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.

Culinary Trinity

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Culinary Trinity

Or

Aroma Anchors

        The closest ‘Culinary Buddha’ Louisiana’s cooking has ever had was a Chef named Paul Prudhomme, who dispatched wisdom, passion and  a world of flavors to the known world in his lifetime and beyond; Gate Gate Parasamgate Bodhi Svaha (gone on to the further shore of enlightenment).

        As a Guru he taught us many things: that water tastes better when you drink it from your hands; how the magic of our food here is “twelve ingredients done twenty different ways”; how it’s okay to burn (blacken) your food and how onions, celery and bell peppers are the ‘Holy Trinity’ of our cooking ingredients (with Garlic as the Pope). Also, as rumor has it, he was quoted as saying that “food is not adequately seasoned unless it hurts to eat it”.

        Having three bedrock ingredients (or ‘Trinities”) are not unusual; Spanish Cuisine has Sofritto (tomatoes, peppers and onions); the French have their Mirepoix (onions, celery and carrots); Greece, China, Italy, India cooking all have a ‘Trinity’ of sorts. Define this ‘Trinity’ thing? Consider it a recurrent flavor combination: a center of gravity in a profile cooking; even barbecue, with its myriad of interpretations has a ‘Trinity’ of its own (pepper, vinegar, smoke).

        So let’s examine this Creole/Cajun Trinity thing; what we know and what we don’t know. Onions came over on the Mayflower; Garlic came up from the Southwest via Spanish Conquistadors; Peppers are native to the Americas; that brings us into the seventeenth century. And now there’s the question of celery. Culinary celery probably began being cultivated in Italy and France in the 1600s; before that it was used medicinally. Celery was farmed commercially in the late 1800s in the north (Kalamazoo, Michigan); it grows in cooler climates as do carrots.

        And somehow, somehow, all of these forces came together in Southern Louisiana as the foundation of all that is considered to be present in our cooking; our defining culinary personality. When did this happen? Were they all out hitchhiking across country and wound up in Louisiana together? Did they meet in a bar and start hanging out”

        In perusing the Picayune Creole Cookbook, originally published in1901, there is little mention of celery or bell peppers, certainly none in nine different gumbos, three jambalayas or even their Creole Sauce recipe; celery is used as a vegetable and in Boiled Shrimp and/or Boiled Crab a plethora is used to season the water used to cook. Certainly Cajuns who lived off the land most likely couldn’t afford the luxury of celery until middle twentieth century.

        We know the French settlers in Louisiana may have been used to their mirepoix but likely would have had to get carrots from the north; celery may have come down during the Civil War and possibly been grown here in the cooler months of November-December, but then what?

        Logic tells us that without adequate refrigeration, only what could be grown and harvested in season and in proximity would make their way into our pots: onions, peppers (both mild and hot) parsley, watercress and greens come to mind. Creoles would have had herbs as well: thyme, oregano, bay leaves; Cajuns had all that and swamp insects that deprived them of ingredients like tomatoes and wheat flour.

        In the 1960s, when I migrated here, the ‘Seasoning Vegetables’ (that which we now call the ‘Trinity’) was ensconced in the local cooking; celery was readily available as were potatoes (sweet and Irish), cabbage, carrots, onions, tomatoes, peppers and little else as far as fresh vegetable staples went.  There was plenty of fruit: avocados, pineapples and bananas. Fruits and vegetables in season came and went. And coffee (and chicory)… lots of coffee.

        At that time, the French Market was servicing over 3,000 people a day; there were meat markets and fresh seafood stalls along Decatur Street where tourists now shop for made-in-China souvenirs. There was a big super market just outside the Quarter (Scwegmann’s) that had, inside, a pharmacy, savings bank and a bar; outside they pumped gas for your car if you had one (lots of folks didn’t). It was a blue collar world then and you could listen to the women as they made their groceries discussing what noodles to put in the Ya Ca Mein, whether to put pickle meat in their beans or: “first I make me my roux, good and brown, the I add me my seasoning vegi-tables, then my okree, crabs and swimps….then…” I miss those days.

