This 2008 episode features the late Guy Clark, Joe Ely, Lyle Lovett, and token non-Texan, John Hiatt:
This 2008 episode features the late Guy Clark, Joe Ely, Lyle Lovett, and token non-Texan, John Hiatt:
It’s been a gloomy week in New Orleans and across America. The reality of who and what the next President is has started sinking in. It’s no longer an abstract concept: a man who is as erratic as New Orleans winter weather is about to be in charge of the IRS, military, FBI, and other law enforcement agencies. The intelligence community is in open-not covert-revolt, which is astonishing given that a Republican administration is coming to power. Spooks usually love GOPers. We are well and truly through the looking glass.
Goya was right: everything *is* topsy turvy. I find myself in agreement about the Insult Comedian with dissident neo-cons such as Max Boot. I have even praised a piece Boot wrote for the NYT wondering if Trump was a modern Manchurian Candidate. I’d rather give Max the Boot, but in a crisis you take your allies where you find them. They keep popping up in the oddest places.
As you can tell, I’m not in the mood for a full-blown Odds & Sods extravaganza. I’ve been battling a cold all week while still writing some pretty good stuff. I plan to keep this post terser than a Hemingway sentence. I may even grown a beard, but please don’t call me Papa or hold me to the short sentence thing.
This week’s theme song comes from the great Neil Finn and Crowded House. Don’t Dream It’s Over has a world-weary, anthemic quality that suits my mood as does the opening stanza:
There is freedom within, there is freedom without
Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup
There’s a battle ahead, many battles are lost
But you’ll never see the end of the road
While you’re traveling with me
We begin with the original Crowdies video that helped the song become a world wide smash as opposed to Letterman’s production company, World Wide Pants:
Crowded House is one of the bands that had a “farewell” concert before the inevitable regrouping a mere 10 years later. The setting was dramatic: the Sydney Opera House. It was also the late Paul Hester’s last waltz with the band. I still miss his zany and madcap antics as well as his stellar drumming.
Don’t Dream It’s Over has been covered quite a few times; even on the teevee show, Glee. That was a nice pay-day for Neil but I prefer Diana Krall’s take on the song. Cue string section:
That’s it for this week. If you’re like me, you feel a bit lost as the news of Russian spying rushes by. That feeling, plus Athenae’s great Hemingway post, has me pondering the Lost Generation of the 1920’s That’s why I’m giving Hemingway and his frenemy Scott Fitzgerald the last word.
The Residents are a defiantly obscure band that are impossible to pigeonhole. The best I can come up with is Dada performance art electronica. I’ve never particularly liked their music BUT their art design is a different matter altogether. As the Citizen Kane posters proclaim: It’s terrific.
Below is a representative sample of their album covers. We begin with the Eskimo album. Note that neither the band’s name nor the album title appears. It features their signature eyeball head pieces.
Speaking of freakish:
This looks like a cover for the incoming B3 administration. I bet Bannon has one of these hanging on his wall at Breitbart:
Finally, a residential video featuring their trademark weirdness for weirdness sake:
The Mormon Tabernacle Choir are scheduled to perform at the Trumpnaguration. The choir, however, is riven with dissent and singers who refuse to perform for the Insult Comedian and the nutria pelt on his head.
In “honor” of their January 20th gig I did a search for album covers. They’re on the boring side; either featuring the artists they’re working with or Christmas themes. The main image on the Choir’s covers is the temple’s mighty organ. Pipe organ. Below are two representative covers.
It’s lagniappe time. I stumbled into the LDS version of the Onion: the Mormon Tabernacle Enquirer. That’s where I found the parody image below.
Here’s the second set from the Grateful Dead’s 1990 NYE show at the Oakland Coliseum complete with a long countdown and balloon drop. The music starts at the 4:13 mark:
It’s time to take a look back at 2016. It may be an exercise in egotism but it’s mine, all mine. Last year’s best of Adrastos was a top thirty list, this year we have a plus-one. Sounds like a dinner party, doesn’t it? It’s time to belly-up to the buffet…
2016 was a good year for satire, but a terrible year for the country. And I was a better pundit than prognosticator. So it goes.
