Jazz Fest 2024 second weekend

 

Po-Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Fair Grounds

Or

Bust

 

“Fear in the air, tensions everywhere, unemployment’s rising fast, The Beatles new record’s a gas; and the only safe place to live is on an Indian reservation! And the band played on.” (Temptations: Ball of Confusion)

       

 

        Hey, don’t complain just because it’s only a third of the way through the year and you’re ready to curl up and go fetal; because, if you think that the ass kicking 2024 has given you so far is bad, fasten your seatbelts, ‘cause you ain’t seen nuthin’ yet (the psychic columnist strikes again!).

        All around you, you see war, hunger, homelessness, carjacking, murders, muggings, rapes and senseless politics; not to mention greed, dishonesty and inhumanity. Getting a dog or cat, close family ties or cutting your bangs may assuage your plight but it will not eliminate it. Face it, from the beginning until the end, life will work your nerves; “the girl by the whirlpool is lookin’ for a new fool; don’t follow leaders; watch the parking meters” (Bob Dylan) However…..

        Okay, so you think that just because you’re playing your part with honor, integrity and value it’s gonna get you a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card from life, you are sorely mistaken; I know, it’s what I used to think. Take it from me, from here on out it’s about to get Think or Thwim Time and the water’s rising fast. But soft, do I hear the Sirens call of the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage festival? Ah yes, the Sirens: half bird and half woman seductresses of Greek mythology that sang sailors to….; yes, I hear them over by the race track calling me (and you).

        2023 was bad, badder than the years before and here come 2024 like the Dire Wolf (600 pounds of sin); cost of living went up 10% and your raise was only 3. Rent, groceries, gasoline, your dentist, and your dealer have all increased their fees and don’t get me started on the electric bills meteoric rise; the car needs tires, baby needs shoes and, I don’t know about you but, I need a break. Hell I could do with a dose of amnesia!

         Hey, take my hand. Life is short no matter how long you live. Close your eyes. Open your hand; feel this slip of paper? It’s a ticket to The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival week two. On me. No it’s not for the Rolling Stones Day (I’m not that magnanimous).

        What? It cost as much as a day’s pay? Well, the way I consider it, when I spend a day’s pay to go to the Jazz Fest, I’m actually giving myself a day off with pay to go have a most wonderful time. Believe me, I save up all year to give myself this ‘stay-cation’; I deserve this. I deserve to be able to take every day of Jazz Fest off from work and responsibility to render myself immune to the days cares and concerns; I know that my life, as it is, will be waiting for me when I exit and I’ll face what I have to face and ignore everything else that I can that is waiting to work my patience, emotions, understanding and ken.

        But I need this. I need this respite, this time off and out; that’s what it is: I’m giving myself a ‘time out’ and going to the corner of Sauvage and Fortin Streets or 1751 Gentilly Ave, through those gates and off the grid.

        I get a giddy feeling as I stand in line with the other folks eager to be the first in; I go through the line like a greasy butter knife, carrying so very little (a towel, sunscreen, cash and a big grin); I’ve got on comfortable closed toe shoes; clothing in just enough layers for the weather and eyewear to protect me from the sun.

        I pass the Gospel Tent and look in on Jesus; pass the Blues Tent and look in on a poster of B.B. King and over to the WWOZ Jazz Tent where I deposit Debbie because that’s where she likes to spend her days and then I’m off!

        I’m not saying that I’m old; but, my experiences with and at music and art festivals get me so high that I cannot sit still for very long. I’ve got to be out there; I’ve got to see everything, be everywhere and poke my nose into everybody’s business. I am nonstop for hours and I’m electrified by the energy of the Fest; I’m movin’ and groovin’; I’ve got gut in my strut; glide in my stride and no shame in my game. Amazingly, I don’t want to talk to many people, I seldom interact; if you know me, I’m perfectly more than capable of enjoying and amusing myself without outside help or influences.

        I eat, I drink (non alcoholic beverages), I bring Debbie beignets and coffee as well as other gifts of refreshment and I observe. And when someone afterward asks me who I saw, I smile and say “everyone!”

        So, here’s your ticket; go forth and soak up the magic. Find all the secret, sacred corners, routes, and avenues through the myriad of Jazz Fest brethren and if you don’t enjoy yourself… it’s your own fault.

        Oh, if you see me and I seem to not recognize you… just let me go on my way. I’m in a world of my own and I call it heaven.

