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We tried to do our part by prying open our wallets and swabbing out the residue of our consumer confidence. We were on the lookout for cheap but meaningful gifts. We were especially interested in one stocking stuffer that was widely advertised—a faceplate for the cell phone described as “patriotic.” What makes a faceplate patriotic? Presumably it’s the colorful red, white, and blue motif—the stars and bars of Old Glory.

Oh, how few sacred symbols we have as a nation! Veneration of the flag is apparently the only thing we can agree on (though adoration of the cell phone is nearly unanimous, too), but at least we can agree on something. Agreement is suddenly chic, and dissent is déclassé. For some reason, this makes a lot of sensible people nervous.

The rest of us know that agreement at a political level is precisely what a slight majority of voters had in mind last November. A brilliant new one-party system has been devised to accomplish more than a two-party system could ever do. Later in January, we’ll get to see it in action.

It’s not entirely clear what Minnesota’s most pressing legislative needs will be with the New Year. Starting on that $4 billion state deficit without raising taxes seems like an interesting idea. At least state Sen. Mady Reiter has her priorities straight. She’ll still work hard to use tobacco funds to build new highways, stop light rail, and try to make it easier for commercial health insurers to make a profit in our state. But before she does all that work of the people, she’ll reintroduce her Pledge of Allegiance bill as soon as she can. It will undoubtedly pass, and may well be the first law Governor Pawlenty inks into existence.

The bill, which made it as far as Governor Ventura’s desk last May before getting vetoed, would require all school children to recite the Pledge of Allegiance at least once a week. This despite the fact that about three out of four schools in the state report that they’re already doing it. (Oddly, Reiter refuses to amend the bill to allow teachers to tell their students that reciting the pledge is not mandatory. She says they’re already doing that.) Ventura argued that “patriotism comes from the heart,” rather than from the moral hot-dogging of politicians. It was one of the more persuasive things he said.

Meanwhile, the U.S. Court of Appeals in San Francisco has upheld a man’s right to sue to get nine western states to drop the words “under God” from the pledge. The court will be deciding the case in the next months, though it’s hard to believe they’ll uphold their previous decision, if they know what’s good for them. (“Under God” was not included in the pledge until the McCarthy era, when it was interpolated by Congress—the better to mitigate against the humanist leanings of its original author, Francis Bellamy, who was a damnable socialist.)

It’s curious to see Americans and Minnesotans get so wound up about a few stanzas of Victorian prose. We are not a people who are especially fastidious about dogma and ritual. We are selective in our observance, even a little sloppy, and we are known poetry-haters. If there were any teeth in the laws governing flag etiquette, for example, most of us would be in deep trouble. According to the U.S. Flag Code, our star-spangled banner should not be printed on paper, it should never be used in advertising, and it should not be affixed to any uniform other than the military or the civil service. (It gives us pause to consider every professional athlete getting a ticket for abusing the flag since 9/11.) On top of all that, the proper way to dispose of a worn-out flag is by burning it—but with the right intentions, not the wrong ones. Which is, of course, a matter between you, your God, and your elected representatives.

The first thing we noticed when we walked in the door of this repurposed north-suburban Pannekoeken Huis was the inviting fragrance of spice and curry, just the thing to perk up our appetite after a logy post-Gophers game nap. There are more than 100 items on the menu, all South Indian vegetarian and many strictly vegan. The daily lunch buffet, with two dozen items, is a great way to sample a wide swath. If you’re a carnivore who thinks vegetarian food can’t be hearty or flavorful, a meal here will cure you of that misapprehension. Case in point: the mulligatawny soup, a rich broth that’s surprisingly robust. The menu includes many varieties of dosai, a rice/lentil crepe, and our tablemate had high praise for her house special, the cheese dosai with chickpeas. Our food was well complemented by a variety of sauces, and the coconut went especially well with the spicier fare. South Indian cuisine can be extremely fiery, and we decided to dive in for the hot version of the gobi manghuriani—marinated cauliflower sauteed in ginger, garlic, and chili. About a third of the way through, the top of our skull was on fire and our wimpy Nordic palate forced us to stop eating. But it was so tasty, we’re ordering it again next time—perhaps the mild version, washed down with a large bottle of Taj Mahal beer. 4920 Central Ave. N.E., Columbia Heights, 763-574-1113, www.udupicafemn.com

As with so many local artists, we townies seem to be the last to know about T Lee’s creations and kudos, unless you’ve discovered her at the Uptown Art Fair. Now we can take a closer look at her original designer jewelry at her new retail store in the freshly chichi southern quarter of Northeast. But you may want to move fast, since her status as a rising star has been officially established this year with the winning of three big-deal national design awards, including the JCK Las Vegas Rising Star Award. Her specialty is woven strands of gold and platinum, and her current collection is simple, beautiful and timeless. Check out the grand opening weekend November 29–December 1. T Lee, (612) 789-2656., www.tleegold.com

One of the reasons we’re not too worried about covering the latest and greatest whosies and whatsits here in the Broken Clock is that we want to reserve space for the timeless, the classic, the perennial favorites. A great sin of the present generation is assuming that local heroes the Jayhawks have done nothing notable since Hollywood Town Hall, or since cofounder Mark Olson ditched the band. But listen: Smile, which came out in 2000, was every bit as hummable, memorable, and collectible. We have it in our CD player right now to prove it. Many critics were not so much pleasantly surprised by Smile as they were wholly knocked on their asses. We don’t know whether there’s a new record in the works or not, but we’re pleased Gary Louris still makes his home here, and is showing no sign of corruption in the pure, clear folk rock he seems to generate effortlessly. For all their evil ways, major labels still have their pride—and the fact that they continue to support franchise players like the Jayhawks is cause enough to celebrate peace on earth and goodwill toward the Man. Don’t let the holidays distract you from what’s really important—this happy hometown gig from a local treasure.

