John2026

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Love

Or

Lunacy

 “Fun is the best way of having a good time!” The Barking Duck Society: New Orleans 1972

        A new guy started working with us; we’ll call him J. J came from Texas last year for Jazz Fest, went back and saved money so that he could move here. Like so many of us, J drank the water and, as we all know, once you drink the water here, you’re never gonna be satisfied living anywhere else. J says it was ‘the vibe’ here that made him think that this is where he belongs. I say it was the water.

        I took an immediate liking to J; he’s friendly, funny, smart and easy to get along with; so, I exercised my right as a Who Dat national to hip him into what he needs to know as a new New Orleanian. The first thing I asked him was whether he read…. books; you know, so many young folks don’t. When he answered in the affirmative, I began my tutelage; this over the course of our initial weeks working together.

        First, the book Why New Orleans Matters by Tom Piazza “a passionate and critical look at the city’s unique culture. Spirit and deep-seated problems written in the wake of Hurricane Katrina”.

        Along with that, a most revered copy (my very own, in fact) of Sara Roahen’s Gumbo Tales: Finding My Place at the New Orleans Table; the most comprehensive book I’ve found to learn about our local foods.  

        Then, Frenchmen, Desire and Good Children: And Other Streets of New Orleans by John Churchill Chase, for when he’s curious about our street names.

        Finding out that J. is vegan put a pause for retro-internal-spection in my sussing him out about our food culture; it’s okay if he don’t ‘dig the pig’, but what about crawfish, ersters, swimps, roast beef po-boys, fish frys ed-cetera? Potato salad, turkey necks, andouille sausages and turducken? Whatcha gonna do with a boy like that, especially when we work in a restaurant that prepares and sells dead animals to be consumed by hungry people?  Good Time Eatin’ In Cajun Country by Donna Simon. Fills the bill; completely vegan and very Cajun.

        I also gave him a list of places around town that are friendly to those friendly enough to animals not to eat them, there are many. I told him about the New Orleans Community Resource Guide, available at libraries and on line (40 pages of free and affordable services that we have here).

        Next, his interest in our local spices and seasoning flavors had me donate a bottle of Creole Crack; that beloved spice blend from Kitchen Witch, which of course, now, he swears by. Although, I did follow up with the Creole/Cajun bible of cooking: Paul Prudhomme’s Louisiana Kitchen, which not only contain all basic Creole/Cajun recipes but his spice blends (22 in all) there to peruse, examine and duplicate (a vegan can adapt recipes to suit their tastes); he also found favor in my favorite knife (KIWI brand) that I get for REAL affordable prices down the road from Dong Phuong Bakery (a place for Vegan bahn mi) on Chef Menteur Hwy in the little grocery stores that service the locals.

        I conversed with him about bicycle thieves, automobile towing, stinging caterpillars, termite swarms and our eight months of summer (very important for new folks moving here). I schooled him on the pronunciation of Tchoupitoulas and told him that he needs to be able to spell it out loud (and quickly) if he was ever to fit in. There’s a lot of stuff I feel that I need to impart; like where to find free city swimming pools, exercise facilities, music and dance lessons etc. (NORD). There is sh*t new people need to be schooled on.

And, if he’s ever in a bar and someone asks “are you a turtle?” the proper answer is an enthusiastic “you bet your sweet ass I am!” because if you don’t answer correctly, you have to buy a drink for the questioner (it’s a tradition here and across the country going back to WWII that I don’t understand and haven’t seen practiced in years, but… you never know).

WWOZ membership, Allen Tousaint, Doctor John, the Meters, Mardi Gras Indians, Dirty Linen night, Voter registration, library cards, museum memberships and Super Sunday; Second lines and red beans on Monday. Irma Thomas. Things that we learned by osmosis that someone should write a guide for: the ‘Who Dat New Dat’ (anyone out there?). Alligators in Bayou St. John; hurricane prep; timid possums and pesky Palmetto Bugs.  Great places for adult beverages, pool tables, dart boards and yes, hatchet throwing. Coffee shops, bakeries. Ya Ka Mein. Those Monk Parrots and the plethora of other birds found flitting citywide. Making friends with crows is very important. The streetcar; book stores. King cakes and Carnival Season, music clubs and festivals of every kind. All up for conversation.

J is gonna have to find his own way around and, no doubt will come up with many ways to fit in and be strange but not a stranger. He’ll, no doubt discover things in the Marigny, Bywater, uptown, Magazine Street, Oak Street, The French Quarter and the many out of the way places that we all have come to love and enjoy.

New Orleans is home to me and I am aware of all the quirks, fantastic fallacies and foibles that make our city one of a kind. The northernmost Caribbean city and not really part of the rest of the country; even though we’re sometimes punished for being weirder than dirt and proud of it, J will find that New Orleans is not only a city that you live in, but a city that will live in you.

P.S. next book for J… Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy O’Toole, Where y’at J?

 

 

 

Restaurant26

 

  Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Dixie Chicken

Or

Tennessee Lamb

“I was always, eh, kinda want to like consider myself kind of a pioneer of the palette; a restaurateur if you will. I’ve wined, dined, sipped and supped in some of the most demonstrably beamer epitomable bistros… ” Tom Waits: Eggs and Sausage

        I’ve opened/owned two restaurants in New Orleans; and, I’ve been in the restaurant business a long time; I have one word for anyone that has taken a shine to opening a palace of gustatory delights… “don’t”.  My excursions in the Big Easy restaurant scene taught me how Not Easy it is to make a living in the biz; some people can, most people cannot. It’s work, luck, money, work, chutzpah, business acumen and more work. And the aim is the same: give you food and take your money. Having you hand over your hard earned willingly and continually is what makes a place a success.

        And, not to brag; but, my forays in the world of restaurant eating, is a sauce of another color. I’ve had what’s considered the best croissant in the world with a cup of hot chocolate, thick as tar sludge, in a little pastry shop in Paris (France) with my nineteen-year-old daughter who claimed that she had not had all the croissants in the world so she couldn’t agree with that assessment.

        I had the most delicious combination of a cheeseburger with a bowl of chili seated at a counter of a small joint in Saint Louis Mo; you know, where they give you those little packets of saltine crackers that you crush up for your chili topping. The kind of chili that is the perfect balance of tomatoes, onions, vinegar and chili powder. Yum

        The soba soup at Mifune in San Francisco’s Japantown is not to be missed; it’s a broth redolent with dashi, noodles cooked to perfection and you eat with chopstick slurping loudly with noodles, broth streaming from your mouth as you suck in as much as you can. The booths are a tight fit and you have to pass the other (sushi) spots to go there on purpose.

