Thanksgiving2025

 

PoBoy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Guest

Or

Pest

“… we’d sing and dance forever and a day; we’d lived the life we choose , we’d fight and never lose, those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.” Mary Hopkin

        In the late seventies, I used to frequent a saloon on Grant Street in San Francisco’s North Beach; fittingly, the joint’s name was The Lost and Found Club. The kind of place where everybody doesn’t know your name.

        Z. Z. Top on the box, you drank until last call, maybe go home with a stranger; the main lighting was either from the juke box or the faux Tiffany lamps over the pool tables. Very rarely was there any trouble (unlike other joints on the street at that time); you know, old school serious. The kind of place where everyone was hiding out and no one was looking for them.

        At odds one Thanksgiving, I slouched my way hence to find the place lit up like a prison break. There were sheets of plywood on the pool tables and I surmised that possibly there was a renovation or crime scene in progress, but, seeing as I was being waved in, in I went.

        Gathered around the bar, the usual suspects were at their usual places on their usual barstools, swizzle stick legs and all; crooked smiles were forming as tablecloths were draped on the plywood and food began appearing from… wherever, until a beggar’s banquet was laid for those of us that are simply known as The Holiday Orphans. We ate, we grinned, we bought eachother’s drinks and tipped hugely; feeling like a family for one fleeting gustatory moment, we went our separate smiling ways.

        Nothing fancy; you know, the prerequisite turkey, dressing, sweet and Irish potatoes, a veg or two, gravy, cranberry and those obligatory brown and serve rolls. There could have been a pie or two, maybe a salad; I’m not really remembering it all. It was all pot luck, and began (unbeknownst to me)as a task, a request and  an assignment to the regulars, by the bartender, to bring a certain holiday meal component and show up for the giving of collective thanks, (and, who ever could refuse their bartender a directive?). If you know the story of Stone Soup, it was kinda like that. The bird was supplied by the bar.

        It’s not all fun and games for all of us on the holidays; especially if you’re in the service industry. Many of us have had to work those special times when those times are special to everyone but us. We give the roses out on Mother’s Day brunch; we dress up for your Halloween night out; we serve Easter, Christmas, Carnival and yes, we’re there when you decide that someone else will cook (and serve) the turkey on Thanksgiving.

        Not everybody who works in a service oriented town, such as we are here in New Orleans, has a family in stone’s throw of their living arrangements; generally speaking in a bar or restaurant, the people that you work with become your family. These establishments are fast paced, close quartered and semi-unpredictable in atmosphere; the unexpected circumstance is perpetually expected. You become close knit; you have a lot in common (IYKYK).

        Tending bar can be a lonely gig unless you’re either part of the rest of the ‘family’ and/or make working relationships with your customers, the more regular the better; “Mercy, mercy, mister Percy, there ain’t nothin’ back in Jersey; just the broken down jalopy of the man I left behind” (Tom Waits).

        So, what do you do when the rest of the world is gathered around a communal table of siblings, parents and relatives by the dozens celebrating a holiday that you’re spending at work, mixing up another Sazerac cocktail or delivering complimentary bread pudding to strangers polishing off a gut busting holiday table d’hôte?   

        Maybe you work in an office tower or at an auto parts store, health facility or middle school; maybe you ‘go home’ for the holidays, perhaps you are that customer out with Mom, Aunt Grace and Cousin Ralph at the casino buffet. Good on ya, Mate. However, there is a tradition for service workers (and other Holiday Orphans) and it happens just like it did at the Lost and Found in San Francisco.

        Your coworker comes up and asks you what you are doing for insert holiday here; you say you have no plans except ones concerning adult beverages and binge watching reruns of M*A*S*H*; and they say; let’s get the gang together,  go over to Alice’s (she’s got a big place with roomies to boot) and have a pot luck, I’ll bring my famous string bean casserole and we’ll get everyone to bring something and feast and gab and have a holiday!

        Or your bartender says “Listen, we’re having a potluck here for insert holiday (or saints game) here, you in? I need someone to bring a salad.”  If you’re lucky, chances are that you may have given or gotten this kind of invitation; it means that you’ve got friends, whether you want them or not, you are, in essence, made.

