Category Archives: Mardi Gras

Crass Menagerie

Crass Menagerie

Krewe du Vieux rolled on Saturday night. It was a blast to march through the streets of the Marigny, Quarter, and CDB. I did my share of spanking and handing out throws. The Krewe of Spank’s theme was strictly local as you’ll see below but several Krewes did Trumpian themes. Below are two of the better efforts.

First, the Krewe of Mishigas with a sci-fi twist:

Mishigas 2017

That’s right, it’s Jabba the Trump.

Second, the Krewe of KAOS. Their marchers dressed as droogs, which was simultaneously brilliant and simple.

Kaos 2017

The first set of photos were taken by my old friend Brian. He also captured us Spanksters as we milled about whilst stalled. I’m not in the picture but Dr. A is:

Spanksters 2017

Spank has always done local satire. This year’s theme took a poke at JazzFest. We’ll begin with two views of the float taken by my pal, Christy Boom Boom Brackenberg:

Spank Float 2017

Spank 2017

Dig that crazy Spank-o-vision, y’all.

One of our throws was a sensation and still has the twittering classes abuzz. It’s a two-sided post card-sized parody of the JazzFest schedule cubes:

Cubes front

Cubes 2017

The cubes are, of course, loaded with fictional and wildly inappropriate acts.

A few quick notes:

Krewe du Vieux is *always* cold except for 2017. It was in the mid-70’s, which meant it was hotter than hell as we marched in our costumes. It was unnatural. We’re supposed to shiver, not sweat.

There are people in Krewe du Vieux who didn’t get the Glass Menagerie pun. The Glorious Bird weeps.

The crowd was huge and better behaved in the Quarter than in past years. Of course, it helps when you’re wielding one of these:

Paddles

And yes, people want to be spanked on the parade route. I don’t have any pictures of me doing so, all I have for you is this tweet:

Carnival is hard work. And there’s more to come. Let’s close with some seasonal music:

Saturday Odds & Sods: Born Under A Bad Sign

hartley-tollan

Tollan, Aztec Legend by Marsden Hartley, 1933.

The only predictable thing about the weather in New Orleans to start the new year has been its unpredictability. It’s been warm and muggy, wet and damp, foggy and chilly. You name it, we’ve had it, except, that is, for snow. The last time it snowed here was in 2008. Thousands of pictures were taken of the St. Charles street car in the snow. It melted quickly and hasn’t happened since. So it goes.

It was Twelfth Night yesterday, which means that we can finally eat king cake, and, more importantly, hang our krewe flags on our houses. I’ve been wanting to fly the Spank flag for months but Dr. A wouldn’t hear of it until yesterday. So it goes.

Here’s the flag with Dennie the den of Muses cat:

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End of laginappe Carnival catblogging, make that reblogging. If you blog long enough you end up repeating yourself, repeating yourself, repeating yourself…

This week’s theme song, Born Under A Bad Sign, was written for blues great Albert King by Stax Records legends William Bell and Booker T. Jones. It seems to fit the mood of at least half the country as we contemplate the next administration. I’m not sure whether to feel cursed or resigned but I’m certain that the shit brought to the surface in 2016 will continue to stink. Shit’s a funny thing, no matter how you disguise it, it smells just as bad. So it goes.

We begin with a version King recorded in New Orleans in 1978, produced by Allen Toussaint:

We continue with an instrumental version by the man who wrote the music:

Finally, a swell 1993 rendition by the great Paul Rodgers:

Now that we’ve admitted to being down since we began to crawl, we’ll shoot for a rebirth (no, not the brass band or the pale ale) after the break.

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Malaka Of The Week: New Orleans Baby Cakes

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The spirit of Boaty McBoatface is abroad in the land. Our local Triple-A baseball franchise has changed its name from the New Orleans Zephrys to the Baby Cakes. I am not making this up. And that is why the New Orleans Baby Cakes is/are malaka/malakas of the week.

I already feel sorry for the Miami Marlins minor leaguers who will have to wear this icky logo on their uniforms. It looks like something you’d put on a shirt for a kid’s T-Ball team. It’s bad enough playing in a farm system with a giant toddler like Jeffrey Loria at its apex;  just imagine a Latino player having to tell their Abuela they play for los pasteles de bebé or los tortas de bebé. Holy Gringos Locos, Batman. Of course, this is a country insane enough to hand the nuclear football to the Insult Comedian so nothing surprises me.

