Category Archives: Sports

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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Saturday Odds & Sods: The Best Of Adrastos 2016

Nighthawks

Nighthawks by Edward Hopper.

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 10, 2016: Breitbart-Bannon-Bossie Man.  Bloggers Note: This post was included by Batocchio in the Jon Swift Roundup 2016. 

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:

obama-kerry-meme

 

 

Hayes/Smith: Only Victims

The most publicized criminal trial in New Orleans for at least 20 years ended with Cardell Hayes being found gulity of manslaughter. The whole mishigas was the result of a road rage encounter with former New Orleans Saints defensive captain Will Smith. Race was not an issue as both Hayes and Smith are African-American. Hayes was charged with second degree murder, so the reduced charge seems to be the result of a jury compromise. It means they were able to see through the smoke blown by both sides during the 7 day trial.

I’ve been sympathetic to Cardell Hayes. I have an elderly around the corner neighbor lady who knows him. She’s one of those people whose name I used to know but forgot. I’m now too embarrassed to ask since we’ve been chatting for 15 years. We had this conversation last week:

NL: You been following the Cardell thing?

A: Yes, m’am. What do you think about it?

NL: I been knowin’ Cardell and his people for 30 years. A nice man. What you call a gentle giant.

A:  What do you think happened?

NL: I believe Cardell. I think he scared that night. His auntie told me he broken up. Wishes he didn’t have that gun in his car. I liked it better when men settled their bullshit with their fists.

There it is in a nutshell. Despite being a very large man (6’6″ 300 lbs) Cardell Hayes had a gun. He got into it with another very large man with a gun in his glove box. No guns, no death. Cardell wasn’t cruising around looking for trouble. But he found it. Big time.

The crucial moment in this tragedy was when Will Smith’s car kissed bumpers with Cardell’s vehicle on Magazine Street. If Smith had gotten out the car, introduced himself, and inspected their bumpers, no road rage episode. There might not have even been a fight. Instead, Smith was driving shit-faced drunk and kept going. It was the prelude to this tragedy.

After Hayes caught up with Smith’s party, one of his cronies Richard Hernandez started screaming at Hayes and ripped his shirt off as if in a bad action movie. Another witness, former Saints star Pierre Thomas, said that in his neighborhood, when a guy rips his shirt off he’s ready to fight. Yeah, you right, Frenchy. It’s stupid in your hood and it was lethal in the Lower Garden District.

This is a tragic case. Nobody behaved particularly well at the scene with the exception of Raquel Smith who tried to defuse things. This was one situation where mentioning one’s celebrity status might have helped instead of coming off as pompous. Cardell Hayes did not know the identity of the large drunk screaming at him in the dark. He only learned that it was one of his favorite NFL players after the fact. He broke down in tears when he learned he had shot Will Smith. That’s the thing about football: the players aren’t always recognizable because of helmets and face masks. It helps them stay safe on the field, but it was perilous on that April night in New Orleans.

Speaking of bad behavior, the lawyers in this case traded barbs and insults from the moment John Fuller was hired to defend Cardell Hayes. Their petty bickering even came up during closing arguments. I’m appalled by this unprofessional behavior: nobody cares if they dislike one another. The trial isn’t about them, it’s about the defendant and his victim. Of course, the lead prosecutor is the Distric Attorney’s kid and Mr. Cannizzarro is not exactly warm and fuzzy. Like father, like daughter.

In the end, I think the jury reached a fair verdict. Second degree murder was an overcharge. What really happened out there remains murky but one thing is certain: if these men were not armed, Will Smith would be alive and Cardell Hayes would not be facing a long prison sentence. I hope that the Judge will be merciful. She has considerable discretion in sentencing since it’s manslaughter. I wish I could say that the Hayes/Smith tragedy will serve as a cautionary tale that it’s a terrible idea to go about armed but I know better. So it goes.

There were no winners in this case, only victims.

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.

An open letter to Cubs fans from an Indians fan

Dear Chicago Cub Fans,

It took all seven games, and extra innings to boot, but you did it. You broke the Curse of the Billy Goat and won your first World Series since the end of Teddy Roosevelt’s administration. The long wait of “next year” is over. It’s done.

World Champion Chicago Cubs.

I bet it sounds great.

As a Cleveland fan, I have to admit it hurts more than I thought it would. In the end, I was just exhausted. Down 1, down 4, comeback, comeback, extra innings, rain delay, down two, rally for a run, lose with an out from the last guy left on the bench batting… Like my team, I had nothing left to give.

I remember saying at the beginning of the year that it would be amazing if the Cubs and Indians made the series because it would be great either way. Tonight, watching the Tribe’s chances slip away, I realize I was wrong about that.

I came to my first conclusion based on the last time we lost in a Game 7. We lost to the Carpetbagging Marlins, a team built Enron: Gobs of money spent to guarantee a prize for the owners, only to have everything come crashing down shortly thereafter. If you don’t believe me, go back and look at the 1997 and 1998 Marlins rosters. It’s like two completely different teams.

They were an expansion team with five years experience.

They were a collection of overpaid free agent talent.

They caught some of the luckiest breaks in postseason history.

The Cubs are none of those things: They grew their own talent, they suffered (Jesus, have they suffered) and basically each game was what it was.

Unlike every other historical moment in Cleveland sports, you don’t have a “THE” moment, like “The Drive” or “The Fumble” or “The Shot.” You also don’t have a “blame” factor. If you asked me why we lost this series, I can’t point to a single person. It’s not “Jose Mesa” or “David Justice” or “John Elway” or “Michael Jordan.” The closest, I guess, would be Tyler Naquin, who misplayed that ball in center during Game 6, but hell, that wasn’t even close to being in the same league as these others.