        Speaking of sushi, I was part of a foursome in the early nineties at Nobu Matsuhisa’s first restaurant in Beverly Hills where the person that brought me there told the master to send out whatever he wanted to and not to stop until we told him to. Three hours later the bill came to fifteen hundred dollars and not a penny was wasted. I still remember the beautiful quivering sea scallop in its own shell with a fragile broth covered with a sheet of edible gold and topped with caviar.

        I’ve never had a better slice of pizza than the one(s) I had at walking to the beach in Far Rockaway from a guy who sold out of an open front window that he made right in front of everybody who passed; you had two choices: one with pepperoni or one without. You would be served (upon payment) a slice, fresh from the oven, on a piece of waxed paper that you would then fold in half and try to get to your mouth before the tip drooped onto your tee shirt.

        In Ensenada Mexico at a stand in a line of stands that sold the same thing: Fish Tacos, I was served by a ‘woman most gypsy-like’, the perfect fresh dorado taco that was so good that I spent the afternoon drinking Pacifico beer and eating one after another until I thought that I could duplicate them. No, I never could.

        When the Dungeness crabs run up (or down) the coast of California and you sit at a deuce and order them with garlic bread and cheap red wine and get butter all down your chin, wrists, forearms, shirtfront. Erotic.

        My first Cobb Salad at the Ivy in Santa Monica, Ca. blew my mind to find that array of wonderful tastes laid before me like a gustatory harem.

Lemme tell you: I’ve had menudo on Christmas Eve in Puerta Villarta; eggplant at Daino in San Piero Patti, Sicily; Barbecue at The Rendezvous in Memphis, Tenn.; lobster ceviche and pollo al carbon in the Yucatan; beans, tomatoes and eggs for breakfast in London; and, bratwurst and pomme frites in Hamburg, Germany; Oeufs a la Niege in Angers, France and more. Now let’s talk about New Orleans.  

I’ve had red beans and rice at Buster Holmes for less than a dollar; I’ve eaten Ya Ka Mein at a dozen different places; I’ve spent a week’s wages at a fancy restaurant and can’t remember what I ate and I’ve had the boiled turkey necks and pig’s feet at John & Mary’s that I still dream about. I’ve tried every vegan eatery in the city and I’ve leaned against my car in a Dollar General lot and consumed a can of Vienna Sausages.

I’ll eat anywhere that Susan Spicer is involve with; I had Christmas dinner at The Golden Wall Chinese take-out; I’ve had Pho at Eat Well and Bahn Mi at Dom Phong; I love the rib eye (Pittsburg style) at Crescent City and the gumbo at Dooky Chase’s. I’ve had ten cent oysters at some hole in the wall saloon; sipped $500.00 champagne at Muriel’s; love the hot dog and soft drink (free refills) at Costco; Betsy’s for brekkie; the food line at Ideal Market: salivatious!; I’m still eating Tres Leches wherever I find it; Borek at Fatma’s Cozy Corner (a must); I’ve stood in line for free lunch with homeless people (tried to pay but they wouldn’t accept); Ian McNulty’s recommendation for fried chicken at a gas station turned out to be gospel as is the shrimp po’boy at the Orange House. And, oh yeah, this is the Where Y’at Restaurant Issue.  

       

Halloween26

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Boo

Or

Who

“The worms crawl in; the worms crawl out, they taste your guts and they spit them out. They use your bones for telephones and call you up when you’re not at home”: Kid’s gaming rhyme

        Oh, what a rollicking time we had as young kids. It wasn’t enough that our older siblings, parents and even random strangers said and did things toward us just to see terror in our eyes and minds; no, the world had to imprint in us fear and insecurity as well. In what is called, ‘childlore’, we were sung songs like the ‘rock-a-bye babies’ that fell to earth when the tree branch broke; and when we’d ring-around-the rosy, we would all fall dead. The Itsy-Bitsy Spider would crawl up our arms and ring worms would get all of our hair “cut off up to here!”; plus, this little piggy would “wee wee wee all the way home”. Not even to mention so called ‘Fairy Tales’. They expected us to be amused: we were terrified. Peek-a-boo my ass.

        The Farmer in the Dell was a lesson in humiliation and there was even a kid’s card game called ‘Bloody Knuckles’ that dealt real physical punishment to whoever lost (does anyone know the game ‘Mumblety-peg’ where the loser literally has to eat dirt?). Does anyone else remember being the target in a dodge ball vendetta?  I do.

        In the cinema we had monstrous monsters and demented humans that could turn into wolfmen or blood sucking bats or even sew human parts into lumbering killers that even could get a bride made for them. Giants unfrozen from tundra, giant ants and gorillas, lizards, mummies and Creatures from Black Lagoons. Mad scientists, blobs of skin dissolving goo, mutated giants and alien invaders. All while eating popcorn like it was the only thing keeping us safe (gateway to overweight, if you ask me), and screaming our lungs out. We laughed as the Three Stooges physically perpetually hurt each other.

Oh, that’s not saying that there wasn’t real fun stuff; and, you had to be there to really appreciate it. Marbles, jacks, scooters, skip rope, tidily-winks, Chinese checkers, pick-up sticks and a variety of card games led us from being young kids hiding under desks from atomic attack into insecure acned bicycled hormone crazed teen years playing spin the bottle and dancing to Rock and Roll and then into the demented adulthood that believed that the ‘Commies’ were out to get us. We believed that only the strong survived. Some still do.

As kids, we had kid monsters that bullied us in the playground. We had imaginary monsters under our beds; we had fathers that had fought in wars and killed people; we had older kids willing to belittle our asses, teachers ready to humiliate us in school and somehow, we made some sense of life by dressing up on Halloween and begging for candy from strangers; our brief respite from reality. We dressed up outlandishly as goblins, hobos, debutantes and spooks; no parents attended Trick or Treat. We took and gave intimidations over the hauls. Fun stuff. In life we learned that we were on our own; on Halloween it was us against the world.

        We grew up, had children that we didn’t understand, who grew up only to have more children that they, in turn, did not understand; we get it, our parents didn’t understand us either. Parents do the best that they can with what they have to work with, lessons that they learned that were, in essence, lessons that didn’t work, so, they try different lessons on their kids that, in essence, don’t work either. In my day, when I was a pain in the ass, I received a pain in the ass.

        My children got disciplined but not physically punished; their children get a motivational speech as their lesson; and in turn, their children will get to try lessons, with whatever their limited experience they have, on their children what they think might work. None of it works. The fact is, that kids will be kids (!) with or without parent’s help and will, seemingly, willfully and spitefully be as selfish and manipulating as possible to achieve their own self-centered ends; it’s not your fault or theirs...they’re kids, and that’s what kids do normally. Kids normally seek attention, love, security and candy.