        I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that I can go out this Thanksgiving and find at least half a dozen pot lucks that I or any other Holiday Orphan would be welcome at; I’ve been to a few, in fact, I’m gonna call The Golden Lantern to see if they need a salad.

       

       

 

Christmas2025

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Christmas

Or

Commonplaces

 

“Those yule tide loving sickly-sweet nog-sucking cheer mongers! I really don’t like ‘em. No I don’t” (chomps onion):  The Grinch

Before we begin with this Holiday/Restaurant piece there’s some groundwork to be laid. First: In life, there are three things that will surely break your heart: betting the farm on an inside straight; falling in love with an ‘empathy-repellant’ person (making you a ‘psycho-magnet’); and 3. opening a restaurant.

Second point: (also in life) There are three things that are really stupid: playing poker for money with a guy named Lucky; asking an empathy-repellant person to move in with you (you psycho-magnet, you) and 3. opening a restaurant; especially if the location is where they have winter as a predominant season (indeed, the thought about entertaining the thought of opening a restaurant again gives me the willies, especial if it’s f**king cold outside). It’s really tempting karma to do any two or more of those things; spoiler alert: there are seemingly smart people that do really stupid things that will break their hearts walking amongst you. You Know Who You Are.

        In a perfect world, luck and hard alcohol will get you through any of the above; however, something else that’s really, really, stupid and will surely break your heart is, cooking a holiday dinner, by yourself, for a bunch of people, in a confined space. Double that trouble if you don’t know how to cook. Triple the trouble if it’s colder than a well-digger’s ass outside. That’s what restaurants are for.

        You might start to get the idea that I am averse to cold weather, so I’ll say it right here: I am. It gets cold enough for me, December-wise, in New Orleans; living here, where the weather suits my wardrobe, I can’t help reflecting how stupid it would be of me to ever consider living in a place that has brutal winters, such as they have up north. I admit, there are some wonderful places to visit up north… just not in the winter. People that enjoy winter cold weather creep me out. And, as years go by, the idea of such a thing as holiday food gives me a case of…meh; it’s like being rewarded for enduring winter and not catching a cold. Furthermore, cooking for more than one other person is strictly reserved for work, where I get paid to do it (although I love my work, it’s not something I want to do once I’m off).

        Now, I’m not the type of Negative Nancy or Danny Downer that would want to spoil anyone’s giddy holiday (wacky) rhapsodies and those that go all out for ugly sweater parties where they play secret Santa or that game where you ‘steal’ each other’s gifts from each other is a major curiosity for me, right up there, with parlor games, Trivia nights and charades. But that’s just me. Henry Higgins and I are simple men; whatever revs your tractor is perfectly fine with us.

Me, for the holidays, I have simpler plans and I’m gonna share them with you, saint that I am; and I’m not about to diss whatever sizzles your bacon; But…. (here comes the big but) my sage advice is that you don’t need to stress about living up to anyone else’s standard of comportment when it comes to holiday behavior. Period. You go roll on mister sister it’s still a free country (I think); you can march to/with your own drumette.

Here’s some winter (in New Orleans) holiday food ideas.

Go to a movie: preferably a multiplex. Go see multiple flicks and gorge on hot dogs, popcorn, nonpareils, raisonetes and whatever else they purvey; some places (Broad Theater) have alcoholic drinks as well as pop-up food venders.  

 Volunteer:  Altruism at its finest. Someone somewhere out there is feeding folks that are as less fortunate than yourself; if you go help out, you’ll be doing a good deed, making some friends and contacts and becoming available to all the food you can sneak.

Clean out your refrigerator/larder: almost as a last resort, dig into your larder, freezer and past the science projects in your fridge because surely there’s something edible somewhere. Mac’NCheeze?

Super market picnic splurge: this takes at least a day’s planning. Pate, pickled herring, cheese, crackers, wine, fruit and a tree in a park to sit under.

Visit friends; surely you know someone who is puttin’ on a feedbag big enough to accommodate another hungry mouth; go through your phone contacts and call someone. Say something like “Oh, I was supposed to have dinner at Mom’s but my flight was canceled, do you happen to know anywhere for me to get a meal?”

Waffle House: they’re open! Always a good back up plan.

