By now, most of you have seen the video clips — the ones recorded as part of the “It Gets Better” campaign. On the off-chance that you haven’t: the campaign was begun by author Dan Savage in response to the recent spate of suicides by LGBT teens. Savage conceived it as a way of assuring those kids that, although life may seem rough now, things will get better.

So far, most of the clips in heavy rotation have come from celebs — and that’s to be expected. But there’s a local element to “It Gets Better”, too, which gives everyday people like you and me the chance to share advice, encouragement, and coming-out stories. And it’s coming to New Orleans this weekend.

This Saturday, October 16, cameras will be set up on the patio at Cure (4905 Freret Street) from 5pm – 7pm. There, you’ll be able to record a testimonial of your own to share with LGBT teens. The event is being organized by Megan Hargrode, who’s put together a Facebook page to publicize the local element of the campaign.

Admittedly, I’m not a fan of Cure (or any place with asinine dress codes). And holding an event like this at a hipster haute-cocktail lounge isn’t the best way to ensure diverse representation from the local LGBT community — nor is it the best place to generate sober, intelligible testimonials. However, Hargrode deserves tons of credit for pulling it together, and Cure earns a begrudging pat on the back for allowing her to do it.

If you have time this Saturday evening, drop by and say a few words — tomorrow’s LGBT leaders need to hear them. Just be sure to dress appropriately.

[via BlogOfNewOrleans]

Dear Gays:

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are a growing number of teabaggers trying to win our votes. It’s happening in dribs and drabs — at events like last month’s (mostly failed) Uni-Tea roundup and through the Libertarian Party’s half-assed attempt to play up something called “battered gay voter syndrome“. And what’s creepy is that their rhetoric makes sense. At least, on the surface.

The message we’re getting from these small-government-obsessed scam artists is that Johnny Law should butt out of our lives, including our bedrooms. Sounds great for the Gays, right? Sounds like freedom.

But of course, a hands-off approach isn’t what the LGBT community needs. It’s not what women needed at the turn of the 20th century. It’s not what African Americans needed in the 1950s and 60s. If the government hadn’t stepped in and said, “It’s not okay to discriminate”, how long do you think it would’ve been before colleges integrated? Before women got the right to vote?

They — the teabaggers — sidle up to us now, as we’re frustrated with the lack of progress that we’re seeing on DOMA, DADT, and other fronts. They whisper softly in our ears, “Hey, if our side wins, we’ll be governed by the will of the people. When the public decides it’s time to stop discriminating against gays or blacks or Jews or anyone else, the discrimination will end!” Of course, what they don’t say is that if the public wants to discriminate, it’s a-okay in the teabagger universe.

America experimented with a similar laissez-faire social philosophy after the Emancipation Proclamation gave African Americans “freedom”. Nearly 100 years later, so little progress had been made, Congress had to pass the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Without that, chances are pretty good that my family in Mississippi would still be eating at segregated lunch counters.

Look, I don’t like bureaucracy any more than you. I hate forms and lines and convoluted ways of doing things. But if I have to choose between that regimented life and the gunslinger-style anarchy that the teabaggers propose, I’ll be happy to fill out that requisition in triplicate, thankyouverymuch.

Bottom line: teabaggers aren’t our friends. Like Richard Socarides told Keith Olbermann earlier this week, teabaggers are just social conservatives in fiscally minded clothing. They’re promising a revolution, a “return” to government by the people — which sounds nifty, but I think the last time that happened, the Romanovs fled Moscow. Sure, it was fun at the time, the bonfires at the winter palace were faaaaabulous, but then gays and lesbians started showing up dead, which kind of put a damper on things. (Side note: I wonder what Glenn Beck would think about me comparing him to the Bolsheviks?)

What was my point? Oh yes: fuck the teabaggers. Fuck them.

And also, two other things:

1. I still don’t get the obsession with small government. Government is there to make things happen. They’re not all good things, but you know: baby, bathwater.

2. How can we believe that progress in science and medicine and technology is a good thing, but want to stay the status quo on social issues? Highly illogical.

My final coming out — the real one, when I was 20 —  was gut-wrenching.

I had a girlfriend at the time, but she lived in Texas. She’d come down with a semi-serious illness our sophomore year, and after she recovered, her parents withdrew her from Millsaps and moved her back home. I went to see her regularly, and she came to see me, but the relationship had definitely changed.

Or maybe not changed. It had become more transparent, more obvious.

When we lived on the same campus, Meg and I could pretend that we were romantically involved, and we both believed it. When we were separated, it became clear that we were very, very, very good friends, but nothing more. By the time I met Chad, I could see where things were going, but I didn’t want to admit it. Not yet.

Chad and I met on the dance floor of Bill’s Disco, the black gay bar in Jackson, which sat across the street from the white gay bar called Jack and Jill’s. Jack and Jill’s carded like a motherfucker, and of course, we were all underage. Bill’s didn’t care. Bill’s also had a speakeasy so they could serve beer after 1am. We spent a lot of time at Bill’s.

