Cajun Chocolate Factory

Po Boy View

By

Phil LaMancusa

 

Or

Passin’ Time

It was a dark and stormy night and and Sissy Beaudreaux had a passal of little ones to keep quiet in that ‘chirrens hour’ what lay between supper and bedtime; so, she gathered them all around for a tall tale based loosely on fact, fiction and her fertile imagination.

"Now, y'all settle down 'cause I'ma tell y'all a story; ya mamas n'em’s are down at the roadhouse and they axed me to mind you so you hush down an lissen up! Pea Claude!, you set and behave or y'ain't gettin' no CoCola afterwerds.

"So here how it goes: There once was this kittle name of Charlie Bucket and he live in a fishin' camp down by the spillway. His mama worked the traplines 'cause his papa got canned from his job on Avery Island screwin' them little bitty red caps on them 'basco bottles. Charlie's MawMaws and PeePaws, both sets, live in they kitchen...bedridden (that means kep in bed....Angelina, you stop pinchin'!) an they's as poor as dirt and hongry all the time.

"Charlie goes to school, but, he got to walk uphill bothways, in raggety clothes, no lunchpail and there's a mean ole teacher make him clean the privy everday to boot. Charlie has a no count sister, Helena, who hit the Powerball and took all her winnin's and moved to New Wawlins to a place called Lake View and good riddence to her, I say. But here's the thing: Charlie, he love candy, yes, jus' like you little poppets, and he'll do anything to get his hands on some.

"Meanwhile… there's that chocolate factory in Bayou Lafouche that's run by Mister Willie Wonkers and he got a contest goin' that involves gettin' five kids to go to his factory. His factory don' make chocolate nomore because of the economy, but they do make pralines, gummy crawfish, gator-tear gum (made from real gator's tears) and misteeerious confections that you can chew on all day and they never gets smaller nor loses they taste! Yum, huh?

"Secretly Willie Wonkers is mushy in love with Charlie's sister, but he's got him a wife that he wonts to leave 'cause she's meaner than a two headed cottonmouth, so he finagles Charlie to be one of the winners. The five kids will try to be Wonker's favorite so's they can be given the factory, because Wonkers wants to give it up and go to live in sin with Charlie's sister and be all smoochy smoochy…. Yuk.

"The factory is run by these little people called Umpa Lumpas a kinda gremlin that was fashioned by a voodoo muckity muck named Foghorn Legbo around the time that theys puttin' in the railroad; a cross between a nutria, a beaver and a Chinee: hardworkin' and loyal and you can feed just about anything but vegetables.

"Anyhow, each of the kids can bring one grownup with them and Charlie brings his PawPaw Joe. The other kids include Vylette Beauregarde, a gummy chewing girl from the Pearl River ; Augustus Glampoot, a chile from St. Bernard that spends all his daddy's money at Rocky and Carlos' eatin that cheesy macarony; Mike Ipad, who would rather play them 'puter games than breathe God's good air and Veronica Salt a very spoiled uptown New Orleans girl who goes to Sacred Heart Academy. They all brings they mommas.

"Charlie is the bestest of them all because he's a hard worker, a regular at his lessons and plays passable Hank Williams on his geetar which only has three strings 'cause he's so poor.

"Well, Willie Wonkers is showin' them the factry and right away them baaaad kids start gettin' into mischief. While Mister Wonkers is showin' them around they's snitchin' stuff and pinchin' eachother and teasin' them poor Umpa Lumpas who is feared of they own shadow... or so it seems.

"Now here's the good part: them Umpa Lumpas, who turn out to be crafty little buggers, start to playin' tricks on them awful, misbehavin' chirruns; little did they know that the chirrens are banding together because the chirren know that those Umpa Lumpas are cannibals and the reason why Willie Wonkers stays in businesses because he KNOWS that the wicked Umpa Lumpi (that's plural for Umpa Lumpa) cannot eat a chirren if'n they eat they's veggies like collards or mustard greens; you see, it's the only way that Mr. Wonkers has been able to stay out of their pointy claws (because there's too much vegetables in his blood stream!).

"The chirrens git together and found out that the onliest way to defeat those awful little divils was to get them to eat something green instead of sweets like cookies, CoColas or the confections that they's a makin' twenny fore ours a day.

"Well Mr. Wonkers and them kids get to gether and they decide to fool them Umpas by making vegetables that look like candy so's they can destroy them and turn the factory back over to the chirrens and so they mix up a drink that looks like water but really is spinach juice and the fool thirsty Umpas drink it and pass out and they box 'em up and ship them off to the North Pole where they cannot do any further cannibalizing.

"Except... Except a few of them git away and goes around the towns spying on little kittles that don't eat their greens and carrots and things what they mommas say is good for them to eat. In fact; shhhhhh, I thought I saw one lookin' in the window! Hey! Stay away from them leftovers! Don't you want to hear the rest of the story, 'bout how the kids get the candy factory and Mr. Wonkers goes to Helena Bucket?

"Who said you could eat them vegetables?"

 

Po Boy View


By

Phil LaMancusa

Made in the Shade

Or

A.K.A. Jazz Fest

“Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends; we’re so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside!”

On the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival’s official website they’ll explain many things to familiarize visitors who are… neophytes. And rightly so. However; those of us that have survived past Fests unscathed know that stuff by heart through our experiences. For us older (and wiser) hands, there is no need to tell us that the weather is as unpredictable as Murphy’s cat. It just is. There’s also no need to tell us how to dress for unpredictable weather: a cool unrestrictive A-line skirt, lightweight cotton blouse and an open stitch cardigan tied to our dainty waist, comes immediately to mind. This year’s seasoned Fest attendees will also have enough of a durable SPF 30 sunscreen to apply every two hours to prevent burning and that ugly ‘c’ word.

Metrophiliac fashionista Fest goers also know that the perfect accessory to any fetching outfit is a pair of shrimper boots whether you’ll need them or not. A parasol, folding chair, floppy sun hat and Jackie O. Ray Bans are never out of fashion and our little miss or mister will have a small clutch bag to hold lip balm, iPhone, monogrammed hanky and our American Express Business Card. Oh, and staying hydrated is a must; we’re allowed to bring in our own chosen brand of totally Alpine glacier prehistoric spring water. Well, at least we were previous years (if the seal was unbroken). Naturally, there’ll be smart cocktails après Fest.

On the other hand members of the Krewe of Brew will wear flip flops, cut offs and Saints or vintage Jazz Fest tee shirts. One pocket will hold double sawbucks and a NAPA Auto Parts debit card. Another pocket will have a Harley Davidson bandana, Marlboros in a box and Zippo lighter. A’s or Cardinal’s baseball caps is de rigueur of course, as is enough tanning lotion (their own mixture of baby oil and iodine) to slather a Montana bison. It’s not a stretch to say that somewhere about their person is a pint of Jack or some such spirit. Also, an old plaid flannel shirt works well as a blanket to sit on, a towel to wipe the crawfish schmutz from the chin and flag to wave at the geezer rockers at the Acura Stage. Multiple beers will be consumed, maybe a little reefer and a couple of Cochon de Lait poor boys to boot. The Salt-of-the-earth contingent don’t stand in line for nothin that ‘the old lady’ can cook at home; so look for these bon vivants by the Fried Pork Rind demonstration. Said miscreants will laugh at the rain, the sun, the wind and mud and will leave a tad early to beat the crowd to Liuzza’s, where they started that morning with Jimmy’s famous Bloody Marys. They’ll go on to brave the line at Coop’s, party on Frenchmen Street and soldier on the next morning to do it all over again.

Jazz Fest is a wonderful time for the city at large, where visitors from around the world as well as Ohio rub shoulders with the usual suspects that inhabit our neighborhoods. The playing field is leveled by a mutual love of food, music and the great outdoors. It’s only a fool that tries to drive close to the track and look for parking spaces and neighbors guard their driveways and street spots like mother hens. We are fortunate enough to live within spitting distance from the gate, not that I ever spit at the gate of course (mama didn’t raise me to act common) and for the past few years I left my parking spot open for any Fester who was lucky enough to get there first. When I would leave for work on the weekends, I would pull out and by the time I returned home the Festers would just be leaving, something that worked symbiotically quite well. Here is where I tell you that last year, some thoughtless yayhoo got into my spot and stayed parked for the duration. Needless to say, I won’t be performing that service to mankind this year.

Wandering outside the gate you will find entrepreneurs lining the streets with trinkets, treasures and libations for the thirsty in mind and body. Musicians that will or will not someday make the cut to perform inside will perform outside for tips and practice. Handmade wares, puppet shows, exotic animals, batik wraps and even perhaps a wandering vegan selling yummers. It reminds me of an old fashioned country fair. A good time is had by all.

Here is where I tell you about the time our friend Marinnette bought a ticket for Jazz Fest from some dude on the perimeter only to find out that is was no good when she presented it at the gate. Caveat emptor, y’all

Festers are like minded in several areas: use of trash and recycling receptacles; patience in the Pot-o-Gold line; secret tricks for navigating the Fest experience; a ‘live and let live’ attitude for another person’s choice of music and a natural camaraderie that allows them to participate in discussions that start with the questions: “what are you eating, how is it and where did you get it?”

Festers, real Festers have another thing in common: the love of New Orleans and the symbol of the Fleur de Lis. On their clothing, as part of their accoutrements (“what separates us from inferior life forms is our ability to accessorize”) and in the brazen and permanent badges-of-courage: tattoos (some in the damndest places, too).

So, here’s to another year, another Fest: raise your ‘F’Lis’ flag high and let it wave! See you at Liuzza’s!

Po Boy Views


By

Phil LaMancusa

Jazz Fest Redux

Or

Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

Mea Culpa Maama Jamma. Wow, did I step in it or what? Last week (you didn’t read it, did you?), I wrote about ‘characters’ of the Fest and someone compared me to those older Brits that used to profile kids as either Mods or Rockers. “Not so” I retorted: “Listen, I get less than a thousand words to wax onward and I didn’t have room to pay tribute to all the other Festivalians you may see grazing at the Crawfish Monica zip code, let alone the workers!” Needless to say I, having been successfully admonished, have corrected my oversight.

First things first: from the voice of Larry McKinley (in the box) at the gate telling you “Welcome to the 43rd ….”

“ Remember, for your fun as well as safety the following are strictly prohibited…”

leading you to the gamut of bag friskers and ticket takers and outward (or inward), the Fest is staffed with an army of workers and volunteers from ushers, trash gatherers and them darn people in yellow shirts that blow their vehicle crossing whistles to stage crews, beer slingers, gospel singers, swingers, good news bringers and bell ringers. There’s a lost and found, Post office, ATM, General Store and posters galore. Also a first aid station and wandering security folks among the Mardi Gras Indians, brass bands and fans of every food and music genre.

Boys that fear no noise crowd the stages eager for some Honkey tonk badonkadonk; hometown heroes with angel backup singers and stars playing on ‘lectric guitars. Old bats herd brats while Cats in hats with rug rats have spats. Frats and Y’ats. Teens with hormones ragin’, Cajuns, Asians, and two stepping amazin’s at the stage they call Fais Do Do. Craft sellers, California swellers, gals with their fellers and strollers and men in buffed bowlers gently jostling with writers, liars, tea swillers and mango freeze spillers; oyster shuckers and down on their luckers. Stage hands, brass bands, Gospel Tent prayers, old school harmony slayers, Hip Hop ‘Players’, second line partner-searchants eyein’ wares of Congo Square merchants. Restless Electric Slide dancers, hip twitchin’ prancers and ebony romancers eager for some Frankie and Maze. The Dixie Cups are onstage singing “The Chapel of Love” while a guy in tight jeans is schmoozing a young blushing dove. Without embarrassments, Impromptu assessments of body inkments in tents and on pavements; a cold one up to my smile and sunglasses, freshly baptized in Old Sol’s shine.

Outdoor shepherds with cane fishing pole signposts flying pigs and flags and waving their charges toward safe haven outposts in crowds thick with smoke, sweat and beer; girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes and “peanuts!, get your peanuts here!”

Gospel tent rockin’ with spirit so thick you can taste it and robed choirs sway for the Lord like seaweed moving in a sea of harmony, joy and salvation. The Lord is holding down this corner of the track and throw your hands in the air, get up on your feet and raise your voices in praise of His Name until holy exhaustion overtakes you like the ebb of a wave in the sea of Galilee. Hosanna, Amen, “I know that’s right!” and a joyful noise up to heaven powerful enough to convert both hustler and hussy.

The Jazz Tent regulars jockey for prime seats to languish in notes created on premise from old salts to young lions grabbing solos saluting past masters from Monk to Dizzy and Duke dished up by Mayfield, Blanchard and Harrison. The ghost of Coltrane floating beside Charlie Bering smiling at what they had wrought upon the audience devoted to going no further into the fray; for once again, in their element, home at last. Sighing and nodding, toes keeping a time subjective in a love supreme to a crescendo of applause and standing ovations. Only to give way to the younger generations that amaze, astonish and astound with fresh found fugues repeated and varied with accompanying contrapuntal lines. Take a deep breath and close your eyes.

Past the kids area with games, story tellers and Mac-n-cheese. Tykes in rapt wonder while the likes of, The Wiggles, Imagination Movers or Choo Choo Soul spin smiles, songs, stories and young ideas to thirsty minds in small bodies while older, yet not any more mature, children crowd Economy Hall to see Chris Owens, The Goddess of all things New Orleans; Dixieland at its finest and handkerchief waving gravy trains around the tent.

Mardi Gras Indians chanting from the Heritage Stage speak to our innermost senses with rhythms of Shallow Water, Indian Red and Big Chief with a Golden Crown followed by brass bands that get us dancing down and dirty. While indigenous Americans remind us through song and crafts who the original citizens really are.

Lagniappe Stage, by the oyster bar with surprises a bit shy of big-time but no less admired, more prized, localized, idolized, less simonized but soon to be proselytized semi-marginalized musical masterminds. Surprised?

Food, food, acres of food. Red beans, white beans and BBQ ribs; there’s a place to get PB&J for the kids. Crawfish bread, bisque and boiled and beignets; PoBoys: gator, duck, soft shell. Cochon de Lait. Jambalaya, quail gumbo, cous cous and Jama Jama; catfish pecan, almandine or trout Baquet for your mama; boudin balls, fried chicken and fried green tomatoes; spinach and artichokes and poned sweet potatoes.

And for those of us that sport a sweet tooth, we’ll find Brocado’s gelato by the next booth; or cobbler, cheesecake, turnovers or tarts; or strawberry shortcake to share with sweethearts. But the best thing of all, to top off this list, is when we get kissed in a tent filled with mist. It’s damn near poetry.

Sunday NY Times

Po Boy Views


By

Phil LaMancusa

Sunday’s Single’s Solaces

Or

My Kinda Town

Sunday. We are truly ourselves without the weekday commitments to the world that we’ve made; the good faith mantle that we take up again each Monday morning. Sunday is the day when we are truly, sometimes tragically, ourselves; the leftovers of who we were on Saturday night. This is Sunday. We can linger over coffee, the newspaper, or mass at church. Sunday dinner can be a crawfish boil, roast beef with mash and gravy or crackers and cheese. Then off to bed, to sleep off the weekend before the alarm clock rings in another what the fuck week. That, of course, puts us into Monday.

In several languages Monday translates to ‘Moon Day’ (Lundi, Lunas, Lunis and Lunae dies) those that afflicted by the moon are called ’Lunatics’ and that’s what most of us are at the beginning of each new week. Monday we’ll get back to our jobs, kids, mortgages and responsibility to taking care of food, clothing and shelter for ourselves and others. Ah, but Sunday…

Most of us just follow our noses on Sunday. Sunday is the day of excuses that work: sleep in late, stay out later or step up to the straight and narrow. A bench in church or a barstool at Cheer’s (where everybody knows your name). Up to suit, shower and shave in an attempt at normalcy at week’s end or contra wise, a Bloody Mary, Mimosa, Ramos Fizz with brunch. Possibly, a hair of the dog from a brown paper bag, another hit, a bump or “roll me over, lay me down and do it again”. You’ve paid your dues and you make your choices.

My Sunday morning ritual is to get my sorry ass over to Matassa’s for the New York Times; “All The News That’s Fit To Print” (but not necessarily all the news that’s fit to read). The street sweepers are collecting last night’s detritus in anticipation of the spray from the morning lemonade truck: go cups, grenade tubes, cigarette butts and the sad ends to Lucky Dogs. Someone’s sleeping it off on a doorstep, the contents of their stomach is picked over by pigeons as a tour guide hurries his herd past; they hang on to his every word, doe eyed and mesmerized. Black and whites on bikes hurry to their brunch shifts. Punks and drunks hassle tourists and young girls on the corner of Saint Peter and Royal Street. Tenacity and Audacity. A cook from up the street stops by Rouse’s for orange juice to compliment cheap champagne as musicians stake out their corner claims with kids, canines and cumbersome trappings in tow. A zip code of almost artists set up behind the cathedral; a teen texting a BFF back in Texas. A girl in retail slipping through the crowd; a little weary, a little bleary, stiletto heel shaky on her way to sleep, perchance to dream. Lunacy and Truancy. .

Streetwise nomads in brown clothed invisibility, curious today on how growing up is working out for them. Likewise a balloon salesman, face painter, human statue, street magician and a juggler of knives and bowling balls. A lonely banjo picker, wandering alcoholics, sleepy psychic readers, card carrying homeless beggars. Another one bites the dust.

The Bourbon Pub has its doors open wide as last night amnesiacs practice voluntary bar crowd segregation: the merry makers in the front and the maudlin in the back. Up the street a choir runs through scales. Art galleries and shops that are not open but lit from within are fair game for rubberneckers who normally would hurry by. Harouni, Blue Dog.

Outside the gate of the Café Amelie, patrons await admission while the Cornstalk Fence Hotel looks on coolly, having seen it all before. This architecture that is moored and mooned over daily has been witness to centuries of dramatics, deceits, indiscretions and emotions. Fealty is promised; lovers entwine; a bottle breaks; another man done gone.

Coffee shops flourish with everything bagels and Super Grande Mocha Skinny Soy Lattes and baristas with a why bother attitude and demeanor wait for regulars that know what they want and how to tip. Rubes asleep in pickup trucks with Oklahoma plates, ‘grip the road’ tires and Huge Ass Beer cups on the dash board. Me and my Sunday Times; Black eyed Susie with another shiner and a morning forty selling Mardi Gras beads to nuclear families; the sun rises on sinners and Saints fans impartially. The Blacksmith shop is opening to mules with buggy behinds, all the booze that’s fit to mix; can’t buy a stamp across the street today and the wine shop that’s been shuttered for decades; a little red schoolhouse where imported students will raise decibels on the morrow, today as silent as a sunken ship.

The ghosts of neighbors past still sit on stoops and porches, old friends wander by walking dogs, abandoned heart circuses and other poetic mysteries abound on a short walk for the NYT. Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you.

Through the midway of miscreants and muses (and outnumbering them) come early beignet eaters, Baton Rouge beauties, pastel matching parents of bored and unruly offspring, thirty something morning cocktail carriers, bicycle taxis, birthday boys, double parking brunchers, service veterans, baby strollers and assorted retirees. Hunks and chunks. That cute couple from Des Moines holding hands. Mamas and Papas, grandkids and gay pride. Seersuckers, sweatshirts, sweethearts and sunglasses in all shades, shapes and sizes. The American Dream in a backpack passing through; bachelorette bevies; breakfasts delivered; directions given; Midwestern mullets; Manhattan mommies; buzz cut bucks in muscle shirts and some geezer named Phil coming back from getting his Sunday news. Anyone else want to ask me why I live here?

Boudin Blanc Recipe from New Orleans

here's a recipe that I don't want to lose

Boudin Blanc with Brown Beer and Juniper Sauce

Makes 10 sausage links (about 12” in length)

Spice Mix

1 ¼ tsp kosher salt

1 Tbsp herbs de Provence

1 tsp ground white pepper

1 Tbsp cayenne pepper

2 Tbsp rubbed sage

1 Tbsp ground allspice

½ tsp ground bay leaves

For the Boudin

1 lb lean ground pork

1 lb fatty ground pork

1 c. crème fraiche or heavy cream

3/4 c. water

1 onion finely chopped

1 Tbsp minced fresh garlic

2 whole green onions or the equivalent of leeks, chopped

4 Tbsp chopped parsley

1 lb leftover cooked chicken, finely chopped or the equivalent of ground turkey.

3 c. cooled cooked rice (1½ c. rice and 1½ c. water, cooked 18 minutes on a low flame covered.

Method

Mix spices & set aside. Mix chicken (turkey) and rice & set aside. In a 6 qt. pot with a heavy bottom, cook everything else for 15 minutes on the stove over medium heat. Stir in chicken (turkey) rice mixture and spices, mix well and let sit off the heat for 30 minutes, stirring from time to time to cool and incorporate flavors.

If you’re stuffing the meat into sausage link, do it now. If you want to create boudin patties, let the mixture sit in the refrigerator until cold before forming patties; in either case, let it rest in the refrigerator a few hours to a couple of days before cooking/serving.

To Serve

Brown boudin links or patties on both sides in a little lard in a cast iron skillet on medium heat. We recommend that you serve this with sauce (see recipe) and mashed potatoes.

Sauce

1 qt  warmed chicken stock, set aside

½ c. chicken fat, vegetable oil or a mix of the two

½ c. all purpose flour

4 whole bay leaves1/2 bottle ale or brown beer2 Tbsp juniper berries

½ tsp kosher salt

½ tsp ground white pepper

1 Tbsp fresh thyme leaf or 2 tsp dry leaf thyme

Method

Make a chocolate colored roux (see note), slowly and carefully, for it may spatter and you don’t want the ‘Cajun Napalm’ getting on you, mix in the warmed chicken stock, add the bay leaves and cook 10 minutes longer. Add beer, juniper berries, salt, white pepper and thyme: cook 15-20 minutes longer on low heat. The sauce should be the consistency of heavy cream. If too thick thin with water. If it is too thin, cook a little longer, being careful not to burn anything.

Making the Roux

In a 4 Qt heavy bottom sauce pan, on a medium to almost high heat, heat the chicken fat (oil) until it is hot enough to ‘shimmer’ (remember: this is where you are being VERY careful) with a wire whisk, slowly add the flour until it is all incorporated; lower the flame to almost medium and switch to a long handled wooden spoon to stir the mixture (roux) until it begins to turn color from opaque white to light brown to pale tan and finally to milk chocolate color adjusting the flame downward to avoid scorching, burning or even cooking unevenly or too quickly. This should take you 10-20 minutes. When the roux is the color of chocolate add the warmed chicken stock and continue adding the other ingredients as instructed above.

On Writing in New Orleans

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Brother Love’s Literary Salvation Show

Or

So, Ya Wannabe A Whyta

I think that inside anyone who reads for pleasure is a nascent writer and critic. Now, stop me if you think that I’m talking through my hat; but, if you’re the kind of person that notices mis-spilled words, a dangling participial phrase or wrong;? punctuation (let alone an imprecise gerund), you are basically a critic. Don’t deny it, that’s what you are. And any criticizer knows that they can do better than the criticizee, ergo, you must write. Bam!

A man enters stage left. He comes in the door of: a saloon, coffee shop, business office, palatial estate. He’s greeted by: a waitress, his wife, his boss, a prostitute who hands him a piece of paper. He reads it quickly and puts his head: on the bar, in his hands, in a spin, in the oven. “Take that you son of a bitch!” she says “you thought you could get away with: sleeping with my sister, stealing tips from me, not paying your bill, leaving your underwear on the door handle!” She reaches into: the pocket of her apron, the desk drawer, the cash register, the top of her garter belt, and pulls out: a cigarette, a frying pan, a bottle of Jack Daniels, a  gun and……and… and that’s what writers do. Paint pictures with words. Some do it better than others. Some can even make a living at it. Some make a butt load of money while others can never quit their day jobs. Some may even become famous while others go by the moniker of “good old whatshisname” as in: “whatever happened to?”

My advice on becoming a writer (that someone else criticizes) is: try it. It’s fun! Pen a poem, jot in a journal, think thoughts for theater, articulate an article, take a stab at a short story or make notes for your novel. A song. A sonnet. Punctuate a paragraph, accumulate some alliterations or better yet find your way to a writer friendly confabulation (exempi gracia: The 2013 Tennessee Williams New Orleans Literary Festival). Now, every year I tug on your coat tail to get your butt to a panel or two, a writers workshop, a reading,  a performance and/or have Tea With Tennessee on his birthday. Every year I ask you, nay, implore you to go to this festival/conference/thing and get yourself some culcha. Do you think that I do this year after bloody year just for the free Press Pass? I’ll have you know that I am a sensitive, delicate, caring writer and I’m also a passionate, fanatical and devoted admirer of the writer’s art and craft. As well, I am a biach for all things Tennessee.

This month (in this issue), as usual, I have a separate article on the TWNOLF and of course you can rely on me to follow that in upcoming columns with: French Quarter Festival, Jazz Festival, The Faulkner Literary Celebration, Lucky Dog Eating Contest, Hurricane Drinking Contest, Lucky Dog/Hurricane Regurgitation Contest and Bungee Gras: all the news that’s fit to print but not necessarily fit to read.

Naturally, I’ve had folks tell me, about writing, that they “have nothing to write about”. I tell them that having nothing to write about shouldn’t stop them; perhaps they could get Vanna White to sell them a life. I tell them that “it hasn’t stopped me, it’s ups and downs…I just thinks stuff up and writes it down!”

“Listen”, I say “if Joyce Kilmer can get away with a piece of writing that starts with ‘I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree’ you can certainly get out your crayon and compose something!”  I recommend getting out of the house and following your nose to adventure, mystery, romance and a little harmless mischief. Because listen, from Seinfeld to Steinbeck; Hemmingway to Hallmark; Cole Porter to Carl Perkins; Julia (Child) to Jesus (you know who) it’s all about the communication of ideas, experiences and entertainments given to a world that thirsts for sensory input. From social discourse to simple ditties; discerning literature and dirty limericks to Dear John letters. I say, if you write it, someone will read it. If it’s set to music, someone will sing it. If you pen a poem someone will praise it. Consider it artistry.

But, as an artist, you owe it to yourself, and the world at large, to practice your art and to support the arts. I know, I know, there aren’t enough hours in the day; there is so very much to do already. Gotta get up, get dressed, go to work, eat, pray, love and have a couple of cocktails with the gang. Dance to the music. Rotate the tires. Pay them bills. Feed them kids. Worm the dog and how the hell did I accumulate so much frigging laundry? Tote that barge, lift that bale (get a little drunk and you land in jail). Who do you think you’re talking to: Old Man River? No, you’d be preaching to the choir to try to explain to me how hectic a life can be. I’m busier than a set of jumper cables at a family reunion; busier than a one legged chorus dancer; hell, I’m busier than a busy person! But, (here comes the big butt) BUT, I make time-- time to keep my life going forward in at least third gear instead of idling in neutral. Naturally, I read. From the classics to the comics, and I keep my senses, my mind and my heart open.

So, what you may get from reading this far, what you can take to the bank, what you have to remind yourself of (often) is: live and learn or live and don’t learn.  

           

TWNOLF 2013

Tennessee Williams New Orleans Literary Festival

March 20^th – 24^th 2013

Phil LaMancusa & Debbie Lindsey

Over the years that we have been doing the annual TWNOLF aide memoire, we’ve wondered, what would be the perfect edition of Where Y’at to place this important information. Should we put it in the March issue where you would have to make plans a month in advance and quite probably forget, or put in April where it’s “pack up the babies and grab the old ladies”? Guess which one that we’ve been choosing? Yep, you’re reading it! And if you’re reading this after the 24^th you’ve missed it again if you weren’t prepared.

This literary festival will feature talks with prolific fiction and nonfiction authors along with Pulitzer Prize winners and remarkable actors highlighting literary panel discussions and theater performances. Illustrious participants all. There are Master Classes for individuals that desire more of an intensive opportunity to meet with notable experts on writing or the arts. Also, a variety of other events including a Scholars’ Conference, the ‘Drummer and Smoke’ music program, Literary Late Night Series as well as walking tours, a book fair, celebrity interviews and food events. And every year there are the winners of short fiction, poetry and one act play competitions that are performed and discussed.

Such notables as Leonard Pitts, Michael Cunningham, Bryan Batt, Don Murray, Emily Mann, Ayana Mathis and John Patrick Shanley will be on hand in a myriad of venues that include The Williams Research Center, The Historic New Orleans Collection, Palm Court  Jazz Café, The Pelican Club, Hotel Monteleone and the  ever popular Muriel’s at Jackson Square. That’s the meat and bones of the thing.

Now to the rhetoric and the reasoning. Why, you may well ask, would a person want to go to this or any other literary festival or conference? Well, (you may consider) conferences such as these and this one in particular, are part of the fabric of our collective American experience; an iconic example of a worthwhile event that is organized by a few paid staff members and an army of dedicated volunteers to bring together readers, writers, artists and the admirers of the written word (Shout out to Ellen Johnson). Also, it is a venue for furthering an education in those areas that are such a large part of our inquiring lives and psyches. At these events you will find serious students and seasoned seniors. Neophytes and know-it-alls rubbing shoulders with the unpretentious and the influential; all on common ground with the same hunger-- to learn more about the words, and theater, and food, and all that goes with it. As the good Tennessee once cracked: “It’s a documentary”.

The weather is traditionally fine and there’s only one problem with TWNOLF: how to take in as much of it as you can in the short while that we have it here. I mean it, I literally have my lunch, my water bottle and my program in my pocket and for me it’s a ‘hurry up and relax’ event.  I go from informative pillar to entertaining post trying to get everywhere at once, be everywhere at once. There is so much to do, see, discover and experience that I take time off from work so that I can start early and go the distance.   

Every year we write about this event and strongly urge our readers to participate. Unfortunately not everyone gets the message in time and many folks have a ‘shoulda woulda coulda - whoops missed it again!’ déjà vu.  On the other hand there is a very high percentage of the participants that make it every year, us included.  As the Executive Director has been quoted saying: “It’s like a good habit they don’t want to break”.  

The culmination of the festival is the Stella! And Stanley!  yelling contests; where right there by Jackson Square, under the balcony of the Pontalba Apartments, grown men and women will scream the names of the protagonists of Streetcar Named Desire Tearing their hair, rending their clothing, and falling to their knees in anguish and high camp.

And, as ever, throughout the four days of frantic literary enlightenment searching -- right there at center stage, at all center stages-- is the visage of Tennessee Williams, who called New Orleans his spiritual home, looking upon it all, upon us all  from posters, portraits and prints, and you know -- wherever he is-- he’s laughing his butt off.

 For more than enough information go to tennesseewilliams.net