I go back to what I think Bert Sugar said about watching the Holmes-Cooney fight in 1982: One was a complete fighter. One was an incomplete fighter. As the fight wore on, the difference became obvious.

The Cubs had all the pieces and everything clicked at the right time.

The Indians didn’t and eventually, it caught up with them.

That said, the realization that this wasn’t going to be as great as I thought it was settled in when it seemed like every friend I had came out of the closet as a Cubs fan.

I meant what I said back in June: All I wanted was one championship for one of my teams in my lifetime.

I got it.

I’m good.

Still, it doesn’t feel any better watching the outcome of that Faustian bargain come to bear so soon. Yes, I am happy that you’re happy, but having to hear about it 24/7 is like having a best friend telling you how good your ex is in bed. I get that you’re happy, but damn…

So this year is your next year and congratulations for that. I’m sure it’ll take a while to get adjusted to the “Can we still be loveable without being losers?” thing and trying to figure out how to kind of sweep away that whole “Man were we dicks to Steve Bartman…” episode. Take the chance to soak it all in and enjoy it.

All I ask of you is that you savor your win without being unnecessarily cruel to me and mine. We weren’t the bad guys in this. We just happened to be the team that got in your way when the wheel came around for you. Like you, we play the game the right way, we have a great manager who inspires his guys and we hate Joe Buck, too.

Above all else, though, do your best not to turn into Red Sox fans, who got three championships in ten years and bitched about not winning more. Don’t bitch about your payroll if it swells to only the second-largest in baseball or that your team only pilfers a 20-game winner from a lesser team EVERY OTHER year. Don’t let the media around you create some bullshit “-gate” that has everyone on DriveTime Sports Call-in bitching that everyone should get fired and the team should start over.

People without a horse in the race this year were pulling for you because you represented what they wanted to see in life: The miracle moment when the impossible becomes possible for all the right reasons. It’s the same reason they cheered for Boston in ’04 (Well, that and everyone hates the fucking Yankees if they have an ounce of humanity in a crust of a soul within them.) and reveled in the death of the Bambino’s Curse.

Don’t become another big-city fan base of entitled assholes, complete with an entourage of bandwagoners.

It’s harder than it looks, but I have faith in you all.

Best,

Doc

Tweets Of The Day: Campaign 2016 Edition

I’ve been spending more time on Twitter during the World Series. It’s a way to kill time while managers Terry Francona and Joe Maddon change pitchers 96 times per game, which, in turn, causes me to cry 96 Tears:

Enough about baseball overmanaging a subject that only Doc, Linkmeister and I care about, on to some random political tweets. I usually post them one at a time but I’m working on something long so this is a good way to kick the can down the road.

Speaking of road movies, Thelma & Louise star and Lefty purist pain in the ass Susan Sarandon endorsed the Crunchy Granola Machiavelli, Jill Stein yesterday. That inspired this, uh, inspired tweet:

Sounds like what will happen to the country if the Insult Comedian is elected. I don’t know who this Daniel dude is but he won the internet yesterday with that Thelma & Louise tweet. He looks pretty young so I guess he’s not the guy in the Elton John-Bernie Taupin song.

We continue with a tweet from comedian George Wallace who is so not the former Alabama Governor:

Mondeydiaper McStupid is a new one on me. Since I have a First Draft fuck quota to meet, I’ll call a motherfucker a motherfucker. I hope George wasn’t talking about teevee sleuth Jessica Fletcher. Now that I think of it, Angela Lansbury played the conniving Commie mommy in the original Manchurian Candidate, which Keith Olbermann referred to in this tweet:

Team Trump is trying to steal Michigan, a state the GOP hasn’t won since 1988.  Willard Mittbot Romney tried the same thing in 2012 but he grew up in the land of Reagan Democrats so it made some sense. Here’s Team Trump’s “uplifting” billboard:

Stay classy, GOP. I’ll give myself the last word with this trolling of two of the MSM’s worst:

Oops. Here’s the embedded tweet:

Uh oh, guess that makes me a last word liar yet again. So it goes.

Saturday Odds & Sods: My Back Pages

Monument Valley

John Ford View Of Monument Valley by Louis Dallara.

I have been fixated on the Presidential election and the World Series so I haven’t got any local tidbits to share this week. Shame on me.

When this post hits the internet, I will be at Tipitina’s with my sweetie seeing the Jayhawks. I cannot report on the show because I’m writing this beforehand. It makes me feel like a time traveler, which, given my obsession with the Wayback Machine, seems appropriate. I may have to bone up on the Back to the Future movies now that time travel is my thing. It’s a pity that my wife is a sane scientist, not a mad one, but one can’t have everything..

This week’s theme song was written by Nobel Laureate Bob Dylan. I never thought I’d write that phrase but I just did. The whole farce between Dylan and the Nobel committee is one of the funniest things since A Day At The Races: Get-a your tootsie frootsie ice-a cream. Dylan is likely to reject the award: it’s a pity he can’t send George C Scott or Marlon Brando to accept it on his behalf. Now *that* would be funny: bring on the award rejecters to accept the Nobel fucking prize. I do wish Dylan would accept the prize money and donate it to a worthy cause like, say, my cats…

Back to the theme song. I like Dylan as a songwriter but I’m not a fan of his singing, which is probably why I chose these versions of My Back Pages. The first one is from Bobfest in 1993. Dylan sings a verse but so do Roger McGuinn, Tom Petty, Neil Young, Eric Clapton, and George Harrison.

