We're not at all above reposting our own stuff in the service of journalism. By journalism, of course, I mean laziness and lack of inspiration. And since this weekend happens to be the 10th anniversary of one of the great weekends of the tiny dictator's life, it's an excellent excuse to re-up a terrific post.
Well, the longer we wait to post something to do with our jaunt to JazzFest 2009, the more underwhelming it will be. As it is, I can't imagine a blog post that could ever do a great New Orleans weekend justice; if you've never been, there's no capturing the wow-ness of the place. If you have been, discussions of it either don't hold up to your ridiculous memories of the place or piss you off that you missed out.
Anyway . . . the biggest aspect of the weekend may have been the little guy's first foray into the Crescent City. G:TB's own Rob joined me, a couple of W&M folks, and a small horde of my hometown chums at the Fest. I'd say his eyes were sufficiently widened and his horizons sufficiently broadened throughout the weekend. Hell, every time I go back, mine are all over again. For his part, Squirrel truly brought his A-game and then some.
Rather than give you a rundown of our weekend teen journal style -- that would inevitably not make chronological sense due to the fuzzy memory of the journalist (only because so much was going on and I wasn't concentrating on the details of the moment!), I'll just show how Rob found out you can spend 72 hours in that town and still only see a fraction of its offerings.
The Music What we heard: The best Fest music ever, so says I. For those familiar with New Orleans artists, Galactic, Trombone Shorty, and old fave and redhead fiddler extraordinaire Amanda Shaw really brought it -- in addition to the bunch of great smaller acts who graced the Fais-Do-Do stage. Shorty was a late addition to our viewing docket, since the Drive-By Truckers backing Booker T were hell and gone from our encampment, and he rewarded us with a bang-up, foot-stomping set. Oh, and Amanda Shaw is 18 now, so comments about her aren't (as) creepy.
More well known artists like Spoon and Dave Matthews delivered the goods as well, but the Avett Brothers and Wilco really lit up their respective stages. Wilco is solidifying its place as the best live band in America right now. And the Avetts . . . well, they do their own thing, and do it well.
What we didn't hear: We took in no live post-Festival music at places like the House of Blues, Tipitina's, Maple Leaf, Howlin' Wolf, or 1,000 other places. We did catch a bit of a band at the Sea Horse Saloon across from the Fest, but according to those not blacked out, I put my feet up and my eyelids down for most of that. Next time, Rob, we'll get you to some of them nighttime joints.
The Food What we ate: The Bayou Philly at Cooter Brown's was no letdown. I ate some other delectables there off other people's plates, but I can't really remember what or if they were even friends of mine. Cooter's was very fuzzy. (Pun intended.) We also had a killer shrimp/fried green tomato/remoulade po' boy at a great place called Mahoney's in the Garden District pre-Fest Saturday.
As for the JazzFest food, I feel like Rob really only got a tiny taste (TJ, joke) of it. Crawfish bread and Crawfish Monica are two absolute staples, but the list goes on so far beyond that. Still... they're fucking dynamite.
Oh, and we ate the hell out of Igor's burgers at some point. As the story goes.
What we didn't eat: Jambalaya, crawfish pie, filet gumbo. (I actually ate some gumbo and got most of it on my shirt, but no real worries -- I wore the shirt for two full days and nights, so it was looking awesome anyway.) No meat pie, no red beans & rice, no crawfish sack. (Crawfish sack is underrated, and you can guess why.) No boiled crawdads. Next time, more Fest food, Robert.
The Drink What we drank: Beer. Assloads of it. Abita Amber. Foster's. Miller Lite. PBR. Heineken. Bud. Red Stripe. I remember drinking a Coors on a bet, I think. Bloody Marys with green beans. A tequila shot followed quickly by a Jager shot. A number of screwdrivers, but only because it was breakfast time (in England).
What we didn't drink: Chivas Regal. Chimay. Zinfandel. Zima. A few other things. And hand grenades, because--
The Place Where we went: The Fairgrounds for JazzFest. Igors. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. We did do something I haven't done much in New Orleans, and that's party at some people's place of residence. Some newly made friends of friends had us over once (or twice . . . honestly, Rob, please help me on these logistics).
