Imagine That

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Awake

Or

Imagine That

            There are few differences between then and now; the differences between the haves and the had nots of yesterday and today; the repurposing of the real and of real estate; the entirety of the mad dash clash of past, present, future and the ones who’ve moved ahead and the ones that have fallen behind. “They are the same people only further from home, on a freeway fifty lanes wide on a concrete continent spaced with bland billboards illustrating imbecile illusions of happiness” (Ferlinghetti).

            I’ve changed over the years of my lives, escaping from projects and parents, side stepping prospects, prisons and poisons, pursuing professions and being always on the cusp of the finer positive points of prosperity; relying on personal progress for a peace/piece of my mind that is being continually blown by me the hungry hunter constantly being overtaken by them, the successful gatherers. Fast women, slow horses, unreliable sources.

            Folks my age, our experiences lost in the space of time and the lessons and larks that lead us from relative comfort to an eventual downsizing retirement home abandonment with one foot in assisted living and the other avoiding the slippery slope of a six foot hole; all the while hoping that the next one to go is not another one that we love or worse, we ourselves. You didn’t know me when I was a younger man and I won’t know you as an old person; the only thing an old man really wants to get is older; to get older, all you have to do is live long enough. Everything goes when the whistle blows.  Million dollar condos and high priced essentials; disposable blade shaving with a brush and a bar of soap while my taxes line the pockets of manic mansplainers telling me how good they have made life for me and mine; property values continue to become fatter and my pockets leaner; my spirit contentiously swimming against the undertow of historic mendacity concerning the salvation of my eternal soul, as if the promise of heaven will fill the bellies of hungry children while the rich donate to rebuild cathedrals dedicated to a penniless carpenter’s son who died for their sins. The picture of the ragged man sitting on his milk crate at the intersection; his sign reading: “Anything Helps, God Bless”; a benediction for a brass farthing. “Never treat a brother like a passing stranger; always try to keep the love light burning” Leon Russell

            Private jets and weekend getaways for fat cat misogynists bring bile to the everyman that knows that there is no great fortune unless there has been a great crime.   The great recession of 2018 is coming back to bite us in the behind as the bubble bursts and our credit cards get maxed out trying to rob Peter to pay Paul and finding out that Peter has been financially kicked to the curb; even the low spark of high heeled boys cannot escape the percentage we’re paying, living beyond all our means as the man in the suit buys himself a golf course with the profits he’s made on our dreams. The sound in the distance is not a dog barking but the laughter of Anubis taking our coins for our ride with Charon.

            We’re witnessing islands of plastic debris as mega companies use solar power to make fracking less expensive. They rape and we must pull up our pants and stumble on being the last generation to walk freely on this planet; the impotence of our good intentions paving the road to hell. Have another piece of reality.

            I have a neighbor who walks to the bus stop once a week to go to Walmart; he rests on the stoop next door to us and happily explains how he’s looking forward to celebrating his ninety-fifth birthday. May we all be so fortunate; from our mouths to God’s ears; walking to the bus ride to Walmart amid the chaos confusion and detritus of a collapsing planet; walking to the bus for the ride to Walmart.           

Where does it end, or rather, when did this begin? It began when we let toys spoil us; when we took the proud boasting of our elders struggles as a weakness we could overcome by inventing something to make life easier to be indolent, so that we could make extra time to glut ourselves with more material things; buy it, don’t bake it; don’t make it… take it.  Elect a clown and enjoy the circus. What fools we mortals be..

            Histrionically speaking we are screwed as a people and as a planet while millions watch television like sailors at a strip club hoping that the hero on the white horse is really really real. You’re gonna be part of the 60% of eligible voters that make it to the polls to elect the biggest bull manure deliverer? Or are you?

            People running for office will promise you whatever they think will get them elected and once in office find out that they have pitiful little power to follow through on their words. The government does not run this country and the people do not hold sway with their elected officials.  It’s big money that runs things and we just suck it up.

            Important decisions should be made by the people who will have to live with them, otherwise we have to admit that we’re all pawns and live with that.

           

Tangiers

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Moving Target

Or

Home Plate

“If you see her, say hello, she might be in Tangier; she left here last early spring, is livin’ there I hear. Say for me that I’m alright, though things get kinda slow; she may think that I’ve forgotten her, don’t tell her it isn’t so”

--B. Dylan

        I have a musician friend who can get better gigs and recognition if he moves to Mexico City; I have an artist friend that loves her new digs in New Mexico; the culinary graduate that I helped cannot wait to get back to San Antonio; and our favorite old bartender prefers San Miguel Allende.  They say they’ve had enough; they say they can’t live like this anymore; they say life is better elsewhere. Costa Rica. Houston. New Jersey, for god sake!

        Over 15,000 last year; 9,000 the year before--left New Orleans metro area. They’re movin’ out. Why? What is so alienating? Who are these turncoats? Why did they treat us so thoughtlessly; how could they do this to me?

        Here’s some of the reasons I’ve heard: Cost of living and housing prices; economic opportunities (better elsewhere) and the big one: (violent) crime. Other than that they’ve pointed out there’s sub standard education here; lack of infrastructure; ineffective government and overall condition of our streets. Also, flooding, storm possibilities, power outages and price hikes on everyday expenditures such as electricity, gas, food, clothing, insurance and entertainment. Salt water intrusion. Margaret Orr retiring.

         I say “is that all? It’s always been like that on Plantation New Orleans!” And, here it comes: the ‘Get A Clue Phone’: ring, ring…. Get a clue. The challenge is not that New Orleans has gotten to be a worse place to live in the last twenty-five years; it’s that it hasn’t gotten any better.

        It’s like you’re on a path going; it’s a hike, the hike of life. You got your ups and downs but you’re headed for home, a quiet space, a happy place; the road is a little rough but you’re going on and on because that’s just what you do: you travel that path, watching your footing, friends along and going in the same direction; you’re singing, you’re laughing, maybe even dancing.

