King cake is an amazing thing.

For starters, it’s only served during Carnival, so in theory, you can only get it between Epiphany (January 6) and Fat Tuesday.* Limited availability makes anything special.

Also, it comes in a vast array of flavors. Some prefer the “traditional” king cake, which doesn’t usually have much flavor apart from the granulated sugar on top and maybe a little cinnamon mixed in the dough. I for one find that completely underwhelming: bring on the Bavarian cream or the apple and goat cheese, please.

However, king cake also presents a major dilemma: what the hell are you supposed to drink with it?

CONTINUED…

Mississippi is a strange place. Travel guides from the 1970s would’ve called it “a study in contrasts”.

On the one hand, it’s conservative to the point of being regressive, even to this day. If you’re not white, male, and heterosexual — in public, anyway — don’t expect to have it easy.

On the other hand, like most Southern states, Mississippi creates space for “others” — especially gays, blacks, and women. And while these others can’t deviate very far from the boxes that straight white men have built for them, they’ve got some wiggle room within the boxes themselves. (Florence King talks about this in Southern Ladies and Gentlemen.)

So despite the fact that gay Southern men have historically been limited in their career choices — florists, college professors, church organists, etc. — as long as they’ve operated within those confines, they’ve been revered and even protected. Goddess forbid that any husband should make disparaging remarks about his wife’s hairdresser in her presence. He’ll get a tongue-lashing at best, or possibly an extended time-out in the bedroom.

This may explain why, when I was younger, Mississippi’s own PBS network chose to air Sew What’s New, hosted by the smart, sassy, flamboyant, hilarious George Trippon. Trippon was a demon with a sewing machine and clearly, unapologetically gay, but like Paul Lynde in the center square, he was gay within his own little box.

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Dear Madonna:

I have a confession to make. It is a two-parter.

First, I am gay. This is not much of a confession, since you probably already know that. I think all the world knows that. It might have something to do with that “Richard Is A Big Homo” ad campaign I ran that one time.

Second, I have never given you a dime*. This would ordinarily not be much of a confession, either — after all, I’m sure there are many people who have never bought your albums or t-shirts or posters or items from your daughter’s clothing line, whatever it’s called. However, in light of Confession #1, it seems a little weird, no? Historically speaking, we Gays love you.

Anyway, I am telling you this because up until now, I had been holding out hope that you would one day knock my socks off and give the world something that I could not live without in my heavily curated collection of MP3s. But this morning, you posted the video for “Give Me All Your Luvin’ (Feat. M.I.A. and Nicki Minaj)“, and…well, did you really listen to that track before you released it? I mean, there’s good pop and there’s bad pop, and I think we both know what this is:

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At last week’s U.S. Conference of Mayors, nearly 80 of those in attendance voiced their support for marriage equality. In that number: mayors of places like Lima, Ohio and Hallandale Beach, Florida. New Orleans didn’t make the cut.

Now, I like Mitch Landrieu. I like him a lot. He’s one of the smartest men I’ve ever met, and in less than two years, New Orleans has seen more improvement than it did in its eight-year-long love/hate (but mostly hate) relationship with He Who Shall Not Be Named. But given the size of New Orleans’ LGBT population, you’d think Landrieu might be able to come out in support of marriage equality.

New Orleans has a huge gay base, and we’re surrounded by a warm and welcoming straight community (so long as you don’t count parts of Kenner). As a matter of fact, in a recent poll of travelers taken by American Airlines, New Orleans was named one of the world’s top 10 gay destinations, alongside London, New York, Tel Aviv, and Toronto.

Of course, I know Landrieu didn’t ride into office on a platform of LGBT rights. New Orleans’ queer community is so old and entrenched that gay rights might seem like a non-issue. But we’re here, we’re queer, and we would like some support, please. And let’s not make excuses about Louisiana’s state law forbidding gay marriage: mayors from Texas and Alaska and Michigan and Minnesota were on that list, and they’re in the same boat.

So I ask: Mayor Landrieu, where is the gay love?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a novelist. Forget cowboys and doctors and lawyers and such: I wanted to be the Madeleine L’Engle of my generation.

This did not happen.

This did not happen because eventually I realized that I can do short stories and essays and the occasional one-act play, but I probably don’t have the ability/interest/desire to pull off a full-length work of fiction. Not a good one, anyway. So, I’ve left that to the people who know what they’re doing. Which is fine, because the world has enough half-assed novels, am I right?

Over time, blogging became my thing, my niche. I may not be great at it, but it gives me the opportunity to get the wordsmithing bug out of my system. I’d pretty much given up on writing a book at all, until my friends Elizabeth and Allison approached me about putting together a field guide for people who want to booze it up in New Orleans’ Vieux Carré.

Long story short: we drafted a proposal, found an agent, and the book is moving forward, with the working title, The French Quarter 100: A Drinking Companion to America’s Most Eccentric Neighborhood. Elizabeth, Allison, and I are writing it under the collective pseudonym “The League of Spirited Tipplers”. Jonno has graciously agreed to provide photographic support.

“Why the hell would you need to write a book like that?” you ask. “You can’t swing a cat without hitting a bar in the French Quarter. How hard could it be to find a decent drinking spot?”

Sugar, it is harder than you think.

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I conk out on the sofa at 2:00am, watching an obscure, animated film by Hayao Miyazaki on my laptop. The sound’s a little off, and the drawing is clunky, but the story is amazing. It just goes to show how far a good plot will get you.

A hundred yards away, at the bar on the corner, a girl sits nursing a beer. She’s about as old as the film I’ve been watching. She was bordering on drunk earlier, when her friends were buying rounds of champagne, but most of those friends are gone now — moved on to the French Quarter, or moseyed home, realizing they’d hit their limit. She’s not sure why she’s still here. It feels like she’s waiting for something to happen. It’s a new year, after all. Something should happen, right?

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For years, I have secretly conducted field tests on holiday celebrations, maintaining detailed notes on their good points and bad. Based on extensive surveys of exactly one person — me — I’ve devised this completely accurate ranking of the holidays, from best to worst:

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All cards on the table: I’m a huge fan of the Elder Scrolls series. I spent months playing Morrowind and even longer on Oblivion. When it comes to sandbox games, few can top these for the breadth of possibilities they offer.

However, the Elder Scrolls series isn’t without its problems, and although Skyrim has received loads of accolades, I think it may be the worst of the bunch. Here’s why:

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