Where we didn't go: The French Quarter, amazingly. TJ goes to NOLA and never leaves the Quarter, Rob goes and never enters it. I won't speak for him, but I think we did a good job of partying in the Garden District and at and around the Festival, neutralizing any strong desire to head downtown. He still needs to go back if for that alone, but we did just all right without it.
And finally, the strongest performance of the trip:
So we rock it out Friday but hit the hay at a very East Coast not-New Orleans hour (2ish). We get up, head back down to the nextdoor bar (Igor's) and have Bloody Marys. Fest it up again, get shnockered to the gills, do ____ and ____ and maybe ____, then I get fall-down "tired" and go to bed. Midnight. Embarrassing.
I wake up at 5 AM, see that my man the Squirreler is still not back, and call him. He berates me, but I'm just thrilled to know he's still at Igor's. I race downstairs (hence, the clothes don't get changed) and try to redeem myself by drinking at the bar from 5 til noon or so. His two compatriots tag out, and I figure he might need to do the same.
Nope.
He powers through the whole day, not pausing to stop drinking and making it til close to midnight Sunday before he crapped out. Unbelievable. I was actually pleased with my rise-and-shine rock star performance that day (I was a little inspired by seeing my old friend Bryan behind the bar t 5 AM after a 3 years' ban), but I have to tip the cap to the little guy. Such a hearty rookie performance, I overheard one friend's wife proclaim, "Whitney's out, Squirrel's in. Squirrel is the new Whitney." Not sure about all that, but still.
And so the recovery time ensues. We're looking at 2-3 full days before feeling like a human again kicks in. Ugh.
And that's what we did. Most of it. Some of it. I don't know.
Love letters come in lots of shapes and sizes. Witness the following email, from one of G:TB's own to a friend of ours who'd sent an innocent email asking for recommendations on diversions for his impending trip to New Orleans. Ignore the first sentence, which is parry to the thrust of another friend's email. The rest of it manages in a few short paragraphs to pack in 10+ years of good times, good friends we have, and good friends we've lost in a mash note to a city.
Chip is right. . . about my old girlfriend. Actually, she's a bloody nice girl and is actually in my current circle of friends, much to her husband's serious chagrin.
Anyway, about New Orleans. Chip is actually right about the music joints. I saw Wilco a couple of nights at Tipitina's Uptown in March and I am still reeling. Also check out the Howlin' Wolf, the Maple Leaf, and for the coolest little music scene in . . . . maybe America, check out a place called Le Bontemps Roule. Killer place.
Igor's is a place where I have seen God several times. A must, and the later you hit it, the better. It's in the Garden District. Go by the Columns down the street for a little more upscale (upscale frat guy) time. If there's an Aussie lady named Karen working at Igor's, drop my name. And maybe break the news to her that Dave Flynn is dead.
While in the Quarter, go to Pat O's if you must, but get your money's worth more at Tropical Isle (multiple locations). Hand Grenades (basically 150 proof Gatorade) will knock you on your ass. Beware/enjoy. BEFORE you do either of those, go to the Monteleone Hotel bar and have a Bloody or a beer there. There is a certain unique gimmick to that bar that's very much worth the trip. If you find yourself at Club Decatur in the Quarter and a Scotsman with a pony tail named Bryan is serving you, drop my name. And maybe break the news to him that Dave Flynn is dead. For great eats, an enormous beer list, and a cool place to shoot pool and relax, definitely go to Cooter Brown's. End of the streetcar line on St. Charles. Last time there I ordered the Bayou Philly:
Bayou Philly ........................................................... $10.00 Gator Sausage, shrimp, grilled and topped with roasted peppers, onions, Pepper Jack and American cheese with remoulade sauce
F-ing kick-ass. I am pretty sure Christina the beautiful bartender who looks like Sandra Bullock (and loves me) is still gone to FLA, but if not, you're in for a treat. Cooter's is a staple for freshly shucked oysters, a good juke, and reloading on grub between binges. Get there.
Rock 'n Bowl, Midtown Lanes. Pain in the ass to get to, dingy as hell, it's old school bowling and cheap beer drinking with a band playing. Love it.
That's about all I can come up with off the top of my head. Miss that town. Have one for me.
New Orleans, Louisiana is, in my humble estimation, the most interesting city in the world.