As a marketing ploy the renaming has been a great success and I’m probably playing into their hands by writing this. It’s made a minor league baseball team the center of local attention during football season. We should be talking about the bizarre ending to the Saints game on Sunday, instead we’re talking Baby Cakes. It’s way too early for King Cake, y’all.

This is what happens when you let people on the internet vote on a team name. New Orleans has been Boaty McBoatfaced. If they insist on keeping the new name, they should become the Metry Baby Cakes since they play in suburban Metairie. Jefferson Parish can add the name to its malakatude hall of shame alongside  Parish President Mike Yenni and Family Gras. People need to stop adding gras to everything: it means fat.

You’re probably wonder why the malakas who run the New Orleans minor league team picked this moronic name. I’ll let one of 44 people who likes it, Zombie Picayune art critic Doug MacCash explain:

It is an utterly indigenous allusion that relies on the knowledge of New Orleans Carnival customs. Who beyond the Louisiana borders could successfully deconstruct the meaning of a bat-swinging infant king surrounded by a purple, green and gold pastry ring? The symbolism is ours alone. Resolutely unique.

 Yet it is not a cliché.

Just the opposite. Until Tuesday it was certainly not in common use as a description of a King Cake. Again, the implication is entirely unique to our ball club. The name is an instant classic.

It’s a name that is immediately familiar. Too familiar, even. Baby Cakes sounds like a term of endearment in an old gangster movie. It’s a name with a wink, a name with a nod, a name with a knowing smile, baby. It’s a name that has happily sipped a hand grenade cocktail on Bourbon Street and lunged for a long strand of beads. It’s a name that could easily get into mischief if left to its own devices.

It’s so us.

Excuse me while I rummage for a barf bag. His highfalutin, pretentious language is a bit rich for this baseball fan. This is the name for a baseball team, not a bakery or a bar that serves sickly sweet drinks to soused students with fake IDs. In the immortal words of Bill the Cat:

Bill the Cat.

I think Oscar the Cat just coughed up a hairball in reaction to the name.

We also have cockroaches the size of manhole covers, why didn’t they consider the New Orleans Cockroaches or Palmetto Bugs? We also have termite swarms, so why not the New Orleans Termites? Because that would be stupid, that’s why. So is Baby Cakes. Oy, such malakatude.

I went on a bit of a tweetstorm after the announcement. Here’s a sample:

Forgive the missing comma, I wrote that on my phone. What can I tell ya?

A local sportscaster brought the derp on Twitter:

The PC police? What are you on about, man? The name is stupid, not politically incorrect whatever the hell that means. One can have a sense of humor and think this is a terrible idea. I may have to send these guys to stop the lions from yellin’ aloud:

My primary objection to the name is that it’s a gimmick dreamed up by people who seem to dislike the game they’re promoting. It’s like Fox Sports with their in-game interviews and Joe Buck, a twerp who has admitted to not liking baseball, speaking of which, here’s a message for Baby Cakes management:

Joe Buck Yourself.

The bright side of Stupid Namegate is that it has distracted me from the horrendous aftermath of the late election. It’s fun to kvetch about the Bad Idea police who labored mightily and gave birth to this dud. This is a misdemeanor, not a felony.

The General Manager of the New Orleans minor league team, Augusto Cookie Rojas, has a baseball marketing, not playing field background. I initially thought he might be related to the scrappy middle infielder best known for playing for the Phillies and Royals from 1962-1977, but he is not. Fun fact: the Real Cookie Rojas played all nine positions in the early days of his career. The Other Cookie Rojas is now known for giving a ball club the worst name ever. And that is why the New Orleans Baby Cakes is/are the malaka/malakas of the week.

Saturday Odds & Sods: Splendid Isolation

Father Mississippi by Walter Anderson.

Father Mississippi by Walter Inglis Anderson.

It’s been a relatively quiet week in New Orleans. There’s a new gentrification controversy involving changes to an Uptown green space known as the Fly. I’m for the status quo but I’ve decided to keep my fly zipped on this issue. I hereby apologize to everyone for that joke.

