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.)

Continue reading

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:

Continue reading

…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.

Continue reading

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.

Continue reading

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?

Continue reading

“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?”

Continue reading

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.