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Speaking of franco-punko-homo graphic novels, it looks as if volume #1 of Logan’s Porky series has finally hit the shelves, and just in time for the holidays, too. In page one of the preview, it appears that our protagonist, Porky–a chubby Midwestern sex fiend (as if there were any other kind)–pays a homeless man in a Santa hat $5 for anal. I haven’t seen page two, but, you know, that’s what I’m guessing.

I’d planned to order up a batch to hand out as stocking stuffers [insert fudgepacking innuendo here], but, well, the dollar’s kinda weak against the Euro right now, so instead, you’ll all be getting Playtex living gloves and a set of colored pencils. Which is sorta the same thing, except you’ll have to do the drawing yourselves.

Well, I was going to post a couple of curious and titillating tidbits this morning–including a story in the India Times that reports a link between laptop usage, scrotal temperature, and infertility in men (which mom and dad would prefer as the reason behind my childlessness instead of my penchant for boy-kissing). But then, something came up.

See, this past Monday, Governor Blanco issued an Executive Order banning discrimination on the basis of race, sex, disability, etc, etc, and sexual orientation in the state government. (A PDF version of the Order is available here, if you’re interested.) Now, of course, the American Family Association and the rest of the right-wingnuts are in a tizzy and are urging their constituents to pelt the Governor with hate email so she’ll rescind the Order.

Obviously, thwarting their efforts, even slightly, is enough to make my day. My week, even. So I amended the text of the AFA email to voice my support of our inclusive (if inarticulate) governor, then sent it in. How’s about you do the same? Even if you’re not from around these parts, you’re a potential tourist–which may make you even more valuable in Governor Blanco’s eyes. Talk about wanting to vacation in a tolerant atmosphere. Talk about GLBT contributions to Louisiana’s cultural economy (a big buzz-term with her these days). Talk about the faboo day spas we run. Whatever.

Anyway, here’s how you reach her

Kathleen Babineaux Blanco, Governor

Louisiana Office of the Governor

P.O. Box 94004

Baton Rouge, LA 70804-9004

Primary Phone: 225-342-0991

Secondary Phone: 225-342-7015

Fax: 225-342-7099

E-Mail: Kathleen Babineaux Blanco

And here’s the letter I wrote. Feel free to use it in whole or in part, if you like.

Dear Governor Blanco,

I would like to thank you for your recent passage of Executive Order KBB 2004 – 54, banning discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation in the Louisiana state government. As someone who has witnessed a great deal of homophobia and discrimination over the years, I can say that I have often been tempted to leave Louisiana in favor of someplace more tolerant. Thanks to your foresight, future generations of GLBT residents won’t need to ponder such a move because their fellow Louisianans will understand that such discrimination is simply wrong. Your Executive Order will undoubtedly have positive economic impacts, too, as businesses are much more likely to invest in states that foster environments of tolerance.

Again, I thank you for your thoughtfulness and commend your leadership and business savvy. You will, indeed, get my vote again–and that of my friends–in the future.

So, what are you waiting for? Go to it! Santa’s not the only one who’s watching your ass…

So, a village in Japan has discovered that the best way to prevent tourists from leaving trash along the roadway is to replace “No Littering” signs with little statues of the Buddhist divinity Jizo. It’s a kinder, gentler alternative to posting, say, bloody, lifesize crucifixes fitted with eerie glass eyes or photos of nuns with captions like “Littering makes the baby Jesus cry!” but it makes a similar point, even among non-Buddhists. I guess the American equivalent would be that crybaby of an Indian from 70s TV commercials.

All of which makes me wonder, if it works in Japan, why couldn’t it work in New Orleans? I mean, if our beloved mayor really wants to clean up the city, why not post images of Marie Laveau throughout the Quarter with some snappy catchphrases like, “Use the garbage can or I use the gris-gris” or “Litterers don’t get laid.” Maybe that would get the attention of all those horny, slovenly frat boys and businessmen on Bourbon Street, swilling rotgut booze in their search for girls who have allegedly gone wild.

Some time ago, I put forward the idea that being a Halloween costume model would be the worst job in the world.

I was wrong.