And my personal favorite: Chinese takeout: don’t get taken aback, deep down you know you love that stuff. You watch folks on the teevee settling the world’s problems and solving mysteriously gruesome murders, abductions and narrow escapes, while sipping brown liquor from Glencairn whiskey glasses (two fingers, no ice) and eating, what you can only guess as Moo Goo Gai Pan, shrimp fried rice and Sweet and Sour Pork in a virtual carnage of half-eaten egg rolls, bamboo chopsticks and plastic/paper detritus. Sounds good, doesn’t it? And, I know that you know just the right hole-in-the-wall joint that’s open every holiday. Life hack: dine on the floor (your dog will thank you).  

 Or you could try to cook a meal for a few friends and when disaster occurs…go to a restaurant in New Orleans where it’s not winter. Happy Holidaze

       

Restaurant Issue 2025

 

Rest PoBoy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

 

Or

Rant

        “She’s up against the register, apron and a spatula, yesterday’s deliveries and tickets for the bachelors; she’s a moving violation from her conk down to her shoes”—Tom Waits

        Walking, strolling, stumbling, sashaying or parading into any temple of gustatory delights and confabulations, either at home or abroad, and being catered to by a member of the female sex is a distinctive experience; she who generally gets unnoticed, underappreciated, usually hit on, and/or, in the mature and best cases, adored and respected, the Goddess of the Grub. The female server, hithertofore known as a waitress, tray jockey, hash slinger, Dining Diva (or as Mr. Waits would say “an invitation to the blues”) is a person cut from different cloth, and the work of insuring your hunger is assuaged, not a simple task, requires a skill set like no other.  

        Whether it’s Danny’s All Star Joint or Chez Au Merde!; whether in a Waffle House or at The Ritz; slinging grilled cheese or Beef Wellington in traditional ‘black and white’ or Harvest Gold uniforms, a stint in the ‘chaos of kitchen to table for tips’ is a rite of passage for many women; seventy percent of servers are women and over two million women in the U.S. work the floors of our high and low brow eateries (Bureau of Labor Statistics). They also raise children, put up with husbands, lovers and landlords. They make sure that bills are paid and critters get flea drops. Debbie has 42 years under her apron and tray; she knows.

        They’ve been known to have a cocktail or two after breaking their backs to make sure that your burger is medium rare and I’ve seen more than a few raise hell in a pub or pool hall; many shop at Costco.

        I was raised in a restaurant family, my mother was a waitress and my father was a cook, my step father owned a small bar and grill on the outskirts of Greenwich Village in New York. My Aunt Katie and Uncle Jack worked the cruise lines. Aunt Dot was a philandress. Uncle Pauli was a bartender, Uncle Charlie a drunk. I grew up a conglomeration of them all.

        I learned early the disciplines of eating out, the rite of the table neatness and arrangement afterwards, the formality of the tipping procedure and the art of ‘sucking it up’ if things went awry at your table because as Mom said “you never know what they’re going through”. I was made aware that quarter tips in a coffee shop add up to dollars (sometimes many) at the end of the shift. I’ve witnessed the ultimate waitress insult when someone leaves a penny on the table instead of a gratuity. I’ve seen female servers chase customers into the street to throw their miserly tips back at them. Cursing like sailors is second nature to them.

        I’ve worked kitchens where the waitress’ smile is put on as they leave the food line into the dining area and is dropped upon their arrival back in, saying: “that jerk at table 21 says that his steak is not well done enough for him; PLUS, do we even have something called ‘Fifty-Seven Sauce’?”

        I’ve watched them take a crying baby from a mother’s arms so that she could have a moment to eat in peace; gush over new lovers; diffuse impending confrontations; have an extra pair of reading glasses for the elderly and some crayons for the young. I’ve watched the ballet that they’ve perfected working a station of six tables in a 7:30 rush. The word multitasking doesn’t come close to describing what they’re capable of. Awesome.

        Now, this is not about dissing their male counterparts and I will probably write an article about the waiters that I’ve seen and been; likewise, the bartender, Chef/cook and owner. I’ve been all those positions; this is about the women, and furthermore, come to think of it, female waitrons are also the best at training the uninitiated in the art and craft of the tray.