        The only thing common to all generations, that I’ve seen, is the way collectively, we celebrate the holidays we are given or create. Birthdays; beach days; Halloween; Thanksgiving; pizza night; New Years and whatever floats your boat in December (Christmas, Kwanza; Bodhi Day, Hanukkah). The good, the bad and the party pooper.

        On Halloween night, Debbie and I don’t stay home to give out candy; if we did, she’d want to give out fresh fruit and I’d want to give chocolate. So, instead of that, we go out to watch the ‘Trick or Treat-ers (with their posse of adults) and have more fun than watching a litter of puppies in a kiddie pool.

        There they are, the little darlin’s: Spiderman; Captain America; Elphaba and Glinda and isn’t that Wednesday Addams? Mega Minions; a little blue dog(?): a pirate; a cheerleader and a puppy dressed like a hot dog, complete with bun. All the kids have bags for their hauls and some have already been munching (chocolate if I’m not mistaken) Parents are circling around; some also having the time of their life, some wishing that this would soon be over and ready for a glass of wine. Oh, also a couple of geezers (us)laughing at the whole scene and remembering what Billy Joel sang: “you know, the good old days weren’t always good and tomorrow aint as bad as it seems” Keeping the faith, Boo. Also, Boo!

       

       

       

         

 

New NOSOC

 

PO BOY Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Monday Magnate

Or

Flagrant Vagrant

        “I have squandered my resistance for a pocket full of mumbles such are promises, all lies and jest…” The Boxer: Paul Simon

I had been out of work for two weeks now; everybody knew why I had to resign my post. The usual excuses can be made: work load; hours and/or money; none of that really applied so much as my happiness with my life in opposition to my life as an employee. I was not unhappy; I just was not happy. It was work that I was overqualified to perform; it was professional frustration; it was culinary restlessness. And I was at the point where I was willing to leave without idea one as to what I was going to do next; I left.

I am above the age when most men retire, except that I’m passionate about my work; I love what I do. I am also insecure. Should I go back to being culinary grist for the mill? I have/had been that for half a century, but for who, and who, would want me? Am I over the hill? Have advances in my field passed me by while I insisted on ‘being happy’ where I worked? Happy and foolish? Foolish and not attentive? By not being serious enough, grasshopper?

I started as a youngster and into my early adulthood, taking odd jobs and leaving after learning enough to where the job I had was not seemingly as adventurous as that nebulous one over the rainbow. I rushed into adulthood like a kid running into a carnival fun house. I have traveled. I have lived. I have cooked, loved, have tasted and been tested. I was a somebody. I’ve been a nobody. All without trying. An escapade. A life of serendipitous incidents. A failure, Phoenix, pawn, poet and King. A culinary slut. I’ve had my fun.

And now look at me. Unemployed. Unemployed and uncertain. I write letters to places that I want to work. No responses. One chef I wrote four times with not the courtesy of a rejection, just silence. Lesson learned.

        Then, one day, one answered. It started with “Dear, we were delighted to find the letter you wrote…” and ended with “we would love the chance to meet with you” and gave me times and days to respond and respond I did. The meeting, scheduled and met, lasted over an hour and was like a conversation with friends; a small cooking school bursting at the seams with ambition, drive and passion; bright eyed enthusiasm and with a trunk load of experience and history behind them.

The director gave me a tour of three floors of class and event space as well as a peek into ‘The Lab’ where recipes are tested; very impressive. The small space that I had seen before, a gift shop, a room with dining tables and a stage for an instructor was the tip of the iceberg. Big spaces with big ambitions; just up my alley. I sent them a thank you note the next day, as I waited for the next step.

Now, this school like other businesses in New Orleans has a slow and a busy season; the busy season can be terrifyingly full and tiring, while slow season is like someone shutting a light switch off: excruciatingly sluggish. We agreed that I would not start full time until September and that I would, until then slide in softly like syrup into the stream. Which was fine by me as I had been working for seven months like my pants were on fire and my ass was catching; and non-stop four years before.

So, the next step came with me attending a hands-on class with Chef Austin which was a grand experience; three hours of making gumbo (including roux) barbecued shrimp with cheese grits and bananas Foster on crepes with vanilla ice cream. Next would be me as an assistant instructor in the nearer future. Everyone that I met in the organization was welcoming, hospitable and utterly dear; and I thought “you know, I believe that I’m gonna love this place; I think that I could be happy here”.

In between time I had a staycation of sorts; shopping; haircuts; a manicure; movies; little chores around the house; making homemade pizza, bread and biscuits. Lazy breakfasts; sleeping late, reading the newspaper daily; feeding outdoor cats; thrifting; connecting with my house, home and love ones. Getting good nights sleep and waking refreshed ready for another day’s adventures. Dipping into the savings that I accrued by making money that I didn’t have time to spend. Swimming at NORD and water aerobics… life.

Back at the school I was offered an assignment to work up curriculum, study material and syllabus for a class on Creole Sicilian; writing the recipes and testing them in the test kitchen. Cool. It’s something I could do, have done before and was happy to do it again; exercising my brain instead of what brawn I have left. I made out a list of over a dozen dishes to work with and we narrowed them down to six, plus their accoutrements. Ten recipes, each tailored to two students, class time three hours including time to sit and enjoy the fruits of their labor.

Wish me luck. I went in today to familiarize myself with equipment and supplies, a ‘shopping list’ was made out, so that I would have what I need to test and with luck, by the time you read this, you’ll be able to take a class of Creole Sicilian food at The New Orleans School of Cooking taught by Chef Philipe LaMancusa. Ciao!

 

 

Unhomed

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Do it

Or

Don’t

 

“Yes, the strong gets more, while the weak ones fade; empty pockets don’t ever make the grade… God bless the child that’s got his own” Billie Holiday

The Buzzed Buddha sits atop a neutral ground concrete slab on Esplanade Avenue somewhere off Dauphine Street, New Orleans; she could use a bath. She waves at the passing cars with her scepter of a tall PBR nestled in brown paper, grinning like a Cheshire. The tribe that she belongs to line our streets and they are wherever you look and however much you’d like to avoid seeing them, they’re here. 69% are locals that have lived here over 5 years or from birth (UNITY.gno.org).

Over fifteen hundred (Fox8live) uneasy humans in The Big Easy (and counting) are considered ‘unhoused’ a term used with pathos rather than the brutal fact of them being, in fact, homeless (without a home). They litter, beg, freeload, hustle, survive and anesthetize themselves as best they can, however they can, to relieve the helplessness of their condition; some are families. Many sleep outdoors.

Broken dreams, broken hearts, broken promises, broken homes; poor education, poverty, poor choices, poor spirits. There’s nowhere to run from your problems when you’re homeless, there’s no place for you to run to; unless it’s to something, anything, to deaden the pain. Living without a home could certainly lead a person to excesses.