Last night, while watching an unsatisfying, commercial-ridden TV show about Ramses the Great, I realized that the worst job in the world is really that of an actor in a schmancy, over-the-top historical documentary. One week you’re playing an Egyptian slave, the next, you’re a colonial goodwife accused of witchcraft in Salem, Massachusetts, and the week after, you’re a bawdy-house tart afflicted with the plague in 17th century London. And for each of these roles, since you have no lines per se (which means your pay is pretty crappy, adding insult to injury), you have to spend painful hours in hair and makeup, then gesture your little heart out on camera to tell your story through mime. Jeez, Theda Bara had it easier…

So, while I was trying to focus on the recent “discoveries” of “archaeologists” (most of which were bemoaned by Jonno, who, you may or may not know, is an amateur Egyptologist himself), all I could think of was, “Damn, I could never seriously smite a Canaanite in a wig like that.”

Something’s afoot. Something’s changed.

Once upon a time, I’d spend my spare moments reading or playing video games or hanging with the hounds. Now, however, I have a curious hankering to acquire new skills–namely, baking, quilting, and needlepoint.

I knew I was getting old, but I had no idea that I was turning into an old woman.

Many of you might not immediately recognize what’s going on in the photo above, but to New Orleanians, the meaning is obvious: it’s Carnival time.

Yes, folks, here we are on December 4, in the midst of the Chriskwaanzukkah festivities, two months and four days before Fat Tuesday, and the City of New Orleans has already set up the reviewing stands for Carnival parades. These particular stands are positioned in front of Gallier Hall, our erstwhile city hall and the site where the mayor toasts various parades on the St. Charles Avenue route. And I should point out that these weren’t just constructed today: they’ve been up for several weeks, I just kept forgetting my camera.

As someone who genuinely loves Carnival, I always get a geeky little frisson when the stands go up. It gives me something to look forward to–unlike, say, Christmas, which oftentimes seems such a chore.

To the 27-year-old riding his bicycle on a French Quarter sidewalk yesterday afternoon at 5:35pm:

Dear Sir,

I write today to ask a favor of you–unusual, to be sure, since we have never been formally introduced, but it is such an important matter, I feel the breach of decorum is warranted. You see, yesterday, as you rode your bicycle down the Toulouse Street sidewalk, you inconvenienced quite a number of pedestrians–myself included–by forcing them into the street to avoid colliding with you and your low-rent, BMX-style Huffy. This in itself would not have been so bad, except that there was a great deal of construction going on at the time, and the street was lined with various obstacles–one of which was a very deep, very dark pit, the bottom of which I could not see, but from which I heard a fair amount of hissing, which I presumed to be the sound of several dozen poisonous asps. Had the five-year-old girl before me slipped and fallen into said hazard, I feel certain those asps would have had their way with her, which, I think we can agree, would have been extremely unfortunate.

In the future, therefore, I beg of you not to ride your “bike” on the sidewalk. There are many reasons for you not to do so. For one, I believe it is illegal. There are several be-wheeled means of conveyance acceptable on the banquette–wheelchairs and motorized scooters being the most obvious examples, and perhaps the Segway (though the jury is technically still out). Bicycles, however, are well beyond the pale. Unless walking the bike at your side, you are not considered a pedestrian and should therefore limit your velo-aerobic activities to the street proper.

It is not only I who implore this of you, but also our beloved Officer Friendly. I’m certain you had many classroom visits from Monsieur Friendly as a youth, and that you, as I, remember fondly your special private time with him: his soft caresses, his warm kisses, his gentle thrusts. How disappointed he would be if he were to discover that you were breaking one of his laws! What punishment he would wreak!

However, if our city laws and the twin entreaties of Officer Friendly and I do not provide ample reason for you to avoid sidewalks in your future bicycle-based ramblings, consider this: if I see you do it again, I’ll kill you. To be precise, I will beat the motherloving shit out of you and leave you lying face-down in an alley in a pool of your own blood, with your pants around your ankles so the rats can rape your filthy, smacked-up, gutterpunk ass.

On another, purely sartorial note, I would like to suggest that, in the future, you avoid wearing your visor backwards and upside-down. Doing so is not only years out of fashion, but it signals to the casual observer that you are either (a) retarded or (b) a “hustler” (i.e. a male prostitute), both of which are also, unfortunately, quite illegal. Of course, you’re welcome to be a ‘tard and/or a ‘ho if you like, but I think signaling that to the authorities rather unwise. I’d hate to see your already dismal future fraught with any more obstacles.

Thanking you in advance for your consideration of my request and reminding you that I will, indeed, seriously fuck your skinny ass up if you disobey me, I remain,

Sincerely yours,

Richard

I love: images of morbidly obese people jiggling down city sidewalks, shot from the neck down for dieting and health segments on the evening news. I imagine most people would be filled with shock and awe and utter embarrassment if they were ever to catch the tail-end of Peter Jennings’ report on chronic obesity and see their own torsos used as evidence. Not me. When I glimpse myself on one of those stories–as I must, someday soon, sporting my favorite Pucci-print, form-fitting lycra chemise and a pair of crushed velvet stirrup pants–I’m going to think to myself, “Damn, I got a whole lotta jelly up in my trunk, and it looks some kinda good! Yes, indeed!”