The quintessential hub of culture, music, cuisine, ecology, history, spirits, social stratification, and the allowance of the good times to roll, NOLA leads the world in many categories, including nicknames:
The Big Easy
The Crescent City
The Birthplace of Jazz
Mardi Gras City
The City that Care Forgot
The Northernmost Caribbean City
America's Most Interesting City
Queen City of the Inland Sea
The Gateway to the Mississippi Valley
Home of Igors
Igor at Igors
I first was exposed to New Orleans' loins (New Orloins) in the summer of 1995. I attended my high school buddy Ned's wedding in the Garden District days after Jerry Garcia died. That weekend we shook it like Sugaree, and I could swear I saw Jerry's ghost among the many apparitions who inhabit the city. I walked into Igors bar/game room/laundromat on a Friday night about 11, walked out the next morning about 7:30, and nothing was ever the same.
My most recent trip to my favorite city on the planet was last week. I saw Ned, I took in some more spirits, and I spent indefensible amounts of time in Igors. Not much changes down there. The multitude of bodily aches I felt as I left town last Thursday included some in my face from smiling and laughing for seven straight days. God, I love that town.
This monkey could dance
I could regale you with a recap of my week in the sun, replete with culinary (grilled shrimp, fried green tomato, remoulade po-boy at Mahony's; firecracker shrimp at Parasol's; swordfish topped with lump crab and crawdads at Palace Cafe), musical (JazzFest music galore, Rebirth at Le Bon Temps, and so much more), and dipsomaniac (from Cooter Brown's to Pat O's and many in between) memories, but that'd just be rubbing it in.
This was my 17th visit to this fair city and my 10th JazzFest. There was a stretch from 2009 until 2015 when I never got back there. Terrible idea. I am always reminded of how much I love the place, and that I need annual sojourns there for peace-of-mind purposes. Join me in the years ahead, won't you?
The last night I was in town (after Fest and conference were over), Ned got us tickets for a show at Preservation Hall. For the uninformed, I'll let the PresHall website explain:
New Orleans’ Preservation Hall was established in 1961 to honor one of America’s truest art forms – Traditional New Orleans Jazz. Operating as a music venue, a touring band, and a non-profit organization, Preservation Hall continues its mission today as a cornerstone of New Orleans music and culture.
Situated in the heart of the French Quarter on St. Peter Street, the Preservation Hall venue presents intimate, acoustic New Orleans Jazz concerts over 350 nights a year featuring ensembles from a current collective of 100+ local master practitioners. On any given night, audiences bear joyful witness to the evolution of this venerable and living tradition.
On this night a few Preservation Hall Jazz Band players welcomed some musical guests into the fold for a one-set tribute to the late, great native son Lee Dorsey. I hadn't realized how amazing the dilapidated Hall is, how tiny a venue it is, or that Ned had landed us front-row seats. Close enough that I seriously needed to dodge the trombone (not a euphemism) on many an occasion.
The players were all as fantastic as the backdrop was. Well-known in musical circles but not thoroughly recognized beyond the region, they were each incredibly skilled; full of smiles, jokes, and stage presence; and in love with Lee Dorsey's gumbo-soaked tunes.
Eric "Benny" Bloom: trumpet
Jon Cleary: piano
Jamison Ross: drums
Roland Guerin: bass
Clint Maedgen: saxophone
Ronell Johnson: trombone
Additional guests stepped in for songs here and there, including a be-wigged Angelo Moore of Fishbone who showed up out of nowhere to sing and play sax on "Get Out of My Life Woman." So good.
Other songs (many written by old fave Allen Toussaint, RIP) they played to perfection: "Yes We Can," "Ya Ya," "Everything I Do Gohn Be Funky (From Now On)," "Holy Cow," "Ride Your Pony," "Sneakin' Sally Through the Alley," and my all-time favorite... "Working in the Coalmine."
There are concerts that are the perfect length, those that you are ready to exit early, and those that you just hope will keep going on and on. This fell under that final category. I knew I was amid greatness, I was so close I felt like I was trespassing (or should've picked up a tambourine), and I knew it would leave a mark. "New Orleans ain't a city, it's a scar." -- Old 97's, "504"
This city leaves marks on me inside and out. Seems like a fleur-de-lis tattoo might have to happen.
Pics from the show... that's me in the blue shirt and Jagermeister ballcap looking like a tourist. But with a stellar vantage point.
The atmosphere is electric in my living room as I type this, hands quivering slightly, heart racing. I'm about to change my life, and that of millions of others. One Man's Free Agent Journey is at an end, soon to be replaced by One Man's Weird Feelings on Sunday Afternoons and the Occasional Monday.