Bad decisions, bad timing, bad conditions, bad loves and bad luck; 22.6% of NOLA citizens live below the poverty level (US Census 2025); and that’s not automatically counting the homeless in that group. So many are so ‘food insecure’ (HUNGRY!) that buying food most times trumps paying rent… or doesn’t. We have services here the help with food, clothing, school supplies, rent assistance and health care. Most of these programs are being cut by The One Big Beautiful Bill Act passed by the people in government that you voted into the majority (Ballotpedia.org) to serve us. Head Start programs also are in jeopardy of being defunded (NYT.0rg)

3%-4% of this city’s adult male population (1in25 - 1in30) are under active correctional supervision as is 7%-10% of women (prisonpolicy.org); meanwhile, unemployment rate in NOLA is 5.5% (BLS.gov)

Louisiana ranks 49^th in the country for childhood poverty (Mississippi is 50^th) that’s 24.8% of the population (neworleanscitybusiness.com). In New Orleans 26-29% of kids are in that number, and that’s children under the age of 15 (axios.com/local/neworelans). Almost 82% of kids now graduate from high school here (Yay!); up from 54% before Katrina (NOLA-PS Data Dashboard). 49% of NOLA households live below the ALICE threshold (WDSU Ella Wales) meaning that they’re not considered poor but could not survive a major income shock (i.e.one paycheck away…) All of this means what?

It means that New Orleans, Louisiana and America have and has failed miserably in options for a large percentage of our population--for generations. Our society has not provided a purpose driven life for many of its citizens.

When you see ‘them’ in traffic intersections holding a square of cardboard “anything helps, God bless” you easily turn a blind eye. “It’s their own fault” you might say. “They could do better if they wanted to; look at me, I’m alright; there’s help for them if they want it; ah, they’re just bums, what can you do with people like that? They’d probably just spend it on drugs.”

What makes ‘them’ different from ‘us’? What influences ‘Life Satisfaction’? What defines ‘Purpose’? --to me, Purpose is a personal, emotional, and spiritual feeling of security and worth. Science, studies and surveys cannot track causes for impedance of personal meaning; we only see the positive results of its absence. ‘Housing first’ doesn’t get to the root of mental illness and/or the intersection of systemic abuse and scars that have led to homelessness.

The rationale that a person can be cured of facing a life and future as futile and less than meaningful with a hot lunch and a ‘Praise Jesus’ is a myth and a feel-good assuagement for folks who naively believe that they’re making a difference to someone who lacks: strong family and community ties; steady work and financial health; access to health care and safe neighborhoods; and, creative outlets like art, music, and local traditions.

“Addressing homelessness with a roof over head and a bed to lay on does nothing to solve the problem; it treats the symptoms and ignores the disease; this approach does not work” says HUD Secretary Scott Turner. He goes on to advocate for treatment both medical and mental, citing that “homelessness in this country is up 80%”.

Doing the math, it appears that just a little over half of the NOLA population is doing alright while the rest can go suck eggs (r/etymology). The common overall view, as I see it, is that those (that can be chronologically documented as) less fortunate than the ‘rest of us’ are vagrants and not victims.

Here’s what you can do. You’re sending cards out anyway for the holiday; set aside those throw away bucks: money for that pack of cigarettes, extra drink, the quarters you’ve been hording, money from your next tattoo fund etc. and write a check.

There’s a place right here in town that gives free resting space, case management, showers, toiletries, phone service, laundry, food pantry, morning snacks and hot lunch to our city’s indigent. Saint Joseph Rejoin/Rebuild Center 1803 Gravier Street NOLA 70112 We need to support places like this; Just do it.

“We live on a planet well able to provide a decent life for every soul on it, which is all ninety-nine of a hundred ask. Why in the world can’t we have it?” Jack Finney: About Time

Spring 2026 Writers Picks

 

Po Boy Picks July 2026

Best where to get your bike tuned

Re-cycle. What with the price of auto fuel and tariffs on EVs, it’s time to get that two-wheeler out of mothballs, tuned and back on the street. YEP (Youth Empowerment Program) 1604 O. C. Haley is the tuner I’m most in favor of; but you can find others. Do it.

 

Best Real Soul Food

You want some REAL Soul Food? The (not high-on-the-hog) down-home style? Original Brown Derby #3 @ 3326 Tulane in the old gas station. Turkey necks, smothered chicken, pig’s feet, gumbo, smothered okra and sides of greens, Mac’NCheeze, red beans, GRAVY! they also serve a slappin’ good breakfast. Tip the ladies.

 

Best on-line language program

Praktika.com Sto Imparando L’Italiano! And you could too! AI language programs are like white on rice on your phone/computer. They promise proficiency with ease; however, you’ll have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find the one that’ll work for you. Luckily, most allow you to cancel if you’re not satisfied. Ciao.

 

The Best Potato Chip

Tried all the potato chips there are? Still haven’t fallen in love with any of them? T’was ‘meh’ way with Moi also, until Broadway Joe (from ‘The Apple’) hipped me to Clover Valley Ripple Cuts; they’re dope, they’re GOAT, they’re Canadian and cheap! Get ’em at Dollar General; you’ll see.

Write It

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Write it

Or

Read it

 

“Long patience and application saturated by your hearts blood—you will either write or you will not…” Jim Tully

        I’ve read (there I go again) that there are “thousands” of books on how to become a writer; I also uncovered the premise/promise that there are also “thousands” of videos on how to become a writer (one says that you can in ‘three easy lessons’). How do you become a writer? As Jim Tully said: you will or you won’t. Who was Jim Tully? A writer’s writer. Have you read him? I’ll bet my copy of Strunk & White you haven’t.

        I’ve been writing a column in this mag for over twenty-five years; I average fifteen a year. You could do the math if you wanted to; but who does? You know what I do after an article’s been published? No? Well, I send it to my blog. Do you want to read about twenty-five years of Mardi Gras, Jazz Fest, other holidays, my warped thoughts? Thanks to Where Y’at magazine my blog has a plethora of fodder construed for your perusal, edification and enlightenment, hundreds in fact.

        Actually, only two people read my column after my editors approve, refine and publish it; you and one other person. Less people read my blog; so there you have it. I am a writer. I am published.

        How do you become a writer? First, you have to WANT to be a writer; the same as if you wanted to be a puppeteer, poet, painter, piper, pirate, a pawn or a King (although we don’t put up with Kings at our house). You gotta want it. Get on your mark, get set…...you know.

        And then what? As one old saw put it: “a man on the street asked me how to get to Carnegie Hall and I told him…... ‘Practice! Practice! Practice!’”. Find and expand your skill set; read more; build your vocabulary; express yourself succinctly (there, see?). Read writers’ stuff; see how they work words, phrases, ideas, thoughts, opinions, dreams, ambitions, pursuits, loves and concerns. Then sit down with a blank page. Put your name and date in the top right corner (just joking).