The best known version of My Back Pages is by the Byrds from their 1967 album Younger Than Yesterday. Ain’t nothing quite like the sound of McGuinn’s twangy 12-string guitar and Byrdsy harmonies:

“Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now” are words to live by at least until the break. After that all bets are off.

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A Morality Play Between the Foul Lines

When the Cubs punched their first World Series ticket since 1945, I got a text from my wife:

“Your cousin is at the game. I saw a picture on Facebook.”

My cousin is a familial strain that reached into Illinois somewhere after my grandparents divorced. When her father couldn’t get a job in education in Wisconsin, my grandfather made “a few calls” back in the day when that was a standard practice and helped him land a teaching/coaching gig south of the border.

It was my aunt and uncle, three cousins, my grandfather and his wife who all took up residence in the Greater Chicagoland Area.

They always lived “around” Chicago, but never IN Chicago. No L stops or delis where you needed to speak Polish to get served. They were basically the exemplar of what drove my wife nuts in discussing Illinois geography with people:

Her: “So where are you from?”
Burb Kid: “I’m from Chicago!”
Her: “I grew up on Hermitage Avenue. What street are you?”
Burb Kid: (blank stare) Uh… I’m from Wilmette…
Her: YOU’RE NOT FROM FUCKING CHICAGO!!!!!

As a child, I looked forward to trips down there. I always left disappointed, as she seemed to exude what became known around these parts as “Just THEIR Way.”

Aloof. Self-absorbed. Dismissive.

Maybe it was that I was the little cousin (she being three years older than I) who was always forced on her. Maybe it was that we just sat on opposite sides of the gender pivot at all the wrong times. Maybe it was just irreconcilable differences in regard to upbringing (My uncle, the coach, was like the dad in “Pitch.” My parents encouraged me to do things I liked, as opposed to whatever obsession fueled them.)

Mom always assured me that eventually we’d grow out of those awkward phases and become closer. Mom was wrong and almost diametrically so.

When she got married the first time, I was required to serve as a reader. I protested against going, as the student newspaper was starting back up after a seven-month shutdown. This was going to be our crowning moment.

Mom basically slammed the door on that one and although I was an adult who could do whatever I saw fit, I needed to do things for the betterment of the family.

So I went. She never even noticed. Neither did any of the other “Illinois Family.”

The only perverse pleasure I took out of the whole thing was that about three years later, my cousin divorced. I would commonly snipe that at least the paper survived longer than the marriage.

She was in and out of college and blew through money like water, leaving behind her a party trail and a ton of debt. Her father throwing around his sizable weight to get her gigs here and there. Eventually she became a teacher, although I have no idea how the hell this is even possible. Of all the people I thought of as being kind and decent toward childhood betterment, she was the last one I’d imagine that would fit that bill.

I often felt like this scene in “The Ref” in dealing with her:

Eventually, she remarried to a man who had been adopted by a wealthy family as a child. He’d been divorced once as well and really never found anything that was his calling. Thus, he schlubbed along until my uncle helped make him a coach as well. When his parents died, he inherited extremely well and thus my fuck-up cousin and her doughy husband were suddenly able to live the life she always thought she deserved.

Concert? All of them and the best tickets.
Casinos? Black Jack for hours on end.
Travel? Florida, Vegas, whatever feels good.
Sports? Season ticket to the Badgers (my uncle emphasizes his ties to the UW to the point of absurdity; his kids never even sniffed Madison’s admission standards, but they are constantly adorned in Bucky-wear and participating in the “traditions” of sport).

The Cubs games are the latest extension of the way in which her family (all but my aunt, who seems to almost take pride in being a Milwaukee-rooted South-Side Polack who grew up over a tavern and just happened to move south) approach life. Truth be told, I can’t remember ever seeing anything Cubbie-related in their house or hear of a passion for the Northsiders. Still, now that this is a thing, she’s into it as are the others in her family.

It’s “the place to be” so they are there. It’s “the thing to do” so they do it.

When it comes to the nouveau riche and the inheriters, the baseball metaphor often applied is that they think they hit a triple but they were actually born standing on third base. I think a more apt description here would be that she thinks she hit a triple, but she landed on third thanks to a three-base error.

Over the years I’ve been accused of playing the “city mouse/country mouse” card on this blog: I perpetuate idea that Chicago is a vast urban hellhole with nothing that doesn’t reek of bus exhaust or homeless people’s pee.

OK, I’ll cop to that, but that’s not what this is.

When I see the Cubs fans they tend to put on TV in this World Series, I tend to see two groups of people featured:

  • 103-year-old fans who get wheeled into the stadium valiantly fending off death for at least one more game in hopes of seeing the Cubs win it all before they die
  • Fuckheads like my cousin: Loud, belligerent, assholes who view things as their birthright and will never condescend to consider others.

The first group, I have no problem with at all and if my team can’t win this year, I’m glad they’ll at least get that moment for themselves. When the Red Sox got it in 2004, I was happy for all the people who lived long enough to see it and even those who took Red Sox caps to the cemetery for their departed loved ones.

(As for my stake in this, I said it even before the playoffs started: I asked God for one championship in my life for one of my teams. I got it. I’m happy either way this pans out.)

As for the second group, I know many Cub fans and I know they’re not all like this. I’ve been there with them when we had to produce the 2003 coverage of the Cubs coverage for our paper. I’ve been with them when we both said, “Maybe next year for one of us” in hopes that we could either end with an “Indian Summer” or a “Goat-buster” in October.

But it’s like Jeff Foxworthy once said about Southerners: “We just can’t keep the most ignorant among us off of TV. When there’s a natural disaster, they never find a doctor or a lawyer. It’s always the woman in the sponge rollers and the muumuu.”

Still, if you want to see what happens when they don’t get what they want, just watch “Catching Hell.” They eat their own.