Here’s this year’s crop of posts in chronological order:
January 7, 2016: The Fog Of History: The Wallace Factor.
January 16, 2016: Saturday Odds & Sods: Black Tie White Noise.
February 27, 2016: Saturday Odds & Sods: All The Things You Are.
March 28, 2016: The Fog Of Historical Pictures: Grace Coolidge’s Pet Raccoon.
March 28, 2016: Charles Foster Kane Meets Donald Trump.
March 31, 2016: Malaka Of The Week: John Milkovich (Not Malkovich)
April, 18, 2016: Oy, Such A Mentor
April 21, 2016: Malaka Of The Week: Jeff Weaver.
May 7, 2016: Saturday Odds & Sods: They All Laughed.
May 18, 2016: Speaking In Dudebromides.
June 3, 2016: Trump Violates The First Rule Of Litigation.
June 13, 2016: Still Comfortably Numb Revisited.
June 29, 2016: A Fatal Lack Of Cunning & Guile.
July 11, 2016: Jill Stein: Crunchy Granola Machiavelli.
July 29, 2016 DNC Wrap Up Finale: She Won’t Stay Throwed.
August 18, 2016: Heckuva Job, Advocate.
August 18, 2016: The Insult Comedian’s Not For Turning.
August 22, 2016: Every Flim-Flam Man Needs A Sucker.
September 8, 2016: Is Trump Really Running For Grand Nagus?
September 17, 2016: Saturday Odds & Sods: Birdland.
October 4, 2016: Instant Analysis: The Debate As Altman Film.
October 6, 2016: Absence Of Malice.
October 17, 2016: Moe’s Wife Blames Larry.
November 2, 2016: Out Of Control FBI Playing By The Clinton Rules.
November 10, 2016: Sitting Political Shiva.
November 11, 2016: Confessions Of A Keyboard Maquis.
November 16, 2016: Malaka Of The Week: New Orleans Baby Cakes.
November 17, 2016: The Most Dangerous Game.
December 1, 2016: Louisiana Politics: A Terrible Candidate For Terrible Times.
December 12, 2016: Hayes/Smith: Only Victims.
That’s it for 2016. It’s been a tough year but we’re still alive and kicking. I’ll give the last word to two guys we’re really going to miss:
If you’re like me, the only thing amusing about the prospect of a Trump inauguration is how few acts are willing to perform in “celebration” of it. They’ve even been turned down by supporters such as Kiss leader and epic creep Gene Simmons. Vulture has compiled a rejection list. It’s a thing of beauty, y’all.
The Trumpers cannot even win over conservative country singer types or past contestants on the Celebrity Apprentice. The Beach Boys are still on the fence about taking the plunge. I’m surprised: professional asshole Mike Love owns the band name and he’s famously right-wing. In 2012, Love’s (right) wing man Bruce Johnston called President Obama “a socialist asshole” and said the country was fucked if he was re-elected.
Donald Trump’s transition team says it’s not at all worried about the lack of A-list celebs signing up to perform at the President-elect’s inauguration.
“Not at all,” Boris Epshteyn, the communications director for the inauguration, told CNN on Monday. “You know, this is not Woodstock. It’s not Summer Jam. It’s not a concert. It’s not about celebrities.”
Epshteyn told CNN that Trump doesn’t want to have a bunch of A-list celebrities perform at the event, and instead wants to book performers who represent Americans.
“The Rockettes represent the American people. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir represents the American people,” Epshteyn told CNN, adding that other yet-to-be-announced performers will also represent the everyday American at the event. “And that’s what we’re concentrating on.”
