Po Boy Views New Orleans

2012-02-11T11:08:00.000-08:00

Tennessee Williams New Orleans Literary Festival 2012 As a boy, having two older sisters was the equivalent of having three mothers; but, one thing about them shaped my life and the person that I have become: they taught me to read and in doing so made reading one of my lifelong obsessions and passions. When I was too young to go to school and they weren’t, my sisters would come home and play ‘school’ on me. This was when the most electronically advanced units in our house were a Motorola radio and a Westinghouse toaster. They would come home from school, busybodies the two of them and they would sit me down and teach me what they had been taught that day. By the time I got to go to school I was already ahead of the class in reading and was easily bored with the lessons. I was labeled “daydreamer” and a kid that could do better “if only he would apply himself”. Growing up I learned that in the world of literature, music and art there are no boundaries and something new and wondrous is forever able to happen and with any luck at all, does. I also learned that in those areas there are craftspersons that will forever be of time as well as timeless; I have learned to cherish those people. Take Tennessee Williams. I came upon Mr. Williams later in life and have never since ceased to be amazed at the originality and sheer power of his works; as a platform dedicated to his craft and influence we have The Tennessee Williams New Orleans Literary Festival (TWNOLF) March 21-25 As per tradition, the twenty-sixth TWNOLF will be chock full of panel discussions, master classes, theatrical performances (including the not to be missed Streetcar Named Desire), music and food events and the infamous Tennessee Williams walking tour. The days start early, end late and there is hardly time to catch a breath before the ending of one event propels you into a new event’s beginning. On the website www.tennesseewilliams.net there’s twenty-eight pages of programs and all aspects scream “DON”T MISS ME!!!” like the ‘Talking Tennessee’ conversation with Amanda Plummer and Piper Laurie; The Breakfast Book Club; Home is where The Heart Is (with Chef John Besh) or the fabulous annual “STELLA!!!” (and STANLEY!!!!”) shouting contests. You’ll travel from the Hotel Monteleone to Muriel’s on Jackson Square, The Williams Research Center, The Historic New Orleans Collection, Palm Court and Southern Rep Theater. You may want to pack a lunch or at least get real with a server at one of our fine local eating establishments letting them know that you’re on a mission to the next presentation and need your food and check without hesitation (tip well to give TWNOLF a good name) Here’s our writers pick, a must see in our opinion worth the trip out of the Quarter:FRIDAY, MARCH 23, 8 FRIDAY, MARCH 23, 8 P.M.LITERARY LATE NIGHT: LAFCADIO HEARNCafé Istanbul, New Orleans Healing Center, 2372 St. Claude Avenue, $15.Think you know New Orleans? Explore the city of yore through a variety show that brings to life the works of Lafcadio Hearn, who in the late 1800s gave New Orleans its provocative reputation for Voodoo mystery, exotic cuisine, and a fecund underbelly. In this choreographed evening of readings, music, and dance, the People Say Project present artists from the burgeoning Bywater/Marigny theater and performance scene in the heart of the St. Claude arts district. Experience the city's resilient literary culture while looking back at a figure who left an indelible mark on the world's image of New Orleans.I’m taking time off from work to be there and I’ll see you, huh?

April in Paradise

2012-02-11T10:44:00.000-08:00

Po Boy ViewsByPhil LaMancusaDancing In The StreetOrDo It In The RoadDear Abby: It’s April in New Orleans and I just don’t know what to do with myself; any suggestions? Signed: Without a Clue in the Crescent City. Dear Clueless: pick up a copy of Where Y’at, seek counseling, buy a vowel, file your taxes and go get a life. Well, Cats and Hats, you’ve gotten the first part (a copy of Where Y’at) and I’m here to give you the second part. At the end of this discourse I’ll sell you a vowel; I promise. First of all, if you pick up this entertainment magazine in a timely manner (and I hope that you do) you will have already participated in a singular amazing event; to wit: The Tennessee Williams New Orleans Literary Festival (TWNOLF) March 21-25, you would have read last month’s article and said: “Hey!…. put yer cheaters on Ethel, we goin’ t’get some culcha”. If you didn’t, well, it ain’t my fault. Then, coming on the heels of that fantabulous event, you now pick up this issue; and, surprise, surprise: mucho many much more monkeyshines (!): “Ethel! Are you awake?” So, now it’s half past The Easter Passover Parade, your bonnet, chocolate bunnies and them damn colored egg salad leftovers and all; and so you want to know what’s next? Well, I’ll tell you: French Quarter Festival. Then comes the Angola Rodeo, hot sauce, strawberry, and crawfish festivals and then FLEET (“hello, Sailor”) WEEK!!! Then, cruise on into The Jazz And Heritage Festival; you’re off and running. But, one Fest at a time. Let’s take French Quarter Festival… please. April 12-14. Remember last year you said it was so much fun that this year you were going to rent a hotel room and spend the whole weekend in the Quarter? Do it now. And, welcome back to the quarter, you’ll find some of your favorite shops still here, some have moved and some have bit the dust; good, honest, hardworking people all. The economic turndown has hit in the form of the evaporation of our visitors disposable income, and, the shops that are left are running on shoestrings with smiling faces and tightened belts; it’s been a tough year. Some advice to you-- unless you want to come back next year to a Disney like FQ – spread some bread in some locally owned shops. I know, food and drink takes a chomp from your wallet but, hey, put some aside for the natives; I’m not talking shoeshine punks and tap dancers, and, get a bag, a bag from the shop that serviced you. Nothing is more disheartening for a shop owner than to look out into a sea of strolling citizens and see not one shopping bag. The rule of thumb here is; no bags, no shoppers-- CIMB--- (cry in my beer):>( French Quarter Festival. There’ll be music and fine weather and strolling characters; runaway princesses; puppets; pirates; paupers; poets and pickpockets. Pawns and Kings and you will be the guests of honor to the greatest, still free of charge, celebration on the face of the planet. Explore other parts of the Quarter; the side streets of Ursuline, St. Philip and Dumaine. Eat all the street food that your stomachs can handle and then take a break and have more great food in one (or more) of our local restaurants. I expect you to tip like you mean it. Watch for the intimidation of street hustlers, loose women and stay away from alcoholic drinks that come in colors not found in nature. Try to be aware of traffic flow and permit pedestrians free passage. Be suspect of strangers blocking the sidewalk wanting to engage in casual conversation or “bet I can tell you where you got your shoes.” Unaccompanied minors have a curfew here, the indigents have no call to be obnoxious and the parking is no longer free, cheap or easy. The parking Nazis will do their best to ticket you and it’s now okay for them to boot your vehicle for minor infractions. Also, the local cop station has a phone number 504-821-2222; go by the tenet as we do here: ‘if you see something, say something’. Now for the bad news; there is no bad news. April and May are glorious times in Louisiana for festivals and unless you’re chained to a wall, in a dungeon, you should catch as many as you can. Work is highly over-rated and life is fleeting. As the bard will tell you; “If not you…who? If not now…when?” One more favor to the local merchants: buy your toy soldiers at the Toy Soldier Shop; your bread at a bakery; jewelry at a jewelry shop; art at galleries; books at bookshops; souvenirs, antiques, wine, posters, pints and po-boys….same thing. The Quarter is still ate up with charming places to visit, folks to talk to, things to see and people to do. The shop owners and workers here are the friendliest, personable and most accommodating as you’ll find anywhere. If you see something that you want and don’t wish to schlep it about; the majority of shops will hold, ship and in some cases deliver purchases to your hotel (you did make that reservation, didn’t you?). We know that we have a lot of locals that come here for this festival and many visitors as well; we’re proud that you’ve come here to celebrate with us and you can count on us to do you right on many levels. Now about that vowel: one dollar (make you holler).A? (means that you can’t hear me); Eee!! (means you’ve probably seen one of our smaller local mammals); I, I (suggests that you are a seafarer); O? (you’re surprised?) U (you know who U R); which one would you like?