        Then the oil jobs moved to Houston, the shipping industry went to deeper ports; the bohemians were replaced by hippies and the whole culcha went to pot. Spanish sailor bars and Greek belly dancing joints started closing and just when it looked its worst for us… the tourists came like locusts and bailed us out. Ella Brennan bought Commanders Palace and took a chance on trading a German chef for a Cajun named Paul Prudhomme and suddenly… we have a ‘Trinity’ of vegetables.

        It’s a good thing we didn’t have an HR back then or they might have said that comparing the Father, Son and Holy Spirit to an onion, celery and bell pepper motif was religiously derogatory; especially if you libel the Blessed Pope (who lives in Rome) to a head of garlic! We’re all gonna burn in Hell like a blackened Red Fish left too long in the pan!

        In conclusion, the only thing that we know about the ‘Trinity’ is that the combination occurred before the name was given and once the name was given it stuck like a cheap suit on a used car salesman; like ugly on an ape; like white on rice.

        Come to think about it, here’s the next thing to ponder: if a machine that polished rice into those little non-nutritional specks we consume didn’t occur until the late 1800s (1861 Sampson Moore), did the original settlers here eat brown rice with their red beans?

       

 

 

Storyville

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Storyville

Or

Love For Sale

Brothels; Houses of Ill Repute; Cat-houses; Whore Houses; Bordellos; Red-light Districts; Comfort Parlors; Sporting Palaces; however you refer to them, simply put, are places where you go and pay someone to have sex with you.

 

 

        Generally speaking, it’s men who go to get their rocks off; their jollies; their load lightened; get laid. Women hire gigolos and pamper cabana boys; men pay whores. The oldest profession is also the oldest systemic subjugation. Prostitutes are people that give sexual comfort and take money for that service (we won’t talk about sluts like me that give it away free).

        Post Civil War, New Orleans was rife with mischief of all kinds: gambling, drinking, carousing, dancing, loud music, violence, mayhem, manslaughter and, of course, all the sex you could afford to pray or pay for. Some folks here still call them the good old days; some folks claim that not much has really changed.

        Back then, we were truly a seaport river town with cargo and waterfronts and seamen from foreign climes; boatmen from up river and local raconteurs, rapscallions, ruffians and roustabouts all looking for a way to blow off steam and not having to go far to find it, created a city whose atmosphere was definitely not Christian-like to say the very least. That particular New Orleans became notoriously definitive as a place to ‘do whatcha wanna’. It was known as a “Sin City” where shenanigans were a participatory sport, a tourist attraction and an economic engine. Tops among these attractions were the “women notoriously abandoned to lewdness”.

        However, in 1897 a City Alderman named Sidney Story came up with a unique and clever idea: what if we made all that misbehaving miscreantial mischief legal in one area, one area only, and let the madness be confined and unbridled at the same time? That sounded so good and righteous that it was decreed that thirty-eight blocks (twenty square) above the French Quarter would be set aside for unchecked raucousness and let the games begin. And indeed the games did begin. Dance halls, gambling dens, vaudeville theaters, restaurants, bars and fancy and not so fancy sex parlors sprang up; talent was rounded up and put to work and a good time was had by all. It was not necessarily a completely safe area but, what the heck, where is?  

        Names of Madams, club owners, sex workers and gangsters, who had risen to the top, became household heroes for the whey criminals as examples to aspire to; great pleasure mansions arose along Basin Street. Lulu White, Josie Arlington, Tom Anderson (the unofficial mayor of Storyville), Willie Piazza, Pete Lala, Frank Early, Joe Victor and more, held sway and influence.

        The district had borders from off Canal Street (Iberville) to Saint Louis Cemetery number one; from Basin Street to North Robinson; but was by no means the only pits of vice; Sanctity Row; Gallatin Alley (where the French Market is now) and the infamous Tango Belt and French Town (from Dauphine Street to Rampart, from Bienville to Saint Louis streets) operated as much rougher, less discerning and more affordable alternatives. Even into the twenty-first century there can be found houses of ill repute functioning; the book The Last Madam (by Chris Wiltz) describes Norma Wallace’s place in the 1960’s history and legends of New Orleans pleasure characters. Jeanette Maier opened her brothel on Canal Street in 1999. And so it goes.