        Then you notice that it’s not only not getting easier, it’s, in fact, getting harder and you’re getting tired. Some of your friends are dropping out to take easier routes; some have left you all together. Somebody passes you a note: “P.S. your cat has died.” You’re having second thoughts.

        I love New Orleans, that faded starlet, that tipsy vaudevillian, that sly old fox wrapped in her muddy old river stole. I’m at home in her arms and we’re lovers.  I’ve resided in over a dozen cities and towns and visited a score more. I’ve hitchhiked and driven the length of this country more times than any normal person should. I’ve ‘Driven every kind of rig that’s ever been made’ and been willin’ to keep movin’.

        “I’ve been all over the world” he said; “I’ve been to North Carolina.”

        I first came here in the 60’s and spent seven years. I returned from my travels in 1999, coming to the conclusion that the other places that I wandered in and out of were fine; however, they were not New Orleans.

        I drove back into town in a twenty foot U-Haul on a 2,300 mile road run and left the freeway as soon as I saw the skyline and realized that I was, in fact, back home. The first thing I did was swing low, park that chariot and get me a bowl of gumbo; the waitress was not impressed with the poor boy’s return and exuberance just to have my feet planted again on this firmament. 

        I glanced out the café window and spotted two boys on three bicycles and mused on how sweet it was that kids were still stealing bikes; until I hipped that this was thirty years later and the kids I saw were children or even grandchildren of the kids that had stolen my bike the last time that I lived here. I remember thinking “you mean, we still haven’t taught our kids that it ain’t right to take someone else’s bike?”

        Reality check. Things have not gotten worse living here; things have not gotten any better.

        I’ve roamed all over town here since my return and I’ve been reminded of the poverty, abandon and general demolition of spirit and property by neglect. I’ve seen how manufacturing jobs have disappeared. I see a ‘For Rent’ sign on the Coca-Cola bottling plant; condominiums in the CIVIC Theater; homeless camps under the I-10 overpass. I’ve witnessed the two edged sword of short term rentals that flip sub standard housing and re-energize residential neighborhoods at the cost of dislocating residents.

        And still, as Lafcadio Hearn wrote: “I wouldn’t trade it for the whole state of Ohio.”

        Debbie and I bought a house here, first time home owners; the note is about the same as the money that we’d be paying in rent here; added expenses of owning are sometimes daunting. Owning comes with its own challenges and it’s a bear keeping up with them all. It’s tough living here; but I wouldn’t live anywhere else (at least not in this country) and neither would she. Did we want to have to buy a house at our age? No. Are we going to be able to live out our thirty year mortgage? Odds are against it; but, my spirit was born here and I know New Orleans, the then, the now and I’m still in love with her nebulous and evasive character.

        Sundown yellow moon, I replay the past; I know every scene by heart, they all went by so fast. If she’s passing back this way, I’m not that hard to find, tell her she can look me up, if she’s got the time. (more Dylan)

         

       

Murphy's Law

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Newspeak

Or

Murphy’s Vocabulary

        Paranoia is the suspicion that the world is out to get you; it’s antonym, confidence, is when you assuredly know that it is.

        Murphy’s Law says that ‘anything that can go wrong, will go wrong’ and it’s antonym Yhprum’s Law (Murphy spelled backwards) says that ‘anything that can work, will work’. Of course, Murphy is the one we believe most often and if you’re a Murphy-phile you can even take your outlook a step further with Finagle’s Law which says that ‘things will always go wrong with the worst possible outcome at the worst possible time’. BTW, there’s Sod’s Law as well, but things, at this point, are starting to confuse me, so we’ll skip over that one.

        On language: I’m sure that bards and poets roll and roil in their ghostly graves and cringe in their monolithic mausoleums listening to the butchering these modern times and mentalities have inflicted on our expansive and handsome language. Expletives and our use of modern idiotic catch phrases, euphemisms, and the uses of spelling and punctuation proliferate as if people had primary school educations in Outer Mongolia and were left back for not shaving and are grist for the mill.

        Short bursts of expletives plague our linguistic existence—here’s a question--what generally is the expletive that kicks into our brain pan and escapes our thoughts and mouths when someone speeds up from the right lane, cuts us off to make an illegal left turn at a major intersection, while on their phone (and it’s not a cop) and the traffic and weather is moderate to fricking challenging? Yes, it’s the Whiskey Tango Foxtrot reaction; WTF or What The F*ck! and not something like “you Goddamned, motherless, pox-faced, Neolithic mutated dim-witted scrotum; you unsightly, moronic, product of incestuous semi-primal inebriated sludge gastropod gnomes; may syphilitic goats defecate primordial mucus on your tent floor should the occasion of your next undeserved life’s possible positive achievement occur!.”  No, just WTF! (warning: that other stuff will get you sent straight to HR).

        Other arresting thoughts and reactions are: “Nobody Warned Me! (UH OH!); “Why Didn’t I think of THAT?” (DUH!); “I’ve Got a Bad Feeling About This” (Face Grimace); “Oh My Frikkin’ Stars!” (Eye rolling) and finally “Nice Turn Signal F**kface!” (Banging on the steering wheel).

        Fact: your grandparents lived in a world where plastic was a novelty. They also lived in a world where recreation was an outdoor activity. Also, on the not so positive side, a world that disposed of its waste indiscriminately (which they then passed on to you).