The notion that the former host of a reality show featuring C and D-list celebs doesn’t care about show-biz glitz is ludicrous. They might as well call Ted Nugent and be done with it. Now that I think of it, the Secret Service may not let the Nuge near an official event after 8 years of veiled threats against the Current Occupant.
I’m pleased at how toxic the Trump brand has become. The MSM keeps trying to convince people that he’ll grow in office, but only true believers are buying it. Here’s hoping that Team Trump’s inability to convince even Trump sycophants such as Meatloaf to perform is an early indicator that their incompetence may yet save the Republic.
I’m not sure why the Beach Boys are so squeamish about playing for the Insult Comedian. They’re the group that recorded one of Charlie Manson’s songs, after all. Of course, they rewrote it and royally pissed off the homicidal cult leader. Mike Love has been dining out on his encounter with Manson for years, why not add some Trump tales to the repertoire?
Eighties pop icon George Michael died on Christmas Day at the age of 53. I’ve always had a soft spot for George: partially because he’s Anglo-Greek but mostly because of that big voice. He was one of the best of the “blue-eyed” soul singers.
Michael was not known for his album cover art but I found this little gem whilst running a search. It’s a superhero take by Steve Howard on Wham’s Make It Big album side-by-side with the original:
I’m not much of a Wham fan so I’ll post two of Michael’s best known collaborations instead:
I’m just home from Christmas in Red Stick. I’m wiped out so all I got for you are two pictures and a musical selection.
The Santa terlet photograph was snapped in tony Old Metry.
It’s time for some lagniappe catblogging; a certain cat in a box:
Finally, a kinda sorta seasonal musical selection from Elvis Costello:
That’s it for now except for this: Happy Boxing Day.
We’re riding a weather roller coaster here in New Orleans. I hate roller coasters and prefer consistent weather as long as it’s vaguely wintery be it Johnny or Edgar…
I’m still fighting a cold so this will be on the short side. I know, famous last words and all that shit.
I’m not feeling apocalyptic but many people are. I cannot blame them. It’s hard to be a glass half-full person right now and this week’s theme song reflects that. End Of The World was written by John Wetton and Geoff Downes for Asia’s 2010 Omega album. The melody is a bit too gorgeous for a truly apocalyptic feel but that’s what they do.
While we’re ending the world, we might as well give a certain REM tune with a very long title a spin:
If you’re feeling apocalyptic now, you might want to be patient. It’s bound to take longer than expected. Everything does.
Don’t worry. We’ll still be waiting after the break. The world isn’t going anywhere for the time being.
Dr. A was able to coax Oscar and Della into posing without bribery. She’s got the touch:
Speaking of Happy Together, here are the Mothers with Flo & Eddie:
On Mardi Gras day, New Orleanians are accustomed to saying “Hail, Rex.” When I heard about Trump appointing Putin’s pal Rex Tillerson, my reaction was “Hail, No Rex.” Most people confronting controversy over their ties to the Russian kleptocracy would not even consider appointing someone who is close to Putin as Secretary of State. The Insult Comedian doesn’t give a shit what mere mortals think. Anyone out there still think this is a populist uprising? It’s more like the revolt of the plutocrats.
Trump has assembled a team of saboteurs. He’s appointed people who *loathe* cabinet departments to head them. We have the Doctor/Congressman who wants to destroy the ACA and Medicare. We have Billionaire Betsy who wants to destroy public schools in favor of charters whether or not they’re any good. Then there’s the skeezy fast food mogul who hates workers as Labor Secretary. GOPers used to appoint the most conservative labor leader and express shock when the AFL-CIO complained.
Then there are unqualified picks like Nikki Haley at the UN and Ben Carson at HUD. Dr. Sleepy at least fits a classic pattern: Republicans like to appoint black people to head up HUD. Hey, them people all live in inner city hellholes, right? So it goes.
Rick Perry is nominally qualified to be Energy Secretary but it’s one of the departments he ran on abolishing in 2012. Not that he could remember what it was called. Oops. We’re about to go from a nuclear physicist to an idiot heading that department.
