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My fellow Louisianans:

I know that the media doesn’t always portray our state in the kindest of lights. Whenever they drag out the stereotype of the Uptown fop, or the 9th Ward jazz man, or the unscrupulous senator, even the thickest-skinned among us have to wince a little.

I am happy to say that today, at least for a little while, we can stop wincing, because Oklahoma is taking the heat. And how:

With any luck, it’ll be at least 48 hours before anyone notices our drinking habits again. Bottoms up!

[via Queerty]

CLICHES FROM A VISIT TO THE ST. ROCH CEMETERY

As I was letting the dogs outside for their morning constitutional, I noticed this on the jamb of the back door. If you think it’s disturbing here, you can probably imagine what it was like in person. At 7am. Before coffee.

It looks kinda like the shell of a lizard–what it might leave behind after shedding its skin–but I’m not a herpetologist (thank you, goddess), so I don’t know if lizards even shed like that. I suppose I could look it up, but that would involve typing and, more dauntingly, reading, so it’s probably not going to happen.

However, the Encyclopedia Brown in me knows that there are a bejillion lizards living around here, none of which have left behind a skin like this. Plus these remains still have toenails and stuff, which would seem like the sort of thing a reptile might want to take along. In short: it’s probably not a byproduct of molting but instead, the carcass of a lizard that someone–probably me–caught in the door as he was shutting it one day.

To the lizards of the world: if you’re reading this, please know that I am positively terrified that you have acquired the ability to read, and I submit fully to your superior will. Take my planet, please. Also: I am sorry for killing your sister, Miss Thin Lizzie. She left this world as she entered it: scaly and brown. Amen.

DO WANT: the poorly illustrated, even more poorly punctuated comic book released by Oklahoma County Commissioner Brent Rinehart as part of his re-election campaign. Seriously: it’s hilars. As The Oklahoman says in today’s editorial, “Rinehart is seeking a second term even as he’s fighting felony criminal charges involving his first campaign for county commission. A comic book being used to promote Rinehart’s re-election should be brought up on charges of poor taste.” [You can download a PDF copy for yourself right here.]

* * * * *

DO NOT WANT:

Ordinarily, I am not what you’d call an “angry person”. I am kind to animals, trees, and on occasion, telemarketers. I do my best.

However, I have my limits, and I’ve been pushed past them. Elizabeth Dole started it all by suggesting that a pending bit of legislation–an appropriations bill that’s designed “to provide assistance to foreign countries to combat HIV/AIDS, tuberculosis, malaria, and for other purposes”–be named for the late, less-than-great Jesse Helms. You heard me: Jesse Helms. Perhaps Helms accomplished good things during his miserably long reign in the senate, but none of them had anything to do with HIV/AIDS. In fact, if you were to draw up a short list of public officials most responsible for promoting AIDS hysteria and hindering HIV treatment/education programs, Helms would be on it–possibly in the number two spot, right below Ronnie Reagan. Needless to say, he was no friend of The Gays, either. Let him rot in anonymity.

Then, as if Dole’s audacity (and selective memory) weren’t shocking enough, Mike Leavitt’s Department of Health and Human Services “released a proposal that allows any federal grant recipient to obstruct a woman’s access to contraception.” Now, I’m no big-city lawyer*, but as I understand it, their argument goes something like this:

1. There’s a lot of debate about when life begins.

2. Many people (they claim “49% of Americans”) think that life begins at the moment a woman’s egg is fertilized.

3. Contraceptives like the pill, the patch, and others may allow fertilization, but prevent fertilized eggs from attaching to the uterus. (However, there is no scientific evidence to prove this.)

4. Because of item #3, some people who believe that life begins at the moment of fertilization also believe that the pill, the patch, and similar forms of contraception constitute a form of abortion.

5. Because such people would experience suffering and “discrimination” in being forced to dispense contraceptives to women, such people should not be forced to do so.

Have Leavitt and Dole discovered a time machine that I don’t know about? Are they living in 1965? Am I? I seem to recall someone saying something about time only moving forward, but maybe I’m mistaken.

I’m going back to bed.

* Though I did perform Atticus Finch’s courtroom monologue from To Kill a Mockingbird for an audition in 10th grade. Does that count?

MORE ME, IN MOODS

Underwhelmed: by Stonewall Brawl. I always liked Eric Orner’s The Mostly Unfabulous Social Life of Ethan Green, but his side-scrolling, repetitive flash game is pretty dull. That said, beating policemen into submission with a purse is fun for a couple of minutes.

Wondering: if the fleshy tendencies of my home state will rub off on me.

Also wondering: if I’m in the wrong profession.

Confused: about why an author penning a children’s book about gay marriage would choose gerbils as the main characters. (Though maybe they’re guinea pigs–which, come to think of it, is annoying in a totally different way.)

Totally convinced: that I am always and forever doing it wrong.

THE MANY MOODS OF ME

Happy: that our opening night performance went (mostly) smoothly and people laughed–even at the abortion joke. Especially at the abortion joke. Yay. We’ll see if we can keep it up.

Furious: that employees at a publicly traded insurance company can equate homosexuality with HIV/AIDS—in 2008!–and even their corporate officers think that’s just fine and dandy. Will someone please explain to them that there’s a difference between sexual orientation and communicable disease? Also: homosexuality is not a “risky hobby” (totally their words).

Distracted: by Open Doors:

Lusty: when confronted by great music and great design.

Smitten: with Tim “Hot Bitch” Gunn. Say what you will, but there’s no denying he’s an articulate, well-dressed smartypants. And I mean that in the best possible way:

SIGNS THAT YOU ARE
OPENING A SHOW IN LESS THAN 12 HOURS

1. “My glasses! Where the bejeebus are my glasses?!?”

2. Hair falling out, occasionally turning gray before doing so. One or the other is absolutely fine, but both?

3. Pasty skin from last of sunlight and sleep.

4. Expression fixed somewhere between “Huh?”, “No way!”, and “Who the hell cares?”

5. One eye more bloodshot than the other. (This also happens when dogs sleep on your face.)

6. No time to shave.

7. Overwhelming desire to melt away, into the background, made evident by sartorial choices.

Refresh my memory: have I mentioned this? In case not: We open tomorrow night.

Let me try that again, smiling: We open tomorrow night! Yay!

Yeesh.

It’s at this point that I start to ask: Why, exactly, do I put myself (and others) through this? Everyone is tense, everyone is nervous, everyone has a long list of things to accomplish in the next 36 hours. It’s also at this point that we begin to ask silly questions: Is the show still funny? Where are the weak spots? What would happen if I disappeared on a bus to Mexico? (Which is only silly because I hate buses.)

Yes, I’m sure it will all be fine. And I know it will be funny–with all the hams in our little group, “funny” just happens. And I know I’d go even crazier if I didn’t have something to occupy my spare time. (I’m like a dog that way: my destructive tendencies grow in direct proportion to my level of boredom.) And in the end, I suppose it’s all the tsoris that goes into it makes the opening night cocktail all the more refreshing and the ulcer somehow less, well, ulcerating.

But honestly, if I weren’t such a complete klutz, I’d probably take up woodcarving instead.

“A diver approached the Aeolus, it’s rail encrusted with sea life.”

Pet peeve #3: People who fail to understand the difference between “its” and “it’s”. I mean, sure, I screw up occasionally, but maybe that’s why they didn’t hire me at the New York freakin’ Times.