“For the good of the people of the state of Illinois and the Democratic Party, I will resign.”
-Illinois Democratic lieutenant governor nominee Scott Lee Cohen, who, uh, has had some troubles in his past, announced that he would drop out of the race last night “at the Hop Haus, a bar and restaurant at 7545 N. Clark, during the Super Bowl.”

“ALBANY, N.Y. (AP) — New York Gov. David Paterson has met privately with key Democratic leaders about his re-election plans as questions swirl around the state capitol about a variety of unproven accusations involving the Democratic governor’s personal conduct.”

Pop music thing Will.i.am continued his impressive streak of ruining everything last night with his remix of The Who’s “My Generation” for www.flo.tv. Yes, it is true, he actually changed the song’s words to “Don’t wanna die, I wanna get old.”

The guy has already single handedly destroyed the value of U.S. currency, America’s long-standing policy against torturing prisoners of war, hip-hop, summer, baseball, the environment, the economy and Toyota’s safety record. Now he’s exploiting the filibuster and his super-majority to delay approval of presidential nominees to bring the government to a standstill. As Paul Krugman notes in today’s Times, thanks to Will.i.am’s music and television commercials and his terrible dancing and costumes and obstructionism, “we’re re-enacting the dissolution of 18th-century Poland.”

“We have to put in controls to protect the brand.”
-A source explains the rationale behind MTV’s decision to restrict the personal appearances of “Jersey Shore” cast members, lest they damage the franchise. Which is apparently somehow possible?

I was once again struck by the complete absurdity of sports fandom last evening when I heard someone behind me (actually, it was Awl pal Meghan Keane) saying, “I think that’s the most excited I’ve ever seen Alex Balk in my life.”

Tracy Porter had just intercepted the ball, essentially ending the game and giving the New Orleans Saints their first ever Super Bowl championship, and I had performed a vertical leap which was astounding both because of my lack of agility and the extremely rare display of emotion expressed therein. I say “extremely rare,” but the fact is I was not very far removed from a massive and embarrassing display of fist pumping (I know) when the 2-point conversion was ruled valid a few plays earlier.

And that’s the thing. It is completely illogical for most people to get so animated about a sporting event, even one as COMPLETELY AMAZING as this was. I had no money on the game. I am not a resident of New Orleans. I am not now nor have I ever been a member of the Saints organization. But in those moments-and even still right now, although that may have more to do with the fact that a significant amount of alcohol remains in my bloodstream-there was absolutely NOTHING ON EARTH that was more exciting. Hopefully we all have something in our lives that can occasionally give us those sharp bursts of pure joy. I guess it is harmless enough that there’s no reason to be ashamed of it, but, yeah, I was pretty much a kid for the entire second half (I was a regular foul-mouthed adult during the first half.) When you think of the ridiculous lengths people go to to celebrate an event like this-hell, look at the ridiculous lengths people go to just for the ads-you have to believe there’s some larger, animating purpose to it.

But who knows? Maybe I’m just another schmuck. That said, there’s is no happier schmuck this morning than I. Except maybe for the guys who actually played the game. Probably.

[Oh, yeah, right, a deal’s a deal. Kim Kardashian, will you marry me? Don’t worry about hurting my feelings if your answer is no. I’m just SO DAMN HAPPY.]

Oh, there’ll be more on this tomorrow from the straight man, if he doesn’t die from excitement and alcohol poisoning tonight, but meanwhile, let us officially give a big HELL YES to the Saints win tonight at the Bowl That Finally Deserves To Be Called Super. It’s sure nice to see New Orleans get a little attention after a few years of deadening quiet! (This, by the way, is what it sounds like inside a New Orleans household. Right???) Still, because this is America, tonight everyone’s a winner! (Even losers from Indiana.) Everyone’s a winner, that is, except anyone who wants to pay for sex in Miami tonight to celebrate.

ARRROOO!!!! I complain a lot, but (as a result?) I am generally in a good mood, and I am in an extra-good mood right now because Sunday Feb. 7 is Super Bowl, which is the best and Most Important and Most American Holiday of the year because it is the most American, by which I mean the most Equal Opportunity and Indivisible with Liberty and Justice for All.