        You could also understand every word they used verbally as they issued Shakespearian-like threats: “Oh thy vile troublesome blackguard of a rodent, thy dodge is a bitter sweeting to my patience; canst you naught attend patiently my deepest furies, cease the undoing of my goings and cast me not as a fool whilst I harry with alacrity the smote of aspen sapling against thine alabaster fundement”

        Or as they would say in my family: “keep it up, you little twerp and I’ll break off your arm and beat you with the bloody end” or “I’ll knock you so hard your head will ring like a ten-penny nail hit with a greasy ball peen hammer”

        Another thing is acronyms and initialisms; Okay, believe it or don’t: two days ago I read an article in the NYT (No More FOMO for Plus-Size Travelers 7/8/2023) telling the world that fat people on these particular vacations (and these bipeds were referred to, blatantly, unapologetically and repeatedly, as ‘fat’) no longer had to worry about FOMO. “The poor bastards, I hope it’s not contagious” I thought, “is FOMO some kind of fat affliction?” No, for those as uninformed as I, FOMO is short for ‘Fear Of Missing Out’. The article was complemented by photos of fat folks having a grand time because these fat people no long had to worry about accommodations, connections and whether there was shopping where they were going in case their fat luggage was lost or delayed.

        Further investigation in to this FOMO thing hipped me to MOMO or the Mystery of when you think that you’re missing out on something but you aren’t sure what you’re missing out on. And then I saw that further still there was the FOMOMO (!) and with that, I yelled “well, WTF!”-- shot the computer, set my hair on fire and regurgitated in the waste basket.

        Initialisms like snafu, fubar, and bohica (look ‘em up) came long before omg lol lmfao fs ltr sfw and hmu and have, I think, greater panache thn thir cnterpts. I think it’s kind of lazy to write ‘wr ru?’ or omw or “dm me?” C’mon, in my day (when actual composed letters were the thing) a guy might write on the envelope HOLLAND or SWAK or here’s one from a girlfriend “CHINA!” (come home I’m naked already!) See, YAKS (you ain’t know shyte).

        All in all, it’s a perfect BOGO BYOB Catch 22 NIMBY. Fact: as far as correspondence goes, we actually don’t write letters anymore (maybe a few do). No one actually ‘writes’ anything, we use the computer, we use our cell phones, we text, post, emoji and send pictures; sometimes we talk. And, we counter in kind with another emoji or a like (thumbs up), a heart, care-hug, sad-face, laugh or angry; and that says it all. I have almost 600 ‘friends’ on FB that I only see on screen and I don’t know half of them. We send our holiday, birthday, congrats and condolences over the Ethernet (IEEE 802.3.) and we’re caught between Scylla and Charybdis with only Hobson’s choice as a result. Let this be a lesson.

        It doesn’t get any easier and I’m getting more flummoxed by the day; I think I’ll just go outside and eat some worms.

         

New Years 2024

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Happy New Year

Or

Other People

        “Well, sometimes you have to moan, when nuthin’ seems to suit-cha; but, nevertheless you know, you’re locked toward the future” (Cat Stevens: On The Road To Find Out)

        Ask Uncle Charlie (Dickens) for the illustration from A Christmas Carol. Ebenezer Scrooge sits, just like you and me, getting hipped to the fact that where he was, led him to where he is, and will determine where he will be if he maintains the trajectory of his behavior and existence. His moral compass and the consequences of his actions will reap what has been ‘sowed and growed’. The Butterfly Effect; The Chaos Theory, will remain unchanged unless a change in course is made. I believe, in our hearts, that we all want to change for the better; that’s why we make New Year’s Resolutions, eh?

        Rush hour Thursday evening; traveling Poydras Street; three lanes up and three lanes down traveling at the speed of hope-to-get-the-f*ck-home. Like frantic captives tortured by their terrorist employers, the cars, SUVs, vans and pick-ups are escaping, racing away from all the misery their occupations heaped on their souls and spirits that day and into life’s personal beating that awaits them at home: spouses, offspring, rents, mortgages and the grass that is dying in the draught; hoping Margaret Orr will predict some rain and wondering why the home team got their asses kicked again. The cool taste of that first beer that goes down so easily.

        I’m hugging the right lane going up towards Galvez Street and I spy the vehicles veering out from the center lane going left and right at forty miles an hour avoiding something. The something that they are avoiding is an old man in a wheelchair stopped in center lane like a Grateful Dead set: no way forward and no way back. And no one is stopping to aid his plight… or even slowing down.

        Except some guy (me) in a beat up ’97 Lincoln Towncar who pulls over (still in traffic) turns on his flashers and jumps into traffic for a stranger in need of help.  

        I’m still in my cook’s whites, waving my arms like a sailor at a semaphore convention and getting to him, ask ludicrously “do you need help?” Of course he does! At this point I don’t know which direction he’s heading and when I find out… here we go crossing 5 lanes of rush hour traffic! When I’m in I’m in.

        “Did you just--leave your car?” He asks “you shouldn’ta done that” “I’m goin’ right there; okay, thank you I can take it from here; ya got a couple of dollahs you can spare?” He points to the Super Dome and tells me “there used to be a grocery store, right there.” I inform him that that grocery store ain’t there no more and off he goes. End of story. How do I feel? I’m frickin’ livid!

         I’m mad as a wet hen; cursing even, not at him, but at the entire race of humans that cannot, will not, for one brief miniscule heartbeat consider another’s dilemma that may at best be temporary and at worst life threatening. And now, I consider that incident an allegory for the state of the world. Listen: with any luck at all you have three blessings.

1. You wake up in the morning.

2. You’re kinda in your right mind and health and

 3. You have options.

        You can consider, like old Ebenezer that where you were--and where you are--is leading you to a very predictable future if you but stay your course, direction and pace.  It sounds so simple. 1 and 2 are biggies and are really important to pay attention to; 3 requires consideration or not. Ignore 3 and you will get to where you’re already headed.