The Russian kleptocracy has friends in high places with crazy Gen. Flynn and Rex Tillerson riding the Trump crazy train. The latter, apparently, had one of his people scrub his wikipedia entry:
It is unclear as to why the Insult Comedian picked the Texas oil man. It could be his ties to Republican establishment types like Jim Baker, and Condominium Rice who do business with the Rexster. That strikes me as odd since Rice refused to endorse Trump and sniped at him several times during the campaign. One would also hope that former Secretaries of State would support someone who’s qualified. But we know how that goes: IOKIYAR.
It looks as if the man from Exxon/Mobil was appointed because of his pro-Putin sentiments. Two of the other contenders, Willard Mittbot Romney, and Tennessee Senator Bob Corker actually know that Russia has illegally seized the Crimea; something that remains a mystery to the electoral college winner.
The only thing I like about Trump’s pick for Secretary of State is his punworthy name. I hope Cat Stevens doesn’t mind my using his album cover. He *is* my countryman, even if he goes by Yusuf Islam these days. That leads me to our next meme:
Notice the look of love in their eyes? We’re really in for it. Hail no, Rex.
I’ve long thought that East Bay Grease is one of the best album titles ever. It’s how Tower of Power described their music in the early days: funky, oily, and greasy.
It’s back cover time:
Here’s the whole doggone album. It’s a helluva record:
The original Asia lineup of Geoff Downes, Steve Howe, Carl Palmer, and John Wetton regrouped in 2006 and made some terrific music. This 2010 show was from a tour in support of the Omega album.
It’s lagniappe time. It’s a 1983 MTV show with the late Greg Lake filling in for John Wetton on bass and vocals. Lake was an awkward fit with Asia so this was strictly a one-off thing.
It’s run-off election day here in the Gret Stet of Louisiana. I’ll be voting later today in the Colonel Corpone vs. Foghorn Leghorn Senate race. Cornpone has it sown up and I don’t like Foghorn but I said I’d vote for him, so I’ll have to select an appropriate clothespin. I would say I was voting for the lesser of two hicks but Foghorn sounds like he’s been studying the oeuvre of Jeff Foxworthy. My friend Charlotte says he reminds her of Boss Hogg. Hard to argue that point, y’all.
The local news has been dominated by road rage and the law. The one many of you have heard about is the trial of Cardell Hayes for killing former Saints defensive captain Will Smith. I wrote about it in this space not long ago. It’s a very close case with the defense arguing self-defense. The local media have been all over it like turkey buzzards on roadkill. In this Saints obsessed town that was predictable and why the Judge sequestered the jury. The case *may* go to the jury later this evening.
The other road rage incident involved former high school football sensation and NFL player Joe McKnight. He got into it with some creep named Ronald Gasser and McKnight was shot to death. There was a huge stink when Gasser wasn’t charged immediately: he’s white and McKnight was black. Gasser was charged with manslaughter earlier this week. Jefferson Parish Sheriff Newell Normand held a ranty press conference, spending more time attacking Facebook trolls than discussing the crime. Normand hasn’t gone off like that in quite some time. It might have been calculated anger (more on that later) or he simply lost his shit.
This week’s theme song fits my somber mood. Dead Flowers was written when the Stones were hanging out with country-rock godfather Gram Parsons. It’s one of the best lyrics the Glimmer Twins have ever written. It’s limey country rock at its finest.
We begin with the original version from Sticky Fingers, followed by a live non-Stones version featuring Keith, Willie Nelson, and Ryan Adams to name a few luminaries.
I’m feeling relatively terse this week so I’m skipping the break and diving right in. I mentioned intentional ranting earlier. The master of tactical screaming was the late great rock impresario Bill Graham.