        Storyville operated with its own brand of law outside the law, even having its own published directory The Blue Book, which gave locations and attributes of businesses and personas that functioned in that district. Storyville was also near New Orleans’ own Chinatown which contributed to other trades of opium and take-out food (not kidding).

        But more importantly there was music. Using our current Bourbon Street scene, what better way to draw in customers to your place of frolic than to have music wafting through your doors?  That idea is not new.

        In Storyville there was so much music that music became a competition; sure, every place that was pleasure oriented had a piano player (a revered Professor) and the higher falutin the place the more ambitious the music scene, bands became an attraction and the employment level for musicians was high.

        Musicians stood to make more money is Storyville than other hot spots around town Kid Ory, Papa Celestin, King Oliver, Fess Manetta, Buddy Bolden, Sidney Bechet and Louis Armstrong among others explored a new found freedom of expression in musical duels called ‘Cuttings’, discovering new styles of music, leading to a form called ‘Jass’  which eventually became ‘Jazz’. I’ve read about a half a dozen references to the definitive definition; however, the term to me just means ‘Jazz’.

        1915 saw the reopening of the U.S. Naval base and World War One bringing lots of new trade for Storyville; however it was short lived. The military regulations prohibited such entertainment within five miles of a base and rather than lose the war; the federal government ordered Storyville closed down (1917) and the city under duress acquiesced. So there you have it and take from it what you will.

        But I ask you: do we really ever stop people that seek adolescent enjoyment from engaging in risky business or do we just send those pastimes into the shadows? Does making something illegal that people take pleasure in ever work? Does the razing of Storyville, the destruction of our Chinatown, the 610 overpass, the demolition of neighborhoods in the name of ‘eminent domain’ really make us ‘the land of the free and the home of the brave’ or is that just another way of the Big Brother ruining our fun, security and well being?      

        Or, does the common man (of which I am one) simply view “last call” in a bar (or other interferences) as an affront to my rights as a person just trying to have a good time and hurting no one?

          

Big C or little c?

 

Po Boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Oui Chef

Or

Big ‘C’ little ‘c’

Breakfast for 40: lunch for 60; sit down dinner for 100; Cocktails for 180. Another double digit shift. Manager: “Great job Chef!” Chef: “Thanks, I’m only as good as my last meal”.

        As good as your last meal: that’s something that every chef knows by heart, from hotel to hostel; fine dining to food truck; one man kitchen to leader of a brigade of cooks. As with any player, you’re only as good as your last performance. Aspire to lead the band in Kingdom Chef? Good luck.

        Here’s the secret; as a Chef, you picture yourself in the center of five dimensions of activity: “did the trash go out; did the delivery come in; are we prepped up for lunch; did the dishwasher show up; are the linens in; are the ovens fired up; did the salesman call; where’s the fish; what’s the dinner special; what’s our food cost; answer the phone and find out what they want; close that door: were you born in a barn? Where’re my glasses and I need more coffee!” All this as you walk from point A to point B (picking up a piece of trash and checking the garbage can for any stray flatware that’s been inadvertently tossed).

        You cannot learn this in school. You cannot graduate from an institution and step into these shoes: it’s a mania: you’ve got to be crazy. Or inspired, driven, passionate, power hungry, concerned, conceited, getting a piece of the action or just plainly the only one that can and wants to do the job; talent has nothing to do with it, you’re flexing your experience and ability to get things done to your satisfaction and to the satisfaction of the people that are certainly paying you less than you deserve. And your audience expects your best. Every meal; every shift; every day; without fail. You’re the Chef; get it done, end of story.

        That’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s always been, way back to the building of the pyramids and beyond; aboard Noah’s Ark; The Last Supper and up to Madame Begue and Tujaques across from the French Market, Antoine Alciatore over on St. Louis St. or any of the myriad of kitchen chiefs that made our city a destination for satisfying meals going back hundreds of years.