        Now, you can consider that the world and its challenges and problems; its destructions and die-ings; its equities and inequities did not just start today or yesterday but are a series of steps and missteps that are in essence already set in a motion and movement (centuries ago) that some say are undoubtedly leading the world to its imminent demise. Some say that it’s too late to change course; that things already are out of anyone’s control. I say that it’s a mindset and conditioning brought on by media, politics and religion that at best has to be overhauled from the ground up like an existential rebirth/epiphany and I don’t see that as happening… ever in my lifetime (or yours). The Prince of Peace is not returning; Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today, Madam.

        It’s too late to be an example to others. It’s too late to fight the greed compounded by mendacity that is ruling the planet and our lives; souls hang on by a thread with a prayer and a song. “We were talking about the love we all could share; when we find it, to try our best to hold it there. With our love, with our love, we could save the world; if they only knew” (George Harrison: Within You Without You).

        I don’t know what to say. Happy New Year? This year will be better? Our lives are predetermined; led by coincidence? Is there such thing as free will? Can we unstick the mind f*ck? Maybe and maybe not (probably not). Certainly we can only find peace in ourselves ourselves. Certainly we can only practice compassion, empathy and kindness in ourselves until it becomes our natural behavior. Certainly it is only we that can change our behavior for the better. We have to see that as where we’re going. Or not.

        There’s an old man in a wheelchair sitting in six lanes of fast traveling vehicles.    

  

 

25th Anniversary Where Y'at

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Quintuplequinquennial

Or

5x5

        Long ago and not very far away, a guy with a dream and not much money thought it would be cool and necessary to publish a music and entertainment rag for the edification of any of the interested populous in the City That Care Forgot.

        Twenty-five years of Where Y’at. Lots of water under the bridge and once upon a time twenty five years ago; 125 years in cat years; 175 in dog and 200 in automobile years (My ’97 Lincoln and I should know); a hard birth occurred; followed by a rough adolescence; a steamy youth; and finally we’re in the prime of life, hittin’ our stride, ready for the next twenty-five. Perhaps we’ll eventually mature (I hope not).

        Man, can you imagine having the same job for twenty-five years? Do you even know where you were twenty-five years ago?  Gas was $1.15 a gallon; average rent a little over $600.00; Walmart was a whisper on the street; David Bowie, Prince and Freddy Mercury were alive and well and Bill Clinton was being impeached for the attention he received in the office closet.

        Twenty-five years ago Google was founded; the FDA approved Viagra and YOU may have been paying attention to the current music back then but I WASN’T. It was a cold winter and a hot summer (what else is new) and hurricane George pimp-slapped the coast in September clocking winds of 155. It was the perfect year to launch a new entertainment magazine (eh, Josh?), but the US GDP was up that year, so what the heck?

        I started tugging the editors coat-tails early on, being egged on by a former wife who decided that I knew how to “tell a story” and at first I got not a nod, a wink nor a nudge and was about to throw in the towel when I received an answer to yet another plea from me asking to be recognized, saying that the magazine “liked my stuff but just didn’t have the room for me….yet”; and then they did (have room). I became a real writer then. I was vindicated, elated, inflated, upgraded and creatively created; I called myself Po Boy Views (and it stuck). The pay wasn’t great, but being paid at all made me a legitimate and ‘real’ writer (hell, I would have paid them!).

        My first article, if I recall, was about a trip to one of the French Quarter’s chocolate shops and my love of the product consumed surreptitiously like a criminal in a darkened alley. Looking back on that article (yes, I’ve saved them all). I’ve come to believe that I have come a long way as a real writer and after three hundred something pieces you would hope that I have. I must be doing okay because Where Y’at has kept me, and even sends me assignments and for that I am and will remain eternally grateful. They even still invite me to the Christmas party.

        Come to think of it, Josh has been with me and Where Y’at has been my only constant (except, of course Debbie) all these years; I’ve been through cars, jobs, living places, critters, loved ones, computers, storms, floods and the mugging I experienced on Dumaine Street; throughout life’s ups and downs and downs and ups and all those things that alter and illuminate my life, Where Y’at still calls and reminds me that another deadline is looming; another writer’s picks and/or meeting; that extra Jazz Fest article is due and would you mind doing a piece on the thus and such?

        Of course I’m twenty-five years older now and it gives me great comfort to say that so is Josh Danzig my once and future head honcho; we’ve weathered our separate storms together separately and we’re here to celebrate the silver anniversary of that tie that binds us. Sure, it’s a little corny; but hey, when you look back over this amount of time in terms of teeth cleanings, child raising, gasoline fill ups, holidays spent, showers and baths and holy sh*t! it’s a BFD!

         Naturally speaking, our city has gone through twenty-five years of growing pains as well; you would think after three hundred and something years that New Orleans would have settled into some kind of adulthood, but no…. Twenty-five years ago Marc Morial was re-elected to a second term as mayor of New Orleans; he was a mere forty years old and a Democrat (in fact our all mayors have been Democrats since 1872). Look how far we’ve come (or haven’t come) since then.

        And then look how far Where Y’at has come; the difference being that our city was built and fashioned on the rough and tumble greed and avarice, brutality and wantonness, slander and spalling slather played by a second line marching band to the raucous tune of Nearer My God To Thee Down By The Riverside Little Liza Jane Hey Pocky Way and for twenty-five years, Where Y’at has stood by this city and pointed out the good, positive, celebratory aspects that keep our populous sane and sanguine.

        Conversely, Where Y’at was fashioned and has built on optimism, fair play, team spirit, frozen daiquiris and pizza, a noble and worthy foundation. I am amazed each issue; after twenty-five years that each issue is stand alone and new. I am amazed, each month, that collectively we writers, contributors, editors and externs have put together another issue that is informative, entertaining and exciting. AND I am completely amazed that, after twenty-five years, I am still in the pages every month, writing pretty much whatever comes out of my brain and onto the keyboard, sharing another thousand words about life, the universe and everything. What a long strange trip it’s been. Thank you Josh and everyone for having me.

