When I went to bed on August 29, 2005, everything was okay. At least, news footage of New Orleans implied that everything was okay. There were no hints of lingering problems, other than lots of powerlines down, lots of shingles in the streets.

Jonno woke me up as he crawled under the sheets a bit later. He said: “The levees broke. New Orleans has flooded.”

And in my usual, nonchalant, Pollyanna way, I said something like, “Well, we can’t do anything about it tonight. We’ll take care of it in the morning.”

The next morning, eight years ago today, was the only time during the whole Katrina ordeal that I cried, hugging my friends who had taken us in, not knowing that they’d be hosting us for another seven weeks.

This is what I wrote:

I can’t tell you what it’s like to be in New Orleans right now. I can only tell you what it’s like to want to be there.

Obviously, I want to know that my house is okay. I’m not too worried about the things in it–we managed to secure most stuff before we left–I just want to know that it’s still standing. It’s a stupid psychological thing, but to me, if the house is still standing, there’s a possibility that things will return to normal at some point down the line.

I want to stop thinking about the minutiae of my daily life. I want to stop thinking about work, and the multiple jobs I had running at the print shop in Metairie–a print shop that is most likely underwater now–and how that’s going to affect my marketing plans for the year. I want to stop thinking about our theatre company and how our schedule is going to be seriously thrown off, and how we’re going to have to postpone the Facts of Life: “Carrie” project that we’ve been giggling about for years. I want to stop thinking about other things, other plans, other projects that will have to be cancelled, put off, or drastically re-envisioned. I want to stop thinking about paychecks and bills and all the practical things that I don’t usually think about–things that, thanks to direct deposit and online bill payments and other modern miracles, would normally manage themselves.

I want to stop watching the news. It’s deadening, and the broadcasters are prone to get things wrong. Yesterday, reporters kept talking about a levee break in the 9th Ward (my neighborhood), when, in fact, the break was in the Lower 9th Ward, which is further away and is separated from us by another system of levees. I guess the confusion is to be expected when you’ve got non-New Orleanians trying to make sense of our byzantine neighborhood naming systems–but that doesn’t make it any less unsettling.

Not least of all, I want to express my gratitude to our hosts. The mayor is saying that we won’t be able to get back to town for another week, and that utilities won’t be up and running for several more. I love spending time with Drew and Don, but I feel very, very uncomfortable imposing on them for that long. Hell, I wouldn’t feel right camping with my own family for that long. But Drew and Don have been nothing but accommodating.

And to CNN: would it kill you to do a flyby of the Faubourg Marigny? I mean, really, just one good pass up Royal Street…

Eight years ago, I thought everything would be fine. I thought everything would go as planned.

It was not fine. It did not go as planned.

But it started out fine because I was clueless:

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, as you’ve likely surmised, the boyfriend and I have evacuated. (I mean, I may be nonchalant and glib when it comes to hurricanes, but I ain’t no dummy.) We’re with the Drew in Lafayette. We’ll be here ’till Tuesday morning at least–maybe a little longer, depending on how things go and when la Nagin et al decide to let us back in. Bottom line: we’re here, we’re safe, we’re comfortable, we’re among friends. Still, I wouldn’t object if you were to send some luck and love vibes our way. See y’all soon…

1. Atlas Shrugged And Said, “Ayn Rand Who?”
2. Brideshead Visited Once, But I Don’t Need To See It Again
3. The Call Of The Wild Hair Up My Backside
4. The Catcher In Rye Was Actually Pretty Versatile
5. Damn, That Portnoy Guy Is Such A Whiner
6. A Farewell To Arms And Legs And Part Of My Spleen
7. The French Lieutenant’s Woman’s Third Cousin, Twice Removed
8. Gravity’s Dense Fog Advisory
9. Half-Naked Lunch On The LGBT Cruise
10. The Heart Isn’t Too Lonely A Hunter Because It Has The Lungs For Company
11. Of Human Bondage And Discipline
12. To The Lighthouse, Jeeves Continue reading

For a few years now, writing letters to your “younger self” has been a thing — a ridiculous, navel-gazing thing, but a thing. Since I am a ridiculous, navel-gazing kind of guy, I figure I’m overdue.

Oh well. At least it’s better than planking. Remember planking? Or goats that scream like people? Sometimes, I weep for our species.

Anyway.

Dear Younger Self,

If you remember nothing else from this letter, please remember this: you are in for an interesting ride.

I don’t want to pass value judgments, but compared to most of the folks you grow up with, you will have a rock star life. Not Led-Zeppelin-rock-star, but maybe Courtney-Love-rock-star, or My-Brightest-Diamond-rock-star, or Huey Lewis on a very good day. (NB: This is in no way an endorsement of Huey Lewis.)

Here’s some advice about what’s coming:

• One afternoon during third grade, while your parents are away, you will sneak into your mother’s closet. You will find her high heels and her negligee and her makeup case. Roll with it.