Bill Graham & The Art Of Tactical Screaming: I grew up attending Bill Graham’s shows in the Bay Area. They remain the best organized and operated rock concerts I’ve ever been to. One reason was the hands on nature of the producer. He was always visible both onstage and in the front of the house. You knew who was in charge. There was one time at a Dead show at Winterland that there was a flood in the men’s room. I ran into Bill in the hallway and informed him. He thanked me and went over there personally. I followed out of curiosity and watched him grab a plunger. Now that’s attention to detail.
My old friend Gus Mozart shared a link to an interview filmed in 1977. It’s called The Mechanics of a Show. It’s well worth watching if you’re a rock and roll history buff. It’s also available on the YouTube. Here’s the segment about yelling:
I saw Bill scream at people many times. He was almost always in the right. An aggressive New Yorker like Bill Graham scared the shit out of California hippies, so they tended to comply with his orders. Besides, it was Bill’s world and we were there as paying customers. He was the boss and the best.
The centerpiece of this week’s post are tributes to two men whose deaths were announced on Thursday. Other than fame they had nothing in common. One of them was 95 years old and lived a long and eventful life. The other died at 69 after a lengthy private battle with cancer.
John Glenn R.I.P. Hero is the most overused word in the English language. Very few acts are heroic and there are even fewer heroes. John Glenn was a genuine hero. It was a label that he modestly rejected but one that he earned over-and-over again. Despite his advanced years, I was still deeply saddened to hear that he’d died at the age of 95.
All of the Mercury astronauts were brave men. They risked death every time they stepped into those tiny capsules. John Glenn made it look easy, but orbiting the earth was fraught with peril. People knew that and it was one reason they went nuts (in a good way) over Glenn.
Here’s what I posted on my Facebook feed:
John Glenn went on to a distinguished career as a four-term Democratic Senator from Ohio. The punditry briefly went nuts over his 1984 Presidential bid because it coincided with the release of Philip Kaufman’s brilliant film adaptation of Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff. Glenn was played by Ed Harris. It was the role that put Harris on the map. Glenn’s campaign went nowhere. Charlie Pierce pointed out why at his joint:
…when John Glenn was preparing to run for president, I sat down in a bar on Beacon Hill in Boston for a chat with one of his chief strategists. This fellow smacked my gob across the room when he said that the campaign was planning to “downplay the hero stuff.” My god, I thought. Without The Hero Stuff, Glenn was just a kind of boring old sod from Ohio. Without The Hero Stuff, he wasn’t the first American to orbit the Earth. He wasn’t the guy who spent the last of those orbits in a tiny spacecraft with a problem the gravity of which the folks on the ground could only guess. Without The Hero Stuff, he wasn’t…an astronaut.
John Glenn was a modest man. It was how the best men of his generation comported themselves. As a Senator, he was a workhorse, not a showhorse, which is the highest praise I can bestow on a politician. He was also the antitheses of the braggart who won the electoral college and is claiming a landslide. They don’t make them like Senator Glenn any more.
He had a good life and a good death surrounded by his family. Godspeed, John Glenn.
Here’s a piece by Charlie Osgood broadcast on the 49th anniversary of Glenn’s historic Friendship 7 mission:
Let’s move on from the loss of an American icon to the passing of one of the pioneers of British prog-rock.
Greg Lake R.I.P. He was the original lead singer/bassist of King Crimson as well as the L in ELP. Greg Lake died at the age of 69 after a long battle with cancer.
I saw ELP several times at their peak. They were loud, bombastic, and pretentious. I loved every second of it. Lake was the steady, solid one while flamboyant keyboard player Keith Emerson and flashy drummer Carl Palmer whipped the crowd into a frenzy.
Emerson preceded Lake in death earlier this year. E and L are gone but P rocks on as the drummer with Asia. Here’s what Carl had to said about Greg’s passing:
The best way to pay tribute to Greg Lake is, of course, to post some of his music. I have used the opening lyrics for Karn Evil 9 1st Impression Part 2 more than once in lieu of an Odds & Sods summary: “Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends.” Greg Lake’s show has ended but the music never stops, corny but true.