         

       

Holloween 2023

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Midnight Special

Or

All Hallows Eve

        Halloween--being the day and evening before the Christian holy days of All Hallows Day (All Saints Day) on November one and All Souls Day on November two. The ancient Gaelic festival of Samhain, considered the earliest known root of Halloween and celebrated on October 31^st, hijacked by Christians and brought to this country rumored to be the time when the spirit gates are thrown open and goblins, ghosts, spirits and the dead are free to roam the earth and have a good old Monster Mash. We’re all supposed to be very much afraid and give them candy.

        I wish that it was as easy as giving away sweets to assuage the fears that I have; daily I feel like the Gates of Hell have come down like the Berlin Wall without the accompaniment of Pink Floyd. Like they say in the Middle East “the fit has hit the Shan!” and there’s no escaping the manure storm.

        Are you also feeling like that? A lot of people that I know are and it’s not just a matter of ‘who is the child with no complaint?’ The world around us has gone certifiably insane and it seems that the inmates are running the asylum; we‘ve gone to hell in a bucket and I, for one, am NOT enjoying the ride. Pass the Kit Kats please.

        “Nature is alive and talking to us; we’re not listening, this is not a metaphor” (Terence McKenna). Here comes the first Tricker Treaters:

        First: The Politicians. You can tell right away because they come with their entire dirty laundry showing; they don’t want candy. They want money (and my vote); they also want to give me a list of banned books and reasons why Global Warming is bogus. Go back to Florida, ya bums!!

        Next: The AI People they know who I am because of facial recognition; they have ingested data and quantum computing has told them that I’m keeping the good stuff for myself and the probability of where my stash is. They claim not to be responsible for anything because they’re “still learning” I yell “That man’s nuts… grab ‘em!” and they all scattered.

        And who is this in those campy outfits, sequins, spandex and Kitschy make up? Why it’s Gen Z! They want tickets to Cirque du Soleil (they are so into feats of athletic daring). Sorry kids, you need to hit up the guy next door with the Toyota Camry in the driveway.

        Then: The Unhoused and Food Insecure, formerly known as the Homeless and Hungry; I’m ready with blankets, bags of ice and gift cards to Starbucks and Bed, Bath and Beyond. They are now setting up camp in my backyard and we’ll have a weenie roast and sing-along and I have a new family (complete with tarps, bicycles and shopping carts). They’re some swell folks and I’ll never be lonely again.

        Oops!  Here comes Door to Door Salvation! Dressed like a sixties family television program. They just want to talk about my future Heavenwise or Hellbent and have I gotten their pamphlets and newsletters and could I please offer up my salvation as their treat before they TP my house.

        Now; The Environmentalists are a knockin’ and they want to know if I would give up my electronic equipment, my power mower, blower, air conditioner and any and all plastic in my house including the toilet seat and shower curtain; what do I think about zoos and have I considered a vegan diet? I am humbled; I sit on my steps and weep.

        Here’s The Politically Correct contingent: they want to know if, since the visitors have come around tonight, if I’ve done or said anything to offend or upset trick or treaters who are disadvantaged because of their sex, gender, race or disability; they tell me that if I’ve commented on anyone’s appearance that it could be construed as sexual harassment. They want me to sign something. I quote Archie Bunker (“Meatheads!”) and slam the door.        

        I knew they’d come: The Millennials special, confident, team oriented, smart and casual in slip dresses, tube tops and cargo pants. They don’t want much. They want to talk about the latest trends, sustainability, social justice and economic equality. They’re all on plant based diets, inquire after fruit flavored filtered Smart water, avocado toast, acai and poke bowls in the funniest accents.

        Holey Samolies! At the door now is an entire cast of a Late Night News and Entertainment Show! They’re all talking and sometimes shouting to be heard over each other “A storm in the gulf appears to be headed right toward your house; see my spaghetti models?” “My next guest needs no introduction; she has a new book out…”In Washington, twelve senators have indicted each other over free speech being spoken.” “The wife of a famous ex-politician is reportedly having an affair with a French pop star and is…”Across the globe, fires, earthquakes, tornadoes and migrant boats….”   “HOLD IT—HOLD IT!!!” I yell “Cut to a station break and move along and do not, I repeat, do not send The Commercials over here or I’ll cancel the lot of you!”

        Just in time: Some Children they’re dressed up like comic book heroes, Barbie dolls, the Flash, Spiderman, minions, Turtle Ninjas, Darth Vadar and some girls named Wednesday and Eleven?  They’re all yelling; one is crying; they’ve got their grubby little hands out; they’re high on sugar; chocolate stained; their shopping bags must weigh ten pounds already and they want more; one has lost a shoe; there are no adults in sight and I think that little one has wet his pants. Now I’m really scared.     

Big Easy Blues

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil

LaMancusa

Ferdutzt

Or

Big Easy Blues

            (New Orleans 1789): “Its condition is so bad that when I write about it, as I intend to do soon, nobody will believe I am telling the truth. But it is better to live here in sackcloth and ashes than to own the whole state of Ohio.” (Lafcadio Hearn)

            That quote resonates in me 150 years later; as Lafcadio further wrote: “Times are not good here. The city is crumbling into ashes. It has been buried under a lava flood of taxes and frauds and maladministration so that it has become only a study for archaeologists.” Indeed he could be speaking of the present day or 150 years before that. New Orleans history and (dare I say it?) tradition is one of hedonistic dysfunction going back to its birth in 1718.

            Booger Bob lives under the overpass on Claiborne Avenue; Booger Bob is one of hundreds of our ‘unhoused’ citizens; Booger Bob has over 30 bicycles in various states of repair that he sells. In fact, there are more bicycles under the overpass than I see on the street; all housed by the ‘unhoused’. Where they get these bicycles is anyone’s guess. Does any of that bother me? Not really, that’s New Orleans.