Here with me today (at least in spirit) are representatives of the Patriots (Rob Gronkowski, obviously), Texans (Jonathan Grimes, recently added to Houston's practice squad), Saints (Sean Payton, because he's got nothing better to do), and Colts (my man Jim Irsay, who's spitting beat poetry to my bewildered cat). Irsay brought me another tie, and a giant bottle of milk from the Indianapolis 500. Payton came bearing a Bayou Philly from Cooter Brown's and a Thermos full of Sazeracs. Grimes, since he's so young, didn't think to bring anything, but he gave me some Tribe love, which was nice. And Gronk, as I'm sure you could've guessed, came accompanied by strippers. Had to send the kids to bed early.
Enough with the preliminaries, then. Let's do this. The first two teams eliminated are:
New England Patriots
The Pats were my team by birthright, the squad I first followed. Boston is my ancestral home, and while the Patriots were always a distant fourth behind the Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins in the family pecking order, we still rooted for them. Steve Grogan was my first favorite football player - I had an awesome action figure in his likeness, complete with fully articulated arms and legs (not neck, though, so it wasn't a completely accurate rendering).
I moved to the D.C. area in the autumn of 1983, just in time for Riggo's run to glory. I'd never lived in an NFL town before, and I was swept up in the excitement. For almost 30 years. I remained fond of the Patriots, rooting for them in each of their Super Bowl appearances, but they weren't my team.
But as much as I love Boston, and despite my ties to the franchise, becoming a Patriots fan at this point in history would be the worst kind of front-running. So, apologies to my grandparents, but this prodigal son's not returning.
Houston Texans
Gary Kubiak's squad has a lot going for it. A distinctly upward trend. A superstar running back with a unique approach to life in Arian Foster. W&M's own Grimes. The league's best logo. My man Matt Schaub, possessor of a fantasy football championship ring courtesy of my inspired leadership.
But I'm compelled by all the negative press the Houston metro area has received in these parts over the past few days. I've been to Houston. I was not impressed by Houston. Houston was both hot as fuck and not terribly interesting.
But I do like the logo.
And that leaves us with the Indianapolis Colts and the New Orleans Saints. Let's break this down, tale of the tape style, into the categories I've loosely and capriciously tossed around during the decision-making process:
Uniforms
The Colts' blue and white is clean, crisp, and simple, while New Orleans' black and gold is a bit more prepared to party. It's as if the togs mirror their respective cities.
Edge: Push, either is light years better than burgundy and gold.
Personalities
The Saints have the edge here in quantity. It's hard not to like Drew Brees. Darren Sproles is one of very few NFLers I can look in the eye without hurting my neck. Mark Ingram went to Alabama. Jonathan Vilma has a huge chip on his shoulder. Marques Colston played in the CAA. Jimmy Graham threatens to overtake Gronk as the league's preeminent tight end. And if you don't know about it, Steve Gleason's story is the stuff of a Brian's Song remake - an amazingly sad and touching thing.
Meanwhile, the Colts counter with the opportunity to root for Andrew Luck from the ground floor. But after him and Dwight Freeney, badass supreme, there's not much to latch onto. Coby Fleener is fun to say, as is Mewelde Moore. Reggie Wayne and Adam Vinatieri are pros' pros. The needle isn't moving much, though.
Edge: Saints, though as Clarence noted earlier, basing this exercise on today's players is a great way to ensure we'll be doing it again in a few years, much to Jerry's glee.
Owners
Irsay's hard not to love (though don't say that anywhere near Charm City). He's equal parts hippie, musician, comedian, raconteur, and businessman. He brings loads of personality and far more importantly, clearly loves his team, his town, and his fans.
New Orleans' Tom Benson is a daft, dancing, whackadoodle with an equally clear love for his team, but he loses a lot of points for his post-Katrina semi-threats to relocate the Saints.
Edge: Colts
History
For the longest time, the Saints were one of the lowliest franchises in all of professional sports. From their inception in 1967 until 2000, they won exactly as many playoff games as G:TB did. The 1980 team lost its first 14 games, prompting fans to wear paper bags over their heads in shame at being 'Aint's' fans. The 21st Century has clearly been kinder to New Orleans, with the arrival of Brees in 2006 heralding a new era, capped by a Super Bowl win in 2009. I confess that this recent success gives me some pause, but it is tempered by the fact that my fictional Saints fan backstory will predate the championship.