Along with lyricist Pete Sinfield, Lake wrote one of the best rock Christmas songs, I Believe In Father Christmas. Here’s a live version from St. Bride’s Church in London with Ian Anderson and members of his band backing Lake up:
Ready for some live ELP? You have no choice:
I had hoped to post the original studio version of King Crimson’s 21st Century Schizoid Man but it eluded me. Another Lake-era King Crimson song will have to do.
“Confusion will be my epitaph.” Greg Lake will be missed.
That’s it for this week. May the Schwartz be with you:
I’ve been walking the anti-Semitism beat all year. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the revival of open anti-Semitism is one of the most alarming things about the so-called Trump movement. This Thirties revival, if you will, has inspired the silly along with the sinister:
White supremacists are calling for a boycott of the latest “Star Wars” movie as evidence of a Jewish plot to foist racial diversity on whites, even as some on the “alt-right” say they watch the film and root for the evil Empire.
“(((Star Wars))) Is Anti-White Social Engineering,” a Reddit user named GenFrancoPepe posted in a forum for the “alt-right,” a hard-line white nationalist movement. The triple parenthesis, known as an “echo,” is a way anti-Semites online call attention to Jewish names or perceived Jewish influence.
The evidence: “Alt-right” writers point out the multiracial makeup of the stars in the new film, the female starring role, and that Jewish producers and writers were involved. Criticism of the film evokes one of the central tropes of modern anti-Semitism, envisioning a Jewish cabal promoting multiculturalism to suit its own nefarious goals — at the expense of an embattled “white civilization.”
One writer at the neo-Nazi site Infostormer called “Rogue One: A Star Wars Story,” slated to be released this month, a product of “anti-white hate” produced by Jews. “Nearly all of the major characters are non-Whites and the main character is an empowered White female,” the post reads. “This film should be boycotted.”
Is there a Jewish influence on the series? Yes. Is it sinister? No. Is it a plot? No, as pointed out in an earlier piece at Forward by Seth Rogovoy:
You don’t have to be a linguist to figure out that the Jedi knights, who use “the Force” – the spiritual power of good deeds, aka the mitzvot — to do good in their battle with the “Dark Side” – the yetzer hara, or the evil urge within us all – bear the Anglicized name of a Jew. In other words, jedi = yehudi = Jew. And the name of the wise old man Yoda, who passed away at the very Biblical age of 900 in 1983’s “Return of the Jedi” and who was voiced by Jewish actor-director Frank Oz, translates as “one who knows” in Hebrew.
Philologists have argued, on the other hand, about just what the very Hebrew-looking writing on Darth Vader’s breastplate says. It’s been surmised to be upside-down Hebrew that translates as “One shall be regarded innocent until he is proven guilty,” which of course fits the character of Vader and his true identity.
None of this was lost on filmmaker Mel Brooks, whose 1987 “Star Wars” parody “Spaceballs” relied on Brooks’s usual Yiddish-shtick humor, including the catchphrase, “May the Schwartz be with you.”
Mel Brooks is always there with the joke first. I guess that makes him one of the main conspirators in the alt-right’s Protocols of the Elders of Star Wars world view. I wonder if the farting scene in Blazing Saddles has a deeper meaning? Conspiracy theories and theorists are hot in Wingnuttia right now. Another alarming thing about Donald Trump is his love of conspiracy theories, the nuttier the better, such as birtherism. The MSM may have moved on from that but I have not. As far as I’m concerned the Insult Comedian will always be the birther-in-chief as well as the pussy-grabber-in-chief.
As funny as conspiracy theories cooked up by the Reddit Right and Alex Jones are, they can be lethal when paired with an unhinged mind as in the recent “Pizzagate” shootings at Washington City. Some ideas *can* be dangerous and must be fought with the facts. There is no child sex ring linked to Hillary Clinton and John Podesta. A variation on that bizarre claim even showed up in the creepier sectors of the hard left during the primary campaign.
