Odds and ends.

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Today the Courier-Journal takes note of the Indiana State Senate’s regrettable passing of a gay marriage ban. Commendably, our own Senator Connie Sipes voted against this latest manifestation of the Christian theocracy’s unnecessary lapping against our sinning pagan heels, even if she did so for the wrong (i.e., legalistic objections to the bill’s second clause) reasons.

Good for her, anyway.

It’s also reported that Clark County’s state legislators are asking for five more exceptions to the liquor license quota to aid their push for even more mega-chain restaurants along Veterans Parkway. Somehow peeking through the less than elevated “make-work welfare program for developers like ‘The Gary’ and his ilk” tone of the chamber’s proceedings …

“It’s not about alcohol,” Rick Dickman, Clarksville’s director of economic development, said in an interview. “It’s about economic development.”

… this stray interjection of common sense was offered:

Members of the House Public Policy Committee acknowledged that problem yesterday. Chairman Trent Van Haaften, D-Mount Vernon, said the committee should consider in the future whether the quota system needs an overhaul.

That’ll be the day. The liquor license quota system is another anachronistic Blue Law that never made sense, and it should be dispatched to the crap heap immediately … as soon as our elected officials are finished depriving Indiana’s gay citizens of their human rights. Perhaps we can issue an appeal to Hugo Chavez for a semblance of justice in this matter.

Turning to New Albany politics, but not turning away from the maladjusted savagery it typically engenders, Freedom to Screech’s crusading, fading and masquerading Professor Erika has resumed her cap gun carpet bombardment of Mayor James Garner. Considering the intensity with which Ms. Denhart is again seeking to malign the incumbent, he must still be considered an electoral threat in spite of challenges from Doug England and Larry Scharlow.

Ah, but wait — it’s a GOP thang, isn’t it?

Think of the Vickster’s semi-literate barbs as adoring foreplay, to be indulged in full body latex (unless you’re the gambling type) as the city holds its collective breath in preparation of the arrival of Felipe Rose, Karl Rove, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Phyllis Schlafly, Dick Cheney and Scooter Libby’s lawyer to kick off the “Auntie V for Mayor” gala somewhere deep within the Bicknell Bombastic Bunker, after which the ranking doyenne herself will race Slippery Larry Kochert to be the last one signing the clerk’s primary register.

Speaking of scintillating conspiracies, what better way could there be to liven up a dreary winter’s day than a fresh new round of SOLNA finger-pointing? To paraphrase Sir Elton, “from the end of the Luddite Bar & Grill’s graffiti-encrusted urinal to OUR town,” and all of it resting in the discerning hands of the poor man’s Oliver Stone, who promises photographic evidence of hair-curling malfeasance in sanitation land.

Sounds mafia inspired to me. Any jowly goons spotted lately swooning over Federal Hill Café’s homemade marinara sauce?

Stay tuned.

If only the Tribune’s John “He’s not from here, is he?” Tucker would quit asking questions about radio ads, cut the roof cat coverage, and start paying attention to the howling agony of the city’s writhing obstructionists … why, just think of the full investigation that would be possible … and in an election year, no less.

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