Dave Ray is an all-around mensch, and it’s a crying shame that he’s been afflicted with a pretty serious battle with cancer. In any case, friends, let’s not mince words: You will not get too many more chances to see the legendary trio that played a big part in establishing the Dinkytown folk scene of the 60s—the same one Mr. Bob Dylan sprang out of. You want to see a piece of living history? Get thee to First Avenue and pay your respects to these giants of Minneapolis music, white blues, and flat-picking folknik fun. First Avenue, (612) 332-1775, first-avenue.com

It’s admirable that the collaboration between these three giants of the opera world has lasted so long, not to mention a good thing for popular music in general. When Placido Domingo, Luciano Pavarotti, and Jose Carreras first got together 12 years ago, the unexpected appearance of a supergroup of opera was such an artistic and commercial smash that it may have singlehandedly reversed opera’s long, slow decline into obscurity. Purists sniffed that the shows were all about booming bombast and big personalities, and that pop success was luring Pavarotti in particular to spend too much time collaborating with rock stars. The Tenors couldn’t care less about such highbrow carping. Part of the reason they joined up in the first place was that they all love soccer: Their first trio performance was at the 1990 World Cup. It is true that Domingo is the only one still in peak voice, but the combined showmanship of the three will surely make this a night to remember. Xcel Energy Centre, (651) 265-4800, xcelenergycenter.com

Though you may not be familiar with it as yet, this annual Christmas show has already attained veteran status. This is only the second year it’s been staged publicly, but writer/director Michael Sommers has been putting it on for family and friends for 17 years. Based on medieval passion plays and featuring a set based on illuminated Gothic manuscripts, Open Eye’s pageant retells the Christian nativity story through the eyes of an unusual perspective character: Lucifer. The story goes back and forth between the hardships of Mary and Joseph, the earthy, double-entendre prone shepherds, and the Devil’s arguments with The Other Guy about the proper role of evil. Adding to the near-Shakespearian feel, it’s all told in rhymed verse. Kevin Kling stars as the bewildered Joseph, whose marriage isn’t turning out the way he thought it would. (Still recovering from a nasty motorcycle accident, Kling says working on this show “has been a tonic.”) Southern Theater, (612) 340-1725, www.southerntheater.org

We all serve the greater good in our own way. Some people cure polio. Some build rockets that go to the moon and back. The MST3K guys made unwatchable movies watchable, livening up terrible B-films with zinging commentary and mocking goofball skits during ten seasons on local TV and later on cable. Ordinarily we hate people who talk during movies, but there are some films so wretched that the audience must start sassing back in self-defense. This box set is a good introduction to the MST madness, with episodes featuring both original host Joel Hodgson and replacement Mike Nelson. Of the four films in this collection, the best of the worst is easily The Creeping Terror, a schlocky 50s monster movie made so incompetently that the director narrates most of the film himself because he accidentally dropped his recording equipment in a lake while filming. And Bloodlust is worth it just for the spectacle of seeing a young Robert Reed (future sitcom dad Mr. Brady) chased down like a dog. The DVDs also include the original versions of each film, though you should be warned that without the ameliorating buffer of wisecracking robot puppets, these cinematic trainwrecks might be extremely dangerous, or perhaps just boring.

Caddyshack is quoted more often by drunken frat brothers, and Meatballs codified the slacker lifestyle a decade before the word came into use. But the hero of a generation has shined so brightly in so many films, we couldn’t begin to decide which Bill Murray film we like best. (Even his serious turn in Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge was good, dammit! OK, that may be going too far.) It’s been great to see Murray keeping up his chops in recent years. If anything, his roles in hipster art flicks like Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums have proven that the man can connect across generations, and that wooden-faced thing he does so well really is acting. Stripes, of course, was made at the peak of his career and market value, and captured the essence of the Murray schtick as kind-hearted cad. (Ghostbusters did too, but there he had to share precious screen time with the increasingly corpulent Dan Aykroyd, Sigourney Weaver’s moneymaker, and the underappreciated Harold Ramis). Groundhog Day, on the other hand, is a brilliant piece of writing Murray had to meet halfway, and both the film and the actor never got due credit. If there is a catechism of 80s humor, then Bill Murray has something to do with almost every article of faith. You might say he’s a Cinderella story, outta nowhere, a former greenskeeper now about to become the Master’s champion…

One of the problems with seeing films like Pedro Almodóvar’s latest, Talk To Her, is that it inspires a profound guilt for all the time we’ve wasted on the latest Hollywood drivel. It’s doubly regrettable that this marvelous film will make its way to town during the holiday release frenzy and will probably get lost among the explosion fests. So, please let the brats off at the multiplex to see Bond or Potter, and bring a friend with whom you can share something deeper than a box of popcorn. Almodóvar, whose All About My Mother won the 1999 foreign film Oscar, has again plumbed the depths of sorrow, loneliness and difficult loves—but this time from the men’s point of view. Benigno and Marco befriend each other when they are both caring for lovers who have been put into comas as a result of trauma. But while Marco has known his Lydia for a long time, Benigno’s only spoken with Alicia once before her accident. During their time together at the private clinic where the two women are cared for, Almodóvar tells their stories via the men’s monologues with the comatose women and through effortless movement through the past and present. All this is not to say that the director abandons his infatuation with bizarre behavior—in this case it’s an act so out of bounds that one can’t help but be intellectually repulsed. At the same time, Almodóvar leaves us enchanted by the humanity and sympathy of the character who perpetrates the outrage. Allegories abound here, and you’ll have to pay close attention to get everything Almodóvar throws at you, but that’s an effort that will be rewarded with something more than the regret you’ll have at wasting another $15 on something you can see on cable in six months.