The Cleveland slogan this post season has been #RallyTogether. LeBron James has shown up repeatedly at the playoff games and called for support for the Tribe during his own crowning moment. Even in the worst of times, Clevelanders have always exuded that “We’re in this together” vibe.

For Cub fans, #FlyTheW has been the calling card. For those like my cousin, though, I think a better one might be #FuckYouImGettingMine

From Bloody Sock To Bathrooms To Breitbart

Schilling

Curt Schilling and Breitbart Dude. Photo via New York Magazine.

This was originally supposed to be a malaka of the week post. Heaven knows, Curt Schilling may never be a baseball hall of famer but he’s definitely a candidate for the malakatude hall of shame. Once again, I came up with a clever title, which sounds a bit like a wingnut version of from Tinker to Evers to Chance. And that is why Curt Schilling is NOT malaka of the week.

People often wonder why some famous athletes don’t get involved in politics. Curt Schilling is a good example why some jocks should not go there. Schilling has gone from Boston Red Sox hero to a cautionary tale in 12 years. That may be forever on the internet but it’s a mere blink of the eye for those of us who either study history or take the long view of life. More people should try it. End of sermonette on the non-mount.

Schilling’s bloody sock moment came in the 2004 American League Championship Series against the hated Yankees. The BoSox rallied from a 3-1 deficit to beat the Bronx bastards and one source of inspiration was Schilling’s John Wayne dude moment. I apologize in advance for making you listen to Buck the younger and lesser:

That made Schilling a hero to Red Sox nation as he helped end the so-called Curse of the Bambino. Enough with the curses. Because of that, liberal Democrats forgave Schilling for actively supporting Bush-Cheney in 2004 against hometown hero, BoSox fan, and Athenae boyfriend, John Kerry. Big John had ownership and Theo Epstein on his side, so all was forgiven by a fan base that the New Yorker’s Roger Angell once called “gentle Fenway transcendentalists.” I’m not sure if Rog has met any Red Sox fans from Southie but the image is so swell that Imma cut him some slack.

Schilling’s first foray into politics was a mere preview of wingnut coming attractions. The election of the first black President knocked a few screws loose in that big blonde head. That’s right, Schilling became a full-fledged teanut, but what really set him off were advances in gay rights and the backlash to it.

Back in April, Schilling was sacked from his gig as a baseball analyst at ESPN. His undoing was an itchy Facebook finger. The offending status was over the second B in our title: bathrooms. That’s right, the Curtster is a fan of the North Carolina bathroom bill:

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A man is a man? That gives me an excuse to post an anti-machismo Who song. Thanks, asswipe:

Since Schilling is a Trump-style show-off who lives for attention, he’s flirting with the notion of challenging Senator Professor Elizabeth Warren when she’s up for re-election in 2018. This is akin to a kamikaze mission or volunteering to go to the Little Big Horn with his fellow blonde egomaniac George Armstrong Custer. Charlie Pierce, for one, hopes he goes for it:

Look, if I had a brand new local weekend radio talk-show to promote, I might do a lot of hilarious stuff, too. But Curt Schilling—who knows more about everything than you do, loser—has developed a marketing plan unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He has decided to be the funniest man on earth. There is no competition.

(By the way, if you’re not following ol’ @gehrig38 on the electric Twitter machine, you’re not having nearly enough fun in this world. Whatever the world record is for retweeting garbage directly from Breitbart’s Mausoleum For Chronic Unemployables is, Schilling has blown it up. And a couple of weeks ago, he explained how he could clean up the problems with the VA in two years. Whaddaguy!)

Recently, you may recall, Schilling announced that he was thinking seriously about challenging Senator Professor Warren in 2018. Again, I say that baby Jesus does not love me enough to make this happen.

As you may have gathered from Charlie’s gleeful post, Schilling has taken his mouthy machismo to Breitbart Radio. This amounts to a meeting of 2016’s B3s: we’ve gone from Breitbart-Bannon-Bossie Man to the Bloody Sock Bathroom Breitbart Baseballer. Is that 4 Bs? Oh well, I never claimed to be a math wonk.  My work here is *almost* done.

I’ve conclusively established that Curt Schilling is malakatude hall of shamer but what about the baseball hall of fame in Cooperstown? He’s attracted support in his four years on the ballot: receiving 52% the last time around. But will he get over 75%? I hope not. His on-field case is a decent one although his list of comparable pitchers includes only one hall of famer: current Fox Sports analyst and former Braves star John Smoltz. Schilling *does* have a great post-season record: 11-2 with a 2.23 ERA. But will the bloody sock be enough to trump the other Bs: bathrooms and Breitbart? Stay tuned.

The Fog Of Historical Pictures: 1908 Cubs-1948 Indians

You’re living under a rock if you haven’t heard that the Cleveland Indians beat the Chicago Cubs in game one of the World Series last night. You’ve doubtless heard that the Cubs have not played in the Series  since 1945 and have not won it since 1908 *before* Wrigley Field was built. The Indians lost in 1995 and 1997 and last won the fall classic in 1948.

Now that I’ve stated the obvious, it’s time for some pictures. First, the 1908 Chicago Cubs with a somewhat bedraggled mascot:

Cubs and Mascot.

They don’t make mascot outfits like they used to. That’s a good thing in this case.

The next picture was taken after the Indians won the World Series in 1948. It features the first African-American player in the American League, Larry Doby, and Polish-American pitcher Steve Gromek. It’s a moment of pure joy.

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I’ll have more to say about the 1948 Indians, Bill Veeck, and integration on Saturday. But I did weigh in on the team’s Chief Wahoo logo/mascot:

I’m sending the mascots to the showers. I only hope the wee cubbie doesn’t molt or something.