        For every known chef, there are hundreds and thousands that toil in obscurity in the dust, the smoke, the heat and the sweat; keeping kitchens (as they say) in line and on time. This country has known many of these heroes and other countries have known many more; however, New Orleans has the best unknown and known Hero chefs in the universe. Our food and our chefs are second to none.

        I rate a person’s Chefness in martial arts criteria: first: a chef does not call themselves a Chef (although other people may); they know that a Chef knows and is all things, perfection, and having realized that it will take a lifetime to achieve that level of Chef-ness, never stops accelerating. A chef that wants to be a Chef is constantly moving toward that point of macroevolution, however nebulous.

        Consider New Orleans chefs that you probably never heard of; consider getting a book called Creole Feast by Nathaniel Burton and Rudy Lombard. Learn about chefs that worked with no notoriety for thirty and forty years because that’s what a working person does in this business; consider someone starting as a dishwasher and working themselves up to the top position because that’s just what some people did. That mystical ‘work ethic’ that we hear about. This is before the advent of the Celebrity Chef that goes on television, writes books and does a circuit of appearances. These are chefs that don’t call in sick; don’t take PTOs (Personal Time Off) and can (and do/will) work every station in the kitchen.

        Consider the chefs that you knew and have heard about: Paul Prudhomme, Leah Chase, Jamie Shannon, Austin Leslie, Buster Holmes, Warren LeRuth, Willie Mae Seaton, Milton Prudence.

        Consider the Chefs that are still doing their shifts: the heavyweights Frank Brigtsen and Susan Spicer, also Nina Compton, Greg Sonnier, Melissa Martin, Erik Veney and a hundred more. The U. S. Bureau of Labor Statistics estimates that there are roughly 146,000 chefs in this country; and they’re all out there not about to participate in Restaurant Week or Trade shows or television spots because they’re in the kitchen making sure that the customer with a dietary restriction isn’t being killed by their food and wondering if the produce has arrived and who checked it in.

        Indeed.com touts that there are currently 162 chefs jobs available in New Orleans; so, there is a market out there for you to tap into if you’re willing to step into that position.

        I am a working chef; my resume is longer than the Gettysburg Address. I do not plan on retiring. For me the calling came, a mentor excited me; a passion grew and still grows. Salary.com estimates that the average chef’s salary in New Orleans is about 50K and that’s not a bunch of money considering all that is asked for that position; so, the chefs here that are employed aren’t necessarily doing it for the bucks. Obviously it’s for the… what?

        Silly you, obviously it’s for you and it’s for me as well; it’s our romance; it’s our relationship and it’s my lifestyle choice to be your chef.

        I found when I visited other countries how everyone seemed to be happy being the person that they are. I adopted that outlook in my life and it has me more relaxed. I don’t want to be president, the leader of a corporation, a rich Fat Cat or even Mick frickin’ Jagger (maybe Keith tho). I’m happiest being me on my journey, feeding people and getting them some satisfaction. May the same blessing occur to you.

       

               

Car Tails

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Tail Lights

or

Car Tales

        “And if you give me weed, whites and wine; and show me a sign, I’ll be willin’, to be movin’.”

        ‘The Duchess’ is a ’97 Lincoln Towncar with 300,000 miles on her; the motor is a mean mutha-fawya monster, heard before seen, and should another of those punk chump flat assed cheap papier-mâché and Styrofoam runabouts cut me off again I’m sure she’ll wanna eat it for lunch. She’s just that kinda car.

        Growing up (yep, another ‘growing up’ story) I knew older guys that talked about the ‘Tin Lizzie’ (Model ‘T’), you know, the one that Henry designed the assembly line to manufacture one per household of? I’ve seen ‘em and I was impressed! They sold for $260.00 equal to 18 months salary one hundred years ago. You could have it in any color you wanted as long as you wanted black. Times HAVE changed.

