The Dish

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The BBC’s man in Washington is visited by a couple of Mitt Romney’s co-religionists, and finds himself warming to them:

I offered them coffee and began a learning process. You may already know that Mormons do not drink coffee or alcohol but what you might not know is that their religious ban is on "hot drinks". And that cocoa has been decreed "not hot". And, furthermore, that Coke and Pepsi and the like exist at the moment in a doctrinal grey area.

All these things I learned that morning.

But as 10 minutes became half an hour and an hour and more, I made a much more profound discovery about this faith: that its adherents are bright and intellectually open, and have a sense of humour, of humanity, that is sadly lacking in other strands of American religious life.

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That captivating singer, Lila Downs goes on another journey across the Mexican border in this performance on the KCRW show, Morning becomes Eclectic.  "Agua de Rosas" comes from her latest album, "La Cantina".

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Our seasonal series continues. Dave Hill [below], one of the UK’s best left-of-centre blogger-journalists, pays tribute to the indefatigable Studs Terkel:

October 17th was the date chosen by the National Trust for its brilliant "One Day In History" project. Ordinary Britons were invited to post on-line their experiences during and reflections on the twenty-four hours in question. The result was an instant wealth of online oral history causing me to be drawn again to the master of the art in the book medium, Studs Terkel. I like all his collections of interviews with everyday Americans, but my favourite is "Working", in which people talk about their jobs. It is candid, sad, inspiring and at times almost unbearably moving. The very last paragraph in the final entry in the book chokes me up every time I read it. This is a fireman talking:

"I worked in a bank. You know, it’s just paper. It’s not real. Nine to five and it’s s**t. But I can look back and say, ‘I helped put out a fire. I helped save somebody.’ It shows something I did on this earth."

One of the saddest things about journalists and historians alike these days is that so few seem interested in hearing those kinds of stories any more.

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Happy holidays to all of Andrew’s readers. Thanks for putting up with me. I hope to do some light posting tomorrow. In the meantime, have a peaceful day, undisturbed by arguments over Bush and Blair, Pelosi and Putin. Maybe we should all try to learn a lesson from this old French cartoon, published when the controversy over Alfred Dreyfus was at fever-pitch.

"Above all, let’s not discuss the Dreyfus Affair!"

They’ve discussed it…

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I wasn’t planning to add anything else today, but… Awful, awful news about James Brown. One of the last of the true giants.

At least he’d packed several lifetimes into his 73 years. Was there ever a song as funky as "Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag"?

Bayview, Wisconsin, 3 pm.

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The greatest modern jazzman of them all, Miles Davis, captured in his pomp in a 1959 TV performance of "New Rhumba". Gil Evans is the conductor. (Yes, they used to allow jazz musicians on the small screen in those days.)

That kills two birds with one stones, as the tune was composed by my favourite jazz pianist, the arch-minimalist Ahmad Jamal, seen here doing some sweet improvising on a blues.

All of which is as good an excuse as any for one of the silliest musical Christmas jokes of all time. I first came across it in bass-player Bill Crow’s priceless collection of anecdotes.

A guy walked into a pet store looking for a Christmas gift for his wife. The storekeeper said he knew exactly what would please her and took a little bird out of its cage. "This is Chet," he said, "and Chet can sing Christmas carols and songs."

Seeing the look of disbelief on the customer’s face, he proceeded to demonstrate. "He needs warming up," he said. "Lend me your cigarette lighter." The storekeeper lifted Chet’s left wing and waved the flame lightly under it. Immediately, Chet sang Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.

"That’s fantastic," said the customer.

"And listen to this," said the storekeeper, warming Chet’s other wing. Chet sang O Little Town of Bethlehem.

"Wrap him up," said the customer, "I’ll take him!"

When he got home he greeted his wife: "Honey, I can’t wait until Christmas to show you what I got you. This is fantastic." He unwrapped Chet’s cage and showed the bird to his wife. "Now, watch and listen."