Saturday Odds & Sods: Just My Imagination

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The Legend of John Brown #19 by Jacob Lawrence.

I decided not to whinge about the heat to open the post this week. Why? We’ve had our first genuine cool front of the fall, that’s why. I was tempted to dance in the streets but that would be undignified even for me. I only dance in the streets during Carnival.

This week’s theme song was inspired by last week’s successful fundraiser. Posting the Temptations show and Oscar begging made me want to hear some more sweet, sweet soul music. Ain’t nothing sweeter than hearing Eddie Kendricks croon Just My Imagination (Running Away From Me.) It was written by Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong who specialized in funkier tunes than this lilting soul waltz. They nailed it: Just My Imagination went to number-1 on both the pop and R&B charts.

We begin with the Temptations’ glorious studio version produced by Norman Whitfield:

The Rolling Stones covered Just My Imagination on the 1978 album Some Girls. I’m terribly fond of the live version they did during their 1981 tour, which I saw at Candlestick Park in San Francisco. Here’s a backstage view of the Stones live in the swing state of Arizona:

You may have noticed that I didn’t use the entire title in the post header. There’s method to my madness for a change. There’s also a swell Cranberries song of the same title. Let’s give it a spin:

That video gave me butterflies: Irish butterflies. It’s time to regress from a butterfly to a larval caterpillar. Trust me, I know that’s impossible but I wrote myself into a corner. Guess it’s time to give y’all a break by going to the break.

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Saturday Odds & Sods: Blues In The Night

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Harlequin and Pierrot by Andre Derain, 1924.

Let’s get something out of the way. It’s still hotter than it should be in New Orleans. Fall has fallen with a thud as it may end up as the warmest October in recorded history. End of black market weather report.

In this week’s spirit of deja vu all over again (thanks, Yogi) I promised an update on beleaguered Jefferson Parish President, Mike Yenni. The sexting bastid is still in office after telling the public that it was “in my best interests” to stay. That inspired a scathing teevee commentary by the man with one of the best names in punditry, Clancy DuBos. The video won’t embed but the text rocks:

When Mike Yenni couldn’t avoid facing reporters yesterday, here’s what he said about his decision not to resign:

“It’s in my best interest to do what I was elected to do,” he said Monday.

Think about that statement, folks. He’s saying that his interests are more important than those of Jefferson Parish and its people. His interests.

This is a good time to remember the original Mike Yenni — the real Mike Yenni — and his father, Joe Yenni. They are revered because, as parish presidents, they always put the parish’s and the people’s interests ahead of their own.

This guy, who was born Mike Maunoir but changed his name to Yenni, now makes it clear through his actions and his words that he is not worthy of the Yenni name.

For the sake of the parish, he should resign.

Ouch. I think Yenni is hanging on in order to have something to trade with prosecutors if charges loom. A poll was taken showing that 79% of JP voters want his name changing ass gone. Double ouch. I wonder if there will be a Downfall video any time soon.

The only recourse Jeffersonians have is a recall election. It will be tough but a Metry lawyer, whose father used to be one of the bosses of that parish who was tried but acquitted of corruption charges in 1995, is pledging $100K of his own moolah. You cannot make this shit up, y’all.

That concludes this episode of “As Jefferson Parish Turns.” Cue the Hammond B-3 organ. No, not B3 that’s a different kettle of fish altogether.

My mama done tole me to move on to this week’s theme song. Blues In The Night was written by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer as the title song of a mediocre 1941 movie. The tune has become a classic thanks to all the fabulous versions out there. We have three versions for your enjoyment today. Let’s kick it off with a jazzy rendition by Louis Armstrong and Oscar Peterson.

Here’s Frank Sinatra and Nelson Riddle’s torch song interpretation.

Finally, a 21st Century version from the late, great neo-chanteuse Amy Winehouse.

My Mama done tole me to go to the break before we send in the scary clowns.

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Saturday Odds & Sods: Closing Time

Man Ray

Observatory Time: The Lovers by Man Ray.

Foreword: I wrote this post before all hell broke loose in the Presidential campaign. Why anyone is surprised that Trump would say shit like he did on that audio tape is beyond me. It is, however, amusing to see how uncomfortable the Halperins and Cillizza’s of the world are right now. Fuck them sideways. As to the party that nominated this creep, here’s how I put it on Twitter:

It’s time to return to our regularly scheduled programming.

After a brief cool down, it’s still hotter than a vat of ghost peppers in New Orleans. It’s October, y’all. This is getting tiresome as are my complaints, which are trivial compared to having an uninvited guest like Hurricane Matthew. It looks like the fucker may loop back and pay South Florida another visit. Isn’t having Mike Scott as Governor punishment enough?

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Image by Michael F.

This week’s big local story involves Jefferson Parish politics. Parish President Mike Yenni is caught up in a sexting scandal. He spent the past week hiding under his bed in Kenner, brah. He finally resurfaced with a video that kinda sorta explains why a 40-year-old married pol was sexting a 17 year-old boy. Oops. He’d been ducking everyone for days before this modified, limited hangout. Yenni even avoided a public meeting by informing the JP Council that he was deploying to Florida with his Navy Reserve unit until mid-October. He’s clearly vital personnel: he’s a public information officer. Did I say vital? Maybe not, but he’s going after Hurricane Matthew armed with whatever navy flacks are armed with in 2016. Perhaps he’ll do some naughty nautical tweeting. I’d avoid texting if I were you, Mikey.

