It may finally be the Al Franken decade. The recount is over and Landslide Al is 225 votes ahead of former Senator Norm Coleman. Coleman is suing but it's only going to delay the agony.

The Franken story is being twinned by everyone with the farce that is the Burris Circus. It's not fair but neither is life. Burris, of course, has gone to Washington, presented his Blago signed credentials and had them rejected. For now. The momentum seems to be in favor of seating Burris. Yesterday's pandemonium was great political theatre but Burris' expulsion from the building was a bit too reminiscent of George Wallace standing in the doorway of the University of Alabama for my taste.

Burris is obviously a self-serving douchebag but the Senate is full of such creatures. His habit of introducing himself over and over is downright weird. In any event, Blago quite simply outfoxed the Democratic leadership who look like school girls whining about cooties. Yeah, Burris has cooties but Blago's still Governor and he's the one under investigation, not Burris. Harry Reid should unbunch his Mormon panties and seat Burris who I shall hereafter call Senator Cooties.

Back to Al Franken. While he's not the only Senator to have met Jerry Garcia (Pat Leahy is another) he's the only one who hosted a Grateful Dead concert telecast. Here's the soon to be Senator from Minnesota interviewing Jerry Garcia:

The world is a very interesting and often weird place. This is a story that even I couldn't make up. An attractive and feisty young woman, Ariane Sherine, has led a campaign in the UK to place non-religious ads on buses to counter some fundamentalist slogans that she saw rolling down the streets of London. The campaign has spread to other places around the globe including Barcelona but was been rejected in the land down under. Someone should really try this in Alabama, South Carolina or, better yet, Lynchburg, Virginia home of the late Jerry Falwell and his Liberty University. It would also bug the shit out of Archbishop Hughes right here in Debrisville and anything that bugs that door breaking malaka is okay by me.

Here's a video clip from the Guardian about Ms. Sherine and her offbeat ad campaign that was aided by writer Richard Dawkins and Guardian columnist Polly Toynbee:

The Picayune continues its romance with the new Second District Congressman and failed to note a very interesting interraction (non?) between the Gret Stet's two Senators yesterday. According to TPM Election Central:

Roll Call reports that Sen. Mary Landrieu (D-LA) declined to have her scandal-plagued GOP co-Senator David Vitter next to her at her swearing-in yesterday. Instead, she was escorted to the well of the chamber by Sen. Barbara Mikulski (D-MD) and retiring Sen. Pete Domenici (R-NM)

Roll Call is by subscription only so I'm not sure if Vitty's diaper was leaking or if it was just his *usual* stench of scandal and unwarranted self-righteousness.

And now for something completely different. The world continued its descent into parody today and, no, I'm not talking about the shenanigans at the US Senate, I'm talking about the brand spanking new 2009 Sarah Palin calendar:

I wonder what Neil Sedaka would make of this revolting development?

I knew that Archbishop Hughes and his advisers were arrogant and stupid but I had no idea how foolish they were until today. They called the NOPD to break up the vigil at Our Lady Of Good Counsel. Writer-Activist Poppy Z Brite was among those arrested. LINK.

I already knew that Hughes lived in a bubble without any understanding of the real world but I had no idea how deeply stupid he is. I guess when you not only get away with covering for pedophile priests but get promoted as a result, hubris and arrogance are inevitable. I'm not surprised that Hughes showed such poor judgment, it's the only kind he's got. I didn't think, however, that he'd declare war on his own flock in such a heavy handed way. 

Update: The vigil at St. Henry's was also ended by the church calling in the police. Holy gestapo tactics, Batman. It makes me proude to be an atheist.

Interior Secretary Dirk Kempthrone reads from the throne.

The outgoing Interior Secretary has a silly tongue twister of a name: Dirk Kempthorne. Try saying that one 11 times in a row. I, for one, am glad that my first name doesn't rhyme with jerk. It also sounds suspiciously like a porn star name: Dirk Kempthorne in The Mighty Tuber.

Anyway, Kempthorne delivered a speech the other day claiming that he'd restored ethics to Interior. LINK.  That claim may be dubious but he has at least one solid accomplishment: he spent some $235,000 remodeling his office bathroom. Flush. LINK.