Chad and I hung out for several weeks. It was great. Then I introduced him to my friends. And one night, when I stepped out of the room for a minute, a friend asked Chad some questions about how we met. I knew that my friend could put two and two together, and that it was only a matter of time until she spilled the beans to Meg.

That wasn’t how I wanted it to end: ratted out by a friend, leaving Meg to wonder who was telling the truth. I wanted to tell her myself — so I did. I couldn’t muster the courage to do it over the phone, so I wrote a letter. It was about 10 pages long.

As I waited at the post office, one of my professors walked up and stood in line behind me. He was the only openly gay teacher on campus. He tried to strike up a conversation — I was in his Milton class — but I was so freaked about what I was doing, I couldn’t get many words out.

Then, the full weight of the situation hit me. There I was, sweating bullets over coming out, standing next to a man who’d been out for years, who had no idea what I was going through and was talking to me about mundane things like the weather and spring rush. I don’t know if you’d call that surreal or ironic or packed with meaning, but whatever it was, it made me laugh. My hands were still shaking when I handed my envelope to the mail lady, but I felt much better.*

My talk with Meg a few days later wasn’t smooth or easy; in fact, it was a little painful, but we got over it. And I thought, “Wow, that’s it. I’m out.”

But as we all know, coming out is something you have to do all the time. I come out as gay, I have friends who come out as fiscal conservatives, and I have a sneaking suspicion that my father will soon admit to me that he’s a Methodist. However, as everyone’s been saying the past few weeks, it does get easier.

Rarely is it easy. But easier, yes.

* None of that would’ve happened if I’d come out a few years later. I would’ve simply written an email and hit “send”. The result would’ve been just the same and just as important, but I wouldn’t have had that scene at the post office, which is what I remember more than anything now.

Directed by Jean-Paul Goude

You know, if John Slattery showed a little more leg (with garters, of course), I might be inclined to watch Mad Men. Until such things come to pass, I’ll spend Sunday nights wrapped in the warm embrace of Adult Swim.

Related funny image that just popped into my head: me as the photographer for this shoot, reenacting that scene from Fame where the guy is all like, “Take off your top, Coco!”, except I’d be like, “Drop the pants, Slattery!”, and he’d be crying and sucking his thumb, but he’d totally do it anyway, because fame and fortune are way more important than morals. America’s Next Top Model has taught us that, if nothing else. Well, that and smizing.

James Dean would’ve been 79 years old if Donald Turnupseed hadn’t veered out of his lane on September 30, 1955 and hit Dean’s Porsche head-on.

First, beauty:

Then, irony:

I should point out that Dean was never my cup of tea, but I can appreciate his position as an archetype. Plus, he got to cuddle with Sal Mineo — that’s something.

Jacques, the little deaf puppy, is now a big deaf puppy:

That face! Those abs! That half-done eyeshadow! What’s not to love?

Its 404 page:

Brilliant. But don’t take my word for it: try it for yourself.

Remember the Burger King bandit? The one who crept into the restaurant by slithering through the drive-up window in booger drag? Well, on Friday, he was sentenced to 247 years in prison. Maybe by then they’ll have finished his special-order BK Big Fish, no pickles.

And for those who might’ve forgotten the initial incident, behold:

Over the weekend came word that ten states — Alabama, Florida, Idaho, Indiana, Michigan, South Carolina, Utah, Virginia, Wyoming, and dear, sweet, lovable Louisiana — have filed a joint brief in a California federal appeals court. The brief boldly declares those states’ opposition to gay marriage, and it’s presumably meant to add weight to California’s case that Proposition 8 is valid and legal. (Though last I heard, California wasn’t going to appeal Judge Vaughn Walker’s ruling, so maybe the point’s moot.)

ANYWAY, as you might recall, the two biggest problems pro-Prop 8 lawyers had in court were (a) proving what marriage is “really about”, and (b) proving that heterosexuals are the only ones fit to take part in it. The defendants were all, like, “It’s about procreation!” And Judge Walker was, like, “So why do you let infertile couples get married?” And then they were all, like, “It’s about families!” And the judge was, like, “You haven’t answered my first question.”

The brief filed in federal court has the same sort of “we don’t know what we’re doing, but we’re doing it anyway” vibe. Case in point, this sentence taken straight (ahem) from the filing: “If public affirmation of anyone and everyone’s personal love and commitment is the single purpose of marriage, a limitless number of rights claims could be set up that evacuate the term marriage of any meaning.”

I hate to resort to name-calling, because that never moves the dialogue forward, but if any of you happen to be one of the ten attorneys general who signed off on that wackobizarre statement: you are an utter fuckup. I don’t know to even argue a case with you people, because your reality is so completely OUT THERE.  Obviously, you’re the ones who keep throwing money at M. Night Shamalamadingdong.

OMG, I just said that all glibly and shit, but it’s totally true. I HAVE  NEW CONSPIRACY THEORY. CALL ME, HOLLYWOOD! LET’S TALK.

[MercuryNews via Towleroad]