            I get a parking ticket ($30.00) if I don’t feed a meter, while certain ‘Social Aid and Pleasure Clubs’ can park on neutral grounds (medians), double-park in the street and have a traffic clogging festivities regularly with alacrity and impunity. Men on three wheel motor bikes doing wheelies and cutting through traffic lanes and impeding pedestrians and vehicles get nary a second look. Does that bother me? Not really.

            Our streets are cratered and pot holed enough to shake my muffler pipe loose and seemingly no one in city government cares. There is trash dumped and blighted houses, drunks weaving and people living in poverty, ignorance and despair around me; that’s New Orleans, murder capital of the country. I wouldn’t live anywhere else in the USA.

            Car jacking and vehicle break-ins; guns getting fired randomly; all manner of inconsideration of folks toward folks; insults and discrimination and have-nots outnumbering the haves and that’s just the way it frigging is. Got your house broken into, your bike stolen, been mugged? That’s not an ‘if’ question; that’s a: ‘it’s only a matter of time’ statement.

            All manner of cosmic debris lining our thoroughfares and plastic grocery bags blowing in the wind like dandelion puff parachutes; abandoned and feral once domesticated animals; a person throwing trash on the ground with aplomb. A ‘second line’ leaving a wake of debris. The freedom to void your bladder in a corner or move your bowels on a car bumper; condoms; syringes; bullet casings. We turn a blind eye: what do we expect?

            Who teaches our children? Who taught their parents? Who has given a rat’s whisker for over 300 years? Am I pessimistic? Not really. Am I optimistic? Same answer.

            Do I approve, condone, go along with, encourage or accept as ‘normal’ these living conditions? No, I don’t. I am among that percentage of implants and locals that have seen these conditions since first setting our feet on our pavement; for me, over half a century ago (I’m hard pressed to report any changes); we live, work and vote to make things better. I imagine that Lafcadio would feel right at home though; “the image we have today of New Orleans as beautiful and mysterious, dangerous and decaying, is due in a large part to Lafcadio Hearn” (The Guardian)

            Lafcadio wrote about police corruption, abuse of prisoners that were incarcerated; he mentions the fact of our city being home to gamblers, drunkards, prostitutes and pirates; he writes illustriously about the neglect and decay that are treated with ennui by government and population, as if they were normal living conditions. And all we can say is “it is what it is”.

            Do we need better education for our population? Do we need gun regulation; equal and fair housing; should we limit short term rentals; enforce traffic violations; help the less fortunate; ensure adequate healthcare; equal rights and opportunity? Should we support Booger Bob and buy back our stolen bicycle? All these may be questions that we as a people might should could ask ourselves; however, I don’t expect that query. You see, “only a small percentage of the population have an inner dialogue/monologue with themselves” (IFLScience.com) that would ask.  

        “An inner monologue has been found to have the benefits of planning, problem solving, self regulation, self reflection, emotional regulation and perspective; also self criticism, matters of self esteem. One’s inner monologue can also be a source of motivation, instruction, and positive self-reinforcement.” (Verywellmind.com)

        And if you are part of the 50-70% plus of the population that doesn’t have that (upworthy.com), well, you don’t have to have it to be a functioning member of society. It’s fine, nobody’s bugging you to do what’s considered the ‘right thing’; you can turn the radio up, go down the rabbit hole of your social media; get loaded and go comatose and/or stay in touch constantly via cell phone ear piece with everyone you know who are also ignoring life’s questions. You can bay at the moon for all I care.

        Forget about meditation, it only hurts the head; forget empathy, it’s for suckers; don’t bother to form an opinion about anything happening in the world around you, que sera sera.

        This isn’t a ‘you’re okay/I’m better’ piece; and it’s not a ‘woe is me, let me wag a finger in anyone’s direction but mine’ piece. It’s a sad reflection of my home. Criticism is an adversary of love and I love my city; however, I’d love to see more love shown. I’d love to witness positive changes here in my lifetime. I’d love to expect that.

 

         

 

 

 

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Charlie and Eleanor

 

Po Boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Imagine

Or

Eleanor’s Charlie

        We moved to a street shaded by Cypress and Sycamore trees and were happy; she especially loved the big cypresses and as a present I sent for a wee sapling as a loving gift. She named it Charlie. Charlie grew strong and tall and outgrew pots and was a fine specimen of a tree and we gave Charlie the largest pot that we could find and when we went to move him we found that he had grown through the bottom of the previous pot and his tap root had to be amputated to get him out of the ground.

        We transplanted Charlie into a big corrugated metal can and pretty quick he went into shock and appeared disheartened and lifeless. There were other plants growing in the can, onions, some ivy and one of the towering sycamores had dropped a seed which appeared to sprout nicely. As winter approached and Charlie was bare, and unresponsive, we decided to leave him in the big can and hope for the best after vacillating whether to cut him down completely.

        We had become attached to Charlie and Debbie promised the comatose tree that should he rise again that she would find a forever place for him to be planted in the ground where he could grow as much as he wanted, forever; meanwhile the fledgling sycamore that we named Eleanor, who had grown into a young thing right next to the dispirited Charlie, had shed her leaves right on time for her winter nap and so we had two sticks side by side in a can until spring.

        Spring came and Eleanor woke up and wondered about Charlie, their roots had grown close, she had sensed life there and they had dreamed their tree dreams all winter until it was time to re-leaf in the spring and to show off their new growths above ground, Charlie had not evidenced one sign of life; he was stubborn and hurt and didn’t trust this thing called life. In short, Charlie refused to wake up. Eleanor the Sycamore awoke and urged the traumatized little cypress to give living another shot and slowly Charlie tentatively sent some juice up to see what could be done about going green again.

