I have to admit: parts of this new song from Róisín Murphy makes me cringe. The sound — the sound of the music, not her voice — is halfway between Billie Ray Martin/Electribe 101 and Cathy Dennis, which is, like, the most generic high-80s/low-90s club crap. Which in turn totally dates me.

On the other hand, I love Murphy’s voice regardless: smoky, nuanced, slightly morning-after. I just wish she’d stuck it out with Moloko a bit longer instead of launching a pop-starry career. It’s pretty clear where her strengths lie.

Jonno’s photo of Brian, taken last night in the ladies’ restroom at our Carnival krewe’s Twelfth Night Ball. (Yes, we know that Twelfth Night isn’t technically ’till Wednesday, but screw the rules: who wants a mid-week hangover?)

Ray Nagin: Seriously, people, I don’t know exactly what went wrong, but between the time that Katrina’s floodwaters receded and the time he launched his crackpot, crackhead Canal Street casino district idea, something in Ray Nagin snapped. I used to think that big bald head was kinda sexy, but now I just want to smack it with a pool cue. Thank goddess that his reign of terror (or terribleness) is nearly done.

Amy Winehouse: Despite protestations of “OMG, she’s totally fantastic” from the fagnoscenti, I never liked the bitch. She struck me as the British equivalent of Macy Gray — nice sound, but a one-trick pony. She took a giant fall in 2009; I hope she’s down for the count.

Saints perfection: I’m not a huge football fan, but Saints games became entirely unwatchable when the team was racing to a 13-0 record. All that pressure for perfection made me sick to my stomach. Now that they’ve taken a couple of dings, we can all relax.

America’s political shift to the left: I am, as most people know, a pretty devout Democrat — not overly Kucinich-y or anything, but definitely left of center. However, when Dems swept the elections in 2008, that set some high expectations from the voting public — so high they could never be met. People have become much more level-headed and even-keeled since then. I worry about zeal of any kind, whether it’s for good causes or bad.

TBL: The Beautiful Life: Which Ashton Kutcher insists people would have watched, if only they’d known it was on. Oh, believe me, Ashy: we knew. We knew.

The Jonas Brothers: Now that one of them has been officially cherry-popped, I’m hoping they’ll lose some luster. Granted, they’re more palatable than Miley/Hanna/Scrappy-Doo, but I’ll take what I can get.

Avatar: Yes, I’ve heard it doesn’t suck. In fact, I’ve heard it’s awesome. I’m happy to eat my words — I’d though it was going to be terrible — but I AM VERY TIRED OF HEARING ABOUT IT. I’m sure Linda Hamilton is, too (although I bet the alimony is great).

Nicole Kidman (and her face): Remember To Die For? Moulin Rouge? Or, although I didn’t see it, The Hours? Those were the good days. Then came divorce and the equally plastic Keith Urban, and it was straight down the stony end. Nikki, darling, lay off the botox so you can start making dough again and star in a remake of Picnic at Hanging Rock. That is what we all want.

Free time: Now that someone bought me Assassin’s Creed 2 for xmas, I won’t be having any spare time until summer. Fuckyeahxbox!

[via OnlineEducation]

So pretty. So poignant. So totally not mine. And yet, so fitting for the last days of the year. Especially this one.

Most Americans are currently obsessed with Nigerians and flight security (for good reason), but the revolution not-so-quietly brewing in Iran is equally noteworthy. Yesterday, Flickr user Tamishir posted this photo, which seems pretty evocative — even to someone like me who knows little about the symbology.

Far be it from me or anyone to tell Iran how to run itself, but given the country’s current leadership, I can see the people’s temptation to ditch the devil they know for one they don’t.

In case you missed it, the new, post-Nigerian-bomb-attempt TSA regulations have leaked to the interweb. They make me thankful that this odd-numbered Christmas was spent at my family’s place in Mississippi instead of at the bf’s homestead in NYC (which naturally requires a little airtime). To everyone on the tarmac: GOOD LUCK. And keep your hands where everyone can see them.

UPDATE #1: Although those directives were initially intended for U.S.-bound international flights, apparently they’re being applied to a number of domestic flights, too.  Um, yay?

UPDATE #2:  Ladies and gentlemen, our laps (and bladders) are free once more.