I’m not fucking kidding around here, man, Super Bowl does not care if you are Jew or Gentile, Protestant or Catholic, or any of the other ones, like Cthulhu or whatever. Freedom of Religion, Freedom from Religion. Super Bowl does not care what Race or National Origin you Believe your origins to be Originated of. From. Super Bowl does not care what taste of the Sex Rainbow you are pleased to enjoy, as long as it does not occur on TV during Super Bowl, in this case XLIV in Roman Numerals, which is like, Educational and stuff, see? Super Bowl just wants you in the swirl.

Furthermore, Super Bowl color est e pluribus unus [1], if you will. Super Bowl does not care if you want Super Bowl, because it is almost impossible to not in some way be part of Super Bowl on-or-off-TV programming or the so-called counter-programming, Anti-Super-Bowlwise. It’s like, somewhere Out There, on Cable Teevee someplace, there’s gonna be derivative stuff like the “Puppy Bowl” or whatever they call it with all the cute puppies bumping around in a pen, and they used to have a “Lingerie Bowl” with ladies in underwear playing or at least pretending to be playing football. I’m pretty sure you don’t need a Men’s “Lingerie Bowl” because that pretty much just takes you back to Super Bowl, right?

There will also be some sorta “marathon” of something that is Specifically Designed To Interest people who Do Not Want or even Understand or even Want To Understand what is: Super Bowl. There’s even Church and stuff for a lot of people, and Video Games and Movie Theaters, and Shopping, and all this shit is just like, the Loyal Opposition, because it’s all effecting an extra kick in the be-hind to The Economies, Stimulus-wise, on account of the magnetic/repulsion effect of Super Bowl. Hey, you could even purchase and read one of those Electronic-Kindling books while you watch Super Bowl! Arrrooo! Plus: One Nation Under Snacks. I’m gonna make two kinds of chili. There’s lotsa Bowl jokes around Super Bowl time.

Super Bowl falls on the Just and the Unjust. I mean, have you seen this “Scripps Howard Celebrity Super Bowl Poll” where celebrities or whoever handles their email are picking between New Orleans and Indianapolis? There’s celebrity names like Phyllis Diller, Hulk Hogan, Penn & Teller, Pat (Big fucking surprise he picks not-New Orleans) Robertson, that boob Rod Blagojevich, John McCain, Apolo Ohno, Kobe Bryant, Mike Hayden (a former CIA director), Serena Williams, Larry King, and Maya fucking Angelou making Super Bowl predictions. Maya Angelou writes Books, man.

Before “The Big Game” (which is the name used by anybody who wants to do a Super Bowl event but doesn’t want to deal with the National Football League stepping on their neck on account of Trademarks and Copyrights and shit), there’s a four-hour “pre-game” show (which is when people who like to get shitfaced drunk at Super Bowl viewings begin the process of shitfacing) and there’s Sports Guys going blah blah blah Football, blah, blah, and there’s gonna be an interview with this guy Plaxico Burress, a pro football player who shot himself in the leg by accident and then got locked up for having the fucking gun. He’s getting interviewed from Jail, that’s how big this fucking Super Bowl is, man. Biggest Gang in America? NFL. They can fucking reach right into Prison to get what they want. Also in pregame is The President Of The United States of America, for real, he’s part of the runup to Super Bowl XLIV, seriously, Katie Couric’s gonna do a routine with POTUS XLIV, then you got America-Inc.-Military-Industrial-Complex all over this piece, probably a few satellite feeds from Afghanistan and Iraq, and when the game gets going there will be a colorguard of troops presenting the Flag and then some sorta ritualistic Display of The Militaristic Might of The United States of America, usually manifesting as a “flyover” of ass-kicking War airplanes cracking the sky over whatever modern-day Colosseum America is spectating Super Bowl at (some Bowl in Miami, I think), and I bet it’s totally an Experience to go to there, but that’s not even really the Place To Be, because errbody knows it’s way more Intense to watch Football on TV with all the replays and slow-motions and stuff, but Super Bowl doesn’t give a flying football if you understand The Game or anything else, because Super Bowl is not Football. Super Bowl is America sitting on ass in front of the teevee, watching Commercials and getting confused about the point spread (the Other reason Super Bowl jams economy), knowing Right This Minute we (as in US) have people in submarines cruising around ready to launch Atomic Missiles at The Enemy.