Here's the weirdest detail of the story: the bathroom suite has a refrigerator and freezer. What on earth is the former Idaho Governor freezing in his bathroom? Famous potatoes because he's homesick? Or is he running his very own sperm bank, which is dedicated to preserving the awesomeness that is Dirk Kempthorne for posterity? I hope he's not saving what the Chinese dubbed night soil; that would be yucky even for a Bushie who's from tuber country.

Enquiring minds want to know what Dirk whose name rhymes with jerk has been up to in his fancy schmancy bathroom. Note to Ken Salazar: move the freezer to spare yourself jokes about frozen Rocky Mountain Oysters and such.

My friend Karen Gadbois was named New Orleanian of the year (along with two other activists) by Gambit Weekly. I first met Karen not long after Katrina and I was impressed with her intensity as well as her mouthiness. In short, I knew her when but I'm not surprised that she's gone on to become the scourge of City Hall; every guvmint needs a scourge, especially this one. I'd like to see C Ray try to cold cock Karen...

Congratulations, mon ami.  Keep on rocking the casbah: the Sharif don't like it but he's a shiny headed schmuck:

I had a rather Dickensian afternoon in the Quarter yesterday. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times: yadda, yadda, yadda. The better bit was the absence of football redneckery, Crimson Tide style. Don't get me wrong: most of the grownup Alabamians were charming and even civilized but the younguns were barely housebroken or is that trailer broken? Whichever it was, I wanted to rub their noses in their mess but they're gone now. But that wasn't even the worst of times...

The liverwurst worst of times involved two episodes; neither of which had anything to do with Martin Chuzzlewit, which is a name I love saying. There were two stringy haired harridans who came into the shop reeking of tobacco and stale beer. As one of the most fanatical non-smokers this side of Joe Califano, I can always tell a heavy smoker: they tend to smell like an ashtray from the set of Mad Men. If they weren't awful enough, they were accompanied by 6 surly lads who ranged in age from 8 to 15. Initially, I was relieved that these blond suburban urchins stayed outside. Mrs. Fagin and her friend (Mrs. Jaryndice?) barraged me with banal questions, chattered incessantly and were intensely annoying. The urchins stood glowering in the doorway. The oldest one who was, more or less, the Inartful Dodger of the lot began puffing smoke into the shop from the open door. I walked over, told him to knock it off and before I closed the door, he flicked some ashes inside. In the immortal words of the sarcastic teevee slob Onslow : Niiiiice. Since the door was shut, the head urchin and his sidekick naturally leaned against it while the others played "let's leave our fingerprints on the windows." At least dusting for prints will be easy if something goes awry or if I start craving rye bread...

The spell was broken by a nice woman from Noo Yawk who was willing to run the urchin gauntlet and entered shaking her head. Mrs. Fagin and her friend exited stage right. The new customer looked at me and said: "What kind of mother lets her son blow smoke in people's faces? I know, a bad one." The tension was broken and I guffawed loudly like Dangerblond or even worse Maitri who has a laugh that's almost as loud as a Ramones concert. Alas, I'm unable to reach the sonic level of Liprap's cackle, which is loud enough to break glass...

My (Oliver) twisted adventures were not over. I went around the corner to the drug store to get a snack. I was relieved that Vincent the surly guy with elaborate dreadlocks wasn't working the register. I'd had enough of surly yoots for one day. The girl working the register is as sweet as molasses and twice as slow but, hey, she's pleasant and doesn't do surly. As I stood in line, I felt a hand graze my back pocket. It was-you guessed it-an urchin of the Treme street entertainer variety trying to boost my wallet. I almost went Bill Sikes on his ass but decided instead to lightly elbow the little bugger; and told him that if he did that again I'd elbow him where it would *really* hurt and call the cops on him.  To my surprise, the store manager asked the urchin for ID, which was, even more surprisingly, produced. The manager made a copy,  returned the urchinoid ID and told him he was banned from the store. It warmed the cockles of my heart whatever the hell they are. Hmm, I wonder if Bill Sikes had cockles? I guess not: a heart is required.

Above is a picture of my favorite cinematic Bill Sikes: Robert Newton in David Lean's Oliver Twist. Newton is all snarling menace and gives the best performance in the film. Alec Guinness' turn as Fagin is too Shylocky (they forgot to tell him that ham isn't kosher, apparently) for my taste and pales in comparison to his performance as Herbert Pocket in Lean's Great Expectations, which is on my all-time top twenty film list. Speaking of Fagins and pockets (picked and otherwise) here's Ron Moody from Oliver:

There was a genuinely terrible crime committed this week by a local man: Danny Platt murdered his 2 year old son and now claims that he did it because he owes child support. LINK. His word is not exactly his bond: Platt previously claimed that his boy had been abducted by 3 men at gunpoint who sped away in an SUV.