        Yes, do sit with a blank page and pick a subject, a skill that Ray Bradbury uses (you’ve read him?). Okay here goes: the subject is… the Claiborne overpass that the locals call ‘The Bridge’; or, the meaning of meanings in-between the in-between; the walk that I (you) just took today; the perfect July fourth; my perfect grandfather; smelling sleep coming and/or why does SIRI know the words to Bohemian Rhapsody? I’ve written none of these; but, I could. You could.

        One of the side perks of being a writer (besides the money, fame and women) is your sanctioned right and ability to make shyte up, it’s called poetic license; another is your perfect freedom to ‘use your voice’ or any other voice. Pretty cool. And just like A.A. Milne or J.M. Barrie you can make up what you want your writer’s name to be: E.B White; C.S. Lewis; H.G. Wells; J.K. Rowling.  Or you can have a nom de plume (pen name) like George Orwell (Eric Blair); Mark Twain (Samual Clemens); Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgeson) or even, Richard Bachman (Steven King).  

        Published writings span a vast array of genres and styles and you can slip your spoon into any of that soup you hunger for. There’s fiction, of course; but, there’s also journalism, opinions/commentary, poetry, non-fiction and of course, my favorite…fantasy. There’s a genre for any mental type; maybe not for travel or cookbook writers though.

        Journalists are basically researchers and snitches. They like to find things out and report them to the public; news and information is their game and you’ll see them in media where they live and breed. The public hangs on their every word because we all love gossip, truth be told.

        Opinions are like digestive tracts, virtually everyone’s got one and they function each day, one way or another. Ask me anything and if I don’t have all the facts, at least I can give you an opinion; anything, go ahead and ask. Usually, Journalists and Opinionates breed together and give birth to people with podcasts.

        Poets are a different breed altogether. They are folks that have internalized and dwelled on their feelings to such an extent that an eruption like many mini-volcano lava spews out in the form of words on paper. Either that or they are snots that want to make fun of everything, as in: “There once was a man from Nantucket…” (which can be, in essence, a rhyming sequence that can border on the obscene).

        Non-fictionalists are those nerds that gotta stick their noses into everybody’s business and report on who, what, where and how things got done, are being done or will be done based on the evidence of what evidence they can base things on: how a blind monk in France invented Champagne; how we didn’t win the war and how, we didn’t (pun intended) and/or how Gaga got her groove going. In media, these folks do biopics and documentaries.

        And my favorite geek: the fantasy writer. Dreamer, imager, word illusionist, conjurer and the wordsmiths that will relate things that you just know can’t be true but you believe them anyway. Warning: it’s easy to become addicted. Reading is cool and it always will be; however, it’s the writers that have the most fun.

        “Write. Finish things. Go for walks. Read a lot & outside your comfort zone. Stay interested. Daydream. Write.” Neil Gaiman

 

       

       

John Figs

 Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Love 

Or

Lunacy

 “Fun is the best way of having a good time!” The Barking Duck Society: New Orleans 1972

A new guy started working with us; we’ll call him J. J came from Texas last year for Jazz Fest, went back and saved money so that he could move here. Like so many of us, J drank the water and, as we all know, once you drink the water here, you’re never gonna be satisfied living anywhere else. J says it was ‘the vibe’ here that made him think that this is where he belongs. I say it was the water. 

I took an immediate liking to J; he’s friendly, funny, smart and easy to get along with; so, I exercised my right as a Who Dat national to hip him into what he needs to know as a new New Orleanian. The first thing I asked him was whether he read…. books; you know, so many young folks don’t. When he answered in the affirmative, I began my tutelage; this over the course of our initial weeks working together.

First, the book Why New Orleans Matters by Tom Piazza “a passionate and critical look at the city’s unique culture. Spirit and deep-seated problems written in the wake of Hurricane Katrina”.

Along with that, a most revered copy (my very own, in fact) of Sara Roahen’s Gumbo Tales: Finding My Place at the New Orleans Table; the most comprehensive book I’ve found to learn about our local foods.  

Then, Frenchmen, Desire and Good Children: And Other Streets of New Orleans by John Churchill Chase, for when he’s curious about our street names.

Finding out that J. is vegan put a pause for retro-internal-spection in my sussing him out about our food culture; it’s okay if he don’t ‘dig the pig’, but what about crawfish, ersters, swimps, roast beef po-boys, fish frys ed-cetera? Potato salad, turkey necks, andouille sausages and turducken? Whatcha gonna do with a boy like that, especially when we work in a restaurant that prepares and sells dead animals to be consumed by hungry people?  Good Time Eatin’ In Cajun Country by Donna Simon. Fills the bill; completely vegan and very Cajun.

I also gave him a list of places around town that are friendly to those friendly enough to animals not to eat them, there are many. I told him about the New Orleans Community Resource Guide, available at libraries and on line (40 pages of free and affordable services that we have here). 

Next, his interest in our local spices and seasoning flavors had me donate a bottle of Creole Crack; that beloved spice blend from Kitchen Witch, which of course, now, he swears by. Although, I did follow up with the Creole/Cajun bible of cooking: Paul Prudhomme’s Louisiana Kitchen, which not only contain all basic Creole/Cajun recipes but his spice blends (22 in all) there to peruse, examine and duplicate (a vegan can adapt recipes to suit their tastes); he also found favor in my favorite knife (KIWI brand) that I get for REAL affordable prices down the road from Dong Phuong Bakery (a place for Vegan bahn mi) on Chef Menteur Hwy in the little grocery stores that service the locals.

I conversed with him about bicycle thieves, automobile towing, stinging caterpillars, termite swarms and our eight months of summer (very important for new folks moving here). I schooled him on the pronunciation of Tchoupitoulas and told him that he needs to be able to spell it out loud (and quickly) if he was ever to fit in. There’s a lot of stuff I feel that I need to impart; like where to find free city swimming pools, exercise facilities, music and dance lessons etc. (NORD). There is sh*t new people need to be schooled on.

And, if he’s ever in a bar and someone asks “are you a turtle?” the proper answer is an enthusiastic “you bet your sweet ass I am!” because if you don’t answer correctly, you have to buy a drink for the questioner (it’s a tradition here and across the country going back to WWII that I don’t understand and haven’t seen practiced in years, but… you never know). 

WWOZ membership, Allen Tousaint, Doctor John, the Meters, Mardi Gras Indians, Dirty Linen night, Voter registration, library cards, museum memberships and Super Sunday; Second lines and red beans on Monday. Irma Thomas. Things that we learned by osmosis that someone should write a guide for: the ‘Who Dat New Dat’ (anyone out there?). Alligators in Bayou St. John; hurricane prep; timid possums and pesky Palmetto Bugs.  Great places for adult beverages, pool tables, dart boards and yes, hatchet throwing. Coffee shops, bakeries. Ya Ka Mein. Those Monk Parrots and the plethora of other birds found flitting citywide. Making friends with crows is very important. The streetcar; book stores. King cakes and Carnival Season, music clubs and festivals of every kind. All up for conversation.

