Lobster over Gumbo?

The May/June issue of Population Today says that Portland, ME is the tenth most popular place for gay men to live.

I can take losing to SF, LA, San Diego, and Santa Fe. I'll accept losing to Atlanta, although we can be as bitchy. We have as much rain as Seattle, just over a shorter period of time. I don't understand the attraction Orlando has unless all the gay men are there to work for Disney. No contest with Miami/Fort Lauderdale. But Portland, ME? Not New Orleans?

It's a sad day when New Orleans is beat out by Portland, ME. I guess the only consolation is I'll see their entire gay population here during Southern Decadence.

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I see blogging and Blogger made the Wall Street Journal today.

"Are you a local?"

Those four words are a hint of the hidden responsibilities one assumes upon taking residence in New Orleans.

In addition to tolerating the awful summer heat and humidity and accepting the city's decrepit infrastructure, each resident of the city knows that he/she is an unofficial representative of the New Orleans Tourist Board. In that capacity, one is expected to be able to direct tourists to Anne Rice's house on First Street (or St. Charles or Napoleon Avenue, it depends upon which house is desired), to know where one can buy RTA passes for the streetcar, and to make educated recommendations on good restaurants that serve more than gumbo and po boys.

In my few months here, I have 'progressed' to the point where I am asked this question quite often. I guess living in the Garden District, which is swarming with tourists on walking tours (even in this heat), and frequenting the French Quarter raises the odds of being asked this question (I seriously doubt anyone living in Metairie has to deal with this). For a while, I wondered how they knew I was a local. I don't have an accent that can be pinned down to having originated within 400 miles of the city. Was it the fact that I didn't walk around with tour guide books and didn't have that lost look on my face? Was it that I didn't do the French Quarter stroll? Was it that I walked alone and therefore must not be part of a tour group?

And then, after having told some British tourists where they can find Brennan's restaurant, I hit upon the reason: I dress local. Like all sane New Orleanians, when I get dressed, I dress sensibly: shorts, Tevas, and a white T-shirt. That's it. Why wear more? In this heat, whatever you wear will be wet with sweat within fifteen minutes of stepping out the door. I dread having to wear slacks or polo shirts. I always walk on the shady side of the street, even if it takes me off the most direct path to my destination.

So if you're in New Orleans this summer and see a guy wearing shorts, Tevas, and a white T-shirt criss-crossing the street to walk in the shade, you already know the answer to your question, "Are you a local?"