         

Jazz Fest 2024 first weekend

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Truckin’

Or

42

“’Cause every hand’s a winner; and every hand’s a loser, and the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep” (The Gambler: Kenny Rogers)

        Now, lemme get this straight: you’re born, you live and you die; in the meantime, between the light and the darkness, you’re not given a bed of roses. From childhood, you are a dependent who is basically told what is good for them and how to behave; what to believe; how to think, speak and pray; you learn to use currency, cunning and charisma to get what you want and then, with your hormones at full throttle, you are thrust out on your own into the reality that you so hoped would be your salvation… and you’re met with the cold fact that life is unforgiving and unfair.

        Getting older, you learn (or don’t) how to manage your health and welfare; you’re also held responsible for your actions, finances and future; in short, it ain’t downhill coasting whoever you may be or wherever you are. It’s a headache and a pain in the ass. And then there’s The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival (Jazz Fest).

        Life can be a bitch, karma can be a kick in the ass; you may get everything you deserve or nothing at all. You’ll get what you pay for and then you’ll pay for what you get. Finagle’s Law will dog you: ‘anything that can go wrong, will go wrong at the worst possible moment’ (or not). Clowns to the left of you; Jokers to the right and there you are stuck in the middle.

        There are simple but demoralizing afflictions like asthma, rashes, moles, hair loss, leaky bladders, blood pressure, cholesterol, migraines, weight gain or loss, coughs, colds and sore holes to contend with. Or the big devastating ones: cancer, diabetes, psoriasis, Parkinson’s, cystinosis, heart disease, cirrhosis and later on you can look forward to a cases of dementia and Alzheimer’s that can cut you down like sugar cane. AND, your body will be growing wisps of gray hair in the strangest of places; you’ll also start to fall apart and be rendered less active and weaker than you ever were or thought you would be. Period.  And then there’s Jazz Fest.

        Oh, while we’re at it; how about, financial setbacks; loss of friends and jobs, love, attraction, loneliness and heartache. You can choose your medicine -- do the best you can and find solace in sex, drugs and Rock ‘n Roll or booze and pills and powders. Everything from Acetylsalicylic to Lysergic Acid. Bring children into the world? Good luck.

        From Advil to Zoloft; you’ll see the commercials for dozens of afflictions with ‘Doctor Recommended’ cures that include side effects like lung disease, kidney infections, shortness of breath, diarrhea, pancreatitis -and sometimes the cure “can, in some cases, cause fatalities”. And then there’s Jazz Fest! (see where I’m goin’ with this?).

        Of course you do what you can. You stop smoking, limit excessive (if any) drinking, exercise regularly, adopt healthy diet practices, worship yoga,  God (or goddesses) and/or deities; none of that will save you (no matter how long you live) when it’s time for the final curtain to fall.

        Now, walk with me. C’mon, let’s take a break; if you’re not hooked on Jazz Fest thus far consider this, on April 25^th (which is a Thursday) locals like you or the one that you corral, can get in to Jazz Fest for fifty bucks, two tickets each is possible. Take the day off; call in well; arrive early and stay late. The half C note will get you in and if you leave you cannot get back in without paying again. Held hostage by a good time? You bet.

        You only need a towel (for multiple purposes), sunscreen and some walking around money for food. You can/should even leave your phone at home unless you use it to take photographs. Anything else is superfluous, unnecessary and a waste of energy to keep up with.

        You don’t need alcohol to have a great time there; don’t go looking to get laid and nobody you know wants to get a text from you saying “I’m having a blast sucker!” You will meet lots of wonderful folks out there who are just like you, looking to have a great day of music, food and tomfoolery.

        Don’t like crowds? Don’t get in them. You can skirt the field and see whoever is playing or who you want from different vantage points. Bathrooms bother you? Find the indoor ones and, for goodness sake, don’t wait ‘til your about to wet your pants before getting in line. Like the food? Stand in line like everyone else and talk to the person in front of you (or behind you): ask them where they’re from, who they saw or are coming to see; find out what they’ve eaten so far. And anticipating that you might still be hungrier or thirstier, go stand in another line. It’s fun!

        Fer Chrissake don’t go thinking that it’s friggin’ Woodstock or a drunkin’ throw down; remember it’s about the vibe and the safety, security and comfort away from the world and all of its challenges OUTSIDE the gate; you are free of encumbrances and responsibilities to anyone for this day. You can dance like no one is watching, because they’re not.

        You have absolutely nothing to lose by taking the day off and commiserating with likeminded folks; you’ll be free to sing off key, find Jesus, Jazz and joy and I actually would like to live there. The worst day that I’ve ever had at Jazz Fest is still better than the best day I’ve had anywhere else (and that’s saying something). Have one of your own.

