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.

A sequel:

Nina Simone, Little Girl Blue

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Yesterday, The Awl published a story about the books that make authors cringe.

It wasn’t about the new works lining today’s best-seller lists; it was about the books those authors loved as kids, the books that held special places in their adolescent hearts that, in retrospect, probably weren’t so good. In fact, they were pretty lousy. Ayn Rand was mentioned more than once.

Last fall, I built a series of bookshelves around our house to store the hundreds of paperbacks, hardbacks, and no-backs that Jonno and I have collected over the years. And while doing so, I spent a lot of time thinking about those kinds of books — the books that I read and re-read back in junior high and high school, the books that really kind of suck.

The worst of all was the Xanth series by Piers Anthony. If you haven’t had the displeasure, Anthony’s novels take place in a fictional realm called — you guessed it — Xanth. I was a huge, huge, huge D&D/Monty Python nerd back then, and the Xanth novels were tailor-made for my demographic. There were swords and magicians and dragons and all the stuff you’d expect to find in fantasy works, but there was also plenty of sex and naughtiness to satisfy Anthony’s horny, geeky teenage readers. You know, like me.

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It appears that the Turkish army is led by a bunch of power bottoms:

Military service is mandatory for all Turkish men — they can only escape it if they are ill, disabled or homosexual. But proving homosexuality is a humiliating ordeal….

“They asked me if I had any photographs.” Gokhan says, “And I did.”

He had gone prepared with explicit photographs of himself having sex with another man, having heard that it would be impossible to get out of military service without them.

“The face must be visible,” says Gokhan. “And the photos must show you as the passive partner.”

[full story at BBC News; via towleroad; emphasis totally mine]

No surprise, really. I mean, have you watched Turkish oil wrestling? Or been to a Turkish bath? Or seen Midnight Express?

Ladies and gentlemen: this is totally important.

International recording artist/drag terrorist Christeene is working on the launch of her very first album, and the girl needs your help.

Now, you’re probably asking yourself, “Why would the chaotic-neutral hooker-demon of the apocalypse need my help producing an album? Can’t she just beguile some unsuspecting otter with a soundboard to mix that shit around?”

Possibly. But it would mean so much more coming from you.

Just think of all the entertainment she’s provided over the past few years — both in person and on the tubes. Then think of how awesome it would be to have a whole Christeene album, and not just a folder full of mp3s you bittorrented from some scuzzy Dutch website.

And remember, people: Christeene isn’t just about musical meth. She’s philosophical and shit. Check out this weighty moment from in-depth interview with Dangerous Minds:

I think that the reactions that come from this work are so very important and need to be heard. All of them. When it all first started with PJ Raval and myself releasing the video for ‘Fix My Dick’, there were a ton of negative comments…especially from this one person who I think of as a kind of internet comment bully….this lone typist who throws verbal missiles from the safety of their stank couch, ya know? This person was so very upset on so many levels…I was called racist, homophobic, transphobic, classist, and the next Shirley Q Liquor. Wowee! This is rough..I’m thinking. I’ve never experienced this kind of an attack before and it’s personal. It’s angry. It’s throwing labels at me. But at the same time it’s fuckin gorgeous and necessary. The stew has been stirred and hot sauce has been thrown in. Good. Very good.

And if that isn’t enough to convince you to contribute to Christeene’s Kickstarter project — which has just three days to go and is soooo close to making its goal — check out the video pitch below. That Sally Struthers bitch was never so convincing.

(Today’s post at Gaywheels.com)

The past couple of weeks have been slow on the car news front but great for LGBT Americans.

We scored marriage-equality victories in Maryland, New Jersey, and Washington, and when Chris Christie vetoed that New Jersey bill, he was roundly, soundly booed for being on the wrong side of history (as we now say). What’s more, if the recent Prop 8 verdict stands, it would seem that once couples begin marrying in Maryland and Washington, there’ll be no going back.

Even better, a U.S. District Court in California declared the controversial 1996 Defense of Marriage Act — which prevents federal recognition of same-sex marriages by agencies like the IRS — to be unconstitutional. Naturally, John Boehner & the Bigots have appealed, and the case will likely be challenged all the way to the Supreme Court. However, it’s an encouraging start.

Oh, to be a fly on Maggie Gallagher’s wall right now.

But we have to wonder: why the sudden movement? Why this lurching forward? It may have something to do with Millennials, who are beginning to come into their own, and whose decidedly pro-LGBT marriage stance is beginning to play out in the larger culture.

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Last week came the question of what to drink with king cake. Today, some advice on how to get your Fat Tuesday drink on without collapsing in the gutter.

It won’t do you much good for Carnival 2012 (since it passed two days ago), but the same general rules apply to most all-day events, including St. Patrick’s Day, the Fourth of July, and in New Orleans, Jazz Fest and Southern Decadence.

* * * * *

Fat Tuesday (aka Mardi Gras) is different from most other days of Carnival in that it starts early with a slew of events across the entire city, from open-house parties to piecemeal walking parades to the big “official” krewe parades like Zulu and Rex. To do Fat Tuesday properly, you need to be up and out the door — in costume, of course — by 8am.

And you need to walk out that door with a drink in your hand. (Leave the car keys at home, please.)

Here’s where it gets tricky: Fat Tuesday is an all-day thing. If you’re on a parade route like St. Charles Avenue, you’ll probably be there until sundown waiting for the last truck floats to pass. And if you’re in the Quarter, you may be out even longer.

More importantly, Fat Tuesday is a social event. You wanna go out and get staggering drunk? Fine. You and your liver enjoy that on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday night. But on Tuesday, you need to be able to make conversation with only a sliver of slurring.

Here are a few options to keep you in check…

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