Louisiana Blues (draft)

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Louisiana Blues

Or

Lay On MacDuff

         Today marks six weeks without sugar. Running 3 miles a day, no meat, dairy or flour. No caffeine! The change has been fantastic! I feel great! Zero alcohol! A healthy diet, gluten-free, and a 2-hour workout every day. Never felt better!! ---

I didn't know whose status this was, but I picked it up on FaceBook and was really proud of them. So I decided to copy and paste. I got more ‘likes’ than when I posted a clip of Midnight the Cat playing piano. What I did know is that the person who wrote it was either playing with my tomahawk, was someone that I would never, ever run into or lived somewhere other than New Orleans.
        Meanwhile as reported in Gambit Magazine : Louisiana came in last place in United health Foundation’s annual America’s Health Ratings, taking the bottom spot away from Mississippi. According to the survey, Louisiana has the highest percentage of children in poverty in the nation as well as high rates of smoking, obesity, mental and physical distress and low birth weight in babies.

As far as I can see, neither pieces of information have caused a ripple in anyone’s daily life as we all go on our merry way. We’re number three in poorest education; according to U.S. Bureau of Justice, we are far and away the state with the highest per capita of imprisoned populations. According to Neighborhood Scout (.com) chances of being a victim of violent crime in New Orleans is 1 in 88; property crime: 1 in 23. I’ve bet on horses with less chances (and won!).

Is this because of poverty, poor role models, substandard education, inadequate wage compensation and/or weak city service infrastructure?  Could be. Is this because of people that are without being easily victimized by people with? Slumlords; drug dealers; arrogance and the prospering income of New Orleans hustling? Could be. Is it because we as New Orleanians conduct ourselves with no concern for consequences of our actions? Do we have a distorted self image or just a warped sense of humor? Is everything dysfunctional around us either somebody else’s problem or not worth our time and energy to be concerned enough about making a change for the better? Do we just not pay attention or do we just don’t give a sh*t, not even about ourselves? Has anyone considered spreading the word that linear thinking is counterproductive and that we need more of a quantum mindset to change our world? Consider this: why are all the toilets in bathrooms set at right angles instead of forty-five… because it is foolish or has just nobody ever thought of it? Think about thinking about it; while you’re at it, think about thinking.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over the same way and expecting different results from your actions, and that is what I think, and believe, is what holds us back as a people; that, not learning (quickly enough) from our mistakes and a hesitancy to reboot immediately when necessary. It’s our falling short of passion for living a successful life; a life of promise, peace, tranquility and freedom.

A wise person once said that all misery stems from greed; and if you quantum that thought it stands to reason that greedy people not only create misery for themselves but also create misery in those who become the victims of their greedy actions. And on and on; the greedy boss wants more from his worker that wants more compensation for his labors; boss mistreats the man; the man goes home and out of frustration and a feeling of impotence, mistreats his wife; the wife yells at the kid; the kid kicks the dog; the dog bites the cat; the cat chases the mouse and the cheese stands alone. Hi ho, the derry-o.

What are we to do? I don’t care; it’s carnival time and I’m alright so I don’t care. Check me out during Lent and when I’m atoning for my shortcomings and I’ll be more philosophical about Life, The Universe and Everything. Right now it’s King Cake and turkey necks; because, what is easy and convenient is a whole lot more fun than

Saint Joe

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Saint Joe Street Cred

Or

Blessed Be

            “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”  Big Red would yell in frustration when, as a kid, I had done something particularly dim-witted; and face it, often times stuff I did as a youngster was considered dumb. Of course, I saw myself as clever, smart and extremely witty; others around me, when not considering that I was just another pretty face, believed I was as dim as a box of rocks; a tree stump; a sack of hammers; a Brillo pad. You get the picture.

            I was raised in the Catholic religion, which was even then losing parishioners faster than a sinking ship; my family was intractable in their loyalty and all the children were subjected to a fair amount of religious instruction, coming away with scars to prove it.