The Enemy doesn’t get much Super Bowl, man. The Enemy is dug in too deep or moving too fast. The Enemy has only two ways home: death, or victory, but that shit’s not mutually exclusive, get it?
That’s mostly why I enjoy Super Bowl, knowing at Half Time, while some totally effed-out rock band (or Who’s left) is lined up to Get Paid playing a fucking medley of their Greatest Hits under a dirigible, The Enemy is looking right at us, looking right at Super Bowl. Arrrooo! Saints cover the spread.

Footnote 1: ‘One from Many,’ was taken from, of all places, a recipe for salad in an early poem by Virgil.

Joe MacLeod is really busy keeping track of the snow.

They’re selling teabag jewelry at the National Tea Party Convention! It looks both extremely elegant and very patriotic. Unfortunately you can only purchase it with a valid American birth certificate, so all you secret Muslims are going to have to shop somewhere else.

And now the second of our Super Bowl-applicable recipes!

Dear Jewish and/or poor friends-have you ever wondered what WASPs eat? Trick question. WASPs don’t eat! They drink. But they do like to put food out and feign eating. There are three WASP foodstuffs for setting out and feigning eating, but the one I’m here to talk to you about today is mayonnaise. (The other two, cucumbers and shrimp, are only around because they’re pink and green and cold, and WASPs like food created in their own image.)

One other thing WASPs love is that adorable and slightly drunk girl at the party. And while the best of us are born into the role, there is hope for the rest of you because it can be learned. And I would like to teach you how to master the fine art of being the slightly drunk girl who trots out a delicious artichoke dip at parties because, quite frankly, I’m really awesome at it and you need to be told things.

Traditional artichoke dips are really quite simple, but I’ve usually got Important Drinking To Do and therefore have distilled mine down to a three-ingredient, one-bowl process that allows me to drink fairly heavily throughout. You should work on doing the same. God knows, alcohol can’t make you more dull.

Measure a cup of mayo into a mixing bowl. You needn’t be particularly precise about this.

Open and drain a can of artichoke hearts. Toss the artichokes in the bowl with the mayo. Pour a glass of wine, grab a fistful of ice cubes and plunk them in. Drink it. Turn the oven on to 400°. Using a fork and a spoon, pull apart the artichokes while mixing them into the mayonnaise. This will feel awkward but that’s why you have the wine, to ease your anxiety about things. Top off your grape juice.

Stir in 3/4 of a cup of grated parmesan cheese and pour the whole disgusting mess into a baking dish. Don’t spend too much time looking at it because if you do your mind is going to go to a place it really shouldn’t go when one is contemplating dip and-oh, you did it. Now you’re looking at your last yeast infection sitting inside some Corningware and it’s all over. POUR AND DRINK MORE WINE, STAT. FOREGO THE CUBES IF YOU MUST. Grip your countertops and regain your composure.

Top the mayo mixture with a 1/4 of a cup more of cheese and put this utter disaster of a foodstuff in the oven for 20 minutes. Pour more wine. Throw cubes in with wild abandon!

After 20 minutes it’s Choose Your Own Adventure time. Either:

1. Take it out of the oven to cool before transporting elsewhere and reheating, following the instructions for step 2 once you’ve arrived at your destination and have gotten a glass of wine from your hostess. (“WITH CUBES, DEAR.”) or.

2. crank the oven to 475° and let it go for about 10 more minutes until the top is nicely browned.

Now, the most important part. Don’t you dare eat any of that. It’s made entirely of mayo. Mayo with cheese. Leave the fat dip for the guests and go fix me another wine. Yes, with cubes! Come now.

Jolie Kerr wears Lilly below 14th Street.