J is gonna have to find his own way around and, no doubt will come up with many ways to fit in and be strange but not a stranger. He’ll, no doubt discover things in the Marigny, Bywater, uptown, Magazine Street, Oak Street, The French Quarter and the many out of the way places that we all have come to love and enjoy.

New Orleans is home to me and I am aware of all the quirks, fantastic fallacies and foibles that make our city one of a kind. The northernmost Caribbean city and not really part of the rest of the country; even though we’re sometimes punished for being weirder than dirt and proud of it, J will find that New Orleans is not only a city that you live in, but a city that will live in you. 

P.S. next book for J… Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy O’Toole, Where y’at J?

Chili Cheese Fries

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Guilty

Or

Guile

“…Pork chops and bacon, that won’t awaken… my appetite inside; I want the frim fram sauce with the Ausen fay with Chafafa on the side.” Redd Evans

Speaking of guilty food pleasures: Chili Cheese Fries are a gift from the gods and I’ll go to the mat on this one. The exact origins are a mystery often attributed to Dairy Queen locations manipulations somewhere in the mid 40’s and 50’s of last century; the dish exemplifies the comfort food ‘friend’ category that we all know and love. A meal so completely satisfying that we want to eat it all by ourselves; company excluded. Nutritionally speaking, I seriously doubt if it’s healthy (at all).

Canadians swear by a dish called Poutine, which is fries and gravy with white cheddar cheese curds, also from the 50’s; it’s something that I would put on Po Boy bread. Aside: there is a fries and gravy po boy to be had around town, supposedly it’s the real original po boy sandwich; I don’t know.

Buffalo chicken, Bacon Ranch and Tex-Mex Nacho are all in the running to top your fries, as is a ‘Mediterranean’ topping: feta, Kalamata olive chopped tomato, Tzatziki or Tahini that makes my sympathetic imaginary stomach churn (I deign picture it and cannot abide). There’s a thing in (New) Jersey called ‘Disco Fries’ which is like a Poutine only switching from curd to mozzarella (could work). Some people even change the gravy to red sauce which I find is an insult to the entire pasta family (penne for your thoughts?).

I define a ‘guilty food pleasure’ as something you engage in singularly or with one other person that you care about (like old fashioned sex), and not necessarily something you do in groups (crawfish boils excepted).

Things you do, like having coffee and a nosh, can be done by two or just you and your newspaper; same with popcorn and cola on a bench, raw oysters by the dozens, Lucky Dogs and/or Hansen’s; and, is not what I would consider the  hedonistic pleasure that you get when you allow yourself to ingest something by yourself that others might disparage; like eating a whole rotisserie chicken sitting by the lake (solo), throwing the bones to the crab population and rinsing your greasy hands and face in Pontchartrain water.

Polishing off a can of Vienna Sausages leaning against my car in the parking lot of Dollar General is definitely a singular experience; and, it would take a brave and special soul to join me in pickled herring, canned sardines, raw onions and crackers or the occasional boiled turkey neck/pig’s foot. A person witnessing this dementia could only observe and marvel at my very primordial homeostasis level of culinary debasement. More genteel fare like gelato or ice cream can go either way; same with festival or County Fair fare (cotton candy), and/or adult beverages. If you assume by now that I don’t do well in crowds or mixed company…Bravo! As a kid I loved to play in cardboard boxes in which appliances had been delivered; I’d watch ants; daydream; collect rocks. Muse. I was my own imaginary best friend.

Sure, a gang can enjoy doing the Electric Slide; eight people can square dance; four folks can have a card game; three’s a crowd; two’s company but you have to admit, dancing around the kitchen in your drawers, by yourself, to KC and the Sunshine Band’s ‘Boogie Shoes’ is damn liturgical! (IYKYK); one is certainly not a lonely number.

Here is where I advocate you taking yourself some time to do things for yourself by yourself; maybe some of the things that you would normally (?)do with another likeminded person, like a movie, museum or shoot hoops/kick a soccer ball… by yourself.

Lunch at Bayona by myself was a pleasure. Naps are good. Take a drive if you can afford it. Learn an instrument or a language. A long and leisurely walk, what the Italians call passagiata. Shop. Conduct your own wine tasting, visit a book shop in sun glasses or take a Waffle House ‘All-Star (breakfast) Special’ outing (24hours). Write in a journal, compose correspondence, send post cards, smoke something for an illegal smile or ‘try to find Jesus on your own’ (thanks Mr. Prine). Call your congressman and complain on their answering machine.

We tend to travel and associate tribally, forming little villages where we all strive for the common good, even if it’s just a wedding, wake, birthday, barbecue or surprise party; my favorite being a combination of all five (think about it). However, this can come at the cost of our individuality: our singularity; that spark of peculiarity that draws other people to us and what draws us to other people. If we go off by ourselves, we have a tendency to substitute outside stimulation for our tribe and that way, we’re never alone.

Can you be alone without getting lonely? Alone with your thoughts, dreams, fears and fantasies.  Do it as an experiment to see if you can stand yourself for any length of time; if you really are your own best friend, it should be easy peasy. Spend a few hours or a day of non-interaction, no computers allowed; observe and feel your inner child come to the surface. It will be like Calvin and Hobbes if you take along your favorite stuffed tiger.

Here’s a start: go to the Nellie Deli (by yourself), grab a cold drink and order a freshly melted Styrofoamed, microwaved, newly deep-fried monster portion of chili cheese fries; sit by the widow or wander over to Cabrini Park a few blocks over. Get in touch with yourself; burp loudly.

 “Laugh when you can. Swear when you must.” Justin Hatchett

 

 

 

 

Soup

 

Po Boy Views’

By

Phil LaMancusa

Cup

or

Bowl

“And if you aint had a bath aint nobody who cares; ‘cause they’ve seen it all before, from the bums to the whores, and if you shout halleluiah they’ll give you some more.” Johnny Cash: Praise the Lord and Pass the Soup

        I‘m not sure that I know anybody who wouldn’t be comforted by a good bowl of soup; hot soup on a cold day; cold soup on a hot day; any good soup on a bad day. In fact, the first man to open a ‘eat-stop’ in France specialized in soup (Paris 1765 M. Boulanger); he claimed that his soup was a restorative and places like his came to be called re-staur-ants.