Meanwhile in Baton Rouge, the budgetary sky is falling. 8 years of Jindalnomics have left the state in such dire straits that not even Mark Knopfler could fix things. Once again, I need to apologize for that joke, which means I have to take the walk of life in atonement:

The new Governor gave a sort of chicken little speech about the state’s financial woes, which doesn’t seem to have moved many votes in the lege thus far. John Bel Edwards did, however, imply that if there were more budget cuts to higher education, the LSU Tigers might not play football next fall. Now that’s a serious threat here in the Gret Stet of Louisiana: No Leonard Fucking Fournette? Only time will tell if that helps, but the lege is loath to raise taxes on our 1%, which consists mostly of oil tycoons and people named Benson who own sports franchises. I have no idea what’s going to happen but it won’t be pretty. Neither was PBJ now that I think of it…

PBJ Spanked

This week’s theme song was, in part, inspired by the artist who painted the featured image. Walter Inglis Anderson was born in New Orleans but did much of his painting in nearby Ocean Springs, MS. Anderson was plagued with mental health issues and in 1965 rode out a hurricane with his own form of Splendid Isolation:

In 1965, months before his death, he rode through Hurricane Betsy on his beloved Horn Island, tethering his little skiff to his waist, climbing at night to the highest dune, wanting to feel the storm first hand. The water rose to his chest.

“Never has there been a more respectable hurricane,” he wrote, “provided with all the portents, predictions, omens, etc. The awful sunrise — no one could fail to take a warning from it — the hovering black spirit bird, the man of war, just one, comme il faut.”

Warren Zevon also lived life on the edge, but even the most extreme story told about him isn’t as wild as the tale of Walter Anderson and Hurricane Betsy. We grow our eccentrics larger than life here in New Orleans, y’all.

Splendid Isolation is one of my favorite WZ tunes; so much so that I’m posting three radically different versions. We begin with the piano driven studio version from the Tranverse City album:

Next up is a version with David Sanborn and the house band from the, uh, splendid but short-lived teevee show Night Music:

Finally, a live acoustic romp featuring Zevon’s fellow rock eccentric Neil Young:

Instead of putting tin foil on the windows like the character in the song, we’ll pull up our socks and muddle through after the break.

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Quote Of The Day: Fess Up Edition

Today’s quote comes from one of the usual suspects, Charlie Pierce. It’s the opening to a piece he filed from the Palmetto Buggy state:

Long ago, I read an interview with the late New Orleans piano titan Professor Longhair. He casually mentioned that he’d served in World War II. The interviewer was surprised. This tidbit never had been mentioned in any piece ever written about ‘Fess. So, the interviewer asked, where did you serve?

I served behind enemy lines, ‘Fess told him.

But where, the interviewer insisted.

 Shreveport, ‘Fess replied.

So, anyway, I’m in South Carolina.

I knew Fess had a sense of humor but it’s good to experience his inner Shecky. I still feel that way about Northwest Louisiana or Texas East as we call it here in New Orleans.

This post is a mere pretext to post some Professor Longhair. Here’s the great man with the Meters doing the song after which a club not far from Adrastos World HQ is named:

Mardi Gras may be over but this Fess Carnival classic lives on forever:

Saturday Odds & Sods: Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except Me and My Monkey

Monkeyland

Sideshow banner by Fred G. Johnson

As much as I love Carnival, I’m always glad when it’s over. We live inside the parade box, which means we have to be cognizant of what’s going on even when the parade sucks. In short, we cannot monkey around even if it *is* the year of the monkey.

Chinese New Year was February, 8th this year, which was Lundi Gras in New Orleans. My father had many Chinese friends and business associates, which made him honorary Chinese as far as they were concerned. Dr. A’s best friend is Chinese so she has the same status. Me, I’m just a guy who loves Chinese cuisine and has never been involved in anything that remotely resembles the title of this song:

That obviously was not this week’s theme song. It was just more monkeyshines on my part. I suspect you’re used to that by now, especially on Saturdays.

This week’s theme song comes from one of my favorite records of all-time, the White Album. I was obsessed with it when I was a tadpole and Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except Me and My Monkey is one of my favorite tracks. It beats the hell out of Revolution #9, which is also a Lennon-centric track but Monkey works. Hmm, I wonder if the monkey in question is a capuchin helper monkey?

Since we ‘re talking monkey tunes, this early Boz Scaggs song was the runner-up as title song. It’s  got a good beat, you can dance to it, but the title isn’t as good even if it’s more concise:

Now that I’ve made the odd monkey joke and posted the odd monkey tune, it’s time to get on with it and brachiate to our next segment. That’s a fancy way of saying see you after the break.