The far right and left have always had more similarities than people on our side of the spectrum are willing to admit. It’s why so many hardcore lefties have moved to the far right over the years: notorious Islamophobe David Horowitz is a relatively recent example, but it’s an old story. The 1950’s red scare was partially fueled by Communists turned McCarthyites. So it goes.
Speaking of the neo-Nazi far right, there was firestorm of controversy this week in response to an Atlantic article, Are Jews White? The erstwhile Gret Stet Fuhrer, of course, chimed in:
Humor is the best way to attack Dukkke’s nonsense and here’s the best example I’ve seen:
Oy, such logic. It’s hard to beat, right? I know more than a few Jewish Deadheads and prog-rock fans as well. What’s whiter than British prog rock? Perhaps I’ve Seen All Good People is a plot against the white race by self-loathing honkies. Let’s see:
I am obviously an exponent of using humor to combat bigotry.Ridicule has long been an effective weapon against hatred and intolerance. And I’m not going to abandon it just because an Insult Comedian won the electoral college in 2016. Trump’s reaction to satire shows how effective it is. He keeps slamming Alec Baldwin’s bang-on impression of him. It’s not how it’s supposed to work: Presidents get mocked and even the humor-impaired Tricky Dick was able to publicly take a joke. I don’t think Trump will ever learn to take a joke. It’s what happens when you are one.
It’s time to conclude this rambling essay and give the penultimate word to Mel Brooks as Yogurt:
Oy, such a schwartz. Oy, such a farce. Oy such a force. Oy, just oy.
No, I’m not posting pictures of Paul Rodgers, Simon Kirke, Mick Ralphs or even the late Boz Burrell who is well and truly Gone, Gone, Gone. This post is about the bad company kept by Time Magazine: its latest person of the year, Donald Trump.
Time’s standard disclaimer is that the honor is based on who “for better or for worse…has done the most to influence the events of the year.” Whatever, y’all. The winners of US Presidential elections are customarily honored as were Trumpian lackeys Rudy and Newt.
I’m interested in the *really* bad company honored by Time over the years, especially the dictators. Here’s a sampler in reverse order.
We begin with the Insult Comedian’s bosom buddy, Vladimir Putin. I suspect both envision themselves as Tom Hanks, not Peter Scolari, neither of them wants to play Lena Durham’s father in Girls. I see Trump as a malevolent Forrest Gump instead. End of Bosom Buddies inspired riff. On with the parade of covers:
I suspect manly man Vlad was bummed that Time gender neutralized the honor before he received it in 2007. Our next dictator is longtime KGB director and short-term Soviet leader Yuri Andropov. I suspect he’d be proud of the state sponsored hackerism Russia used to disrupt the 2016 election. Andropov was honored alongside his American counterpart who was a former movie actor, not a spook:
Looks like they had each others back. Me, I would have dubbed them Men of the Yuri…
Speaking of bad company, Iran’s Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini was man of the year in 1979 even though he wore robes, not trousers. He certainly wore the pants in Iran for a decade.
Here’s another honoree guaranteed to give the Islamophobes surrounding Trump the vapors. It’s an oil embargo based honor:
Seeing King Faisal’s stern countenance reminds me of a pun made on the name of his oil minister by NYT columnist William Safire. The minister in question was Sheikh Ahmed Zaki Yamani, whose name inspired this 1981 column title: “Yamani or Ya Life.” Sounds like a real sheikhdown to me…
I’ve skipped several dictators including Khrushchev and Deng Xiao-Ping despite the latter’s punworthy name. All I have to say to any Deng fans out there is this: tough shit.
Our next dictator was a two-time honoree in 1939 and 1942. Time to introduce the mighty mite from Georgia aka the Red Tsar or Uncle Joe:
Just looking at Stalin’s ugly mug gives me a hangover. Vodka hangovers are the worst and Stalin loved drinking his associates under the table then mocking them for being hungover the next day. Nobody ever called him Comrade Nice Guy, after all.