I heard about Platt's preposterous story on WWL-TV at noon yesterday where it was reported as "news" without any caveats. The minute the story ended, I said to Dr. A: "They better check the parks, empty lots or blighted houses in the area:This story cannot be true." It was not: Ja'Shawn Powell's body was found in a park. Stories involving "kidnapping" often require skepticism: people who do terrible things to children invariably lie. So, I have to blow a rare non-Lucy Bustamante related raspberry at WWL for not doing some reporting instead of being gullible and buying this ridiculous story.

Speaking of ridiculous stories, our inept police chief, Warren Riley, is disputing a coroner's report about a man being shot in the back 12 times by police officers. LINK. So, now the Chief is an incompetent ME as well as a crappy police chief. He's starting to sound like the Jethro Bodine of cops: next he'll want to be a fry cook or a double naught spy. Of course, in his case it would be good if he chose a new line of work. Hey, maybe Riley and Nagin can start a consulting firm in 2010 and focus on telling their clients how NOT to run a local government. They'd be naturals...

I'm a casual observer of college football and assumed the Crimson Tide would roll in the Sugar Bowl. I didn't plan to watch the game and didn't check on it until the second half and saw the score and Nick Saban chewing on his headset. So, naturally I stayed tuned.

Congrats to da undefeated Utes from Joe Pesci and the gang as well as Rockpile. Finally, speaking of yoots and sugar, here's Sonic Youth with Sugar Kane:

My Bama song quest led to this deeply silly video. It features the Leningrad Cowboys who look as if they're stuck in 1983. They're accompanied by the Red Army choir and a bunch of Russkie soldier boys playing horns. Weird is as weird does or something like that:

There seems to be something about New Year's Eve that brings out some people's inner dumb ass. My neighbors are big on firecrackers, cherry bombs and bottle rockets. It smelt positively sulphuric around here yesterday and they're still at it. Pyromania has limited charm for me...

Speaking of NYE dumbassery, a local man was grazed in the back by a bullet shot in the air by some moron. LINK. I felt bad for him but my sympathy was mitigated by two things: it was a flesh wound and he went on to complain that the shot interrupted his own pyrotechnic dumbassery with firecrackers, which is illegal in Orleans Parish and stupid in any parish, county or canton.

The Quarter was *really* overrun with Crimson Tide-ites on New Year's Day; many of whom seem determined not to draw a sober breath until they leave town. And I thought the Florida Gator fans were vociferous drunkards. Maybe it's because stars fell on Alabama:

Just back from a party at Dr A and my friends Miriam and Pat's house. We met a legendary New Orleans character there of whom more anon and anon and anon. Here's a clip from New Years 30 years ago, which features one of the greatest balloon drops ever:

I've been meaning to write a movie post for weeks now. It was originally going to be called Slumdog Cadillac but I've become a mission creep, I mean experienced mission creep. I get easily confused. I guess you knew that already.

I'll take the films in reverse order of seeing them but in the order of the post title as if anyone but me gives a rat's ass. Milk is one of the best biopics I've ever seen and I don't usually even like milk. <rim shot> I was, however, acquainted with the real Harvey Milk from my days as a yoot in San Francisco. A friend of mine was a serious camera geek and liked to frequent Harvey's camera shop on Castro Street. Even though he was already running for office at that point, Harvey was often found in the shop cracking wise and holding forth as well as fifth and sixth and on occasion seventh...

Harvey was a warm, lovable, funny and openly imperfect guy and Sean Penn nails him, well, perfectly. It's not a performance, it's a metamorphosis. In fact, all the cast members bear eerie resemblances to the real people. James Brolin continues his run of amazing performances as the pathetic, befuddled and ultimately homicidal Dan White. I also got a kick out of seeing a fictional Dennis Peron. Dennis was everyone's favorite pot dealer back in the day; not that I knew him as one, mind you...