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Friday Catblogging: Bouncing Back

Della Street hates Carnival. She hides from company, then glares at us after they leave: “What the hell are these people doing in my house, dammit?”

There are two stools sitting side-by-side  in our living room that belong to Della. This year we moved them out of the way to make room for a keg of excellent homebrew made by our friend Greg. Della was not amused. Her stools were finally restored to their proper place on Monday after 4 days of upheaval. Della was relieved and promptly sat under one of them.

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I’m glad that Della is finally bouncing back much like the narrator of this Robert Cray classic:

Hail, Caesar

I love movies about movies. My favorites include Sullivan’s TravelsSunset Boulevard, The Bad and the Beautiful, The Barefoot Contessa, The Player, and Barton Fink. The last film in the list came from the twisted minds of the Coen Brothers as does Hail Caesar.

The Coens haven’t done a primarily comedic movie since 2008’s Burn After Reading, which also starred George Clooney. Clooney plays a rather dim superstar who’s making a film within the film called Hail Caesar: A Tale of the Christ. At least that title doesn’t have an exclamation point, so I chose to ape it. It is, the year of the monkey, after all: Kung hei fat choy.

Clooney’s kidnapping by a group of communist writers kicks the dizzy plot into high gear but the plot isn’t the point of a movie like this. The sole question to ask is: did it make you laugh? I certainly did. The laughs, however, aren’t Marxian (brothers) belly laughs but dry chuckles. The Coens *are* from Minnesota and specialize in wry, deadpan humor.

I  also got a kick out of guessing which golden age Hollywood figures the characters were based on. Slate’s Matthew Dessem has a fine piece about who may be who with which I largely agree. I do, however, think Clooney’s character is a composite of Robert Taylor and Clark Gable. Taylor was rumored to be gay and did some sword and sandals epics in the ’50’s, but the blackmail story made me think of Gable, especially since Ralph Fiennes’ character is based on the great director George Cukor. The story goes that Gable had Cukor fired from Gone With The Wind because he’d serviced the director when he was a street hustler. There’s no way to verify the story, but it’s become a seedier part of Hollywood legend.

I really enjoyed Hail Caesar and give it an Adrastos Grade of B+, 3 1/2 stars, and an Ebertian thumb way up. I’ve never been quite sure where the proverbial thumb is inserted though…

One reason I decided to review Hail Caesar is that it gave me a pretext to post a picture of my friends Bob and Julie’s brilliant Mardi Gras costumes. Ladies and gentleman, I give you Caesar, Salad.

Caesar.Salad

Photograph via Julie Graybill.

Wishbone Ash Wednesday

argus

I cannot believe I blew the chance to use that pun with the ACAW feature. Better late than never. I’m still recovering from the long Carnival season. My feet are sore, my legs are stiff, and I ate way too much king cake. There was so much king cake around the house that Dr. A made a very yummy king cake bread pudding yesterday.

I’m a bit behind on the political news but the Granite State primaries went as expected. Any time there’s a New England Democrat on the ballot, they win in New Hampshire; even Mainer Ed Muskie in 1972. That’s right, McGovern didn’t win in NH, he exceeded expectations. On the GOP side, it could be Goodbye Rubio Tuesday all over again as Marcodroid Rubiobot laid an egg after being eviscerated by Governor Asshole at the last debate.

Wishbone Ash is, of course, a venerable British band who never quite achieved the success they deserved here in the good old US&A. This punny title is unlikely to help their cause but there are actually two-count ’em two-tenuous links between them and Carnival. First, the title of the song below evokes king cake if you’re inclined to whimsy. Second, it comes from an album entitled Argus, which is the big Fat Tuesday parade in suburban Metry.

It’s probably time for me to atone for this post title but we all know I’ll pun again. It’s what I do. Besides, I’m not Catholic and the only thing I’m giving up for Lent is Carnival. I considered amputating my aching legs but some friends talked me out of it. Why? I’ve always wanted to use the old Vaudeville line: Cut off my legs and call me Shorty.

That is all.

 

Happy Mardi Gras

Mardi Gras in New Orleans, 1938 (11)

Photograph by William Vandivert, 1938.