        Cruising super markets for prepared soups can be a real rabbit hole and you can get lost with choices that you didn’t know existed. My advice? Don’t buy convenience soups because they’re slop and mass produced in packaging that is dubious at best (check out the sodium levels).

        Now, I cannot give you all the details of addresses and hours of operations, phone numbers etc.; so, take this as a quick ‘soup crawl’ around New Orleans and my mind.

        Norma’s has a Caldo de Res that is absolutely incredible; El Sabor 5 estrellas N2 has a Posole that will knock your socks off; the Harissa coconut soup at 1,000 Figs is a gotta have. Café Degas has been making their onion soup in the same pot for thirty years and it’s reputed the best in the city. Lentil soup at Fatma’s and/or Mona’s traditionally requested. Tofu pho at Eat Well; Egg Drop soup at Golden Wall, Yaka Mein at the Orange House or from Ms. Linda Green.

Soups are also memory stimulants: the Turtle Soup at Commander’s when Paul Pruhomme was Chef; The Wonton Soup at that little joint on 23^rd Street; Cioppino at Little Joe’s in San Francisco as well as the Congee from Sam Wo’s.

Soba noodle soup at Mifune; Boston Clam Chowder at John’s Lobster House at Rockaway Beach in N.Y. and from my childhood a soup that I will forever recall: Zuppa Povera… beef bones, canned tomatoes, soup veggies, shell macaroni and parmesan cheese; comfort on the cheap.

Now, you query, what about Gumbo? The waitress (they were called ‘waitresses’ back then) at the Gumbo Shop (Debbie) explained that gumbos were like snowflakes; they were all different depending on who made them and where they were made. I find the best ones at corner stores with quick lunch take out; here’s why: at big time restaurants and eating places, especially tourist places, they’ll make a mighty fine gumbo in a twenty-gallon pot; you’ll be a customer there once, or maybe even twice a year? Once a month if they’re lucky. At neighborhood corner markets they want you back once or twice a week, if not more; so, their gumbo is geared toward the everyman’s taste and budget and is constantly being made in smaller batches more often.

The gumbo that I have at the Brown Derby (sausage, shrimp, chicken, crab) I cannot say is the best I’ve ever had, but I’ve had none better if that makes any sense (spoiler alert: if you find a chicken neck or gizzard in your gumbo, you’ve landed in the right place). Liuzza’s by the Track puts fresh cooked shrimp on top of theirs (made by that man called Roadrunner) and you can get potato salad with it… which is brilliant.  The Quail, Pheasant and Andouille gumbo at the Jazz Fest is beyond comprehension; the dark roux at the now closed Avery’s was simply black gold and on and on. Is gumbo a soup? I’d like to think it is. Fight me.

Avgolemono; have you had it with some taramosalata and egg bread? A nice bowl of chicken soup with Kneidlach followed by some (hand cut) livers and challah; Tom Yum Goong that brings a sweat; Ukrainian (or any other) Borsht will zone you out and some Brazilian Moqueca with pao de Queijo or Canja from Cape Verde will wake your mouth up, brotha!

To explore new soups head to Nigeria for Banga; Ogbone; Efo Riro; Afang; Egusi or Edikaikong typically served with Fufu; ask around, there are a few West African places that would be glad that you would want something real from their home region. However, yes, however; you don’t have to go out to have a grand bisque; chowder; consommé; potage; gumbo or pot au feu; as Bill Haley said (or sung) “get out in that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans…” You can (dare I say it?) make your own.

Ask your Mama (or Maw Maw); peruse a book; check with Chef Google or just use the magnificent imagination that you have: simple… a visit to a market to pick out what looks good to you, a knife and a cutting board, a pot and some water and maybe a glass of wine with some music and there you go. When in doubt, punch into your computer “Recipe: and then name your ingredients and that darn thing will tell you how and what to do with what you got. Get it? Got it? Good.

Cool weather? Make a warm soup. Hot weather (what here?). Make a cold soup: Gazpacho, Vichyssoise, cucumber yogurt; heck, make a fruit soup like Rote Grutze (look it up) or Chlodnik.

Soup is a magic amalgamation over 20,000 years in the making; you are the alchemist, wizard, sorceress, conductor and orchestrator of that enchantment--- right there in your kitchen. With this power and responsibility, you are given the authority to bonk somebody on the nose with your ladle who would dare challenge that. Don’t forget to wash your hands.   

 

 

          

       

 

Jazz Fest Week Two 2026

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Festing

Or

Resting

“I hear a rhythm playing beautiful sounds of art, it’s the sounds of the beat you’re making in your heart; and he paused for a moment just to hear if I was right” Jazz Fest: Jon Batiste

        The second week of Jazz fest and you made it (or are here in spirit) and your trek to the Fairgrounds is like a pilgrimage toward Musical Mecca, complete with the sidewalk entrepreneurs who entertain, entice, provide and beguile you with their ability to know just what you want to make your coming and goings from the Holy Land just a bit more special because the music and action doesn’t begin and end inside the Fairgrounds.

        If you’re in luck, walking in after you pass the beverage entrepreneurs; Liuzza’s famous bloody Mary; and macrame/budding artist stands, you might be greeted by Eddie of New Orleans finest police officers who will welcome you to the Fest complete with high fives, handshakes and hugs if you want them. You’ll Fest all day, and flushed with the afterglow you’ll get hit with a second wind musical round of young brass bands on corners; beauties selling batiks; puppets painting; tie dyes for sale and drinks of every kind (Liuzza’s is still Ground Zero every year and they have that Bloody Mary that you’ve been wanting since this morning). There’s buttons, beads, Jello shots and folks dancing to avoid bicycles, kids, dogs and folks hurrying to catch a taxi or the shame train (bus). Breath deep Alice, you’re still in wonderland.

        Because, now it’s time to plan the evening’s festivities--get back to where you stay or are staying, shower, shave, shampoo and Shinola. Slick back whatever you got to work with and tune in to the WWOZ 90.7 (WWOZ.org) hotline and find who’s playing where and at what time (or check out the info in this mag that you’re holding); spoiler alert; some attractions don’t start until 4:00 (or even 5:00) in the ahem. Just enough time for you to pace yourself, absorb all you can, get back home, catch a power nap and frappe la rue (hit the street) for another day of excruciating great times at the Fest.

I’ve known people that do Friday or Saturday all-nighters. And you may fanaticize that you can heroically do this starting on Thursday and marathon it until early Monday morning (if you’re pure of heart and have the strength of ten); but, are you up to that challenge?  Probably not. It’s merely urban legend that says that there are stalwarts that can actually hoe the whole row. Do yourself a favor and don’t overtax your body; smart money knows when to check yourself before you wreck yourself, ya dig?