        “LOOK, oh, look look look! There’s a little green sprout coming out of Charlie’s trunk; I believe he’s still alive!!” And Charlie did come back. Stunted but alive; short round Charlie and tall thin Eleanor grew beside each other and they got along just fine in their big metal can (with the ivy and the onions) and even made the trip when we moved to a bigger house last winter with a place in the back to fulfill our promise to Charlie for his forever planting spot. “But what about Eleanor?”

        “Should we separate them?” “Can we get them out of the can?” “Can I bust up that concrete in the back for a big enough hole?” We had found a place in the back with suitable sun and shade and we decided not to split up the pair that we had anthropomorphically deemed a campus couple; they were both half asleep and barely waking as I borrowed a sledge hammer and had at it through two layers of concrete and one layer of hundred year old brick (which I saved) to make a hole big enough for the pair.

        It took some hours of manual labor to accomplish their new and forever home and we bipeds both pushed and pulled on their trunks to free them from their now cramped quarters in the metal container, but out they came in a rush of soil and debris, knocking me on my rear in the detritus of my efforts.

        We dropped them into their forever (we believe) home and shoveled earth and broken concrete to secure them and there they stood like a sleepy groom with his barely dressed partner (and the ivy and onions who hadn’t slept a wink all winter). We waited to see if we had traumatized them terminally and few days later when we went to check on them, there they were, loud and proud, getting all dressed up for Spring.

        Judiciously we left the pair their privacy to adjust to the new year (spring is a tree’s New Year, you know) and allowed Mother Nature to water and warm them.

        Now, if you’re the kind of biped that sees life and love in all things; if by chance you’d go to the pet store and purchase crickets just to set them free; if you open your car window to let that errant winged intruder escape or if, by chance, you’re the type of biped that catches a spider in your house with a paper cup and sheet of paper and sets them outdoors or even the type that lets weeds grow around your yard for the bees and butterflies we just might have a chance to save the world. 

        This is just the type of naïve kindnesses that have a tendency to expand exponentially; the next thing you know, you might be volunteering to feed the poor or run errands for a geezer, pick up some litter on your street or even start taking better care of yourself and your loved ones.

        By the way, Charlie didn’t regain use of his upper branches but blossoms nicely around Eleanor’s waist and lower limbs (they look precious together, I can’t wait to see if they have babies); she smiles down upon him and I swear I heard him tell her: “It’s better to have loved a short cypress than to never have loved a tall.” Mother Nature and Father Time are now in charge.

Old Time Rock and Roll

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Radio Relic

Or

Radar Love

        “Today’s music ain’t got the same soul: I like that old time Rock and Roll” (Bob Seeger)

        Okay, okay, you got your Jazz Fest; I’ve got my Jazz fest, it’s an awakening, it’s recharging, it’s a freaking cathartic epiphany for chrissake! I’m with ya, I smell ya, I got the fever too; however, when it’s done and the tents have been struck and the magic turns into miasma… whatcha got to get you through the tough parts here? OhhZee? Sure; but in rush hour traffic, or getting’ to work at dawn’s crack, or dodging those light runners, lane changers and speed demons that inhabit our roads, I need something other than Jazz and Heritage.

        No disrespect to the Guardians of the Groove but when I’m working long and hard, hand eyed coordinated and in a zone where no man has gone before, I need to hear Aretha demanding some R.E.S.P.E.C.T. or Mavis countering with ‘Respect Yourself!’; Stevie talking to his Part-time Lover; Elton doin’ the Crocodile Rock and/or songs from the seventies that I can sing along with. Steve Miller is a joker, a smoker and a midnight toker who gets his lovin’ on the run, while Stealers Wheel is Stuck in the Middle with You; the Eagles are takin’ it to the limit (maybe to the Hotel California); the Kinks are trying to get away from Lola and Paul McCartney wants to Let it Be while Paul Simon continues as a Boxer on a Bridge Over Troubled Waters.

        E.L.O. can’t get her out of my head, Marvin Gaye wants to (Let’s) Get it On, Al Green want to (Let’s) Stay Together and the Staple Singers want to (Let’s ) Do It Again and I say (let’s) turn the radio louder and sing like Joe Cocker or The O Jays, The Bee Gees, Queen, Spinners, Buckinghams, CCR, CSN&Y, BTO, MLRB and ABBA. Barry White, The Who, Fleetwood Mac and Santana. Janis, Jimi, Joni and Jim and hundreds, yes hundreds more who led a counterculture of musical revolutionaries through their day… back in the day. Jeff Beck, Peter Green, Eric Clapton, Janis Ian, and Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.

        This music came before social media, laptops, flat screens, cell phones, MP3s and personal computers; vinyl records played on turntables until they were worn out.   Tapestry, The Dark Side of the Moon, Songs in the Key of Life, Blood on the Tracks, Rumours, Rastaman Vibration, What’s Goin’ On, Exile on Main Street, The White Album, In the Court of the Crimson King, Workingman’s Dead, Trout Mask Replica, Paradise and Lunch. Eat a Peach, Tommy, Hair and Jesus Christ Superstar. Sly and the Family Stone, the Temptations, Linda Ronstadt and The Brothers Johnson.

        Your Gramps had a ponytail and a pierced ear; grandma wore bell bottoms and no bra. We had outdoor rock concerts and Rainbow Gatherings (besides Woodstock); we had bands playing for free in public parks; we pissed off our elders and let our kids go naked. And now you (and I) have The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival where they, each year, pay homage to the music that we all love. It’s sights and sounds that I attend every year to get my festival/musical fix; it’s my drug of choice and I am addicted.

        However, “if you believe in forever, then life is just a one night stand; if there’s a Rock and Roll Heaven, well, you know they’ve got a hell of a band” (Righteous Brothers) and that’s what grooves me the rest of the year. Dr John’s album Gumbo (1972) The Wild Tchoupitoulas (1976) Professor Longhair’s Rock and Roll Gumbo (1974) Allen Toussaint; Irma Thomas; Ellis Marsalis (who I first saw playing on Bourbon Street), The radiators; Little Queenie and The Percolators.