Yenni is a third generation Jefferson Parish president; both his grandfather, Joe, and uncle Mike served in the same position. And both have public buildings named for them. The Yennis are a big deal in the burbs, which is why little Mikey changed his last name from Maunoir to Yenni. His mother was the Other Mike’s sister, which gave her boy a yen to change his name to Yenni. It was even an issue in his last campaign but he won. He’s gone from Boy Wonder to Boy Blunder in a matter of weeks.

Mikey has been caught with his pants down but may not face the music until mid-October. Thanks, Matthew. Either Maunoir or Yenni is a better name than that of his fellow sexter, Anthony Weiner. I’ll let y’all know how this turns out: people are already calling for his resignation, including my friend Clancy. The story is funny unless younger boys are involved: the age of consent in the Gret Stet is 17. Then it’s Linkmeyerian satire and not funny. Now that I think of it, Frank Linkmeyer is a rather sausagey name. Come on down, Mr. Weiner…

That concludes this episode of “as Jefferson Parish turns.”

Let’s move on to a more cheerful topic:  this week’s theme song. It’s my favorite Leonard Cohen song Closing Time. No, I’m not closing down Saturday Odds & Sods, I picked it because Athenae went all Cohen fan girl this week. We have two versions for your listening pleasure. One by the songwriter himself and the other by my friends in Fairport Convention. My fellow horrid punster Simon Nicol really nails the lead vocal. It helps to have as deep a voice as Leonard.

It’s time to close out this part of the post and run the fast break to the break in this rather sports heavy post. Holy full court pressure, Batman.

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Saturday Odds & Sods: Too Darn Hot

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Ram’s Head by Georgia O’Keeffe.

I’ve been complaining about the heat in this space all summer, which seems to be endless and not in a Beach Boys kinda way. It’s been more of a sweating safari than a surfing one here in New Orleans. We’ve been smashing daily records and even hit the pages of the Bezos Post:

During one of the country’s hottest summers, New Orleans quietly set a mind-boggling record. On 43 nights, the temperature did not drop below 80 degrees in New Orleans, according to the Louisiana state climatologist.

It blows the previous record out of the water — 13 nights in 2010. It’s also incredible considering in an average summer, New Orleans has just 2.1 nights at or above 80 degrees.

This record should be getting much more attention than it has been.

It’s been on my mind, yo. I’ve been bitching about it relentlessly. I guess the Insult Comedian would say it was all a Chinese plot and make a joke about chopsticks or tunneling to China a la Bugs Bunny. That’s right, it’s climate change and in the immortal words of Van the Man, it’s really, really, really, real.

The other big local story was a demonstration last Saturday that vowed to pull down the statue of General/President Jackson from the square named for him. I knew it wasn’t going to happen when I remembered that veteran activist Malcolm Suber was the group’s organizer. I’ve been acquainted with Malcolm for years and the word that comes to mind is: gadfly. He’s quite a talker, y’all. Unfortunately, Malcolm’s gadflyness attracted a certain Senate candidate:

I’m opposed to removing the Jackson statue despite my intense dislike of the man. I have a simple test when it comes to the monuments issue: what was the original purpose/intent of the statue? The Lee and Davis statues were erected to celebrate the Confederacy (aka treason) and white supremacy (aka racism) whereas Jackson’s honors him for the Battle of New Orleans not for being a hot-tempered, slave-owning motherfucker. Additionally, Jackson Square is part of the fabric of the community as opposed to the aforementioned statues.

Let’s get back to the blistering, blazing heat, which is showing signs of abating at last. It’s about fucking time, it’s October 1st, y’all.  This week’s theme song is Cole Porter’s Too Darn Hot. It was written for his fabulously shrewish musical Kiss Me Kate. We begin with a clip from the 1953 MGM film starring Ann Miller and Howard Keel. Then we have versions by Jazz greats Ella Fitzgerald and Mel Torme. I could not choose between Ella and Mel so I opted for maximum Porter:

Finally, please give it up for the Velvet Fog. Jeez, I sound like Harry Anderson’s character on Night Court:

Now that we’ve conclusively established that it’s too darn hot, it’s time to drink some water and rehydrate. I don’t want anyone fainting after the break, after all.

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That’s Why I Call Him The Insult Comedian

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Answer: Just ask Trump’s 10-year-old son.

I miss seeing Alex Wagner on MSNBC. She has one of those mega-watt smiles that is infectious. Alex has landed at the Atlantic and wrote a swell piece on the first debate and Presidential humor: Does Trump Know How To Laugh? She makes an important point about Trump:

Granted, a lot has been made of Hillary Clinton’s sense of humor—her laugh is shrill, too many of her jokes have seemed too prepared for far too long. But undoubtedly, at the first presidential debate on Monday, it was confirmed: Her sense of humor exists! And this mattered, because humor showed Clinton to be as self-aware as she was serious, and served to isolate Trump, making him seem like an angry spider caught in a tangled dystopia of his own construction.

This isn’t to say that Trump can’t get laughs. It’s simply that when he gets them, he’s humiliating people—whether “Low Energy” Jeb Bush, “Lyin” Ted Cruz or “Little” Marco Rubio. Humor borne out of cruelty happens to be the easiest and therefore lowest form of comedy: It is cheap stuff and it does not elevate the candidate, nor make him a more fundamentally sympathetic character. And when Trump does manage to grab laughs, his smile is a forced, flat line—a concession to facial spasm more than a natural expression of amusement or mirth.

Trump cannot joke about himself. He can only laugh at the expense of others. That’s why I call him the Insult Comedian: he has a funny delivery but cannot laugh at himself. There’s nothing quite as charming as someone who can make fun of themselves. Trump is capable of self-exaltation, not self-deprecation. It’s the sign of the jerk.