Where most of you live, it’s a work day. In New Hampshire, it’s primary day. In New Orleans, it’s Mardi Gras day. It’s the culmination of a long season. We’ve had parades 10 of the last 12 days and if you’re like me and live near the parade route, it takes over your life.

I’m planning a low key day because this year’s Carnival has worn me out. Instead of wandering the streets for much of the day, Dr. A and I plan to watch the Rex parade near Adrastos World HQ and come home early. Mardi Gras can be celebrated in many ways and that’s one of them.

I’ve enjoyed being in the Carnival bubble during the endless hype leading up to New Hampshire. As a Democrat, I am unhappy that 2 of the whitest states in the country have  a disproportionate impact on who we nominate for President. They could be determinative or it could be like 1992 when Bill Clinton won neither Iowa nor New Hampshire and was elected President. Who the hell knows? I hate the current primary system almost as much as the hype. It makes no sense for an ethnically diverse party to pick its nominee in Whitelandia.

As for me, I’m going to play some Mardi Gras music and try to get into the swing of things for, as we all know, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.

 

The Fog Of Historical Pictures: King Zulu, 1949

The Krewe of Zulu is a predominantly African-American group that was formed as a parody of the Carnival parade thrown by the rich, white folks of Rex. Its King is usually a member, but in 1949 they honored the great Louis Armstrong:

lg-louis-armstrong-as-king-of-zulu-on-mardi-gras-day,-1949-

Photograph via the Louisiana State Museum.

You’re not hallucinating: Pops *was* in blackface. Krewe members to this very day wear blackface whilst parading, including white riders. It’s one reason Zulu nearly died in the 1960’s. Zulu is now seen as a symbol of African-American pride, not as minstrelsy or Uncle Tommery as it was at the peak of the Civil Rights movement. I still have qualms about the whole blackface thing though.

Satchmo was thrilled to be honored in his hometown but continued to live in Queens. He was unwilling to be treated as a second-class citizen, which meant living in New Orleans was out of the question. Besides, he spent most of the year on the road but New York was where he hung his hat or is that horn?

Louis received another signal honor that year. He was on the cover of  Time Magazine:

Time-Louis

Zulu has a brand spanking new signature float this year that honors their 1949 King. It will make its debut on Mardi Gras Day.

zulu-its-great-to-be-king

I’m not sure why the caption and the logo on the float don’t match but we’re not big on detail here in the Crescent City.

It’s time to give the great man the last word:

Saturday Odds & Sods: Hey Pocky Way

Rex Float 1960's

Rex parade some time in the 1960’s.

Carnival may be a marathon, not a sprint, but I’m feeling winded after our annual Muses open house, which was a bit too open for my taste this year. Additionally, the crowds on the parade route are getting rowdier and more aggressive even on our relatively civilized corner. Even the best parade throws such as a Muses decorated shoe are just junk on Ash Wednesday. So it goes.

I hate to do this but this week’s Odds & Sods is going to be characterized by brevity. I’ve been having back problems, which led one of my friends to prescribe a cure: a fifth of Jameson’s. I only had some of it but I’m a bit the worse for wear anyway. I’m not even sure I feel like punning right now. I suspect you’re uncertain whether to be scared or relieved at this point…

I may be crapping out this week but there *is* a theme song. It’s one of the great Carnival anthems, Hey Pocky Way. It’s rooted in the traditions of the Mardi Gras Indians, with which Art Neville of the Meters and Neville Brothers is intimately familiar. His  beloved Uncle George Landry was Big Chief Jolly of the Wild Tchoupitoulas.

The song was written by the original Meters and began life as Hey Pocky A-Way:

I’m not sure why the A was dropped by the Nevilles since they’re definitely A students when it comes to music:

Finally, a live version from the good old Grateful Dead with keyboard wiz Brent Mydland on lead vocals. The Dead started performing the song after touring with the Neville Brothers:

That’s it for this truncated edition of Saturday Odds & Sods. Time to eat some party leftovers including some homemade chicken curry courtesy of one of Dr. A’s colleagues. In the meantime, don’t forget to:

Egghead

 

 

Quote Of The Day: Boy In The Bubble Edition

I hate to even mildly praise Chris Christie but I got an enormous kick out of his post-Iowa slam at Marco Rubio:

“You know me, unlike some of these other campaigns, I’m not the boy in the bubble. We know who the boy in the bubble is up here, who never answers your questions, who’s constantly scripted and controlled, because he can’t answer your questions,” Christie told reporters after a rally at his campaign headquarters in Bedford. “So when Senator Rubio gets here, when the boy in the bubble gets here, I hope you guys ask him some questions, because it’s time for him to start answering questions. He wants to say this race is over and it’s all him?”