I hate: the word “couch.” It screams sedentary, lazy, dirty. Couches are soiled. Couches have bits of Cheetos caught between the cushions. Couches are where sick people sprawl while watching Jenny Jones. Sofas, on the other hand, are for conversation and cocktails. On a sofa, I can read Nancy Mitford or Evelyn Waugh, but on a couch, I’m limited to Danielle Steele and Tom Clancy. I use the word “couch” myself sometimes, and I hate myself for it. John Guare would hate me, too.

I love: the way my oldest dog, Gaston, parks himself on the bed at night and stubbornly refuses to move or even change positions, no matter how much I toss and turn.

I hate: people who refer to “the 1700s” or “the 1500s” instead of “the eighteenth century” or “the sixteenth century.” The former is inexact, generalized, whereas the latter simultaneously pinpoints the time and the zeitgeist. People who say things like “Romanticism was big in the 1800s” not only prove that they don’t understand Romanticism, but they sound like idiots, too. I bet they move their lips when they read.

I love: Chisenbop, a snazzy Eastern way of doing math on your fingers. It’s the only acceptable way for anyone over seven years old to count on her hands. When I was a kid, Chisenbop was hot hot hot. For about a week, everyone thought it was going to change educational paradigms. Then we all got bored and moved on to Shrinky Dinks.

I hate: the way friends “miss you, miss you, miss you” when they move away, but three days after their inevitable return, you can’t find them to save your life.

It’s a beautiful day here in New Orleans. The sun’s bright, my house is warm. If I were the kinda guy who liked sleeping ’till noon, I could easily crawl back into bed and do so.

Eight years ago to the hour, things were exactly the same: beautiful, bright, and warm. And then everything changed. As a gay man, December 1 should have particular resonance for me. And it does. But unfortunately, it doesn’t get my full attention.

And so today, while I should be feeling hope or anger or some other productive emotion, I’m caught up in dead-end reflection. And, not to get all heavy or anything, but it seems to me that death is ultimately the result of giving up. Some folks don’t have much to live for, so it’s easier for them to let go. Others are more tenacious and hang on till the bitter end. I’ve seen it, you’ve seen it.

If that’s the case, then it would seem theoretically possible to survive almost anything, even serious bodily injury, through sheer force of will, but so few people do…. Which means that even for the toughest, orneriest of us, there eventually comes a point of such pain or weakness or something else so extreme that, even though we know we could go on, we could live if we had the will, we choose not to. We decide there and then, in a hundredth of a second, a thousandth of a second, that we have to let go, and in that impossibly brief span of time, we say a mental goodbye to everyone we know or knew and everyone we love or loved and will never see again. It’s liberating, but like all liberations, it’s overwhelming and terrifying.

As for World AIDS Day, I’ll say this much: Randall Tobias is perhaps the most bumbling, mumbling, unmotivating speaker I’ve ever seen. How on earth Bush expected him to be an effective “Global AIDS Coordinator,” I don’t know. Maybe he should resign, too.

So, like, what the hell is up with the media? First it was the New York Times, printing fabricated stories from a wunderkind newshound. Then came CBS and Dan Rather and the whole Bush military service mishegas. And now, apparently, ABC has dipped its toe in the shimmering, shallow waters of sloppy, sensationalist journalism with a 20/20 feature on Matthew Shepard alleging that drug abuse–not homophobia–was the real reason behind Shepard’s murder.

It wouldn’t be so bad if they’d grounded the segment in factual evidence, but they chose instead to use nothing but interviews–and of course, no one’s under oath. Furthermore, the timing of the piece seems a tad suspicious, given the Right’s current attack on GLBT rights and the media that (allegedly) promote them. Perhaps Karl Rove is boinking Elizabeth Vargas. Or John Stossel, for that matter… Um, ew. Strike that last bit.

Anyway, whether or not there’s any truth in those interviews, there is certainly lots of conjecture and hearsay, which is to be roundly condemned. So if you feeling like sounding off today, why not send a lil’ ol’ letter to President ABC News President David Westin and 20/20 Executive Director David Sloan? It’ll make you feel better. Or at least kill a couple of minutes in an otherwise dull day.