Salim McGundy in New Orleans

2012-01-08T14:01:00.000-08:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Banana Oil
Or
Another Man Done Gone
Salim McGundy, aka ‘Shorty’, went out; not with a bang as he had imagined he would in his younger days but with a whimper and his last earthly thought was: “that’s it?” There was no pain except a slight feeling akin to when a younger brother punches you in the chest and then it was over. Somehow he knew that he had died. He looked down on his body which gave a spasm, a final sigh and was still. “That’s it?” he repeated to himself.
It happened in the middle of the night in his small section eight apartment in the Faubourg Marigny; he was standing in front of his refrigerator in his boxers, scratching his behind and reaching for a defrosted bean and cheese burrito and a Schlitz tall boy. They found him face down in a pool of melted ice cream with the tall boy in one hand and the other still digging in his butt. The only witnesses were Jukebox Jack who was at that time the WWOZ deejay spinning music on his early Tuesday morning show and the stuffed catfish on the dingy wall that he had named “Kitty”.
Shorty had liked his ‘getting up in the middle of the night for a beer snack’ routine; a brief wake up, and then back to nap on his single bed with the rumpled covers and infrequently washed bedclothes. Shorty didn’t clean that much: and the nicotine stained walls, bare light bulb illumination and castoff furnishings didn’t bother him much. Thrift store wardrobe, cheap beer and Drum cigarette tobacco were his M.O. and he was kinda proud of his image; he saw himself as a devil-may-care kinda guy. He loved his faded Cardinals baseball cap and high top Chuck Taylors and didn’t care who knew it. But, now he was dead, he told himself, so what the fuck.
By nature a curious person, Shorty’s spirit stuck around awhile to see just what was gonna happen next; it took him a minute wondering who that old man on the floor was before he realized that it was him. He watched the ice cream and ice cubes melting around the open refrigerator and cursed himself for not having opened, what would have been, his last beer.
He listened to the radio for a spell and heard the telephone messages coming in to his great amusement. “Shorty, it’s Frank. What the fuck is goin’ on? I get in today and the bar’s still a mess and you ain’t nowhere around! You better get your bony ass down here and clean up before Virginia gets here; you know how she is-- if you don’t show up pretty damn quick-- she’ll use your balls for bookends!”
“SHORTY! you pick up that phone RIGHT NOW!!; this is Gloria and you promised me that you’d help me turn these mattresses; Shorty? SHORTY!!! Oh what the fuck…….”
“Yo, Shorts; we goin uptown tonight or what? We can catch a ride with Jimmy and watch the pool tournament at Miss Mae’s; that blonde’s playin’, you know, the one who slides that cue stick right between’er tits? Gimme a call at the shop”.
“Uh, hello…. This message is for Shorty? Well, uh, I got your number from Frank down at the bar and he told me you might be looking to pick up some extra cash for workin’. Anyway, I got a shed that needs cleanin’ out and some stuff to take to the dump. Gimme a call at 555-8384 if you’re available this weekend.”
“ Well, I guess I’m NOT available, Sucker, and I ain’t gonna be available any time soon” Shorty said/thought from his perch on the ceiling fan. He kinda liked this weightlessness and freedom from feeling. He kinda felt….”aloof… whatever that means”. He thought that he knew what it meant and decided that IF he didn’t know what it meant then well he would just call whatever he wasn’t feeling…. “Aloof. Shit, I can call it whatever I want to; I’m dead ain’t I and the dead gets cut slack, right?
He drifted down to his chair and looked out the window. The view was to the back of the Laundromat but he didn’t care. He watched the dawns light filter in and then the noon light and night light and then he watched them again. And again. He looked up at the crack and water stained ceiling and the floor that he never had swept and thought: “what the fuck.”
He glanced around and saw his pain meds, Zippo lighter and tobacco on the counter along with the unopened mail; his disability check, some bills and junk mail addressed to ‘occupant’. He watched the light through the window passing through another day. “Shit”, he thought “this ain’t half bad; I ain’t cold, hot, hungry…nuthin’… that plate in my head and the ringing in my ears…poof! It’s kinda cool.”
He heard the banging on the door and eventually his landlady opening his door with a couple of cops; they held their noses and one cop (one that he had previous run-ins with) turned to the other and said: “Poor fuck; better call the meat wagon”, and they left. He watched his scumbag neighbor sneak in and steal his Skilsaw, boom box and guitar.
“Well, I guess that’s it for me.” Shorty mused, and wondered if this was being dead. Wasn’t he supposed to disappear or something? What about that ‘great hereafter’ he’d been hearing about?
He wandered down Frenchmen Street, pleased with his anonymity; and sat by the river and watched the ebb and flow of life the universe and everything. There he sits to this day; “Shit, If I’da known, I woulda been dead sooner”.
Shorty found peace at last.

New Orleans St. Patrick

2012-01-08T13:59:00.000-08:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Faith and Begorrah
Or
Pity The Poor Irish
Per custom, on the seventeenth of March, we will all celebrate being Irish in fact or fiction without having the least idea who these people are and what they stand for. We have profiled them as clannish caricatures; dull witted by drink and ready to quarrel mainly because they are immune to pain in that condition. They spend their hours in pubs achieving levels of romantic domestic misery unparalleled in other cultures. They’ll be the first to tell you that they’re trying to drown their self inflicted sorrows and that it takes hard work and dedication to do so.
That’s not them entirely. Poets, musicians, dancers, great lovers and redheads in general also come to mind. The reason why we all celebrate this Irish holiday is the fact that somewhere in all of our pasts lurks an Irish ancestor; the Irish are a democratic lot and fall in love at the drop of a shamrock. The world is full of Irish; enough to impact many societies. It is said that ‘when you’re in love the whole world is Irish’, or is that Italian? Jewish? Cajun? Delusional?
A person who says “kiss me: I’m Irish”, for some reason, expects to be kissed. That has never worked for me; although I also have a bit of the Irish blood in me, I’m not Irish enough. You can well imagine anyone’s response if I was to say “kiss me: I’m delusional” or “kiss me: I’m drunk, horny, far from home with clean underwear and walking a Labrador retriever”.
New Orleans will turn out for Saint Patrick’s Day with drinking green beer and eating corn beef and cabbage, two things that no one from the Emerald Isle ever does. We will also celebrate with parades. There aren’t enough Irishmen to form a proper parade of their own so the Italians graciously agree to team up with them. You’ll know the Irish from the Italians because the Italians will be wearing buttons that say “Kiss Me: I’m Italian”. Go figure.
Saint Patrick, not to be confused with Pat O’Brien, was credited with driving nonexistent snakes from Ireland. Pat O’Brien is credited for getting people to see those same nonexistent snakes. Patrick is also credited with converting the country from Pagan to Catholic, which some say was not a really great move. The same is said about Pat except conversely.
Weird thing is that we celebrate Patrick’s day on the anniversary of his death, not his birth. Funny thing is that the seventeenth of March coincides with the Druid celebration called Ostara, a spring festival celebrating the rebirth of nature; does that sound fishy to you?”
The Irish in their homeland have rain almost constantly which is why the place is so green. They also have great national calamities that send them scattering to other climes and, starting with little, they rise like cream to become pub owners, politicians, poets, policemen and house painters. They land in droves, work when they can, drink when it suits them, fight like banshees and breed like, well… Irishmen.
We celebrate a great many saint’s days here but none other, that I know of, with the exception of our Saints football team, is primarily celebrated in drinking establishments. And, we don’t have a big Irish population here; although we do have a plethora of Irish pubs: Fahy’s; Kerry; Ryan’s; Parasols; Molly’s; McNulty’s; Finn McCool’s; Chart Room and Irish House to name a few.
Not that we haven’t had a lot of Irish here. As part of New Orleans history (and here’s a fact), in the 1830s, rich New Orleanian businessmen used Irishmen (and Germans) to dig The New Basin Canal by hand; they died by the tens of thousands like dogs from Yellow Fever and were buried where they fell like so much landfill. They worked and died for a dollar a day and were used primarily because those same rich white folks valued their African slaves above that fate. (They tried that with the Italians also, but the Italians didn’t play that, moved instead across the river and grew crops, eventually monopolizing the city’s produce supply at the French Market.)
The Irish exemplify the stuff that life is made of from the sailor at sea braving gale winds to the priest in the ghetto helping the crippled newsboy get a decent break; the cop walking the beat, keeping the peace; the friendly bartender that listens a drunk’s woes; the old mother scrubbing floors to put her kid through college, the writer through a shot glass pouring out her heart to a public she may never see and that young man singing “Sunday, bloody Sunday”. Who’s to argue that the typical Irish wake includes dancing, drinking, fighting and groping? Being invited to an Irish wake is something to be approached with trepidation, humility and the knowledge that your stamina will be tested. Getting “in the bag”, so to speak, is no big deal; staying in the bag for extended periods of time is definitely Irish.
The fun of it is that nothing that I’ve just said would be offensive to an Irishman (or woman). The Irish are a fierce family of realists, who wear their hearts on their sleeves and search for some nebulous solace and comfort that continually eludes them; the luck of the Irish is nothing more than a consistent eleventh hour reprieve that follow them like a maudlin wraith and with which they cope, with the most powerful antidotes that there are to any maddening malaise: humor; imagination; empathy and love.
And when all else fails, they hoist a pint to better times and drink to the ones who’ve gone before us.

VFTROU 4 alphabet for lovers A-M

2011-12-11T11:40:00.001-08:00

And now, just to see if you’re listening, I present a work in progress. A great thing about this frightening technology is that I’ll be able to update this entry at the click of a mouse; so, if you want, you can post suggestions and comments as we go along and we can run this together like Honey Badgers. Without further ado I present the answer to all romantic questions: The Alphabet For Lovers (A-M) Ahem. As a possible vehicle to your romantic education and awareness, I offer up a guide by alphabet, of all things. Of course you know that the basic ABC of love is Always Be Considerate; however, we are about to expand on that theme (hopefully together). Succinct will be the watchword that is, if I can achieve it; accentuating the positive and eliminating the negative. Perhaps we’ll get a book out of this and have it illustrated by Maira Kalman. Cheers.A. ATTRACTION: and you can take this as the Numero Uno Basic Axiom; if you want someone to be attracted TO YOU, you must be attractive TO THEM! Pretty simple idn’t it? Then comes ATTENTION: as with any endeavor the heart, the more attention you give; and I mean positive attention here, the more that person will be reassured of the validity of your AFFECTION. How you AFFECT them. ADVENTURE ADORATION AWARENESSB. BOUNDARIES: everybody’s got ‘em from ‘don’t interrupt when I’m reading’ to ‘when the bathroom door is closed it means that I want some privacy’ to ‘I don’t like it when you tickle me, mock me or touch me there’ to ‘that part of my life is not open to discussion’. You get my drift? No matter how intimate your relationships are, there are areas of privacy that need respected and that means not overstepping your boundaries. At the same time, it’s necessary to let your lover know that you also have places where no one should go… unless invited; you see, no one should in my opinion open the entire dam at one time; after COURTSHIP, after the floodgates of love have loosed that surge of alltogetherness, a little at a time comes the treasures that lie deeper in us, some tidbits of information that we don’t usually share on first dates, sleepovers and even going steady. Like this: I HATE the sound of a vacuum cleaner in the same room as me, I don’t like anyone sticking their fingers in my cooking and I don’t want to talk about the tattoo on my shoulder that is captioned ‘Mentirosa’. Also, do C. COURTESY, CONDIDERATION and CONCERN Consistency: Well how about that? Am I advocatingALRIGHT ALRIGHT!!!! Right about now someone is going to say “well what about MY personality? How about if the other person NEEDS to be subjected to my anger, angst and aggression? What if I like it a little rough? What if I can’t help losing my temper? Passion is not always polite, you’ve got to be cruel to be kind, right?” To that I say: “Kindness is NOT weakness; you can keep your violence and anger that you disguise as passion on the playing field where it belongs. If you want to be the pool bully, the sandbox tyrant, hockey enforcer, forward tackle and browbeater; observe how well that that works for you in your private life. Listen, WE ALL KNOW how hard the world is and what a struggle it is just to stay buoyant in our society; this DOES NOT mean that you have to bring your tough as nails attitude into your relationship with people that you should be cherishing and nurturing. This is a dictionary for lovers not for losers. It’s based on romance not on rudeness; and if it seems silly to you, your way of life, upbringing and/or role models… well… get your own dictionary.”D. Dancing: here’s a pretty concrete rule for you: couples who dance together-- stay together. Now, there are couples that don’t dance together that stay together and that itself may be all well and good. But dancing is better. And, I don’t know about you; but, I have yet to hear of a couple where one dances and the other do not that has a happy ending or a protracted ending, for that matter. Period. The same goes for Drinking, Dialog and Dependability. If half of the relationship has it and the other half doesn’t; how long do you think that they will put up with eachother? (Answer: only if and when there is something stronger to bind them, like sex; or in the old “for the good of the children” gambit which worked in the olden days, but I doubt there’s mileage in that except on sloth farms. E. Energy and Effort: I once knew a woman who, when she was younger (so she told me), had a boyfriend that would lay around the house all day strumming his guitar, smoking reefer and ignoring the cleaning products that she provided for him and their home. They slept on a mattress on the floor, she cooked for him and he let her. She worked as a waitress and would drive her old beat up car in to work in the morning leaving him lazing and pretty much, she would find him where she left him when she returned home. Dirty dishes and all. One day while driving to work, she was stopped at a light when a middle aged man in a Bentley pulled up beside her, turned to her and winked. Guess what happens when you don’t put energy behind your relationship? True story.F. Faith FantasyG. Gentleness Generosity Gratitude H. Honesty Humility Hygiene Humor HugsI. Integrity Intelligence IdentityJ. JOY (joi) n. 1. The emotion of great delight caused by something good or satisfying; keen pleasure. Cook it up, serve, share and enjoy. JUNGLE BOOGIE; yes indeed!K. KindnessL. LoyaltyM. Music

alphabet for lovers N-Z

2011-12-11T11:40:00.000-08:00

N-Z (if you’ve been reading so far, you know what I mean)
N.
O.
P. Passion Patience
Q.
R.
S.
T.
U. Understanding
V.
W.
X.
Y.
Z

VFTROU part 3

2011-12-04T14:08:00.000-08:00

Part 3
And now into that quagmire we drop the other shoe:
the “what about ME and why is it that my past and current lovers don’t measure up to my fantasy lover, my ideal, MY perfect model?”
And it’s not enough to hear:
“Ya know Sweetie, sometimes you just get what you deserve; you’re no piece of cake yourself.”
Should we say: (?)
“tough noogies; that’s what’s out there and that’s what you’re gonna have to go with!”
Or maybe:
“hey, we’re all human and have human frailties; why should I be any different?!”
And possibly:
“Hang in there, you’ll get used to disappointment; that’s just the way things are.”
Or
“It’s just not your time yet, have patience; good things comes to those who wait”
Does it seem like that there are more negative excuses as to why your love life goes through rough patches than optimistic positive reinforcement for better times? When someone says “Cheer up. Things could be worse!’ Are you suspicious that if, in fact, you DO cheer up; things will only get worse? Do you ponder the question--- that on promising to love someone ‘for better or for worse’ --- about just when, exactly when, the BETTER part starts? You shouldn’t have to, you say? Well, I for one, agree with you. Furthermore: when you’re ready, willing, able and available for love to enter your life; do you wonder where the hell it is? When you had it in your hand; how did it slip away? When you’re ready to go looking for it; where do you go?
I have many opinions and beliefs as you probably have noticed. One opinion that I have is that each one of us believes that they are perfect and that (A) it’s the other persons fault when things go awry; but, that we (B) have a tendency to blame ourselves when the shit really hits the fan. It’s like having a child misbehave and it’s their fault—when they run away from home it’s your fault. So, let’s not lose track of use the child as an illustration and metaphor here; for, aren’t we pretty much all children with, as they say, grownup pride? “Acting more like children than children”.
Here’s what we have so far: we’re not to blame for what goes wrong with love and our relationships but we all can take credit when things go well. If you listen to me: all love is temporary and doomed to failure; for when you capture it, something is sure to crop up to keep it from staying as in: “this IS NOT what I signed up or bargained for…WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THAT YOU WERE AN ALIEN???” If you listen to me: love comes from a temp agency and has to be paid for as you go and then never be trusted to show up for the next shift. And if you’re still listening to me, you’ll hear me say that all consensual non violent love is worth it; it’s worth the passion, time, energy, humility, patience, juice, understanding, dedication, honesty and hard work it takes to get it, keep it and make it stay. That goes for you, your children and your little dog too.
So, let’s get back to the children. One theory is that this behavioral morass goes back further than white bread and is passed down through generations; although there are pockets of sane couples trying to raise sane children, frankly, the odds are against a revolution in consideration, logic and understanding is kind of like a snowball’s chance… Here you’re welcome to eliminate taking responsibility for your love life’s dysfunction and blame all of your shortcomings on your parents parents parents. Although, that would mean that you are admitting that someone has or had a problem; that somebody somewhere is or was damaged and are or was capable of passing that damage on. Consider that a breakthrough.
Damaged adults (your parents) may pretty much be a lost cause, the patterns are formed, the die has been cast, the counterproductive habits are too ingrained... We need to start with the children. You. You know that little selfish, spiteful mimic of adult lack of common sense. If you don’t feel an epiphany coming on; fine, you’ll just have to fake it, if only for the next generation; to get them to believe that being kind, caring, loving and good is normal, which, of course it should be.
In that vein and furthermore, I truly believe that you, at birth, were born with the ability to sniff out the inaccurate, the foolish, the dishonest and the completely untrustworthy in the people that inhabited your immediate environment; and then, as you grew, in the endeavor for self preservation, you found out what worked to get you what you wanted, whether it was good for you or not. All children are darling and cute and that keeps adults from wanting to harm them. Children from birth, are cute, cuddly. egocentric, manipulative,a pain in the ass, demanding and that’s their mechanisms for keeping and staying alive, entertained, comfortable, nourished and …”wah!’ As they grow, they see what it takes to influence others to get what they want; they watch examples of how it works (or not) by others in their environment and imitate that behavior into their adulthood. In a word it’s called ‘pushing buttons’: can I get an “AMEN” from you parents?
Picture a perfectly ridiculous scenario: The boss’ wife yells at the boss for no good reason; the boss yells at the worker; the worker goes home and has a fight with his wife; the wife berates the child; the child kicks the dog. The dog bites the cat; the cat pees in the shoe and the cheese stands alone. Question: what could have possibly pissed off the boss’ wife? I’ll tell you.
Years and years ago the boss’ wife, Tiffany (or Heather or Angela; Shanika; Kelly; Mary Jane or Little Sue), was told a story about Cinderella; Snow White; Tiana or Princess Grace. Everything that she was told as a little girl assured her—being she was sharp, pretty and talented—that she could / would / should marry (of course) a Prince Charming. And (of course) she did. BUT. But, over the course of the last few years the Prince is looking more like The Biggest Loser in more ways than one. There are none of the amenities (and you could name a few) that a princess is entitled to. There’s a husband that has lost his sparkle and appeal, kids that need all the attention and money anyone can come up with, there’s the trials and tribulations of everyday life and a sink of dirty dishes that is never empty no matter how often they’re tackled. Get up early; go to bed late; lust after the pool man; have a glass of wine, an antidepressant, a hair appointment, go shopping, lunch with the girls, that Pilates class…. Nothing helps get rid of the feeling of being ripped off by life and then the tub of lard comes out of the shower waving an erection and giving it his best Burt Reynolds. I’d be pissed too!
But what about him, you might say as you jump to his defense? He’s the one busting his ass out there keeping her and those brats in Honey O’s and trips to Appleby’s. He pays the mortgage, tuition, school uniforms and the tennis club dues. It’s him that drives the older car, makes sure that the lawn is mowed, the dentist paid, money put aside for college, vacations and therapists. He’s the one who eats lunch at fast food joints; belongs to a club but never gets to go; worries about their nest eggs and future and hasn’t had sex with his wife in eight months (his last birthday). He is forced to look outside of his home for conversation, affection, attention and peace of mind. He goes home to dirty laundry, quarreling kids, bills in the mail and a spouse that will not shut the f—k up with complaints about everything in her spoiled lazy self centered existence.
Together they’re raising three point five children and he thinks that he might bump up his wife’s meds this Thanksgiving and invite the boys over to watch some football to get even with her for yelling at him just because he wanted a little nookie.
And so the cycle continues.
Well, that’s enough background filler; let’s get on to part 4 to find some solutions, shall we?

Valentines for the rest of us part 2

2011-11-30T13:20:00.000-08:00

Part 2
As I see it, the insanity all starts with conflicting signals when we’re growing up and here’s one example: a child is told that it’s only right to share their toys. “Sharing Is Caring” they’re told. THEN, they see their Pops and his buddies drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, watching the game on the telly, where two teams of grown men are fighting over a ball, one ball, and their Pops and his buddies are screaming “KILL THE BASTARD!!! HURT HIM!!! KNOCK HIM DOWN!!!! TAKE THE BALL AWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”.
Of course Little Johnny will (not) take that ‘Sharing Is Caring’ crap back to the schoolyard, will he? Ya think? Nope; he’s ready to “kill the bastard!” But, with any luck LJ will be sent into a kiddy sports arena where he’ll be told to maim and kill other kids; as long as he plays fair. (?) Do you see the logic in that? I don’t. And consider that LJ is most likely going to carry that ‘sport’ ethic into his personal relationships and into his adult life.
Let’s take a moment and talk about role models, in Spanish: ejemplo; example. Back to the football game: say that it’s Thanksgiving and you’re one of the 3.5 children born into a dual parent relationship (married or not), and more than likely both of your parents have jobs; but, only one is sitting with his friends and watching the game; the other one is the ‘Edith’ as in: “get me another beer, willya Edith?”. One kid will be in the teevee room trying to figure out what makes the boys so loud, crude and rowdy; one kid will be in the kitchen because to them Edith is really Mom; one kid will be in their room reading Jane Eyre, being grateful that they can be left alone and the point five kid will be playing a video game that includes mayhem, murder and misogyny; all will be forming role model attachments Role models are the people that you look up to because whatever they are doing is cooler than anything that you can come up with. What you relate to you tend to become; what you become is who you (and others) will have to live with and will ultimately be reflected in your behavior. Your actions will have to come with some consequential responsibility; or not.
Kids will be told by their life coaches that “it’s not whether you win or lose; it’s how you play” and then they will be shown by life itself that it certainly is NOT okay to lose. They will be told by life that if someone else has a ball… smash them in the face, knock them down, kick them and take the friggin ball and run away with it. As a result, their adult conflict resolution is usually: SACK THE QUARTERBACK!! (mentally, emotionally, verbally and in worse case scenarios… physically). Say it isn’t so.
On the other hand, some kids raised are being told that they are prettier, smarter and more talented than anyone else walking god’s green acres; they’re given things freely, with a sort of reverence that’s usually reserved for iconic deities and this should net positive results, right? Not necessarily; not if the child is going to find out that there are a lot more prettier and talented kids out there and that the competition to stand out is fearsome. At best they’re going to believe that their parents don’t know shit about how the real world works. At worst they will be the brunt of teasing and bullying by, curiously enough, those less pretty and talented than they are. Either that or THEY WILL BE prettier, smarter etc. and will use those talents egoistically to inflict mischief and manipulate others who are not. (?)
Remember that cheerleader that had her own clique that you were excluded from and how that hurt? Sure you do; you had a Voodoo doll at home in her image and stuck pins in her eyes (and elsewhere). Remember that brainiac that always knew just the right thing to say to make you feel small, insecure and stupid? Sure you do; you beat him up and took his lunch money.
Now, this may seem like all the trouble starts with the adult role model’s duplicitous behavior in a child’s life and how that leads to disaster when that kid grows up and has to relate to another child that has grown up just as damaged as they are and both are employing their role model’s tactics. Well it does and it’s up to any self respecting -- and that’s the pivot phrase: self respecting—person to break that mold by not putting up with that mentality in their world, in their life, in themselves, in their relationships and in other people; AND certainly not in their children.
Then again, you point out, some kids are born bad, wild and mean; some kids are born sensitive, artistic and insecure. Ya think? The bashful and the bully; the con artist and the one who works in oils; the beauty and the beast; the registered nurse and the rapist; they all started out on the exact same sperm and egg blind date. They turned out fat and skinny, high strung and indolent, ballerina and butcher and all of those aspects that make the world such a diverse and wonderful place to live. That sperm and egg combination gave us hairdressers and harlots, Hindus and homemakers and handymen and heroes and Hitlers and homosexuals and hogcallers in Hertford, Hereford and Hampshire (where hurricanes hardly happen). All are born without an instruction manual, looking for guidance; a sign post; a rudder; a port for the storms.
They spend their childhood through adolescence and into sexual maturity just trying to get along in their world until they can figure it all out and then… they fall in love; realizing that you’re falling in love for the first time I refer to as THE ‘holy shit’ experience. When, and if, it happens more than the first time (it generally does) I call it the ‘holy shit, here I go again’ confusion. It’s a flummox; a baffle; a flabbergast; a dumbfound. It’s rarely easy and we rarely know how to pull it off much less make it stay and work out. Sex helps a lot. So does friendship, common interests and patience; plenty of patience. And even that is a lot of times not enough to make love stay.
As a side note: we all know the horrors of our hormones when that age hits us for the longest time when that itch and scratch routine get us into every kind of imaginable trouble, the push and shove the moaning groaning panting heart thumping mind reeling electric astonishment confusing enlightening dizzying portals to pleasure that leave us exhausted, but none the wiser and we’ll stop here to regroup and continue into part three. Send me your thoughts.

Valentines for the rest of us part 1

2011-11-27T12:00:00.000-08:00

Po boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Valentines For The Rest Of Us
Or
Take Your Best Shot
Okay Cats and Hats, over the last dozen years I’ve done adviserial columns, in February, for Valentine’s Day and I’ve loosed buckets of hints and allegations for behavioral modification for the purpose of promoting happy, healthy love lives. And still, yes, and still I see that there are nefarious discrepancies pertaining to harmonious amalgamations concerning matters of the heart; in short, obviously either you’re just not paying attention or you consider my counsel unworthy of merit because I’m just a big bag of wind. In any case, let me start off by assuring you that I’ve been around the block enough times to be able to speak on the subject from catastrophic experiences and exhaustive self examinations ad nauseum. AND, in the interests of full disclosure, this will not be my usual short (1,000 words) rant; so if you’re still interested in this subject matter: man up and soldier on.
To begin with, I know, yes I know, that when people believe that they’re in love and they try to get along together it’s no champagne and hors d’oeuvres outing; and, it’s especially frustrating for them, when they -- thinking that love is the be all and end all of everything-- can’t figure out why it ain’t at least a box of Ritz Crackers with Cheese Whiz and Boones Farm… despite their best intentions and efforts. (?) How do I know? I know because for decades and from countless romantic affiliations--- from temporary liaisons to “in love forever”—I have managed to screw up in every conceivable form and fashion my and someone else’s love lives. In my day, I could even screw up a wet dream. Seriously. So, I know from whence I speak and I’ve thought long and hard about the errors of my ways; making as one might say, an independent study. A survey of sorts into the insanity of romance, for as anyone knows who has been to that rodeo, when you’re on the roller coaster of love, it’s a thrilling ride but… CRAZY!
Survey says: people are different from one another; boys and girls are different from one another; love is defined differently by different people; survey says one of you (?) is a wanker. Being from Venus and Mars doesn’t turn you into Tristan and Isolde without you striking a balance within yourself and the other person. You can bet Uranus on that one.
Relationships, especially those of the canoodling and sheet shaking types, are victims of several pratfalls that start with preconceived notions; or more precisely, the way that YOU think that things should be and are going to happen.
Getting specific now, one of the biggest mistakes that anyone can possibly make in matters of the heart is believing that someone who you’re instantly attracted to is almost certainly the perfect mate for you! And, that furthermore, they have the innate ability to ‘complete’ you. Big mistake. Another is the assumption that those teensy weensy things that are in your lover’s repertoire of annoying habits; you know, the ones that you find mildly irritating now(?), aren’t going to drive you full blown bat shit crazy later. Bad assumption.
While we’re at it, a couple more of the most relationship dooming mindsets is the horrible mistake that you could make in believing, for one second, that you can change another person and added to that the blunder of succumbing to the myth that you don’t really have to be completely honest with eachother. Doom, doom.
Q: So what do we have as a composite recipe for disaster?
A: A hot body, intelligent but clueless banjo picker with sleep apnea that never learned to pick up after themselves, who drinks milk from the container while standing in front of the opened door refrigerator scratching their butts, telling you that you should lose weight, that the reason that they don’t have a job is that the unenlightened bosses won’t allow them to practice yoga or text their BFFs during the work day and insist on them getting to work exactly on time. And by the way they’ll add,
“did you know that your best friend, you know, the one that eats meat, is hitting on me”, or,
“sorry I didn’t return your call yesterday; I went out to get some cigarettes and saw these cool cufflinks so I decided to get my wrists pierced.”
“You did know I’m allergic to cats, didn’t you?”
“Can you give me a ride to Skipper’s house; we’re gonna chill until dinner’s ready, okay?”
“Ya got twenty bucks until Benji gives me back the money he owes you”;
“well, you’d probably have more money if you took a second job!”
“You’re not mad are you?” etc etc etc.
Oh, and in the case you think that maybe I’m advocating that loving relationships be based upon nothing less than reciprocal adoration, integrity and respect, you’re probably correct.
“So what”, you say, “I’m immune, I’m not falling for that love crap that blinds me to another’s faults and sets me looking in the mirror wondering how I got into this mess and wondering what I have to do to get out of it.”.
“Not me” you say “I don’t have time to kiss frogs to find the Prince(ess). I’m worth more, I’m a catch, I don’t bring no baggage. I’m special.” Survey says: check yourself, it just might be YOU that’s the wanker; and then where will you be? You see, we all have this pre-misconception that it’s the other person that leaves their dirty dishes; tub ring; body odor; inconsideration and scooper bag on OUR doorsteps. Survey says: a little introspection goes a long way.
Okay. Back in the day, a workable relationship between two people was like the butt ends of an electric appliance; namely, that there’s a plug and a socket, you know, what they call the male and female receptors; the catcher and the pitcher; the giver and the taker; the floor lamp and the incandescent bulb. That one turned out to be, in your grandparent’s generation, two separate conflicting strangers with separate and unequal (albeit loving) roles that made households run smoothly and function to their (or one of their) standards and by their (or one of their) rules; sometimes like the rug and the person who wiped their feet on it. Everyone knew their place and those who questioned protocol were informed firmly (albeit lovingly) to be aware that “I run this house and if you know what’s good for you, as long as you live here, you will do as I say!” For anyone who thinks that, in this day and age, that is an admirable model of a good and healthy relationship and wants to buy into it, I would advise you to get your head examined. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, is hardwired for that scenario for any length of time today.
Survey says that this missive is getting longer and loooooonnnnggggerrrr; so I’d better put thus far on the blog and annoy you with more parts later………..hmmm.

Valentines in New Orleans

2011-11-27T11:17:00.000-08:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Valentines
Or
The Art Of Baking
She leaned across the bar and said: "Tell me a story... tell me a love story." So I did.
"Once upon a time there was a chef, younger than I am; a hard working, hard drinking, philanderer of a chef. He worked in a restaurant; a very busy restaurant; on Bourbon Street; in the French Quarter; in New Orleans named Houlihan’s Old Place. They averaged 1,500 meals a day; that’s how busy they were. The chef worked with a full crew of miscreant kitchen workers. Also working was a bevy of energetic young women who delivered service in the form of food and drink to the plethora of customers in addition to providing more than ample exotic inspirations to the male workers romantic fantasies. The young crew was energetically enthusiastic while working, playing and availing themselves to their promiscuous natures. It was a time when Innocence was married to Exuberance; and, as it turns out, Exuberance was two timing Innocence with that scamp Excess.
One day while the Chef was working on the line he saw a sight that crossed his eyes and dotted his tees. A tall beauty of a waitress (named Isabelle) raised her arms above her head and took from her hair a pen that was holding up her dark tresses, allowing them to literally cascade down to the small of her back. This action, and I’m sure that you’ve seen it (or done it), did its best to accentuate a figure that was nothing short of astounding. The chef very literally dropped what he was doing, stared like a rube at a peep show and their eyes met.
Well, the long and the short of it was that a night or so later she found him in a bar doing his usual after work ‘drink til you drop’ routine and successfully lured him into her bed. He was, as you might have guessed, a very willing victim to her charms and, getting along so well together, they began seeing a lot of eachother. Once, when they hadn’t seen eachother for some days she found him again and queried his absence of attention. He confessed to the knowledge that his relationship with her was not exclusive (on either side) and that he was mulling over a quandary; to wit: he was falling in love and if the relationship were to not be exclusive (on both sides) that perhaps he should have no part of a relationship with her at all. That divergence was resolved in congress that night and they became ‘an item’ in the eyes of all around them. In fact, when the upper management of the restaurant caught wind and informed the chef of a rule barring the dating between chefs and waitresses (random casual screwing was exempted), the chef promptly fired himself.
One day, as the couple was walking in their neighborhood they spied an abandoned laundry and dry cleaning plant that was for rent (626 Frenchmen Street), and hatched a plan to build their own restaurant to live and work together… forever; and, working outside jobs, they did just that. It took fourteen months of living in that construction zone to empty out the old and install the new, buying an old bread delivery truck and naming it ‘Step-van Fetch-it’ to do necessary hauling. They brought back discarded restaurant equipment, building materials and furnishings from the landfill and incorporated the castoffs to into their vision. With the help of friends they put in an atrium and a glass windowed foyer; they cleaned up a huge brick wall and created an outside porch and bathing area; they built tables, walls, benches, panels, a stage and a stairway up to the mezzanine; they ran water, gas, ventilation systems and electricity without supervision or approval; they installed and used a wood burning pot belly for heat. They lived on the mezzanine upstairs from the restaurant (as later did some of the staff), and they named their restaurant Valentines.
Valentines became a destination for expats, orphans, musicians, tradesmen, runaway princesses, jewel smugglers, existentialists and idealists. Those were the days when you could take a dream into your hands, breathe life into it and make into your own reality; I have pictures to prove it.
Soon, as these things will go, someone got pregnant; and it wasn’t him …it was Isabelle. At that point they had a 1950 Chevy pick-up truck named Lazarus; so called because of its ability to quit running and somehow rise again from the dead. It was a time when poor folks had their babies at Charity Hospital; in 1977 they were birthing two hundred babies a day and that was not an option that they cared for. As birthing time grew nearer, they found out about a midwife in Eureka Springs, Arkansas named Beulah who was available. Lazarus was given a new coat of silver paint and entrusted to make the trip.
Beulah was eighty years old; had been birthing babies for forty years and preaching the gospel for thirty. Her parishioners were of the counter culture and she played lead electric guitar at the services where they sometimes spoke in tongues. The birthing was done on Beulah’s farm. Beulah explained that she had never had to perform an episiotomy, and I was instructed to supply fragrant oils (to keep Isabelle “greased up”) for a smooth event.
To make a long story longer, the ‘event’ lasted twenty-two hours with contractions, dilations, pushing hard and breathing deep; the mother was panting; the midwife/preacher was praying, massaging, measuring; the father was keeping everything oiled up and Christ Almighty was leading cheers from on high. We tried squatting; we tried warm baths; we wound up with a sheet tied to the bedposts and young Isabelle puffing like a steam engine and Beulah in the bed and me in the bed and Jesus in the bed and weeping and singing and sighing and moaning. We were a congregation; we were the flock; we were the gateway to the universe. We were there when, with a cry and a shit and a big old SPLORT!, the fabric of known life parted to make room for another child. An exhausted mother looked down lovingly at her slippery accomplishment and exhaled……….. “Hosanna!”
and that’s what we named the baby."
These days a lot of water has passed under the bridge; Hosanna now has three daughters of her own, the vagaries of life have separated us all by miles but not by spirit and the lessons remain: life is an adventure; anything is possible and love is the one essential ingredient to baking beautiful and delicious cakes (and everything else).

Short Story 11 1/2

2011-10-07T10:48:00.000-07:00

Short Story Part 11 1/2
Note: You’ll soon see that part twelve has been pushed back to make way for the eleventh and a half and just so’s you know; the entire piece is just about finished and thanks for your patience, I’m not sure that this (the story) will ever make it anywhere near physical print, so we’re kind of like a small and intimate band of secret sharers…ain’t we. Or am I the only one that’s engrossed in this tale?
And by the way, I am aware that the short story has not only grown longer, but to be a viable contender for the consideration of being a piece of stand-up literature it needs to be fleshed out even more with the descriptions of silly stuff like “the evening breezes caressing the tree-ses and the moonlight on her Sonata adhering to her martini glass menagerie as the luscious autumn leaves of red and gold drifted by my window on a summerset maughn” type of flushables that, to my mind only gets away from a good story with useless crap that I don’t want to know about and contributes nothing but more pages to read before getting back to the meat of the matter. This type of filler is essential to most readers and all editors, critics and Clint Eastwood or Robert Redford who might want to make it into a film. It might seem like the first drafts of the story are more like journalism because, frankly, they are. Cheers.
“Ah, his eyes how they twinkled, his dimples so merry, his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry…” Ah, shut up and give me the toys already!
Needless to say I’ll have to add that stuff prior to completion; however, not at this point. You’re lucky; you’re getting it straight from the horse’s typewriter (before we put the lipstick on the pig).
So; to make a short story longer, I just wanted to share some insight into Pearl’s thinking process and the mechanics of her Machiavellian mentality. On the night before the heist, as we were gathered around the dinner table having a last supper which spotlighted (yet again) Hinch’s phenomenal culinary skills, (menu to follow) Pearl chose that time to give us a pep talk. Incidentally, Hinch is working on a cookbook from this experience, start to finish, including the recipes he has stolen from The Three Greasy Bastards and it’s called “Crooked Caper Cooking OR Giving the Bird the Finger”.
Anyway, be that as it may, as we’re all sitting around the table for possibly the last time, Pearl, (whose hand was lightly draped around Sylvinia’s small but perfect bottom) as was her wont, came directly to the point:
“Okay, listen up.” She said as she poured herself three fingers of Red Eye into a dirty glass (definitely a ‘Pearl touch’) “I’ve been watching you guys over the last couple of weeks and how you’re adapting to this, uh, enterprise. I’ve noticed that while you are all into this thing you’re not all into this thing if you get my drift; so, I’m gonna tell you a little story.
“After Petey went into the Marines and left home I set fire to it and ran off with some meth-making hard riding bikers. Oh, and since you’re thinking the worst; no, nobody was home and no-one got hurt. I was just, let us say, burning my bridges behind me. I had been working the corner down by Bonart playground for a couple of years selling what I had previously given away and had gotten chummy with a group called The White Werewolves. We hung out, partied and dealt crank and concern to the local citizenry. They stayed by an abandoned laundry and dry cleaning plant and nobody but nobody fucked with them. When summer started to get repressively oppressive and they decided to cruise to the hills of East Texas, I grabbed a rider’s crotch and was invited to join them; and I did. Well, we were some sight. What started as a dozen and a half riders from New Orleans got bigger and bigger until we were sixty or eighty strong coming across the plains, burning rubber by day and Acapulco gold by night; and oh, oh, oh, ohhhhh, we had a TIME!!!. I could tell you stories, but that’s not what this is about.
“We blew through Texas and into New Mexico to a small town named Ruidoso where we camped in the hills around Eagle Creek and there I met the mean-est, badass-est, most low down tough-as-nails, evil mother of all mothers; his name was ‘Ol’ Greasy’, and he had a camp up the mountain. He shared a cabin with his old lady, ‘Big Mamma’, who had ridden with The Evil Inlaws until she met him; and they held court, settled disputes and performed biker marriages and baptisms; and sometimes funerals, there in the hills. Big Mamma was also a midwife and all around lady healer; Ol’ Greasy was a bone setter, tooth puller and Cracker Jack tattoo artist. Every time a new chick came into the fold and made the trip west she was set up to meet Mamma and get wised up; sometimes that meant an obligatory roll in the blankets with Ol’ Greasy. When a new dude came west he was usually gone over by Ol’ Greasy and a couple of ‘Chiefs’ which meant some kind of ritual ass whuppin’. In the hills, it is what it is.
Anyway, seein’s how I was young and smart as well as cute, Mamma and Greasy decided to take me in as a live-in house girl and wound up teaching me a thing or two about being bad as well as evil. I’ll never forget the time they sat me down and explained the concept of being bad. And this is what they told me:
“The difference between good and bad is that bad kicks a lot more ass” was how Ol’ Greasy started before Mamma interrupted. Mamma had been to school and had even taught some; in fact, she was some kind of a philosophizer and I appreciated that.
“Listen Honey” she told me after sending Greasy out to fetch some PBRs and reefer, “there are forces of good and evil and they are constantly at odds with each other. The bullshit occurs when you’re told at an impressionable age that good will triumph over evil; the fact is that it never has, never is and never will. Evil has been kicking the shit out of good since the beginning of time. Now, there’s something that you need to learn whether you chose one side or the other; and that is that there is a third force at work on this plane and it is called ennui. You see as different as good and evil are, they have one thing in common and that is that they are forces of energy that are constantly on the move, strong, active, and sometimes things get rough, down and dirty but the main thing is that things happen around them! The force of ennui, on the other hand, is inactive and puny and sits on the sidelines and waits and prays and trusts that things will turn out in their favor; this includes folks that we know who are wishers, dreamers, hopers and those who have faith. They’re losers, and get this straight; the meek shall never inherit the Earth.
“The people who get things done, the people who make things happen, the people who shake things up; these are the people who will, after the dust settles, inherit the whole shebang. The main difference between good and evil is that evil pays better and is ultimately more satisfying. Evil takes what it wants because it wants it and good wants to make things fair and right. Right? What’s right is that you are able to eat, sleep and enjoy your life doing whatever makes you happy and fuck everyone else. You got me?”
“She then instructed me to go to the sweat lodge and mull it over and to decide what I wanted to be in this life as if I already did not know and just as Ol’ Grease was coming back in”.
“You chicks been have a good jaw?” He asked
“Yeah, Grease, I been schoolin’ her”.
“Whadja learn, Littlebit?”
“Just like you said, Grease, bad kicks ass.”
“That’s my girl…,have a beer.”
“Amen” concluded Pearl with her bit of wisdom, or so we thought.
Pearl pushed back her chair from the table and wound up for the moral to the tale. “Kids,” she said, “what we’re about to do is wrong on every level; selfish, illegal, immoral and downright unchristian. We’re going to bullshit the bullshitters, snow the snowmen and pull wool over the eyes of the shepherds. BUT! It’s gonna be fun; it’s gonna be dangerous and it’s gonna PAY! We may not get away with it but it’s a damn sight better than sitting on our asses waiting to get the winning lottery number without it being fixed for OUR benefit!
“Now, let’s have some great food, some fine booze, get to bed early, maybe share some body fluids and wake up tomorrow ready to KICK ASS!!” So we did, or at least tried to.

Recession in New Orleans

2011-09-11T13:17:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Period Piece
Or
I AM the Recession
Do you want to know how this recession really started? I’ll take that as a yes.
Well, it all began with me; when I was living in the French Quarter in a lovely spacious flat that I was prepared to spend the rest of my life in; the rent was good, the address convenient and the neighbors friendly. My landladies had been raised in and on the property and were in their eighties and were just a joy to be around. One of their children decided to take an active hand in the management of her elders and their property and, to make a long story longer, the feisty octogenarians wound up in nursing facilities (where they died) and their personal belongings got put into trash bags and kicked to the curb. This was right before, during and right after Katrina. This is the condensed version.
July 10th I received a phone call. “As of August 1st your rent will double and you have a choice of either paying or leaving.” Period. There turned out to be no reasoning, recourse or compromising in the situation that I and my faithful canine companion found ourselves in. We moved into a much smaller and more expensive unit downstairs from our flat, stayed unpacked until we found other accommodations (a month) and moved.
Our new digs were more expensive but we were compensated and gratified because we were able to watch our former home stay empty for six months and even after that the turnover in tenants was frequent and (to us) satisfying. However, we now had extra expenses to contend with; so, here’s what we did, in a word. Without. Period.
I ate out, drank out less often; although my tipping never lessened. I took to reading the flyers for grocery shopping and bought what was on sale. I started buying multiples and in quantity to save money. I went to cheap gas stations, inexpensive shoe stores, thrift stores, yard sales, dollar stores. When my hair got longer; I tied it up. When something I could fix (but never wanted to) broke; I rolled up my sleeves. Instead of coffee and pastries out; I made coffee at home and took any leftover to work; I brought a toaster to work; I brought my lunch with me. If I needed a table… I built it; if I wanted a shelf… I hung it. I even check out stuff that’s been left by the side of the road in case there’s something that I can use and not buy. I stopped using my credit cards; I cancelled my newspaper subscriptions, bought my underwear and socks at Walgreens, used toothpaste, soap and deodorant down to the last nub. I cut the bottoms off of detergent containers to get out the last drop. I prepare more of my food at home. And I’ve kept that up behavior until this very day and now it is my life style. Period. Part of this is being very practical; I mean, as prices go up on everything else, paychecks rarely keep pace and pretty much remain constant because employer’s costs have gone up just like ours have. If we’re lucky (like I am) we have fulfilling employment since this is not the time to change horses, if you get my drift.
And now my country is in trouble. Yep, my bad. We’re going to hell in a hand basket because I got ticked off that my rent was raised; but you know what Pilgrim? I ain’t the Lone Ranger.
I am part of an army of citizens who are shy on disposable income, are weak on consumer confidence and strong on squeezing that dollar until the eagle screams in pain. I am part of the large lower lower middle class that could be classified as the deserving, working poor. I have no disposable income. I hold no mortgages, I’m raising no children, I’m an asset to my community; however, I have no investments and nothing saved. I’m not contributing to the economy. I have steady and secure employment; but in short, my prospects are such that I will never be rich (unless I hit the lottery) and always be one check away from becoming a ward of the state. I deserve better but it don’t look like it’s gonna happen. Period. Not in this lifetime.
Oh, I’m not bitter; quite the contrary, I have everything that I need: The love of a good woman, food in my stomach, a roof over my head and critters that love to wake me up in the morning by licking my face. I write, I paint and I’m learning to play the piano. Except. Except. Except my infrastructure has been damaged, my faith in the ability of someone to watch over me has been shattered and as I struggle forward, my past seems to disintegrate behind me. I’m more apt to believe anything negative that’s told to me than something positive. To put it mildly; I’ve lost my optimism in and about life. I’m frustrated. Period.
For example: I drive the two miles to work where I have to pay for parking because it’s not free and the streets of New Orleans are so crappy because the city is so underfunded that I’m going to need new shocks, again, probably by next month and that’s hundreds of dollars; but, I need a car in case we have to evacuate. I park and realize that I’ll be getting out of work after dark and check to confirm the safeness of the street. I see that the light post is broken and I remember that the lighting department only inspects the lights in the daytime so they’ll probably not learn of that for some time. The block looks a little sketchy and I wonder why the city still wants me to put money in a meter except I know I’ll get a $20.00 ticket if I don’t. I’ll be lucky if I’m not broken into or mugged later on. The tire has a slow leak, the back windows won’t roll up all the way and have blue tape on them and with any luck at all no one will relieve themselves (in one form or another) on my vehicle before I get back to it. And that’s just for starters!
The county’s economy is in the toilet, people are out of work, businesses are closing, homes are going into foreclosure, the government is stuck in stupid and the mail train don’t stop here anymore; all because I got my rent increased. Any wonder why I have to keep my game face in a jar by the door? Period.