The current incarnation of the Colts was birthed in infamy, carried by Mayflower vans from the bosom of Baltimore's loyal rooters. But the Peyton Manning era was certainly one of the more prolific in league history, and though the team only won a single title, their status as an elite team was sustained for a decade. Right up until last season. Which offers an intriguing opportunity for the prospective new fan.
Edge: Don't pressure me. This is hard.
Intangibles
Once again, Indy offers up Luck, while the Saints counter with the possibility of an epic 'us against the world' run that could culminate this season in the first ever home field Super Bowl.
Edge: Saints - I'm looking for instant payback on this new investment. Luck's a long play, while the possibility of Roger Goodell having to hand Drew Brees the Lombardi Trophy (let's not kid ourselves, Benson would totally do that for the 'fuck you' value) is almost too awesome to contemplate.
Location
Hoo, boy. Many of you argued that the city itself was a critical component in this process. I honestly hadn't really considered that point until you raised it.
I had a great time in my only visit to Indianapolis some 20 years ago. I don't remember all that much about it, but I do recall it being friendly, easy to navigate, and fun.
But I had one of the Hall of Fame weekends of my life in New Orleans. It's fucking New Orleans, man. The best food in the world. The best and most sustained party in the world, non-Rio de Janeiro division. The most laissez faire people in the world - or the most laissez les bon temps roulez people in the world. Your choice.
Edge: Saints. Duh.
Until two days ago, I was convinced the Colts were my new team. I already have Colts gear, courtesy of Jim Irsay. I was into the Andrew Luck thing. Honestly, I wasn't even thinking about the Saints. And then I started thinking about the Saints.
The only negative, and it's not really even a negative, is the fact that the Saints' recent success and strong prospects opens me to charges of bandwagonry. But I'd argue that nobody's really jumping on New Orleans' bandwagon. In fact, in the wake of Bountygate, people are writing them off. They've almost got the whiff of the underdog about them. Certainly, they're a great story.
And, as a really smart fellow once said, it's fucking New Orleans, man.
Oh, and the Saints' Week One opponent? The Washington Redskins.
The Almighty Yojo recently wrote about masculinity and proposed that it could be defined along a continuum. I think that there are many dimensions to masculinity and that it is therefore difficult to define in a linear fashion. I am, of course, too lazy to come up with a multi-dimensional model for anything, let alone something as arbitrary and subjective as manliness. So a continuum we shall have.
Manly archetypes include the warrior, athlete, hunter, engineer (as in guys who can build or fix things, not Dilbert), and stud. Manly attributes include strength, courage, honor, and mustaches. Manly inanimate objects include fast cars, scary guns, loud motorcycles, brown liquor, yellow beer, sports apparel, and big speakers.
There are many other manly archetypes (father, husband, frat guy, lecher), attributes (toughness, shoulder hair, flatulence), and possessions (boats, stripper poles, taxidermy). This makes a quantitative analysis of manliness too difficult to undertake, so I will present my own personal continuum of masculinity along with a rationale. I don't profess that it is perfect or even close to accurate, and I wish others would admit the same when undertaking a similarlyimpreciseexercise.
Accordingly, I'm not going to come up with some masculinity points system (although points are huge), tally up the scores for various people, run some bullshit nonparametric analysis, and tell you who the manliest guys are (p < 0.05). Instead I'm going to rely on the aformentioned archetypes, attributes, and possessions, as well as anything else that sways my opinion, and present to you a continuum. I will not include any women on my continuum. It would be funny to include a female sturdily-built athlete, domineering political figure, or TV personality, but women are women and deserve their own continuum. Which I would like to see Dave assemble. There has to be a maximum and minimum to any continuum, and I was tasked with creating a continuum including both people and actions. The most male thing you can do, definitionally, is put to your penis into a woman's vagina. But "banging chicks" seems like a pretty lousy maximal point for the continuum. In fact it is nothing more than the midpoint of the continuum -- having sex with a woman is manly, but any man can do it (except for Raffie Palmeiro and Jake Barnes) so it seems like it's really only an average manly activity. And people perform more than one activity so in the aggregate they can be very masculine even if they don't have sex with women. For example, Robert DeNiro's priest character in Sleepers (but chastity is not masculine, more on this later), or Gareth Thomas. So the extreme ends of my continuum will be anchored by people, not activities.