        Going out and about after the Fest, of course there’s Bourbon Street; but it’s hard to find a diamond in that coal mine (Maison Bourbon and Fritzel’s Jazz Club) and so that’s pretty much a one (brief) and done thing for Fest devotees, just so you can say that you did it. Then there’s Frenchmen Street, if you want to buck the crowds and melee of 10 clubs in three blocks (Snug Harbor is always a class act); or you can (ad)venture out to where true locals dig the digs.

        Have a short one at Hanks before dropping in to the Mother-in-Law lounge, head down to Bullets Sports Bar or bop on over to the Bywater/Marigny strip to Vaughan’s; The Hi Ho; The Allways; or B Js; (all Lounges) also drop by The Saturn Bar if you want some local ‘culcha’.

        Staying uptown? Say no more. The Maple Leaf Bar; The Rabbit Hole; Carrollton Station; Tipitina’s; Le Bon temps Roule or Gasa Gasa, and these are but a few joints and jams around town. Use your street smarts; don’t accept (or purchase) candy from strangers; travel in a pack; use a ride share; be aware of your surroundings and take advice from seasoned Festers (ask). Now go get that power nap ‘cause it’s back to the Fest.

        (“Wasted and wounded it aint what the moon did; I got what I paid for now” Tom Waits; Tom Traubert’s Blues)

        You back? Don’t worry, you can sleep on the plane, nononononono, stay away from the Bull, it’ll mess up your mind and you won’t remember sh!t about the haps at the Fest; go get yourself an Affogado from the ice cream stand. I hope that you enjoyed all you did even if you just had a few at a local watering hole and went to bed after watching Democracy Now! If you need to, take that towel that you brought with you, Arthur, and go catch a nap on one of the grassy places (not for too long though, you’ll miss Earth Wind and Fire, Stevie Nicks or Rod Stewart if you’ve got that on your docket.

I’ve got a docket of my own. My docket is to recall the day the Stones played the Fest: May 2^nd 2024 (Thursday) the Rolling Stones took over The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival; it’s the first day I didn’t go to Jazz Fest in over twenty years. Pre-sale tickets were $185.00 and went up to $250.00 (not my budget, even for Keith and the boys). May 2^nd 2026 I will be at Jazz Fest second lining with Marques and the One-Shot Brass Band parading in the Fest Grounds, rockin’ to Dumpstaphunk, the Soul Rebels, the Skatelites and others from my tribes and vibes. Wave.

 

Jazz Fest Week One 2026

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Infield

Or

Outfield

I saw a peanut stand, heard a rubber band, I saw a needle that winked its eye; I heard a fireside chat, I saw a baseball bat and I just laughed ‘til I thought I’d die. (Dumbo)

JAZZ FEST 2026 week one! Who would want to be anywhere else on Earth; you do have choices, you know: how about the myriads of places that sound as appealing as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick… at this point…on this planet; right? No. The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival is literally the “land of the free and the home of the brave”.

Yeppers, I ‘m Jazzed and ready to Fest! I’ve waited all year; squirreled away, in increments, my hard earned so that I can purchase tickets for each and every day. Do I want a coveted Brass Pass? No, and I’ll tell you why. This wise woman (Debbie) posited to moi that without the Brass thingy, I was virtually held ‘captive’ by the Fest and, in the case that I wanted to leave, I certainly could; BUT, I would not be able to return without the purchase of an additional ticket. So, with a single ticket I HAVE TO stay all day or leave for the day and not return without penalty, and who wants that?

Debbie, of course, as you know, goes right to her favorite seat in the WWOZ Jazz Tent and sits among her Jazz Tent regulars. I on the other hand go wandering; speaking seldom and spectator-ing everything that I can within sight and hearing. For me it’s a type of meditation that I practice; a kind of (extraterrestrial) alien amnesiac yoga-nomics.

As I wander and drift, so does my mind. Take for example: What’s up with this propensity for sites that you log into that want your User Name, Password and your email address to send you a secret code to enter before you can get to where you want to be, pay a bill or find out where that package is?  Did you know that a UPS tracking number is 18-25 letter/numbers long? I have to log into Netflix for goodness sakes; does that mean someone else might break into my house, use my computer to pay my mortgage, find out when my Best of Bread 8-track stereo cartridge is gonna arrive and then go watch The Godfather trilogy? I say, ‘let them’!

Or, why when a package says “tear here to open” it’s impossible to do so. Or opening your mail (you still get mail, doncha?) you need a sharp knife or you have to shred the blessed envelope? All this while I’m dancing through the crowd to get a Vaucresson hot sausage po’boy and trying to decide what side of the bread to put the Creole mustard on or should I go for the top and have it spill on my shirt like last year; and where should I sit to eat it or do I take it to a tent and look like an audience interloper?

It seems that it’s a wonder that I get anywhere at all; so, I don’t, and that’s the point. I’m at the FEST and I aint gotta do nuthin’ at all or I can do anything I wanna do because I’m here ‘til closing and time has just shifted into a dimension otherworldly.

Okay, I’m weird as dirt. I don’t drink alcohol at the Fest; I don’t strive to see a car exhibit; I don’t buy handcrafts (although you should), art or eat anything that I can cook at home (which is over half of what’s for sale); nor do I carry anything that weighs over a pound and a half (bottled water maybe). Don’t get me wrong, I’ll schlep a pillow for Deb and maybe a music program (like this here Where Y’at) or a towel to sit on; but, I’m a hands-free kinda guy when it comes to cruisin’. I also am inherently against a backpack unless I’m going mountain climbing and need to carry a sixpack; and I don’t need to charge a phone.

And, I don’t know how you feel about the subject; BUT (big but) I find here at the Fest there is an epidemic of diversity, equity and inclusion; from the Gospel Tent at the front door to the Blues, Jazz and stages galore, it’s like we’re all part of this big jigsaw puzzle. Pieces fitting together. The audiences seething, the food booths wafting and even the Port-O-Lets sweating, steaming; hungry mouths, moving bodies, overdosing eardrums and body function eliminations all wrapped up in music and grooves. Like one big sensual, sexual, primitive tribal gathering. And I dig it.

Speaking of digging, do all those sacks of potting soil come from a big hole somewhere? Is someone just digging up dirt and sending it in bags to Home Depot and other places? Where does that stuff come from? That must be some big ass hole somewhere.

Anyway, I realize that you have several reasons and/or excuses for not going to the Fest, and I understand, I really do. The crowds; the cost; those smelly Port-o-Lets; the weather; the mud; the cost. Heck, you can spend two weeks grocery money just over one weekend, I get it. Luckily for over a quarter of a million participants shoveling their hard earned to Quint Davis and his non-profit foundation the show goes on; last year, (55 years and counting) this year and with the grace of all the gods and goddesses, next year as well. And with that same grace, I’ll be there also.

        P.S. Don’t forget to vote those f*ckers out of office.