Our last dictator is the worst company of all. A vegetarian teetotaler who loved dogs and Aryan children but hated everyone and everything else:
As you can see, Trump is in very bad company with this honor. Believe it. I’m surprised he didn’t insist on Time returning to the original man of the year rubric since he *is* the incoming pussy-grabber-in-chief. I cannot wait until he starts bragging about it. In fact, I’m shocked he hasn’t tweeted about it as of this writing. It won’t be long.
Time to circle back to the beginning of the post and give Paul Rodgers and krewe the last word. They’re actually good company but Bad Company is a better band name:
I don’t recall if Pearl Harbor Day and ACAW have ever coincided before. If they have, my taste level used to be higher. Hey, who’s laughing? Everyone? Oh well, what the hell. Hopefully, this will not be a day that lives in blogger infamy or is that blogfamy?
Pearl Harbor and the Explosions were a short-lived San Francisco new wave band. I had a passing acquaintance with several members. Their lead singer went by Pearl E. Gates *and* Pearl Harbor. She’s best known for adding a u to the Harbour and marrying Clash bassist Paul Simonson before embarking on a solo career.
Pearl Harbor and the Explosions only released one album. The cover art is no big whoop but posting it beats the hell out of watching Ben Affleck bomb in Pearl Harbor.
Time to be a back cover man:
Also of interest is this poster from a Halloween gig at the Mabuhay Gardens aka the Fab Mab:
I found the eponymous album on the YouTube. There’s the E word again. The record is not a bomb, it’s pretty darn good, especially Shut Up and Dance.
I’ve had mendacity on my mind this week. That brings me to Keith Waterhouse’s Billy Liar. Billy is a British “post-war babe” fantasist. He’s Walter Mitty for his time and place. Like Mitty, he’s more benign than the Trump Tower liar.
Billy Liar was a huge success when it came out in 1959 and remains in print to this very day. Below are two paperback editions:
Quite naturally, the book was adapted for the stage. The original West End production starred the great Albert Finney as Billy.
The 1963 film version of Billy Liar was helmed by John Schlesinger who later won an Oscar for Midnight Cowboy. Finney was otherwise engaged so Tom Courtenay played Billy. It’s a must-see movie classic.
The property had legs as it was made into a Teevee series and the West End musical, Billy.
Here’s the trailer:
Finally, Billy Liar has provided the inspiration for some pretty darn good rock bands.
The expression may date from the late 14th Century, but it perfectly describes Willard Mittbot Romney’s dinner with the Insult Comedian, and the Zombie-Eyed Granny Starver’s creature Reince Priebus. It’s a pity that neither of the principals drink: I would have needed at least 2 stiff belts of Bourbon to cope with Trump and his lackey.
It will be interesting to see if this leads anywhere. The submission ritual seems to be underway: Trump has gotten Romney to say vaguely nice things about him after this blistering March speech:
Donald Trump tells us that he is very, very smart. I’m afraid that when it comes to foreign policy he is very, very not smart.
I am far from the first to conclude that Donald Trump lacks the temperament of be president. After all, this is an individual who mocked a disabled reporter, who attributed a reporter’s questions to her menstrual cycle, who mocked a brilliant rival who happened to be a woman due to her appearance, who bragged about his marital affairs, and who laces his public speeches with vulgarity.
Think of Donald Trump’s personal qualities, the bullying, the greed, the showing off, the misogyny, the absurd third grade theatrics. We have long referred to him as “The Donald.” He is the only person in America to whom we have added an article before his name. It wasn’t because he had attributes we admired.
And now Willard is reconsidering Trump’s attributes. Pitiful but typical. It’s what happens when you sell your soul to that old devil called power.
I’m not sure if Willard still has a soul. I’ve been advised that bots don’t have souls but Mr. Data did. You say bot, I say android. Let’s call the whole thing off, but first some music: