comment before the President signs it. [Whitehouse.gov]

In case you were wondering: No, FEMA hasn’t lost its knack for incompetence. And no, they still haven’t figured out this whole “public relations” thing:

Nearly five months after Hurricane Gustav, the public relations battle between Gov. Bobby Jindal and FEMA continues over who was to blame for the exasperating depletion of emergency food and water supplies soon after the storm….

FEMA’s argument, contained in a retort to comments made by Jindal last week, is that basically the responsibility for the problem lies with the storm victims of Louisiana, who gobbled up food and water at an “extraordinary” rate after Gustav swept through….

[NOLA.com]

Yes, you read that correctly: FEMA has blamed its less-than stellar response to Gustav on the people of Louisiana, who are gluttonous hoarders. To which I’d reply: Well, DUH. I mean, DIDN’T YOU ASSHATS KNOW THAT BEFOREHAND?

Sheesh, it’s like they’d never even visited.

And be sure to read the rest of that piece–especially the part where Jindal’s spokesperson, Melissa Sellers, uses the word “nutty” to describe FEMA’s claims. (So cute!) She insists that Louisianans would never hoard free MREs because they have such wonderful local cuisine. Of course, that’s kind of a non sequitur when you’re talking about post-hurricane recovery: as fabulous as our food may be, it’s hard to make a crawfish étouffée when your stove’s been blown out into the Gulf of Mexico.

1989 Presidential Inauguration, George H. W. Bush
Opening Ceremonies, Capitol, Swearing In

The Smithsonian just uploaded several copyright-free pics of George Bush pere‘s inauguration twenty years ago. I don’t recall watching it on TV, but turnout seems to have been pretty good. Still, I have a sneaking suspicion that Obama’s will be bigger.

I also hope it’ll be a little prettier in DC on Tuesday. Everything looks so bleak and gray in these shots. But then, it was the 80s, and it was Bush, so it kinda comes with the territory.

UPDATE: Actually, there’s a whole set of inauguration pics on the Smithsonian’s Flickr page. Included in the mix: gowns worn by Jackie Kennedy and Julia Dent Grant, which seems kinda random, but also fabulous.

Ironically, this was posted just yesterday:

Seven years of a perfect [air travel] track record is more than just a statistical anomaly; we have clearly taken what has always been a safe form of transportation and made it into a staggeringly safe mode of transportation. [BoingBoing]

Of course, Johnson was talking about fatal plane accidents, so technically, the streak is still…streaking. However, the timing makes for a weird coincidence.

For anyone following the whole “supplemental classroom materials” conflamma, Louisiana’s Board of Elementary and Secondary Education have come to some conclusions:

The state education board has adopted guidelines on what types of “supplemental materials” public school science teachers can use in their classes.

The move came in response to a new law passed last year that allows local teachers and school districts to use materials beyond the state-approved science textbooks in class.

The guidelines adopted by the state Board of Elementary and Secondary Education include language banning promotion of any religious doctrine and requiring that information presented by teachers be “scientifically sound and supported by empirical evidence.”

But the board didn’t include a specific ban on the teaching of creationism or intelligent design, as had been requested by some opponents of the new law. [NOLA.com]

Given our governor’s bible-(t)humping tendencies, I suppose it could’ve been worse. Still, it’s annoying to hear the Louisiana Family Forum folks complain about the policy’s “religious hostility”. I mean, the classroom is a place of intellectual engagement; it should be hostile to every staid, traditional mode of thinking–not only religion, but also accepted scientific theory. Ironically, that’s precisely why the conservatives behind the law lobbied for it in the first place.

I still think Taylor Momsen’s kind of a ‘tard, but she gets props for her parcour moves. Who knew girlfriend was so Mirror’s Edge?

[via Towleroad]

I am not a philosopher, and I don’t read much philosophy. I know a bit of literary theory, and I remember Plato’s allegory of the cave and his theory of forms, and I’ve read No Exit more times than I care to recall. Other than that…um, does The Philosophy of Andy Warhol count?

That said, I do enjoy listening to people with some life experience under their belts. And of those wisemen and wisewomen, one of my faves is the late, great Dorian Corey. When I heard her speak these words at the end of Paris is Burning all those years ago (yes, I saw it during its first run, thankyouverymuch), it was a revelation. It was an epiphany. I can’t say it totally changed my life then and there, but I know that I breathed a little easier.