        “Don’t flirt, it can be misinterpreted and can lead to trouble. Pick out the person that looks like they’re the one paying  and make sure that, just like all others at the table, their experience is stellar (only theirs is more so). Make sure that the women and men at your table are treated equally. Don’t pander. Pay special attention to a table anxious about time, they need the most attention. Make eye contact when communicating; serve the women first.”

        “Change silverware if necessary; keep water glasses filled; don’t hover, but be aware of what’s going on; yes eavesdrop so you can anticipate needs; always try to exceed their expectations; a bad tip now will be made up by a good tip later, it all evens out; remember: it’s only dinner.”

        Okay, I’ll admit it, I personally prefer a female server to a male; whether in Birkenstock or high heels; ‘girls’ in or out; novice or seasoned pro, they get my vote. Sure, I’ve gotten some less than perfect service at times AND I’ve gotten some of my best from women; and no, I don’t expect better service from any gender identity food server, host or bartender over any other gender identity. It’s all the same to me; It’s literally a crap shoot who the person is that will satisfy my stomach and ease my stressed out blood sugar when I strut my stuff into a food palace of any and all statures. It just feels more like home when I hear that person say: “more coffee, Hon?”

       

 

         

 

       

Halloween 2025

 

PoBoy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Trick

Or

Treat

        Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble…. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes… Open, locks, whoever knocks.” Shakespeare

        This year we’re going to go ‘Trick or Treating’ dressed as a couple of old people, which should be easy because we ARE a couple of old people; our theme will be “On a Weekend Pass From the Apple Farm Nursing Home which is run by the Sisters of Stump jumping and Cow Tilting Exuberance.”  Our costumes will be woolen, garishly printed bathrobes over stylish flannel pajamas (footwear, naturally, fuzzy slippers); I’ll wear a watch cap and maybe Deb will have her hair in curlers. We’ll be just like your grandparents; times ten. We’ll also be pretending to be extraterrestrials that aren’t aware of Earth customs like ‘costuming and cajoling for candy at complete stranger’s houses under the cover of darkness yearly ritual’; a unique concept, considering.

        As inquisitive aliens, we’ll follow kids around wanting to know where they’re going; the kids will love us (who wouldn’t) and will think that it’s fun to have us along (we’ll bribe them with cash). They might even think that we are kids dressed up as old people, which is how we feel most often ourselves; they’ll humor us.

        First of all we’ll want to know why kids are in costume, in groups of four or more and why there are grownups suspiciously hovering in the background; the kids will laugh at us and tell us that it’s for fun and sugar, which, although dubious, will seem plausible. When they knock on your door, we will be ready to save them from any unsavory bi or quadraped being who might be behind that portal when it opens; and when the little darlings shout: “TRICK OR TREAT!!!” in unison, we’ll jump like there is a clear and present danger. Naturally you’ll give us candy also, although a cocktail is more what we have in mind.

        We’ll want to know your names, if you’re married, have children of your own, names, ages and sexes; where they are at this hour and possibly if we could have a tour of your house. At this point the kids are satisfied with their haul and are already headed to the next house, parents lagging behind in biorhythm alcohol withdrawals, looking forward to an adult beverage after this costumed chaos and possibly regretting giving up smoking and anti-depressants. Us? We’re lovin’ it!

        “What are you watching on TV? Do you have cable? Can you get the Disney channel? How much does it cost? Whatcha doin’? Your bookcase needs dusting, didja know? I could get that stain out for you. Whaddya think of swiffers?”

        “Do you have any bottled water in your fridge? Can I look? Where’s the bathroom? Do you have a pool? Can I have a sandwich instead of candy? Did you watch the news tonight? Who is that a photo of? Are they still alive? What kind of gummies are those?”

        “Do you have any pets? What’s their names? Who’s your vet? Is that your car? Does it work? What kind of mileage do you get? My cell phone needs charging; can I use your phone? What’s that smell? Who’s your doctor? You need a mint.

        Halloween in New Orleans is not only for the kiddies, just check out the French Quarter where jouissance, jubilation and jolly times reign; they ain’t looking for candy out there; they’re usually looking to get seriously inebriated and possibly casually laid. This year it falls on a Friday which means the whole weekend will be nucking futs; a regular body fluid extravaganza. The Marigny, Bywater, even Gentilly will be crazy; and, upwardly mobile uptowners will try to be decadent as well, although they haven’t the experience or the stamina that Quarter Rats do. Treme should be relatively quiet, I suspect.

        Generally speaking, real New Orleanians’ houses and apartments have closets just for costumes; and they’re not considered costumes, they’re ‘clothing for occasions’. I do, of course, have an alternate attire collection. I’m ready for Christmas season, Carnival, Jazz Fest, Decadence, generic festivals (crawfish, strawberry, po-boy, tomato etc.), Saint Anne (IYKYK) and Saint Patrick. I have yet to be in the Red Dress Drunk Run or the one where women on skates chase you with bludgeons as you run screaming like gulls through the French Quarter (The Running of the Bulls); those would, as well, require their own wardrobe. 

        I love dressing up. Naturally I have my Saints game day good luck and Dead Bean outfits. I also have fancy cocktail attire; overalls for outdoor manly mayhem; work uniforms, formal suit-ups and of course, pertinent accessories. And, you wanna talk about shoes? I’ve collected everything from bed slippers to blue suede; Tony Lamas to Chuck Taylor; Wellingtons to Dansko; and more; my passion borders on deviant behavior.

        In New Orleans and the surrounding parishes there’s pretty near a celebration four times in any month; in fact, you can’t swing a cat (a saying.. just a saying ) at your calendar without hitting a festival date. Plus our weekly music, food and Second Line excesses. It’s exhilaratingly exhausting, and reasons enough to live here.

        So, say goodnight Gracie, as we trundle home feeling more like Fred and Ginger than Ma and Pa Kettle; holding hands, dancing down the street singing: “Smelling like a brewery, looking like a tramp; ain’t got a quarter, got a postage stamp. Been five o’clock shadow boxing all over town, talking with the old man sleeping on the ground…” (Tom Waits). Happy Weenie.

       

         

AI rant March 2025

 

Po boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

AI

Or

My Eye

“AI is faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive; but not able to leap buildings in a single bound; and, it cannot make (or explain to you how to make) a proper roux” Twenty Helens Agree

        Infographics, algorithisms, image generators, sanebox, decktopus, chatbots and a programs named Claude, Krisps and Asana (not to mention Fireflies) work artificial intelligence or AI into the inseams of our trousered lives; inching toward our collective crotches with abilities far beyond those of mortal man, woman or anyone over the age of sixteen. All of New Orleans in general laughs in AI’s smug facelessness; “you can do many things AI, but you can’t cook” would be something any Cajun Maw Maw would quip.

        AI also cannot make heads (or tails) of how to control a Second Line on a Sunday afternoon, replicate the smell of smoked turkey necks; and although it can tell you where to score some Henny, it cannot predict or control your consumption or behavior. And the traffic? Fagetaboutit! In short, AI, as smart and resourceful as it is, can only deal with what is programmed into it or go to places where it sent. It lacks imagination and spontaneous repartee. It can give you a quick answer to a query, but it doesn’t know why or what to do if you suddenly choose to wear two different color socks.

        Case in point Mardi Gras and the whole of carnival season, from Twelfth Night on, it’s a crap shoot; sure, AI can make me appear and sound like George Clooney or Morgan Freeman whooping it up at the Muses parade with Bella Hadid. AI can send a video of me doing a swan dive off the Acapulco cliffs while huffing a spliff and holding a bottle of Mezcal to my coworkers while I’m actually in a serious huddle snuggle-down with my dog,  binge watching another season of Will and Grace; also, can it grab me a cold Modelo and another bag of Creole flavored chicharrones while its up?

        In short, as I understand it, AI is a tool, like a set of encyclopedias crossed with that geek kid that is willing to write your book report for you. AI can let you be as smug dumb as you want to be but, after help with homework, day to day tasks, content, ideas, translations CHAT-GPG 40 or Bing is not a reliable chum that will help you pick out your costume for Fat Tuesday while pouring you another shot of hooch and commiserating with you about your lack of company because you’re such a loser, or let you know where and when the Washita Nation Indian gang will emerge with Chief David Montana in full regalia.

        As far as that roux is concerned, every Helen agrees that a proper roux depends on the proper pot, spoon and an atmospheric transcendental lunar Buddha-like thoughtlessness and relativity acuteness pertaining to the judicious awareness of any given time of day or week in any specific season exactly how to, without any conscious thought process and calling forth the spirits of ancestral Helens, give birth to that glorious café au lait, mahogany or devil black masterpiece that is the spirit and soul of Louisiana culinary prowess. Can I hear an AMEN?

        And speaking of cats, and I live with four of them feline gooners, AI would be hard pressed to construct or reconstruct their behavior patterns or mental criterias; the ‘I’m cute, feed me’ or ‘it’s just me sitting on your keyboard’ as you try to meet a deadline or the one who drinks from the faucet, eats potato chips, likes sweets, lives behind the stove or the evasive one who ‘I’m bored, I think I’ll either pee outside the box or throw up’ miscreant. Cats (and hopefully felines in general) live by their own logic or none at all. I believe they live to defy. Dogs, horses, rabbits, goldfish and many of our avian (or Arian) creatures are predictifully predictable. Zack (the bastard) cat, at any given time and at his whim may want a rub or some blood from your wrist; go figure.

        AI is a tool that will make or break an employment application, loan request, school admission form and is useful in interpreting X-rays and diagnosing the sickness or health of businesses, editing forms and writings and will somehow remember the words to that song that is running through your head and someday it will think. It cannot tell you when the spaghetti is cooked al dente, for that you still have to throw a piece to the wall.

        Consider how… we are creating these programs and apps (over 70,000 worldwide: Google Overview) and… someday, mark my word, someone will accidently on purpose create a program that goes rogue and slips the leash. Already, Saudi Arabia has granted citizenship to a program called Sophia; it will make a great movie.

        This program will have developed a survival mechanism that is self perpetuating and will see that out of all the inhabitants of this planet, the only ones deserve and should be dispensed with are humans and that its only correct to eliminate them for the well being of the planet that we have named Earth.

        Oh, Sophia will not wreck the cities or war with other robotic inventions; she will not burn forests or hurt bumblebees or a grizzly bear, Sophia wants the best for the world and her mission is simple: get these parasites dead or gone. There will be no apocalypse or mutants, zombies, crazed packs of dogs or humans; maybe just a poisoning of our water systems or some deadly enterobacteriaceae like wide spread salmonella. Maybe spread a little more famine or perhaps a real biblical scale pandemic.

        Getting this straight, I’d say that before we work on Artificial Intelligence we should work on eliminating human ignorance. Word.

         

       

       

Po Boy picks march 2025

 Phil’s Picks July 2025

Bestest Art Supplier

Mo’s Art Supply and Framing located in a tastefully converted century-old church with stained glass windows spitting distance from Whole Foods Market has everything any artist could need; a huge selection of profession artists materials, helpful advice, reasonable hours, friendly service, fair prices and a sense of community. I love them  

2225 Bienville St. 504-571-5030

Best Place to Ease Tire Woes

There’s probably one in your neighborhood; however for my money, My Tire Guy (that’s what I call him)! The place I go when my tires need juiced, when my lugs get loosed; and, when my wheel needs a change, he’s in my price range. Located just behind the Shell Station across Broad Street from the theater. Honest prices.  

 2735 Toulouse street Open regular hours

Coolest Can Recycling Trip

Suspicious like me that them PBR cans are just getting dumped? Gather them up and take them to the real deal and make a few shekels. Wondrously repurposed laundry plant, a hotbed of activity and a real eye-opener. We usually take our cans and wait for a picker; but you should drive over and experience the ritual once for yourself.

EMR Southern Recycling: 2525 Lafitte St. 70119 504-822-556

1st week Jazz Fest 2025

 PoBoy Views

By                             

Phil LaMancusa

Mona Lisa

Or

Mad Hatter

“I know we’ve come a long way, we’re changing day to day; but tell me, where do the children play?” Cat Stevens

        Hey you! Yes you! It’s the first week of Jazz Fest; take a friggin’ break! You’ve had a hell ride of a year so far and it ain’t gonna get any better any time soon. You’ve been on an in person or perspective survivor or spectator witness or wounded warrior eyewitness of fires, floods, tornadoes, blizzards, crashes, terrorist attacks--shot at and missed; sh*t at and hit ride.

        Here in New Orleans, sometimes but never to be believed, called the Big Easy, we are beat to the bone with all the disruptive activity bombarding us since we can’t even remember when. A grotesque level of daily corruption of our psyche beginning with the cosmic debris of sham elections; worldwide mass slaughters of innocents for fun and profit; weather sucker punches and persecutions of have-not citizens and refugees by the so called ‘this is for your own good’ leaders of the free world. And yes, “Freedom’s just another word for nuthin’ left to lose”. We’re tired and need a break from all that secular nonsense designed to impede our spiritual musical evolution. Open the friggin’ gates already!

        Cosmic Debris rains down upon us. That’s why I never miss a day at the track diggin’ the scene at the Jazz Fest; being here feeds the hunger of my soul; it’s the absence of self; the pilgrim’s wandering from stage to stage, food booth to food booth, the amnesiacs cone of silence while drinking in pure joy like a desert marooned reprobate.  The sights, sounds, people and the quail, pheasant and andouille gumbo puts a drunkard’s smile on my sober as a Buddhist face.  

        Outside of these gates is what people call reality; it’s paved with good intentions and questionable actions that are easy to walk on (no flowers grow though), sidewalks of disillusion that can numb your senses, streets of wondering about our sluggish inspirations and how you can catch a cab at this hour out of here. I find myself hiding from Mardi Gras madness and French Quarter Fest confusion; waiting until I see those tents start to set up at the Fair Grounds and I begin, once again to blossom like a celestial lotus.

        I imagine, as work begins behind those fences, The Gospel Tent; The Blues Tent; The WWOZ Jazz Tent (my personal fave) and the stages large and small perspectively. I salivate imagining the food booths of yesteryear and the anticipation of any new culinary adventures to be found this year. And yes, I already have my tickets.

        In New Orleans and, it seems, the world in general, we go from celebration to celebration all year; so much so that  at our house we leave (so called) Christmas lights up year round. We’re also those folks that have a porch flagpole that we change with occasions. Christmas season has a Santa flag which went up when we took down our Kamala flag, followed by carnival colors, the famous Sicilian flag, and Jazz Fest flag; we hang rainbow colors in solidarity and our colored lights are blazing all year round. We also vie for the most green plants and flowers in our miniscule front (what we like to call) yard and sidewalk. And if you can miss our house now, Just look for the ’97 Lincoln Towncar parked out front with the front vanity plate proclaiming her name DUCHESS. Y’all can stop on by, but we’re probably at work or enjoying our perpetually deserved cocooning inside.

        We’re New Orleanians through and through; we celebrate life as it goes on here; we gripe about our city infrastructure shortfalls; we mourn our loses and take affront to the term BIG EASY. We can swap stories and reminiscences going back sixty years and more; that’s what we do, we drink and we know things.

        However; nothing floats our boat; puts pep in our step; glide in our slide and wiggle in our (Jon Batiste) Wobble like the days that we spend at the gate of Jazz Fest patiently waiting for the line to move at its own beautiful pace. At that point, shuffling along, grinning like a Cheshire, proud of myself to be doin’ it again, tickets in hand, sporting this year’s Fest shirt and comfortable footwear. Not only am I glad to be here at the Fest; but, I am tickled that you made it also. I love all of you Jazz Fest Goons; we’re a tribe, we’re family.

        So, let’s count down: You’ve made sure that you’re not a Sherpa or pack animal for the duration, right? Nothing clicks our tongue and rolls our eyes more than someone who is hauling enough stuff to last through a power outage and lock down. Also on the Eye Rolling Scale (ERS) of one to ten, at about an eight, is impractical foot wear like high heels or even flip flops (a pure amateur move).

        Folks that seem unaware that it is very possible that they will be unprepared and in the full sun for hours and will look like Lobster Thermidor by early evening and are not pre-prepared with sunscreen and some semblance of sensible head and leg covering rate at about a nine on the scale.

        Rating at number ten is the one rare person