The bottom of my manliness continuum is set by RuPaul. I don't put him at the bottom because I suspect that he's gay. Gay men can be very masculine (Gareth Thomas is tougher than anyone on the G:TB staff). I put him at the bottom because he hits none of the manliness factors. Here's an ad he did for Viva Glam cosmetics:
He also released this music video.
RuPaul is about as feminine as a man can be. And I mean that as a compliment, since he's a drag queen. I cannot picture RuPaul fishing or cleaning a fuel injector. I can't even picture him wearing something other than makeup, a dress, and high heels. Thus he anchors the bottom of the continuum.
If you want to argue that RuPaul isn't the world's least masculine exemplar, go ahead. At that point you're splitting hairs. It's like arguing over who's the world's tallest midget. No one wins.
The other end of the continuum, the epitome of masculinity, is Thomas Sullivan Magnum IV, the main character from "Magnum P.I.". Magnum is a Navy SEAL and Vietnam veteran who kills someone almost every episode (warrior); played quarterback (RFQB?) at the Naval Academy, once trod water for 24 hours, and surfed regularly (athlete); he can fix cars and helicopters, pick locks, and dissemble and reassemble firearms blindfolded (engineer); and he gets a different woman every week (stud). He drives a Ferrari, wears his dad's hand-me-down Rolex, lives for free on an estate in Hawaii, has unlimited free access to his buddy's helicopter, and drinks for free at the King Kamehameha Club. He owns a gun, a Detroit Tigers hat, and a rubber chicken. He's so manly that they named extra-large rubbers after him. He has tremendous amounts of chest hair and one of the most famous mustaches of all time, behind only Chaplin, Hitler, Marx, and maybe Fingers.
I'm sure many of you disagree. That's fine, get your own continua. But you can't put someone like Derek Jeter or Joe Namath at the top of the continuum. They're stud athletes for sure, but neither ever killed a man and I doubt either one of them knows how to replace an oil filter (though Namath had a good stache). Ted Williams likely killed many people in World War II and Korea and he was the best hitter ever, but he wasn't much of a stud and he played for the Red Sox, the least manly team in pro sports (hence the "Pink Hat" nickname for their fanbase). That said, Jeter, Namath, and Williams are pretty fucking manly and unlike Magnum they really exist. In order of manliness I go Williams (war hero/fighter pilot status carries a lot of weight, especially since he volunteered for Korea), Jeter (impossibly impressive list of unattainable women; name-checked by GFK, Lil' Wayne, etc.), then Namath (loses points for the fur coat and pantyhose ads).
Other strong candidates for the top of the manliness continuum are the Duke Boys, Bo and Luke Duke. They are moonshiners (outlaw, another great male archetype). Luke was a Marine (warrior) and a boxer (athlete). Bo was a stock car driver (athlete) and got lots of tail (stud). Both can fix cars (engineer) and are so proficient with a bow and arrow that they can use them to make outhouses blow up (hunter). They have a cousin so slammin' that bootie shorts are named after her and they live in Georgia so they have no qualms about tappin' it. They have a buddy named Cooter. They're so manly that Waylon Jennings wrote a song about them and even took the time to narrate their life. Their uncle has a still in the barn. And they tear around in an orange 1969 Dodge Charger with the doors welded shut. American muscle cars are masculine as hell.
They lose out to Magnum because you need both Duke Boys in combination to reach Magnum's level of manliness. They also have a rebel flag on their car and that's bullshit.
At first blush Don Draper is exceedingly masculine. He bangs January Jones and every other woman he meets (stud). He's a decorated war hero (warrior) and according to my wife he's in fantastic shape (athlete). He hits on his mother figure's teenage neice (lecher). He drinks brown liquor and smokes unfiltered cigarettes with abandon and has such a preposterously high tolerance for drugs and alcohol that he is almost immune when someone slips him some roofies. He drives giant convertible American cars with V8 engines. He's perfectly tailored and seamlessly smooth. He's smart and cool and always comes up with the right angle to save his advertising firm.