• Around age 14, encouraged by your one and only gay classmate, you will discover that you like kissing boys. In fact, you like it A LOT. Then, your sole gay friend will move away, and you’ll try to play it straight for the next six years. Don’t bother. You’ll just end up hating yourself. And honestly, everyone already knows.

• Your parents will try to convince you that certain men in town like to molest young boys. Your parents think that all gay men like to molest young boys, which is absurd. Call them out on their homophobia (even though the word “homophobia” isn’t widely used yet). That non-child-molesting “child-molester” will be you someday. Continue reading

Six hours ago, the Supreme Court of the United States gutted the Defense of Marriage Act, forcing the federal government to treat all legally married couples — gay or straight — the same way.

Shortly thereafter, the Court also struck down Proposition 8. Though they did so on technical grounds, ruling that the plaintiffs lacked standing to sue, the effect in California is the same as if the justices had found Prop 8 entirely unconstitutional.

For what it’s worth, that’s pretty much what I’d predicted. Perhaps my adoptive mother was right: I should’ve been a lawyer.

What I failed to predict was the speed at which marketers would begin filling my inbox with same-sex marriage stories and products. This is totally my favorite so far:

Gay Marriage Has Been Passed We Would Like to Help the Newcomers at Their Wedding

(June 26, 2013, Los Angeles, Calif.) – This morning gay marriage was legalized in California, the wedding business are going to see a great increase in weddings for the rest of the year. Although the great news may inspire people for equality, others are still against the proposition being passed.

To help our fellow friends in assuring a safe and pleasant wedding, guardNOW has already been named the “Gay Wedding” Private Security guard company by “Engayged Weddings.”

As a new security guard company we are assuring safety to all our California’s at their weddings. The press and the public will be interested in the many weddings that will be taking place starting next month in the gay community, security guards will be a tactic to use to keep unwanted guest and people against gay marriages out of the way. As the go to Security Guard Company we want you to help us inform the gay community that there is a national company catering to them specifically.

Gay marriages are not new to the country, but California is happy to finally be a part of the states that have passed the law. guardNOW services all of California and wants to reach out to as many newly engaged couples that are bow allowed to legally be married.

Our franchisee’s Nate Brown and Joe Luke service Northern and Southern California and are available for tips and insight on ways the gay community is going to need security help for their weddings. With there 15 years in law enforcement their tips to the public on wedding safety could help the newcomers.

Until the end of September guardNOW will be giving all newly engaged and soon to be married couples 15% off their entire wedding order.

About guardNOW:

guardNOW provides skilled professional security guards who know what to do in the event of an unforeseen incident. Guards are able to come to a location in just two hours without the need of a long term contract. Clients include small businesses, residences where the owners may be out of town, neighborhood surveillance, construction sites or vacant building that needs to be supervised. guardNOW also caters to special events for weddings, bar mitzvahs, quinceaneras, and birthday parties. Specializing in nontraditional security guard services, guardNOW offers premium service for safety and security needs.

Media Contacts:

(877) 482-7366 | www.guardnow.com

Teja Foster | teja@guardnow.com

Please be sure to visit that website. These folks guard KIM KARDASHIAN, you guys.

I have a confession to make. It’s terrible. It’s embarrassing. It’s gross.

My confession is this: I eat fast food. In fact, I eat it a lot.

I could blame my upbringing for that. After all, I grew up in the late 20th century, when televisions became baby-sitters and nature became something to visit in preserves. An entire generation of kitchen know-how was lost during that era: my grandmothers’ top-notch cooking skills never trickled down to my upwardly mobile parents, who were dazzled by the novelty of microwaves, TV dinners, and drive-throughs. As a result, I wasn’t raised in a house with home-cooked meals.

To make matters worse, I’m not a picky eater. Unlike my husband — who has certain likes and dislikes, and enjoys variety in his diet — I’ll eat anything*. And if I like it, I’ll eat it every day. Fast food makes that far too easy.

Also unlike my husband, I’m not a very enthusiastic cook. I’ll have a go at it now and then, but usually I end up making frou-frou crap like tarte tatin or schmancy sorbets — desserty things, not full meals. I don’t know why. Frankly, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.

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It’s true what they say, you know: it’s easy to grow hard with age. To become mean and callous.

I see it in myself every day. It’s evident in the way I slow down at stop lights, hoping to avoid getting stuck in the inside lane where, if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch the homeless people begging on the neutral ground. I could even give them the spare change sitting on my dashboard. But I don’t.

The funny thing is, I’ve never behaved that way toward animals. (With the exception of cockroaches. And a few frogs when I was younger, but that’s a story for another time.) If I see a dog or a cat or a bird or a lizard, my instinct isn’t to swat it away, but to watch it. Maybe even to protect it.

Secretly, I think that response has something to do with the bullying I endured as a gay kid, growing up in Mississippi. I don’t like to see anyone or anything pushed around just because he/she/it is smaller or weaker or different.

Then again, maybe it’s because I grew up with three younger brothers. I would never have admitted it at the time, but…

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