That’s my friend Elizabeth, charming her fellow revelers at the Saint Anne ball a couple of Carnivals ago. I believe she was a garden fountain that year (those are birds meant to be bathing in the spray). It was a pretty spectacular costume.

Anyway, Elizabeth is an amazing person: smart and quirky and forthright and always smiling and surrounded by dogs. She genuinely loves life, and she’s an outstanding cook. I guess you could say that she’s similar to a lot of people you find in New Orleans, but also totally unique.

Elizabeth was recently laid off from her job–her dream job, no less. The position is being held for her, and she’s still doing things for the company here and there, but to pay the rent, Elizabeth has returned to her pre-dream-job gigs, like teaching for the Princeton Review. It’s been a weird and unpleasant couple of months for her, but so far, she’s come through with flying colors.

Yesterday, Elizabeth sent me this email, which perfectly encapsulates her personality and some of my own feelings about life and dogs and everything else. I asked to reprint it, and she agreed. Enjoy:

So I came home from Princeton Review LSAT training feeling very woe is me, even though I asked it in the “Why this?” instead of “Why me?” way. Anyway, I opened a can of butter beans, ate them and then poured wine and crawled in the tub and started reading an old Food and Wine from July because I am very behind. And I started reading this article by Lettie Teague about how people only drink cheap wine and rosé in the summer and how everyone should be drinking “better,” and she made “reasonable” suggestions including a $40 bottle! Hmmm. Then I read about how Jean George Von whateverhisnameis was cooking a spit roast pig that he ordered from some organic pig farmer, on a spit from some special website that sells pig roasting equipment for only several thousand dollars, at his house that was not in the Hamptons, but close, and everyone sat at a teak table, drinking cocktails made from fruits I’ve never heard of and then wandered off to the dock to fish for trout. And I thought of my 8 hours of logic games training, and my canned butter beans, and I looked at my glass of wine from the $3 bottle that I bought at Suda Salvage, and I started feeling very very sorry for myself. And I hated them. I hated them all. And I started descending to that place, you know, that place. And I tried to be grateful for my life, that I am not some tortured sex slave in Thailand that I read about in the Times, and also not some oblivious fool on MTV’s “My Sweet 16” who is unhappy because I didn’t get the Porsche I wanted, and I tried to find balance and peace and and and.

And then all of a sudden, one of my dogs (I’m not sure which, but it was probably Maddie) farted a very big dog fart. I heard the hiss first and then smelled the powerful diamond-cutting smell. And of course I had to ask aloud , like an 8 year old, “WHO FARTED?!” and they both came up to me and started licking me, not understanding or caring. And then I didn’t care anymore, either. I am so glad I have these creatures who find such happiness just because the pack is together. I come home and it’s like I’ve been off to war for 10 years. “She’s home!” and it’s all licks and sniffs and “Look at me!” And they are happy even if it’s only chicken liver, as long as the fleas aren’t too bad, as long as they can lay in front of the AC or the heater and occasionally on the bed, and as long as they get to the dog park every day, well, life is pretty damn good.

And I remembered how not so long ago all of my pack wasn’t together, scattered in Baton Rouge and Houston and NY and Mississippi and Alabama and whereverthefuck. And even now, the whole pack is still not here. And now there’s new parts of my pack, too. And I just wanted to say that the powerful smell (the last sense that leaves you, thanks Proust) nudged me, reminded me to just be present here. And not ask “Why?” Or “When?” But to just be glad that the fleas aren’t bad. And that the heater and AC are both working. And that I have ways of paying for the chicken livers, and some are even good and interesting ways. And mostly to count on my hands over and over all the friends and loved ones I have, both near and far, who pour me drinks, feed me good food, and help me not to worry. And best of all, who make me laugh, almost as loudly as a dog’s fart can.

And I gazed on the twinkling lights of my Mardi Gras Christmas tree and the shiny pink fabric waiting to be turned into my ham costume, and listened to the gentle snores of the dogs as we half-watched Ben-Hur (and boy am I glad I’m not him!) and I am glad and so grateful for my lovely, lovely pack, both four and two legged.

I love all of you.