Milk unfolds like the great tragedy that it was but it's also a funny, uplifting and intelligent look at a man and his times. It's one of the best films director Gus Van Sant has ever made because of his passion for the cause of gay rights and affection for its main character. But Harvey tended to bring out the best in everyone so that's no surprise. Adrastos Grade: A

Slumdog Millionaire is set in Mumbai, India and brings together the diverse styles of its director, Danny Boyle's remarkable career.  Boyle is best known for his edgy films such as Shallow Grave, Trainspotting and 28 Days Later. But he was also responsible for the downright sweet, but not ickily so, Millions, which showed off his gift for directing children. In Slumdog Millionaire the edgy and the sweet mingle in a delightful brew of whimsy and tough mindedness or something like that. When we saw it, the audience applauded loudly at the end and not because it was over. The acting is outstanding and the scenes in the slums of Mumbai are alternately hair raising and hilarious.The gameshow framework could be gimmicky in lesser hands but Boyle pulls it off deftly. All in all, Slumdog is a good time at the movies and who can ask for more? Adrastos Grade: A-

Cadillac Records is sliding out of theatres right now but it's one to catch on DVD. It's the semi-fictionalized story of Chess Records founder Leonard Chess and some of the musicians he brought to the world: Muddy Waters, Little Walter, Howlin' Wolf, Chuck Berry, Willie Dixon and Etta James to name but a few. The film features some great music as well as terrific performances by Adrien Brody as Chess, Jeffrey Wright as Muddy Waters and especially Eamonn Walker as Howlin Wolf. Walker has Wolf's trademark rasp and menacing appearance down pat. Beyonce Knowles is a bit hammy as Etta James but her singing is sensational and she deserves credit for helping to get the movie made as its executive producer.

I particularly liked the way writer-director Darnell Martin's script accurately depicts the relationship between Chess and the musicians. Chess is shown as neither saint nor swindler: he did make out better than his musicians but he was paternalistic as opposed to predatory, which is the sort of subtle distinction that usually gets lost on the screen. Cadillac Records may hew a bit too closely to music biopic conventions but it's one of the best of the genre. Adrastos Grade: B+

Finally, Dr. A and I finally saw the musical version of Hairspray on the tevee. As a John Waters devotee, I had always been skeptical of the musical: it's a remake and I'm always leery of them. In this case, the music is terrific and the cast is excellent with one major exception: John Travolta was no Divine. In fact, he was Delousy with his cheesy fat suit and wandering accent. I groaned every time he waddled onscreen, which was far too often. Sometimes film producers should just say no to big stars who want to play a part. Casting Travolta was a stunt that *nearly* ruined the film but everything else was good enough to earn a solid B that was dragged down (pun intended) by Travolta's F  performance.

The Quarter was a bit crimson on Monday: Alabama fans are rolling in for New Years Eve and the Sugar Bowl. I didn't see many Utes or yoots for that matter. Bar owners hate the idea of Utah fans coming to town because they assume they'll all be Mormon teatotalers. Me, I don't sell booze and I also think that there are a lot of Jack Mormons out there. A Jack Mormon is more or less a half-assed LDSer; sort of like a cafeteria Catholic only with silly underwear. I have an old friend whose father was a Mormon and he's not so I once called him a Jack-off Mormon. Amazingly, he still speaks to me but, then again, he has his very own personal Adrastos insult. Of course, that was before I became a low rent internet version of Don Rickles.

Many LSU fans are still obsessed with Nick Saban's "betrayal." Get over it, y'all. He's a football coach and they're all mercenaries and now he's in Alabama where the tusks are looser. <Shecky ba-boom> Hmm, I wonder if I can work Fleetwood Mac into this? Oh, I just did:

Back to the Quarter and the Sugar Bowl. Dr. A always buys team logo Mardi Gras beads to put in the window to lure fans into the shop. I dunno if it works or nor but I dragged my heels on putting Bama beads on display. Roll tide has never been one of my catch phrases but I, too, am a mercenary as opposed to a Mercernary...

It's much easier to find good songs about Alabama than Utah but I'm working on it. I was amused as well as bemused to discover that someone has posted a Rock Band 2 version of the Dead's Alabama Getaway on You Tube. Oh well, it beats the hell out of watching them tune for 2 minutes. Of course, it's an out of body experience to see a bald cg-anime dude singing in Jerry's voice:

One of my favorite early movie going memories was seeing Peter Sellers in Blake Edwards' The Party. Sellers played a spectacularly clueless and clumsy movie extra who wreaked havoc where ever he went. He somehow ended up at a posh Hollywood party and the result was comedy mayhem and howling audiences.

