The other Jewish Elvis in Cajun country

Mr. Peanut down: the terrible cost of Halloween in the French Quarter.

Is Druz really high in this pic? No, just a giant dork.

I've been out of town for Thanksgiving, but I'm back, so you can stop weeping and cursing the cruelty of a Druz-less life.

Last week was eventful. First, I went to a local bar to catch a band from California called Earlimart. They were rumored to be both good (they were) and friends with Johnny Knoxville (of Jackass fame for those clearly not cool enough to be reading this blog). I was skeptical of the latter but, as I walked into the bar, I ran into the man himself and shook the visionary's hand (I didn't wash it for a week).

Why would Mr. Jackass himself grace south Louisiana with his presence? He, along with Stifler and Jessica Simpson, is filming the Dukes of Hazzard movie in the tiny town of Clinton, about 45 minutes north of Baton Rouge. Having had a few beers, I approached him after the show, gave him my business card and told him that if he had the time I would like to do an interview for the newspaper. He introduced me to his manager, Crash, who gave me his cell phone number (I still have yet to test said number's authenticity).

And that was just the beginning of my star-studded week. On Saturday, I went to the last night at Tabby's Blues Box, the center of the local blues scene for decades. It was packed (even the mayor showed), they ran out of beer twice and the place rocked until after 3 a.m. The highlight of the night was a performance by Tabby's son, Chris Thomas King (of Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?). For me though, the highlight had to be walking into the bathroom and peeing next to Chris Thomas King (no, I did not sneak a peek). Who knew that Baton Rouge was the Hollywood of the South?

Saturday was a classic south Louisiana for your humble narrator. I woke up at the very crack of fuck (5 a.m.) and drove an hour and a half to Madewood Plantation in Napoleonville to meet up with a group embarking on a four-day paddling trip. Nearly 200 people signed up for the trip, organized to raise awareness for wetlands preservation by paddling en masse 50 miles down Bayou Lafourche and I volunteered to cover it for the paper.

I ended up in a canoe with an old Cajun, Simon Broussard, and his grandson, both from Houma, La. Simon is 65, bespectacled and bald and never stops telling jokes and stories. He is also one of the friendliest people I've met down here and treated me to stories in a with a thick coonass accent with endings like, "Then, the highway patrolman drove up and said I might want to be careful, cause there was a 14-foot gator in the middle of the road and he had no interest in moving."

Simon also exemplified the split personality of Louisiana and it's conservation efforts. He worked his whole life for the petrochemical industry, but blamed that industry for destroying the wetlands and degrading a way of life in south Louisiana (he came from a family of shrimpers that relied on the coastal wetlands for their livelihood). It was a little sad paddling down a beautiful bayou with Simon, hearing his grim predictions for the future of Louisiana's environment.

It was also painful and strained muscles I didn't know I had (we paddled about 12 miles). The trip ended in Labadieville (pronouned laba-dee-vill) with lunch at a little hole in the wall called Nubby's.

From there, I raced back to the office to file my story in time to head to LSU, where I tailgated with my buddies and got good and festive. Tailgating in Baton Rouge is a revered tradition. On Saturdays when LSU is at home, the campus blossoms into a tent city smelling of barbecue and beer with the LSU fight song blasting from every other speaker. It is impressive to see the dedication that goes into tailgating. The most serious participants show up as early as 6 a.m. to set up and start cooking. Many don't even have a ticket to the game - the tailgate is the event. By the afternoon the campus is awash in smoking grills, music and, unfortunately, purple and gold Confederate Flags.

By the time I arrived my buddies were pounding beers and stirring the beginnings of a delicious chicken and sausage Jumbalaya. I was so moved, I even donned an LSU hat (that no, I did not buy that day). It was an especially charged pregame atmosphere as the Fighting Tigers were playing the hated Crimson Tide of the University of Alabama. Surprisingly, my buddy was able to get three tickets scalped at less than face value and I got to go to the concrete monstrosity that is Tiger Stadium for the first time.

Seeing a sold out 100,000 seat stadium with an almost entirely purple and gold crowd is an experience. What's also amazing is the collective BAC of those 100,000 people. There is, inexplicably, no booze allowed in the stadium. This state is clearly still in the denial stage of its alcoholism. Nonetheless, nearly everyone in the stadium is plastered and drinking their smuggled in contraband.

I know I always bag on college football and I still contend it will suck until they get playoffs, but I was into this game. It was difficult not to be. I even high-fived the irritating, blitzed dude with the trache scar who kept standing up, yelling and blocking my view. We all went home happy, as the Tigers beat the Tide 26-10.

Front page Advocate headline Tuesday: Louisiana remains least healthy state in rankings. Shocking. No doubt many people read the story with a cheeseburger in one hand, a cigarette in the other, a Budweiser on the table and an order of bread pudding on the way.