Restaurant Issue Summer 2024

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Oh Thrill

Or

Kitchen Brigades

        “What a thrill--my thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone except for a sort of hinge of skin, a flap like a hat. Dead white. Then that red plush.” (Sylvia Plath: Cut)

        Ah yes, the slip of a knife whist working: an everyday possibility in any cook’s life; albeit, a day to day occupational occurrence to avoid for the professional culinarian living the Cook’s Life. The (professional) Cook’s Life is another one of those hard working-dog occupations in the USA (and around the globe) that trajectories toward the reward of a glorious culmination of years of dedication, talent, ambition and loyalty: namely, A Chef’s Life. (There are 936,526 cooks and 285,785 Chefs in the USA (Census.gov)

        The Chef’s Life: another one of those hard working-dog occupations in the USA heading for that glorious culmination of simply getting things done right for a number of years and retiring to Costa Rica (on the beach, of course). Neither occupation is a terribly lucrative job; unless you become famous and then you become something else. Or you may become a restaurant owner and/or celebrity, and that’s really another shade of steed; you’re no longer a cook OR Chef, and possibly not even prosperous, celebrated, wealthy and/or even well liked.

        Ah, yes, (he said again) here comes The Summer Restaurant Issue where we get to tell you who is doing what to tickle your taste buds and stroke your fancy while extracting your hard earned with a smile. Your dining experience might be nineteenth century high society Paris; however, I’m telling you, behind those swinging kitchen doors the atmosphere is solar systems away.

        The professional kitchen may be a strict military like atmosphere, an archaic mental asylum, a street fight free for all, a garage band on major hallucinogens or an armed forces drill team; whichever variation (or combinations) of those scenarios it might be, you can be sure that there are ‘the cooks’ (all of them) and there is ‘The Chef’ (the One).

        The good cook is one who gladly (sometimes reluctantly) “wake up; get up; suit up; show up and shut up”---there are not an over abundance of good cooks. It’s hard work; hot work, exacting work; dangerous work; demanding work and an often times thankless work. Mostly, even after some formal schooling, it’s an ever learning, sometimes overly repetitious; often temper testing and most times competitive profession. Many drop out; few stick it out; some become addicted and develop a passion for the work; a few will rise to be in charge of this controlled mayhem. A number will be brought down by inner demons: sex, drugs, Rock and Roll and/or scandal.

        Cuts, bruises, burns, spills and falls are not uncommon. Family life is not conducive and neither is every day nine-five/Monday-Friday schedules. Kitchen work includes weekends, holidays and the ever unpopular Sunday Brunch shift. The health plan is generally “don’t get sick”. Meals are eaten standing up and breaks are not part of the equation. Why would anyone choose this as a life?

        Okay, c’mon. Yeah I’m talking old school pirate ship, Bedlam, dinosaur, locker room mentality stuff, right? Surely no profession that expects a 5% growth rate (U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics) over the next ten years can exist in the so… so… unromantically vulgar extreme. Or can they?

        The current situation with Human Resourced oriented eateries will have us believe that the environment in the service industry as a whole includes fair pay, sane hours, paid breaks and a non-combative kumbaya brotherhood of disciplined and simplistic charismatic Trappist Monks and insinuates that, professionally speaking, we have entered into a twenty-first century Career Nirvana with open arms and left behind the Theodoric the Great mentality of a bloody invasion of psychic insanity complete with paranoia, immaturity, delusions of adequacy and contests of wills.

        The famous Anthony Bourdain’s love-letter-cum-horror-show confessional Kitchen Confidential should be required reading to everyone who ever feels the urge to take employment or even patronize an eating establishment. Let me put it quite simply for anyone that is about to set foot in the front or back door of a food venue in this glorious so called Mecca of gustatory delights:

        “You’re traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of the imagination; a land of both shadow and substance; of things and ideas. There’s the signpost up ahead--- you’ve just crossed over into The Dining Zone” (apologies to Rod Serling)

        Yes, while customers (and rightly so) might believe and act like they are the last vestiges of pampered royalty when they eat out; having someone opening doors, pulling out chairs, cooking, serving and cleaning up after them; and believing, (and rightly so) that they are responsible for judging the value of goods and services that are being rendered, the staffs of eating establishments views that ‘client’ through another lens.

        To the management the client is a ‘guest’ in their house; to the servers, that guest is asking to be treated (and rightly so) with respect and deference to the point of being spoiled by the dining ‘experience’; to that Chef, that patron’s happiness can make or break a career; but to the cook in the kitchen, that faceless customer, known only as the order that has been placed for them, represents their challenge to get the job done with professional accuracy and as efficiently as humanly possible so that they can get through the shift and go get a beer; and to the dishwasher, it’s just another dirty plate.

        Next time, let me tell you about the insanity surrounding being a $2.13 an hour (department of labor www.dol.gov) waiter, or being a minimum wage dishwasher working two jobs to support a family in upscale fancy pants gourmangeries. Bon Appétit!