Jerry Lee & Spam — A Connection. Believe it!

Each evening, from December to December/ Before you drift to sleep upon your cot/ Think back on all the tales that you remember/ Of Spamalot.

Apologies to Richard Burton. Couldn’t help myself.

Actually before I get to my rant — which is about email spam — my favorite story about “Camelot.” At least peripheral to “Camelot.” It’s actually about Jerry Lee Lewis.

The Magic Mojo Follows

Indulgence is what the doctor orders for those on the cusp of dotage.

(If you’re lucky you’ll get here too someday, so stay tuned.)

A Moment’s Pause

Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic
And when that foghorn blows I’ll be coming home
—Van Morrison, “Into the Mystic”

It is the most humbling of engagements.

It is inevitable that the grim reaper comes to call. For those whose hand he is then shaking. For those who are near and dear and will feel the loss.

Last year has turned to this one in somber fashion.

Music Abides

We were young.

We were immortal.

Sooner or later both were lies. It was inevitable.

Whither New Orleans?

Bob’s back at Galatoire’s. Sumptuous and gracefully worn, it’s New Orleans finest old line eatery. Both survived Katrina. So far.

For the last several years, Bob has waited on our gang at an annual Galatoirean feast the night before the first day of JazzFest.

That the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Fair itself would survive Katrina was far from a given. Its survival is the work of some supreme spirit force that bestows gifts on the flock.

Ungebludgeon Blues (Blue Yodel)

Frankly, I’m a little ungebludgeon.

Which word, if memory serves, my mother would use when she was way out of sorts. It may be Yiddish. Then again, maybe not. It may be misspelled. It may mean something else entirely. Or nothing at all.

What I’ve Learned: From Britney’s Butt to the ’70s

Britney’s butt sells ’zines. This is one of life’s immutable truths.

It is a lesson I recently learned, having plunked down $3 (plus tax) to purchase Esquire’s “70 Years of Women We Love” issue. The cover photo is Britney in white heels, white sweater, come hither grin and nothing else.

That’s What I’m Talkin’ About: New Orleans JazzFest

There is an adage in the world of retail that can be traced back to entrepreneur No. 1 at the Garden of Eden’s first Apples ’R’ Us outlet. As it has been passed through the ages, there are three sacrosanct bases for success: 1) Location, 2) Location and 3) Location.

This came to mind after my editor reluctantly agreed to allow yet another annual column extolling the virtues of the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, the best of the music fests. Tell me why it’s so good, he ordered. And don’t fawn.

Is Phil Spector, the Maestro of Musical Mania, a Murderer?

It is the evening of the day.

Half the Beatles are gone. Elvis is oil on velvet. The Stones are flummoxed. Deluded by dotage, they think mugging their way through “Sympathy For The Devil” is rock ’n’ roll. Mick is more than a kiss away as an over-the-hill gigolo, “The Man From Elysian Fields.”

Elvis Presley — LEO’s Man of the Century

In his book “The Fifties,” David Halberstam chronicles the most misunderstood of the century’s decades. In the tome, he relates a conversation where noted composer and conductor Leonard Bernstein discussed political and social trends with Dick Clurman, an editor at Time magazine. Halberstam quotes Bernstein: “Elvis Presley is the greatest cultural force of the twentieth century.” Incredulous, Clurman suggests some other choice, Picasso perhaps.