This is the 15th year of the annual survey and Louisiana has been crowned grand-champion of fattydom (not to mention infant mortality, etc) 14 times! Who says we don't do anything right?

A closer look at the numbers shows that the top 10 least healthy states was a virtual Southern sweep. The only non-Southern state on the list is border-state West Virginia (on the wrong side of the War of Northern Aggression, but the right side of the Mason-Dixon Line).

Yet another feather in our cap of crapulence.

I've covered a lot of grim news recently. A 15-year-old kid burned to death in his trailer; I talked to father whose 5-year-old son was run over and killed by an ATV while the body was still in the road about 20 yards away; and I talked to a family whose daughter has been missing for two weeks and was likely killed.

A drink and a diversion were sorely needed the other night, so I went with some friends to a local musical landmark (yes, there are a few landmarks in Baton Rouge), Tabby's Blues Box. The emphasis is on the "Box" as Tabby's is a small, dark, smoke-filled bar with low ceilings and is almost entirely lit by Christmas lights and neon beer ads. As befits downtown Baton Rouge, it sits across the street from a giant, long-abandoned river-front hotel with hundreds of broken out and boarded up windows. Tabby's has been around for decades and many a blues legend has played there. Unfortunately, the proprieter, Tabby Thomas, has fallen on hard times and poor health and his bar is slated to close for good in about a month.

When we got to Tabby's, the bar's problems were apparent as there were only a handful of people in the crowd, and five of them were there to film a documentary. Around 11 p.m., a four-piece blues band took to Tabby's' tiny stage. I especially liked the song with the refrain, "I'll be your hatchet until your hammer comes home."

After about an hour, the band took a break and Debby sauntered onto stage to sing with the band. Debby is fiftyish with big, frizzy blond hair and far from petite. She also clearly doesn't care. Wearing tight black pants, pumps and a tight, red sequin top, Debby shook, thrust and even moon-walked through "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay," "Proud Mary" and "I Feel Good."

It was simultaneously hilarous, pathetic and beautiful. She wasn't what anyone would call talented but she was really, really into it and it was a lot of fun to see her perform. After her exuberant set, Tabby himself walked to the piano to play a few songs with the band.

Tabby is probably the most famous Baton Rouge blues man and he dresses like he knows it - a black on black suit with a black fedora, snakeskin boots and sunglasses. He recently suffered a stroke but he still managed to shuffle onto stage with the help of the bartender and a cane to pound out a few tunes and close out the bar.

I hear Uruguay is beautiful this time of year.

First thing I saw Halloween night on Bourbon Street? A public blow job. Some lucky reveler had a chick under his kilt in plain public view about 15 feet from a gaggle of New Orleans' finest. It was a good omen that the night would be appropriately sleezy.

The night started with five of us cramming into one room in a classy French Quarter hotel to change into costume. As my nickname down here is P-Nut, I dressed as Mr. Peanut and went all out. I had a giant, peanut shaped piece of styrofoam painted brown with holes for my arms and face; a top hat attached to the top of the peanut; black tights and a tight black shirt; white gloves and white spats for my dress shoes; a painted-on monacle and a cane.

I was quite a sight in the hotel bar (and throughout the night), struggling to reach both my cigarette and gin and tonic as the inflexibility of my costume quickly became apparent.

After a few preparatory drinks we made our way into the Quarter, which was jammed. The costumes were awesome and the winner (besides me, of course) was the duo of Mormon missionaries. Seeing two guys in short-sleeved white collared shirts, ties, backpacks and bicycle helmets getting sloppy in a skanky Quarter bar made my day.

As we made our way into the gay section of the neighborhood, though, I've got to say I was disappointed. Everyone appeared to be dressed as, well, homos. I mean, ooh, whoopdi shit, you're also shirtless with a bow tie. I suppose the equivalent would have been me coming in normal clothes with a shirt that said "I enjoy having sex with women."

Needless to say, the drinks were plentiful. One drink quickly turned into 10, a dizzying mix of hurricanes, beer, gin and tonics and others I likely never will recall. I very quickly went from being loud and exuberantly raising my cane to each of the numerous acknowledgments of my Mr. Peanut superiority from strangers to quietly falling over. Literally. As my buddy put it, at a certain point in the night my cane ceased being a prop, and then ceased being of any use at all when I fell on my ass despite it.

I came away unscathed (I was so drunk, even my dignity was intact at that point), but the next morning, any lingering pain from the fall was quickly replaced by the shooting pain in my head and stomach. To quell the guerrilla war in my brain, I agreed to a round of breakfast mimosas. I was back on the horse, ready for election day...