As to Alex’s point about Hillary. There’s nothing wrong with having joke writers as long as most of the gags land and one can laugh at one own’s clinkers, which was part of Johnny Carson’s genius. HRC’s demeanor at the debate was impressive: she resisted the urge to roll her eyes or pound the podium. Instead she took a different tack:

Clinton, perhaps more than at any time this campaign (excepting her recent appearance with Zach Galifianakis on Between Two Ferns) was relishing in a sort of comic levity, made initially evident in this exchange:

Clinton: I have a feeling that by, the end of this evening, I’m going to be blamed for everything that’s ever happened.

Trump: Why not?

Clinton: Why not? Yeah, why not?

Hey, why not? Therein began Clinton’s meta-routine, which was comprised not of laff lines, per se, but a series of joking asides that amounted to a rhetorical subtweet for the audience at home: Can you believe this guy?

Trump: And I think I did a great job and a great service not only for the country, but even for the president, in getting him to produce his birth certificate.

Holt: Secretary Clinton?

Clinton: Well, just listen to what you heard.

You could almost hear Clinton elbowing moderator Lester Holt in Dangerfield-esque disbelief, as if to say, Can you getta load of this one?

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: “Just listen to what you heard” is to the 2016 debates what “There you go again” was to 1980 and “Please proceed, Governor” was to 2012. If it was scripted, it was pure genius. If not, no wonder she did the Clinton Shimmy:

Was Shaq there too? I completely missed the greatest hoopster in LSU history. I know what some of y’all are thinking: It was Pistol Pete Maravich. You might be right but did he ever shimmy like that? Besides, this is neither the time nor place for *that* debate.

Now that I’ve made LSU hoops jokes, here’s the Clinton Shimmy side-by-side with the Insult Comedian:

Trump knows he lost the debate despite the 4chan and reddit shitbirds stuffing the online ballot box. That’s why he looked angry the entire debate and has been making lame schoolboy excuses ever since. Blame Lester. It was the microphone. She was over-prepared. The dog ate my homework. If he weren’t 70 years old, he might have even tried the old my grandpa/grandma died dodge. I grew up with a kid who must have had 16 grandparents die over the years and they all kicked the bucket right before a test.

This string of ludicrous excuses reinforces the notion that he’s unfit to be President. Everyone fails from time-to-time: the real WINNERS bounce back without whining and pointing the stubby finger of blame.

The funniest thing that happened the day after the debate was a tirade by the artist formerly known as Mayor Combover:

If I were Donald Trump I wouldn’t participate in another debate unless I was promised that the journalist would act like a journalist and not an incorrect, ignorant fact checker.

Those mean old facts will get you every time, right Mayor 9/11? Rude Rudy also said this:

“The president of the United States, her husband, disgraced this country with what he did in the Oval Office, and she didn’t just stand by him, she attacked Monica Lewinsky,” Giuliani said in video posted to on social media by a website focused on coverage of millennials. “And after being married to Bill Clinton for 20 years, if you didn’t know the moment Monica Lewinsky said that Bill Clinton violated her that she was telling the truth, then you’re too stupid to be president.”

Remember what I said about glass houses the other day? This from a man who had an affair while Mayor, then dumped his wife for his mistress. I guess that makes him smart even if he thought Trump deserved congratulations for not mentioning Bill’s indiscretions, which is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Repeat after me: if you live in a glass house, don’t throw stones.

I predicted a meltdown right after the Insult Comedian lost the debate to a girl:

I was only wrong about the forum. Trump’s Toddler Tantrum took place on Fox News, which is where all wingnuts go to lick their wounds and tell fat chick jokes. Just once I’d love to hear some self-mockery from the short fingered vulgarian, but I know it will never happen. That is yet another reason why Donald Trump will NOT be the first Insult Comedian elected President. Instead, he’ll be the losingest loser that ever lost.

I keep alluding to the late Peter Tosh’s song Glass House so I’ll give him the last word. Besides, a Rastafarian would scare the living shit out of your average Trumper.

 

Saturday Odds & Sods: Better Days

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Arboretum By Flashbulb by Stuart Davis.

Researching and writing about the lunatic fringe is exhausting. Any time I write a post with a picture of, say, the froggy Pepe Le Puke, I am followed on Twitter by alt-right types, the more hateful of whom I block. The rest I disappoint by being a liberal Clinton supporter. You’d think they’d notice the “echoes” around my handle and avoid me like the plague. It’s proof positive that some of these folks are dumbasses as is this GIF from the Daily Show:

The damn thing is animated elsewhere but static here; just like the dude in the Trump hat. He seems to have forgotten a Republican President named George W. Bush. If you note the back of his hat, he’s clearly one of Bill-O’s pinheads; either that or he stuffed socks in his cap. Perhaps he’s Beldar Conehead’s redneck brother. Nah, he doesn’t look French.

On a lighter note, the Krewe of Spank had our first meeting of the 2017 Carnival season. Yes, we actually plan in advance. Hard to believe, isn’t it? We have at least one promising theme idea but my lips are sealed with or without a kiss. Hush-hush.

We have a doubleheader for this week’s theme song, featuring two of my all-time favorite artists. We’re in the different songs with the same title zone once more. Let’s begin with Bruce Springsteen’s Better Days, which is the opening track of the Lucky Town album. It features one of Bruce’s best lyrics:

Well I took a piss at fortune’s sweet kiss
It’s like eatin’ caviar and dirt
It’s sad funny ending to find yourself pretending
A rich man in a poor man’s shirt

It’s hard to do much better than those lyrics but Gary Louris gives it a shot in *his* Better Days, which comes from the Jayhawks’ Smile album.