            Be that as it may; picture a younger me mulling over the story of Jesus and Mary being ferried around by this guy, this carpenter, this fatherly figure to a savant savior child, born of a virgin who, after the kid kicks money lenders out of the temple, totally disappears from the gospels. Who is this guy? Where did he go?

            Where did he come from is more like the question; some writings say that a man named Joseph was married to the virgin, before she gave birth. Some recount a Joseph of Arimathea, purportedly Mary’s Uncle, a disciple and spreader of the gospel into Britain. He is not the Saint; he’s the guy that paid for the tomb to house the so called dead body of the thirty-three year old King of the Jews. I think it was the first one that became the saint because he brought the mother and son through trials and tribulations and taught the kid how to use a hammer.

            I grew up Catholic, we looked up to Saint Joseph; I was raised Italian, we celebrated Saint Joseph’s Day. I wound up in New Orleans where Catholic Italians, especially the Sicilians, would take a bullet for Saint Joe. Growing up, we couldn’t have explained St. Joe if our ice cream money depended on it; my question is still: who is this guy?

            Let’s go with what we know and what’s been told to us. Saint Joseph’s Day is March 19^th, every year. In New Orleans we celebrate with altars of food and public meals. We make special dishes, savory and sweet. We essentially pay back St. Joe for all his blessings bestowed upon us during the year.  March 19^th: payback time; the job we got, the school that our kid got accepted to, the pregnancy that did (or didn’t) happen, business deals, living arrangements, debts paid or forgiven, blood unshed. ‘Thank you Saint Joseph, I will build an altar of food, donate it to the less fortunate and invite strangers to eat at my table’. Churches, homes and businesses participate; it’s during the Lenten season and so there’s no red-blooded animals consumed.

            Here’s what we’re told: Saint Joseph is the Saint of the everyman, the patron of unwed mothers, a model for fathers, protector of children, keeper of secrets, married to that blessed mother (after she became preggo) and the one who gives us strength when we are sick and/or leaving this earthly coil. He is considered the legal (not spiritual) father of Jesus. Chief David Montana once explained to me why the Mardi Gras Indians came out on St. Joe’s Day: “because he was black!” Take your pick; I’m only here for lunch.

            Saint Joseph is considered patron of the universal church of Catholicism; the Sicilians believe that he saved them from starvation by giving them the fava bean and some believe that if you want to sell your house you plant a statue of St. Joseph, head first, in your back yard. I’m a fan and look forward to St. Joe’s Day for the cookies (sesame and fig) if nothing else.

            Logistically Saint Joseph and Saint Patrick days are March 19^th and 17^th; there’s not enough Italians or Irish in New Orleans to have enough participants to throw individual parades, so they combine them. Correct me if I’m wrong, that’s my story. So, here come the two cultures parading; Irish giving potatoes and cabbages as gifts and Italians trading flowers for kisses. It’s a good day for Italians.

            On March 19^th I go to whatever Catholic church is nearby and I am served, sometimes up to a dozen different morsels of lunch (of course, pasta rules) with lemonade and/or sweet tea; I’m as happy as a clam. I donate money, light candles and generally feel part of the family of man (and woman) all in the name of this guy who heard God’s voice and did what he was told. I’d like to think that he held down the fort with the lovely Mary while ‘his son’ went traveling for 18 years preparing for his ministry and eventual execution.

            Back to the day of lunch: because I have greased the celebratory wheels  I’m given a little paper bag of goodies containing a prayer card, cookies, a blessed fava bean and a slice of French bread. I bring that home (after eating the cookies) and place it on my home altar; I put the fava bean in my wallet to bring me luck and money during the next year. The significance of the bread has something to do with casting bread upon waters to calm them. Here, we believe that the bread is used to ward off hurricanes; that’s correct, when a storm is approaching we take that slice of bread and throw is out our back widow and the tempest will pass us by. It works too (but not for ‘outer bands’). For the sake of St. Joseph we all remember that we’re all part of the same tribe; at lunch we say to ourselves “welcome home and thank you Joe”.