But I think Draper isn't too manly in the aggregate. He isn't really a war hero (he's a deserter), and in fact his entire identity is a lie. He lost his mojo in season 4, ultimately resulting in the "Sad Don Draper" meme. He cheats on his wife, sexually harasses his secretaries, lies habitually, and treats his co-workers like peons. This is not masculine behavior. Women can do this type of stuff and it doesn't fit into any of the admirable masculine archetypes. Draper is still somewhat to the right of the continuum's midpoint (i.e., putting your penis into a woman).
The Sean Connery version of James Bond looks like Draper with a gun. He's a warrior, athlete, and stud who drives around in an Aston Martin killing Communists and other evildoers. Manly props to Sean Connery -- not only was he the best James Bond, he also was Mr. Universe and has a black belt in karate (athlete). Subsequent Bonds watered down the brand, making 007 less manly and thus falling behind Magnum. And he drinks vodka, which is a little fay compared to the Dukes' moonshine or Draper's rye.
Falling to the left of the midpoint are the Jonas Brothers. They are famously chaste, and chastity is not a masculine attribute. Jay-Z tooled on them in "On To The Next One" stating "No I'm not a Jonas Brother I'm a grown up, no I'm not a virgin I use my cajones." That's pretty harsh stuff. They don't drink, smoke, or do drugs; although these activities aren't limited entirely to men, self-destructive behavior is a masculine trait and it would help move them to the right on the continuum if they would get acquainted with the business end of a bottle of beer. They're from Wyckoff, NJ -- not sure which way that cuts.
AC Green is similarly situated along the continuum for the same reasons. Sure, he was a good athlete and he had a mustache (albeit a weak one), but he was famously chaste. He waited 38 years to lose it. That's just not a manly thing to do. He also participated in this video:
AC's lack of skills 'pon de mic don't help him move up the continuum. Ironically, Barry Sanders had a kid before he was married so he doesn't practice what he preaches when it comes to bringing the ruckus.
The "bring the ruckus" sketch is very masculine:
The act of bringing the ruckus is very masculine too -- not only does it involve putting your penis into a woman's vagina, it also involves making that ass tapdance. Very manly stuff.
Tim Tebow and his chastity are also unmanly. His proselytizing doesn't help him move up the continuum either. Sorry Mark.
Tom Brady is surprisingly effete. He's arguably the best quarterback of his generation, he has an unlimited free supply of Audis (and he has the good sense to drive an S8) and three Super Bowl rings, his wife is one of the most beautiful women in the world (and she makes something like $25 million a year), and everyone in New England loves him. I was at a party in Jamaica Plain one time and my friends were talking about Tom Brady's baby mama drama. One of the women said "You don't tell Tom Brady to pull out" and all the other women stuck out their lower lips and nodded their heads in vertical approval. I would trade places with him in an instant. But he isn't very manly. He's been known to wear a hairband and shave his armpits. But the thing that boots him way to the left of the continuum is: he wears Uggs. He's the official Uggs spokesman. Peyton Manning annoys me because I constantly see him hawking wares on my TV, but at least it's normal stuff like DirectTV or Gatorade. Uggs? UGGS?!? Are you fucking kidding me? You could get any endorsement deal you want, and you sign with Uggs? According to the press release:
Brady said he was excited to be joining the UGG family. "I have worn and loved the UGG brand for a long time," Brady said.
I guess he knows what he's doing, given all of the foregoing, but he doesn't rank highly on my continuum.
I can't think of too many artists (writiers, musicians, painters, etc.) who are exceedingly manly. Many rock starts get lots of trim, but making music isn't an especially masculine profession and rock stars who wear makeup aren't manly at all. In my view, the manly artists are always geniuses who battle drugs and/or mental illness and who commit suicide. Kurt Cobain, David Foster Wallace, Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Vincent van Gogh, guys like that. I'll throw Jackson Pollock in the mix too even though he didn't kill himself. TR will likely take umbrage and cite the fact that porn star Savannah said that Greg Allman was the best lover she ever had. Umbrate away. Greg Allman can bring the ruckus and drink a lot, but can he fly a helicopter or make a 1969 Dodge Charger jump across a river? I don't think so.
Dave asked me to address seven activities, which I shall rank in order from least to most manly. A common trend across activities with high manliness quotients is stupidity. By that I mean very manly activities are also often very stupid. You'll see what I mean.