He raised Chet’s left wing and held him over a Christmas candle that was burning on the mantlepiece. Chet immediately began to sing Silent Night. The wife was delighted. As Chet’s right wing was warmed over the flame, he sang Joy To The World.

"Let me try it," said the wife, seizing the bird. In her eagerness, she held Chet a little too close to the candle flame. Chet began to sing passionately:

"Chet’s nuts roasting on an open fire…"

Well, I did warn you it was silly.

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My earlier attempt at humour gets a mixed review from one reader:

Huh? Does your wife really think that joke is non-sexist? Or did she just say that hoping to encourage you to post it so that she could enjoy watching you get verbally pilloried? Oh, the joke is undeniably funny, but it is also extremely sexist. I for one would have left the husband store as soon as I discovered there wasn’t a floor offering smart and funny men. That is the reason I read Andrew’s blog every day and have been reading yours, Alex’s and Daniel’s posts all week. You’re all smart and funny. Oh, OK, Andrew also happens to be nice-looking but I would read his blog even if he looked like a mud fence.

I went downstairs and told the joke to my fifteen-year-old son and my husband and asked them to be honest and tell me if they would stop on the second floor of the wife store or keep going. My husband said that he would keep going because a potential wife should have "at least a shred of intelligence" and my son said that he would go to the next floor hoping to find one that offered Asian women.

But the joke is funny.

I’m not sure I get the bit about Asian women. I’ll have to consult my wife again (she’s Indian)…

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I haven’t been following developments in that particular controversy, but Rod Dreher has:

Though I agree with Rep. Virgil Goode that it’s a smart idea to sharply reduce immigration from Islamic countries, at least at the present difficult time, I find appalling his behavior toward Muslim convert Keith Ellison’s intention to use the Koran at his swearing-in in Congress. Ellison, who’s right in this matter, has responded like a real gentleman in all this, much to his credit, and to his opponent’s embarrassment.

Rod is no soft touch on the subject of Islamic extremism, of course, so his words carry extra weight.

[Picture:  Ann Heisenfelt/AP]

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Frank Portman (alias Dr Frank) leads an unusual double life. Rock aficonados may know him as the singer-guitarist with the Bay Area group, The Mr T Experience. He’s now also the author of "King Dork", a terrific novel for wordly-wise older teens (and adults too). It’s a hugely readable mix of high school angst and detective story. A film version is said to be in the works. I had a great evening with him not long before the book came out. Sloshing back beers in a grungy San Francisco bar, as a juke box played in the background, I actually started enjoying music I’d normally run miles from.

Here’s his choice:

I first saw Richard Allen’s "Punk Rock" in 1977 on a table in a strip mall bookshop.  I was thirteen, stranded in a hopeless suburb yet gathering clandestine data on punk rock wherever I could, so I tended to notice stuff like that.  I didn’t buy it at the time, but the cover copy impressed me:  "The Punks are on the march – and the Teds are out to nobble them."  A punk rock novel, I said.  One day I will read you.

Time passed.  Twenty years later, I stumbled on the book again in a used bookshop in Sheringham, Norfolk.  This time, the cover copy made me laugh.  I bought it though. It traveled with me back to California, but remained unread for ten more years, till now.

A reporter goes undercover to write an expos√© on "a day in the life of a punk star," plunges into the seamy world of New Wave rock, and bites off a bit more than he can chew. The punk rock material is simply plugged in to a standard trash-pulp framework, like Michael Avallone with spikes. Richard Allen, I understand, is a pseudonym of one David Moffatt, who churned out tons of the stuff in the seventies.  All in all, not a bad way to tie up a loose end in one’s life, though I doubt I’ll be reading another Moffatt title any time soon – unless I manage to find a copy of "Diary of a Female Wrestler", which he wrote under the name Trudi Maxwell. I very much doubt I could resist that.