        America went car crazy: the Lizzie had four cylinders; by 1930 Cadillac was making a 16 cylinder V engine (how many cylinders does your car have? You don’t know do you?) Packard, Studebaker, Duisenberg, Tucker, Kaiser, Hudson, Nash, Checker, Mercury and a dozen other land yacht companies vied for consumer attention in the 30s, 40s and 50s. I had a 1957 Ford Fairlane whose speedometer went up to 130 MPH and believe me, it did go that fast!

        We were incensed with speed, power and style even into the early 70s; we had cars with fins and chrome and color; names like Thunderbird, Continental, Cougar, Skylark, Malibu, Bel-Air, Ranchero, Continental, Road Master, Impala, Mustang (the older one not that newer shadow of its former Mustang), Camaro, El Camino, Corvette; we had a European invasion with the Volkswagen, Jaguar, Porsche, Alfa Romero, Ferrari and Volvo hitting the streets with a veritable parade of identity and elan. We could tell by front ends and tail lights the years and models. We car spotted Aston Martins, Rolls Royce, Fiat Spiders, Mercedes and BMWs. We had songs about them; we drag raced with Maybelline and Nadine on Dead Man’s Curve; I once knew a woman with a figure like a Karmann Ghia; and then, and then…. the Asian invasion came and it all went to shyte.

        We were still pretty cool rounding the corner and going in to the early eighties with a few Hondas, Toyotas and Mazda slipping into our main streams and then the floodgates opened and cost effectively made and sold, mass produced, fuel efficient, easier to park, hatched backed and certainly less distinctive buckets were seemingly everywhere.

        In 2009 the government instituted the Cash For Clunkers campaign and everyone greedily sent their older, able to be easily repaired, been in the family boaters to the wrecking yard and bought the imports that grandpa would have thrown rocks at. Now when I go down the road, I’m noticed because The Duchess is so much bigger, louder and harkens back to a time of American individuality. Where were you twenty-six years ago?

        The cheaper cars like the Cilantro and others (with fiberglass and Styrofoam bumpers) that sell for dirt and are made overseas with souped up differentials that make them feel like race cars and yahoos that can’t drive on a good day are racing these death traps like they’re Mario Fricken Andretti! No turn signals, running yellows AND red lights; I don’t know whether they’re morons or car thieves the way they drive. And thus, the proliferation of car wreck lawyers who will get you hundreds of thousands (from where?) when (not if) you get injured in what used to be called a fender bender and is now a “call Morris and then get me an ambulance” situation.

        And what’s with the post sixty year old male midlife crisis giant pick-up trucks with trailer hitches that never are seen towing anything; with a metal tool box in the bed? You know that they’ll never tow anything and that toolbox is probably empty. Who do they think they’re kidding? Geezer Macho is so so sad.

        Now has come the electric and hybrid movement which may get off the ground in another forty years, if we’re lucky. Don’t get me wrong, I believe that it’s more than a good idea and about time as well; however, those little sweethearts sell for more than twice the price of an Altima and what’s a poor schmuck to do to get one, sell the farm (the wife AND the dog)? I wouldn’t mind if the new electric alternative cars were built to last 20 or 30 years, but they’re not. Replacing a battery can set you back 15 large, charging that battery costs money and if you lose your charge… the car stops… and can only be pushed if it has a neutral gear (or gets towed to a charging station); these are all things that will be corrected possibly in your lifetime.

        Face it, the petro-chemical fat cats are not going to let fossil fuels go the way of the fossils that created them; it’s right and noble to cut down on your carbon footprint, but be aware that if gas is the monkey on our back, The Gorilla in the room is plastic; it takes one gallon of gasoline to make  2 ½ pounds of plastic, not counting the resources it takes to move that plastic from point of origin to point of use (livescience.com) and since it is cheaper to make plastic than to recycle it… (Mass Institute of Tech.)

        An estimated 9 million tons of plastic enter the oceans each year (maritimeaquarium.org); how much do we collectively use, waste and throw away? The electric car is made from plastic; your recycle bin; toothbrush; this computer; we even use gasoline to send plastic waste to the landfill.

        The Duchess is made of steel; we try to limit our carbon imprint; we’re confronted by The Gorilla everywhere we look. We’re sad. We don’t like the way that times have changed.