        And yes, I’m a WTIX listener (so are Will and Lenny, the Mechanic Gods that keep my ’97 Lincoln Towncar running smoothly) and sure, I have to hear commercials for Pasta Sauces, Buttburgers, pest control companies and restaurants that I’ll probably never go to. I know the patter of the DJs and kinda hear news, weather because I generally tune out most everything except the music. The music brings back simpler times when I can’t even remember how I paid the rent much less where I was until I hear a song like Radar Love, Tumbling Dice or Fool (if you think it’s over). I do recall, with the help of those oldies (but goodies) that it was a time of (relative) innocence and a time of (complete) confidence.

        That’s what these days should be like for you and that is what I wish for you as you go to Jazz Fest. You should look back on these days with a smile as I do those days; they are so similar in many ways. We stood on the shoulders of the music that came before us; we believed in human rights; we fought hatred; we believed in saving the planet for our children; we were against war and greed. I still do believe that we can make life and living a more positive experience. I still do believe that we can make a difference, especially when I hear Otis Redding telling me that all I have to do is “try a little tenderness”.

M*A*S*H*

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Love and Death

Or

M*A*S*H

        Humor me. Think about yourself and your life as a pair of lovers (even if it’s just you and yourself) holding hands and walking through Armageddon; seeing each other in eachother’s eyes and, picking your way through the rubble of destroyed buildings and broken bodies, heedless of cries for help and succor as you make your way to sanctuary, a place to make gentle love. Life is like that if you’re lucky enough to see the turmoil happening around you from an unscathed vantage point. Happy Valentine’s Day… you deserve it.

        Death and destruction around us is viewed either subjectively or objectively and we can watch and read the news of hell on earth and either be touched deeply by it or be impatient for the next feel good story; we can be callus because of our need for self protection, no one needs to be empathetic and live. That much pain would be unbearable.

        Oh, we’re not apathetic, by any means. It’s called psychic numbing. The book Why We Love Dogs, Eat Pigs and Wear Cows (Melanie Joy PhD) cites that our system works this way: We love animals (insert people) and we don’t want to see them suffer; we have three choices (insert when we witness or participate in misery and/or cruelty): we can change our values to match our behavior; change our behavior to match our values OR we can change our perceptions of our behavior so that we appear to match our values. The third option is the way our system works when we can love on our pets but allow ourselves to rationalize forty million turkeys being slaughtered for our holiday dinners.

        I’ve been watching a lot of M*A*S*H lately, actually I’ve just finished all of the eleven seasons. I’ve taken away two things from M*A*S*H besides the terrific acting: One: Hawkeye, Radar, Klinger and Hot Lips (and the rest of the cast) are some funny funny people. Second: underscoring their antics from virtually the first episode is that they view the war as senseless but their view cannot stop the bodies that continually wind up coming in; necessitating them to repair them (when they can) and if they’re well enough send these unfortunates back to fight in this senseless war. All through the mud and the blood and the beer there’s the senseless war.

        That’s what we have here.

        People are dying senselessly all around us and we as individuals can do nothing to stop this from occurring and continuing; paying attention to this only brings me a feeling of impotence, yet I cannot turn away; it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

        Here’s a quick quiz, I’ll give you the situation and you fill out the location. Starvation in ___? War in_____? Hurricane____? Earthquake___? Tornados___? Environmental disasters ___? Mass shootings____ ? Homelessness ___? Poverty ___? Prejudice ___? Greed? That last one’s a ringer and the answer to that one is: EVERYWHERE! And you might consider that some of the conditions of those other quiz questions can be due to greed.

        Here’s how that works: your greedy politicians are given campaign money by a greedy polluter, manufacturer, real estate developer and/or power hungry wealthy donor. The politicos use that money to further their ambitions for power (a type of greed)while getting legislations passed that perpetuate the businesses and ambitions of the donors and/or turn a blind eye on their inhumanity or simply put: Money Talks.

        Who takes it in the shorts? The answer to that is really simple: the whole world. What can we do about it? Nothing. It’s too overwhelming. It’s frigging crushing to even think about it. How do we, as a society create enough Mackenzie Scotts to counteract all the you know who’s?

        Well, Hawkeye Pierce and BJ Hunnicut would know the answer. Be kind; be sarcastic; be a pain in the ass; complain; point out discrepancies in the system and refuse to participate in its inequities. Vote; get involved; do something useful for no reward or recognition; pay attention. Be better.

        Sure, on M*A*S*H most everybody’s getting laid (or trying to), they are playing practical jokes on each other; getting drunk; eating lousy food and living in lousy conditions but, in spite of all that, when the wounded come in and the broken bodies get to the operating room, there’s no monkey-ing around; it’s all business. That’s another lesson to learn: to put people’s welfare and wellness ahead of our selfish conveniences i.e. which would you rather see: a pig drinking beer or a hog getting its throat cut (or a dog; or a horse; a person)?

        Valentine’s for me is not only a celebration of love but a time pre-spring evaluation of my habits and behavior. Say what you want about January 1^st, my new year starts with the Vernal Equinox (that’s my story and I’m stickin’ with it!); so, I think this year I’ll adopt the Hippocratic tradition and think of myself as a person who will conduct their life by “First, do no harm” and second: refuse to support anyone who does harm.

        That’s a tall order and a noble thought; it’s gonna take a lot of will power and strength. Therefore, I will go to another source of courage, fortitude, wisdom and instruction: I am now committing myself to watch all the episodes of Golden Girls. After that maybe Frank’s Place; and then maybe Will and Grace and then… and then… and then…

        A joyous Valentine’s to you. May you, by day, enjoy nature and by night, take life lessons from Sophia Petrillo.