Streaking is not manly. Women streak all the time, like Erica Roe. Streaking was, in fact, invented by a woman (Lady Godiva). It's such a gender-neutral activity that it doesn't even belong on the continuum. It's like breathing. Streaking isn't all that stupid because if you convince a woman to go streaking with you you might end up putting your penis in her vagina later, which means it's a smart thing to do (assuming you want to get laid). So it's a smart activity that can lead to a manly activity, but it isn't manly in and of itself.
The Iron Man triathlon isn't very manly either. Women do it all the time (including the zsister-in-law). Sure it's tough. Sure it's insane. But it isn't stupid so it isn't particularly manly.
Tabasco shots are slightly manly because they're stupid. But I can see a certain phenotype of woman enjoying Tabasco shots because she'll be surrounded by and receive lots of attention from men while she does them.
Tearing down a fence and ripping out a stump are tied at "quite manly." These acts aren't stupid as a general matter, although if you undertake them by yourself without the aid of a Bobcat or similar device you're being stupid and/or cheap. I rank them as quite manly because women don't engage in these activities. A handful of women out there might do this, real Ma Ingalls types (or W&M co-eds nicknamed The Stump Puller), but overall this is manly stuff.
Eating the Grande is very manly. Only women who are competitiveeaters would do this.
Ledge diving is manly as hell. Only men would do something this stupid. Scratch that. Only drunk 22-and-under men would do something this stupid so it involves both stupidity and drunkenness. Thus ledge diving is a quintessentially masculine endeavor.
Cars pepper the continuum. Body-on-frame SUV's are manly because you can attach a winch to the front and do some serious froadin. Unibody SUV's are not manly because they are really just minivans with doors that open outward instead of sliding back. Any car with eight or more cylinders is manly. Manual transmissions are manly, automatics are not, and those "tiptronic" style fake-shift-it-yourself automatics are atrocious. Saturns are the least manly cars ever because you couldn't haggle over the price, you had to take whatever the sticker said. Knowing how to buy a car, especially a used car, is manly. If you bought your Saturn used then your Saturn is somewhat manly even though it's made out of Tupperware. Station wagons are more manly than minivans but not by much. For the record, I drive a station wagon with an atrocious fake-shift-it-yourself transmission (i.e., a car that isn't very manly) but I bought it used so it isn't as bad as it could be.
Someone asked me to put the Village People on the plot. That person is a pain in my ass. The Village People are six guys who dressed up like manly archetypes so that they could perform disco music, and disco is some of the most unmanly music of the past 50 years. You only hear their songs at sporting events, weddings, and bar mitzvahs, i.e., events notorious for bad music. No one says "I'm going on a long car trip, I better make sure I have some Village People tracks in my iPod." (I can't wait for Igor to tell me why I'm way off base on this. Here's a premptive retort.) I have no evidence that they actually are as manly as the costumes they wear so I have no idea where to plot them. And there's six of them, so even if I did know how manly each guy was, how would I plot them as a gmish? So the Village People are not plotted on the continuum.
And here's the continuum.
(Note that this is plotted on a log scale.)
(Also note that "Being miserably chaste" slots in between Ted Williams and ledge diving.)
(Also note that Gheorghe Muresan's Gheorgheness was too potent a confounding variable for him to be plotted.)
ob found out you can spend 72 hours in that town and still only see a fraction of its offerings.
d the goods as well, but the Avett Brothers and Wilco really lit up their respective stages. Wilco is solidifying its place as the best live band in America right now. And the Avetts . . . well, they do their own thing, and do it well.
green tomato/remoulade po' boy at a great place called Mahoney's in the Garden District pre-Fest Saturday.
PBR. Heineken. Bud. Red Stripe. I remember drinking a Coors on a bet, I think. Bloody Marys with green beans. A tequila shot followed quickly by a Jager shot. A number of screwdrivers, but only because it was breakfast time (in England).
her. Repeat. We did do something I haven't done much in New Orleans, and that's party at some people's place of residence. Some newly made friends of friends had us over once (or twice . . . honestly, Rob, please help me on these logistics).
we rock it out Friday but hit the hay at a very East Coast not-New Orleans hour (2ish). We get up, head back down to the nextdoor bar (Igor's) and have Bloody Marys. Fest it up again, get shnockered to the gills, do ____ and ____ and maybe ____, then I get fall-down "tired" and go to bed. Midnight. Embarrassing.
Posts