He may be an assholish jerk but Christie is right about Rubio. There’s something synthetic and unreal about him. He did surprisingly well in Iowa, but the flying monkeys of the hard right are in the saddle in the GOP primaries. They still haven’t forgiven his apostasy on immigration. Remember when Republicans said they needed outreach to Hispanic voters? That’s why Rubio got involved before bailing on his own bill when it flopped in the House. One might even call it McCain syndrome since Senator Walnuts did the same thing during the 2008 election cycle. In this year of xenophobia and immigrant bashing, it will be interesting to see how Little Marco does in future states. I do not have access to a functioning crystal ball so it beats the hell outta me.

The politician Marco Rubio reminds me of the most is John Edwards. There’s just something about him that’s insincerely sincere and downright robotic. Mr. Data on Star Trek: TNG was more human than Rubio. He also looks like a compendium of nesting dolls, stacked uneasily on top of one another. I’m unsure whether he’s a boyish man or a mannish boy, but either way he bugs the living shit out of me. He’s unworthy of this clip, but the tune is in my head so what else can I do?

Speaking of bubbles, I’m in the Carnival bubble right now. It’s a good place to be and I’m going to enjoy it until Ash Wednesday when I may or may not repent my sins. I plan to enjoy myself and spend less time on the idiocy of the 2016 campaign and the endless punditry about the significance of two of the whitest states in the Union, especially on the Democratic side. Maybe Utah should move its primary up. I misplaced my ouija board so what happens *after* the Granite State beats the hell outta me. I do, however, think the candidates should take nothing for granite…

For myself, I’ll be posting my regular features, eating and drinking too much, and doing Carnival shit. I’m not quite sure if I’ll be the New Orleans version of the boy in the bubble but you can never tell.

Speaking of talented jerks, I’ll give Paul Simon the last word:

Here’s some Simon Lagniappe. Hmm, sounds like a florist from Opelousas:

Saturday Odds & Sods: Keep On Truckin’

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Image by R. Crumb.

It was a long week here in New Orleans. There was a six-alarm fire on Canal Street in a building owned by a slumlord/tourist trap tycoon who I call the Sam Walton of crap. It resulted in much fretting before the fire was extinguished because it’s located near three recently renovated architectural treasures: the Roosevelt Hotel, and the Orpheum and Saenger Theatres. Mercifully, they emerged unscathed from the smoke and flames, and no one was hurt in the blaze.

Carnival rolls on. One good thing about the early parade season is that there will be fewer college kids in town to get drunk, puke in the nearest gutter, and flash their naughty bits. It’s always a relief because locals don’t play that except for the drinking thing. It’s an all-ages event despite all the dicks in Krewe du Vieux.

R. Crumb week at First Draft continues. I posted his most famous image as this week’s featured picture. The keep on truckin’ dudes were Sixties icons even though their creator was neither a hippie nor cared for them. Bummer, man.

It’s always fun when there are two wildly different songs with the same title. That’s why we have two theme songs this week. They come from the same era, but from different genres. We begin with Temptations vocalist Eddie Kendricks with his biggest solo hit-you guessed it-Keep On Truckin’:

Now that I’ve posted something for the soul music fans, here’s one for the hippies and old-time music folks out there:

I suppose I *should* discuss the Summer of Love, but it’s not on this week’s agenda. You’ll have to make do with another song with Truckin’ in the title:

Guess I threw you a curve ball with the Dwight Yoakam version. Sounds more like a knuckleball to me. Just ask the Niekro brothers:

Brother- Niekro

We’ll keep on truckin’ after the break.

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Tweets Of The Week: Mopping Up Edition

Yeah, that’s right, tweets. Plural. An alternate title for the post could be Chris Christie meets Krewe du Vieux. We begin with the funniest response tweeted about Governor Asshole’s mop gaffe:

Even Governor Kramden realized he’d gone too far and issued a pro forma apology. He did, however, prove that he’s a bigger dickhead than David Vitter, which is saying a great deal.