The natives are getting restless; especially young Della Street who is a talkative and demanding cat. I guess it's what happens when you wear formal wear 24-7. So, it's time for a wee spot of feline posting.

Next is a belated picture of Oscar in holiday mufti:

Finally, a video of Della Street's theme song. No, not the theme from Perry Mason but Richard Thompson's Bad Monkey. It nails her inner scamp quite nicely:

One of the most honorable people in New Orleans public life, Rev. Marshall Truehill died yesterday at the age of 60. LINK. I got to know Marshall and his charming wife Miranda when he ran for City Council in 2006. Marshall was a voice of reason in a polarized city and was often a bridge between the races in a town where that's essential and too often lacking. He will be greatly missed.

Dr. A and I send our personal condolences to Miranda and the whole Truehill family.

Damn. One of the good guys is gone.

Here's a post-candidate forum picture taken by Dr A of Marshall with Shane and Becky Landry. Miranda is in the background talking to Ed McMeetings:

UPDATE: There are some eloquent tributes to Marshall from Karen Gadbois and Walter Gallas at Squandered Heritage. As does Eli at We Could Be Famous.

Dr. A and I dined out Christmas Day. We went to Luke (with an umlaut) for some traditional holiday fare: wild boar pate and Prince Edward Island Mussels. Yum. 

Enough food porn from our very Beshy Christmas. That brings me to one of my favorite songs about shellfish and a clear favorite when it comes to pulling mussels from the shell:

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It seems to me that some giant of world culture dies on or around Christmas Day almost every year; in 2007, it was Oscar Peterson. I recall that Charlie Chaplin passed from this mortal coil on this day in 1977. It's happened again, Harold Pinter the genius British playwright and Nobel prize winner has died at the age of 78. LINK.

Pinter was best known for his sharp tongued characters in classics such as The Homecoming, Betrayal and No Man's Land. I had the good fortune of seeing John Gielgud and Ralph Richardson in the original West End production of No Man's Land and it remains one of my greatest theatre going experiences.

Pinter also wrote some classic screenplays in his day; many of which were directed by his friend Joseph Losey but the best known was his adaptation of The French Lieutenant's Woman.

Pinter's characters may have had a gift for invective but the man himself was known for his generosity and kindness as well as his lefty leanings of which heartily I approve. Pinter will be missed as a human being but his plays will be staged for at least the next millenium and probably beyond.

The Guardian quite naturally has been all over this story so follow this link for more on the passing of this great man of letters.

The blogger hostiliday war is over. Some are claiming victory but the end reminds me of the Korean conflict: muddy, muddled and essentially a stalemate. So, in the spirit of reconciliation (as opposed to Kim Il-Sung and Syngman Rhee) here are the Smithereens with an appropriate hostiliday send-off:

One of my most implacable and relentless foes in the war was Mr. Suspect Device himself: Greg Peters. Toon Boy and I actually agree on one thing, Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas is one of the best holiday tunes ever. Here are two very different versions. First, Lou Rawls and then James Taylor.

Along with my new hero Bob Noxious, I've mocked and ridiculed jolly old Saint Nick this holiday season. It wasn't nice but war is hell, y'all. I've decided to ease up on Father Christmas today so here's Dwight Yoakam singing a neglected but pretty darn swell Lieber and Stoller tune:

Earl Butz was the Secretary of Agriculture in the Nixon-Ford Administration. He fancied himself as something of barnyard comedian or a prairie Henny Youngman. His maladroit attempts at humor often led to foot in mouth disease as well as to his eventual departure from government after making a bad joke straight out of a minstrel show. Earl subsequently became the butz of many jokes. That's what happens when you're a butzhead, I suppose...

One of Butz's wisecracks involved Pope Paul, birth control and was done a la Chico Marx or Father Guido Sarducci: "You no play-a the game, you no make-a the rules." I thought of Butz when I saw this headline on the Guardian's RSS feed: Pope urges defence of heterosexuality. Pontiff equates gender theories with threat to rain forests and calls for an 'ecology of man.'

If Butz were still with us, I'm sure he would have had a one-liner ready, probably using a bad German accent straight out of Hogan's Heroes. Me, I'm resisting my inner Shecky to instead sigh wistfully and paraphrase Paul Simon: "Where have you gone Earl Butz? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Woo, woo, woo."