Now that I’ve finished bettering you up, let’s go to the break fast. Mmm, toast…

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Saturday Odds & Sods: Showdown

Picasso Three Musicians

Three Musicians by Pablo Picasso, 1921

It’s been another “hot even for New Orleans” week. It was the second warmest August in recorded history; at least we weren’t number one. We dodged the Hermine bullet but apparently not everyone understands the gravity of even a lesser tropical system:

Florida is also where this charming chap resides:

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Holy Florida Man, Batman.

If you’re ever in Fort Lauderdale, you might want to give him a holla. I think the exclamation point was over the top but that’s just me. He looks like he mixed cigarettes, meth and Vodka. Ouch.

The college football season starts this weekend. My LSU Tigers are playing the Wisconsin Badgers at Lambeau Field in Green Bay later today. It should provide some diversion for all the flooded Tiger fans in South Louisiana. There’s even a comedic sub-plot: some LSU players are threatening to do the “Lambeau leap” after scoring. Les Miles has vetoed the idea and warned his players that they’ll be hitchhiking home if they try it. I’m seriously bummed about this. I was hoping Les would take the leap after our first score. Guess he’s channeling his inner Bo Schembechler this season. I prefer Goofy Les to Serious Les.

This week’s theme song selection started off simply but grew like bamboo. One of my earworms this week has been ELO’s hit song, Showdown. Just for the hell of it, I did a search on allmusic.com and learned that there are oodles of tunes with the same title.

I picked two Showdowns of a similar vintage to the ELO smash hit: one by the New York Dolls and the other by the Isley Brothers. Who among us does not love the flying fingers of Ernie Isley as well as his nifty headband?

Like the Isley Brothers’ Showdown, the Saturday post typically has two parts. We’ll part for the break and then resume the festivities such as they are.

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Keep it short.

No

In honor of Daniel Victor’s simple answer in his NYT tech column, here are my five-words-or-less responses to a shit ton of stuff going on in the world:

 

Brock Turner was released from jail after three months from jail. CNN asks: Did race affect the Stanford Rape Case?

Yes.

 

Stanford has decided to ban hard alcohol at campus parties in the wake of the Turner scandal. How effective will this be in stemming the tide of bad behavior and situations involving sexual assault?

Beer.

 

Media outlets have announced the debate moderators for the presidential debates: NBC’s Lester Holt, CNN’s Anderson Cooper/ABC’s Martha Raddatz and Fox News’ Chris Wallace. Given the spectrum of voices, the “one-on-one” style approach and his promise to be “more presidential” will this lead to a fair and civilized debate from Donald Trump?

Ask Hugh Hewitt.

 

A prominent Latino surrogate for Donald Trump announced Thursday he had officially withdrawn his support from the Republican presidential nominee, saying he was “misled” because Trump said this week he was going to deport illegals. 

How?

 

School districts throughout the state are facing massive teacher shortages and can’t find people who can teach specialties or meet special needs of some students. To what can we attribute this gap and how can we fix it?

Act 10. Repeal it.

 

Colin Kaepernick of the San Francisco 49ers refused to stand for the National Anthem, something he has done in the past. What does this say about him as a person and our country?

Free speech. Use it.

 

What about the people, including former athletes, who have taken him to task for this?

Consider the source.

 

What about the police officer in Philly with a Nazi-style tattoo across his arm, who was working at a protest march? Does this guy have the right espouse his beliefs in this fashion as a representative of the city and the police force dedicated to protecting it? How do you explain this?

  1. Wear sleeves.
  2. Not on duty.
  3. This

 

 

 

Saturday Odds & Sods: Feels Like Rain

Rain, Steam, and Speed by JMW Turner, 1844.

Rain, Steam, and Speed by JMW Turner, 1844.

Tis the season for New Orleanians to freak out over the tropics. Social media is *great* after a disaster but it’s a disaster as storms line up in the Atlantic Ocean. It’s what happens at the end of every August, y’all. It’s too early to freak out about storms that may or may not pay us a visit. Here’s what I said on the Tweeter Tube the other day:

It doesn’t matter if a storm is named if it has your name on it. Look at what happened in the Baton Rouge area: that was an unnamed storm and it wreaked havoc.  My advice to people who are new to the hurricane zone is to prepare but take a deep breath and relax. Freaking out never helped anybody even if Freak Out is the title of the first Mothers album:

End of obligatory Zappa reference.

It’s been a hyper-allergenic week here in New Orleans. I’m not sure if the wind has blown allergens our way from the Gret Stet flood, but I’ve felt like warmed over shit all week. Sinus headaches are no fun, y’all; neither is being dizzy because your sini are clogged. I prefer them to be as dry as the Sinai. I have a tell-tale allergy related red spot on my right cheekbone. It’s usually dime-sized, this week it’s like a Kennedy half-dollar. Instead of day drinking like a proper New Orleanian, I’ve been day benadryling. Enough whining, wheezing, and whinging, Let’s move on to our theme song.

It’s been raining a lot so this week’s theme song is one of John Hiatt’s finest, Feels Like Rain. It’s so well crafted and constructed that it’s been covered by a wide variety of singers. I also like it because of the Lake Pontchartrain reference.

We have three versions for your enjoyment. First, the songwriter’s original version from his classic Slow Turning album. Buddy Guy loves the song so much that he made it the title track of a 1993 album. Finally, Aaron Neville crooning Feels Like Rain with the Neville Brothers to a crowd that included Dr. A and little old me.

Aaron sure can sing, y’all. There’s more to come after the break. I’m not sure if it qualifies as a full English breakfast but it’s all I got.

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Not Everything Sucks Sunday: Tunisian Hockey Glory

I love this fucking game.

A.