Speaking of dickheads, it’s time to mop up Krewe du Vieux season. My old pal and ex-work wife Liprap is a member of the sub-krewe Seeds of Decline. She tweeted out some awesome pre-parade pictures of KdV floats many of which are satirically phallocentric. We begin with two rather tumescent floats, one of which deals with the monuments controversy but transforms the Robert E. Lee statue into Mayor Landrieu’s, uh, column:

One of my favorite KdV peeps is the Captain of Comatose, Lee Mullikin. His krewe’s theme was Mitch & Marlin Make A Porno. The M and M in question are our Mayor and Sheriff. They loathe, despise, and detest one another. They’ve been at war for years over OPP (Orleans Parish Prison.) Since it was KdV’s XXX Anniversary, some of the sub-krewes went even bawdier than usual. Comatose was one of them:

They also projected an R-rated reel of cheesy porn clips. It was the cleaned up version: they threatened do go XXX but opted not to. In my opinion, they won Krewe du Vieux this year. Hail, Comatose.

Our float was more sedate, but we try to be subtler than the other krewes. One of our unofficial mottos is: Spank Doesn’t Do Dick. Someone once suggested: Dickless and Damn Proud Of It. But that didn’t go down very well with our male members. I was proud of our hyper-local take on Carnival culture and Liprap took a swell picture of the float before King Humbert and Queen Lolita,uh, mounted it:

Now that I’ve mopped up, it’s probably time to squeeze it, get the glitter off, and wait until next year.

Hail, Krewe du Vieux. Hail, Spank. Hail, Krewe of Chad.

That is all.

 

 

Clash Of The Entitled

Spank Float

Photograph by David Martin.

It was a long, festive Krewe du Vieux weekend. I’m in pain, and suffering withdrawal symptoms as well. It was KdV’s 30th anniversary and my sub-krewe of Spank celebrated it by satirizing New Orleans parade culture.

Spank does hyper-local satire and Clash of the Entitled was as local as all get-go. We mocked 2 categories of entitled folks. First, the Old Line Krewes as seen above. Dr. A and I cast our fake royals and we did a helluva job I might add. They’ve since been deposed and King Humbert is in an undisclosed location. Queen Lolita reigns supreme in exile.

The second subset of entitled jerks mocked were the people who misbehave on the parade route by camping out, marking off territory, and being generally assholish. We call them the Krewe of Chad and the Spank marchers chadded out in loud Carnival attire:

Krewe of Chad

Dr. A and the Michelin Man. It was cold, y’all.

 

Hand to God, I have never worn jammies in public before. People asked if I was playing a bro. Nope, I was a douchebag, pure and simple. Notice the paddle: we take our Spanking seriously.

I told you this was hyper-local. If any of my readers who don’t live in the Carnival belt have any questions, leave a comment, I’ll try and answer them. I will surely regain coherence at some point in the near future…

Finally, we in Spank believe in providing parade-goers with some light reading material. This year we came up with the Arthur Hard-On Guide. Arthur Hardy is a somewhat stuffy local Mardi Gras maven who publishes a guide every year. It’s positively limp compared to this:

Guide CoverThatGuide back cover

That’s it for now. I’m still knackered from the 3.1 mile march. That’s right, we walk, we don’t ride except, that is, for our fake royals. So it goes.

Saturday Odds & Sods: Life Is A Carnival

Dizneylandrieu

Spank’s 2014 masterpiece: Welcome to Dizneylandrieu.

I naively thought I could write a full-blown Saturday post this week. I was wrong. I’m marching in Krewe Vieux this evening and parade prep ate my week alive. I do have a short feature and a couple of jokes but this will be blissfully short. Hey you, stop cheering. I know who you are…

In non-Carnival news, the contractor who was supposed to remove the Confederate monuments had his car bombed even though he’d already pulled out of the project. I’m not shedding too many tears: it was a Lamborghini so it was presumably insured up the wazoo. I still have no idea what a wazoo is but I do know what a wazzock is…

This week’s theme song is a seasonally appropriate numbah from the Band, Life Is A Carnival. The horn arrangement was by the late, great Allen Toussaint. One of the only people who could pull off this look:

Toussaint-sandals_thumb6

We begin with the studio version from the Cahoots album. I have a soft spot for that particular LP because it was the first Band record I bought with my own money:

Here’s a live version with the Max Weinberg 7. Conan O’Brien is nowhere to be seen:

Now that I’ve let you know that it’s the restless age, it’s time to runaway, but one mini-feature first:

Saturday Classics: Holland is an overlooked gem by the Beach Boys. The opening track, Sail On, Sailor is one of the best songs Brian Wilson ever wrote and that’s saying a lot:

That’s it for this week. It’s going to be cold tonight so I have to work on layering underneath my costume. Speaking of Krewe du Vieux, my mind always turns to my late friend and blogger comrade in arms Ashley Morris. He was the man who brought Dr. A and me into KdV. Below is a snapshot of us looking goofy after the 2008 stumble. The rose between the thorns is his beautiful wife, Hana and Dr. A took the picture. Just for the hell of it, I memed it. I guess I qualify as the Batman villain in this pictKdv Meme

Saturday Odds & Sods: From The Cradle To The Grave

1916ComusArtFloat

Krewe of Comus float, 1916.

I had an epiphany on Wednesday and realized that it was Twelfth Night. Mardi Gras day comes ridiculously early this year, which means that Krewe du Vieux rolls on January 23rd. We’re shitting bricks trying to get ready for that early parade date. I’ve spent a lot of time inhaling paint fumes, swallowing sawdust, and, most importantly, drinking beer in anticipation of the big day. The Krewe of Spank specializes in hyper-local satire and this year’s theme is sufficiently obscure. Only New Orleanians will get this one. I don’t mind: I’ve got a forum for national satire right here.

We just put 2015 in the grave and now it’s time to slap the 2016 baby and see if it’s alive. Metaphorically, not literally as the Veep would surely say. Speaking of babies, we’re knee-deep in King Cake season and whoever gets the little plastic baby Jesus has to buy the next King Cake. Fuck that shit. I am a seasoned King Cake baby liar. I blame my disorder on this creepy mascot our NBA team unleashes on its unsuspecting fans every Carnival season:

King Cake baby

Seeing double with King Cake Baby and Pierre the Pelican.

Have I ever mentioned how much I loathe and despise mascots? I hate them almost as much as I hate Vodka, which is only suitable for drunken Mensheviks. No wonder Lenin had them all liquidated. Speaking of horrendous, there’s actually a vile-tasting King Cake Vodka on the market:

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I *almost* wrote about this week’s theme song earlier but wound up riffing on King Cake babies  and Vodka instead. From The Cradle To The Grave is the title track of the brand spanking new Squeeze album. The video below features age-morphing, which is much better than the lame and insipid  Krewe of Morpheus, which is best known for its EMPTY FLOAT.

Now that I’ve thoroughly confused you with that hyper-local Carnival joke, let’s play another Squeeze song before the break:

A totally ridiculous video for a great song. More ridiculous nonsense after the break.

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Friday Guest Catblogging: Dennie & The Big Man

It’s Carnival time, which means I’m spending a lot of  time at the den preparing for this year’s Krewe du Vieux parade. That, in turn, means that I get to hang-out with Dennie the den cat.

Dennie is a very friendly cat. Here’s a picture of her sitting on the lap of my friend Chris, the Clarence Clemons of the Krewe of Spank. Btw, Dennie is a mid-sized cat. She only looks small compared to the Big Man’s hands:

Dennie & The Big Man

Speaking of the Other Big Man:

Tweet Of The Day: Confederate Tagging Edition

Someone in New Orleans celebrated Amateur’s Night with a bit of tagging:

There was something of a debate among the Twitteratti about who Angela was. The mystery was solved by another picture showing that it was Angela Davis. That’s right, *that* Angela whose main period of notoriety was in the 1970’s. She was a college professor who got into it with then California Governor Ronald Reagan at the beginning of a long career of radical activism. John and Yoko even recorded a crappy song about her alleged role in a prison break on their radical chic album, Sometime In New York:

The idea of replacing the Jefferson Davis statue with one of Angela Davis is *almost* as funny as General Sherman conquering the Robert E. Lee monument. Sherman, however, does have local ties. He was the first superintendent of the school that became LSU. Geaux Tigers.

The removal of the monuments is in the hands of the Federal Courts, namely Judge Carl Barbier who is a Clinton appointee. The first hearing on the suit is on January 14th. It’s unclear who will bring the King Cake and whether or not Barbier will give the lawsuit an instant haircut and throw it out. Stay tuned. Just remember if you get the baby, you have to buy the next King Cake.