Santa Clause and effect in New Orleans

2011-09-11T12:36:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Santa Claus and Effect
Or
Citron, Caouane, Sauerkraut and Beer
Goldonna (Goldie) Baudelaire Henderson Litchfield Boudreaux entered into eternal rest in the middle of December; she stepped out of time and into eternity and was the cause of this year’s Christmas chaos; although she never would have guessed it. Goldie was 94 years old, had lived a long and eventful life and didn’t give a rat’s ass what time of year it was. She had decided that being dead was preferable to spending another miserable day in that nursing home; and if god had a problem with that then he could just give her back her youth and her strength and let her walk away from the sheer boredom of old age. God didn’t respond, even after Goldie had given him plenty of chances; so she just decided that it was time to stop breathing; and she did. She was unaware that God had been in the loo.
The phone call had come at breakfast time, as her son. Saul, and his grown twin children (and their two children) were sitting down to French toast, scrambled eggs and Smithfield ham served up by their Hispanic maid Semolina at their home in the Broadmoor section of New Orleans. It was a big house, at least until the twins had almost simultaneously each divorced their loser spouses and brought their own children to roost with ‘Daddy’ and his third wife Madison the Mad Woman. Goldie’s grandkids (the twins) each insisted on talking to Paw Paw Boudreaux on the phone about the unfortunate event, tying up the line, delaying breakfast and causing Semolina to get the two children, Emma and Aiden, off late to their preschool which was located in Algiers, across the river. The Christmas pageant was coming up soon and rehearsals were in full swing; Emma was playing Joseph and Aiden Mary.
In turn, Goldie’s daughter in law, that delicate flower, missed her hair appointment by a delay at getting her expensively imported car serviced after it had refused to start due to a malfunctioning ‘dumafragit’ or ‘frigatroid’ or some such silly thing that the mechanics out on the I-10 service road had diagnosed and tried to explain to her. This caused her to have to take her husband’s car, after he picked her up from that awful smelly garage. Then, she dropped him off at his job where the boss once again chastised him for being late and asked him for the hundredth time when he was going to fire the salesman who was showing the lowest number of sales in the department. He promptly and with an amount of unnecessary gusto sacked the bum.
The underperforming salesman, Sal, was in his fifties with three small children and a manic depressive overworked unemployed non-motherly wife who was named Gruoch after Lady Macbeth by her agoraphobic, but literate parents.
Sal chose to break the news of his dismissal until dinnertime, half drunk. The kids were fighting as usual and Gruoch, to garner some degree of silence and peace, had reached across the table and whacked Sal Junior on the head with the wooden spoon that she was serving mashed potatoes with; Junior took this opportunity to kick his younger sister under the table, and when little five year old Wendy screamed, it gave Junior an opportunity to pinch the baby in the highchair whom was feisty enough to throw her dinner bowl at him, missing of course. The bowl crashed to the floor where the dog promptly volunteered to help clean up. Sal got up and stormed out of the house, Junior (the brat and bully) threw his chair to the floor, announced that he hated everyone and stalked off to his room to make random and obscene phone calls on a cell phone that he had taken (by force) from one of his school chums. His mother sat on the kitchen floor and sobbed.
Meanwhile, Semolina was late getting dinner because it had been raining and the old car that she drove had faulty windshield wipers; the twins were watching Wheel of Fortune both wishing that they were Vanna White and Goldie’s son was drunk and dialing his mistress, locked in the guest bathroom.
Sal drove down to his favorite French Quarter watering hole, speeding and narrowly avoiding being part of a collision with a beer truck, a young driver on an iphone and a texting bicyclist who was riding against traffic on Saint Charles Avenue.
The driver of the beer truck, Sammy, who’s girlfriend had just dumped him for her personal trainer, double parked on the streetcar tracks and cursing the holidays confronted the pair of miscreants responsible; one of which was just back from two tours in Afghanistan and the other was hopped up on crystal methamphetamines. Horns started honking the traffic backed up; the streetcar drivers started yelling and tourists hid behind each other; mounted police arrived and then, as they say, all hell broke loose.
The driver of the streetcar that was being blocked slipped on some freshly manufactured police horse manure, yelled something negative to the officer who immediately called for backup as an Iranian taxi driver with a bursting bladder and a cab full of Commanders Palace ten cent martini drinkers took to the street yelling for everyone to shut the @#&*!#$$ up and move along. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The meter maids fled en masse to Hattiesburg and formed a religious order; a black Santa who was tired of being profiled hooked up with a Lucky Dog salesman who was down on his luck and the public servant who was glad to give people a hard time left his post and went home and turned on the soaps to take his mind off his weight, complexion and love life. The melee spread across town and around the world like a rash.
Meantime, God came out of the rest room and took a look at the closed circuit television screens that kept an eye on the planet before reseating himself at the card table with his archangels Gabriel, Michael, Raphael and Lucifer; who turned to him and inquired: “So, this homo sapiens thing that you’ve been playing with… how’s that workin’ out for ya?”
God leaned back in his chair, lit up a Lucky Strike and pondered the term ‘screwing up a wet dream’. He then put on his poker face and turned his steel blue eyes on Lucifer and said “Happy Holidays to you too; now shut up and deal.”
.

Thanksgiving in New Orleans

2011-08-14T14:41:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
A Thanksgiving Carol
Or
Pecuniary Comforts

Robert Duprey didn’t pay his rent that month; instead he separated himself from his family in Tacoma, Washington in July of 1995 and took a Greyhound Bus to Livingston, Montana. He spent his forty second birthday there and left in the beginning of September, taking another Greyhound to Baton Rouge and then another to New Orleans relying on the kindness of strangers along the way. Bob is a brave man; you see, he’s all alone in the world in his motorized wheelchair living with Cerebral Palsy; stubbornly independent. He’s more of and a better man than I am.
Sixteen years later Bob has a neatly kept efficiency apartment, a part time helper that aids him in going to the toilet in the morning, a stipend from Social Security and his motorized wheelchair. In the mornings Bob makes his way to the French Quarter sometimes stopping off for an inexpensive breakfast at a convenience store along his route. He ‘drives’ the mile up Saint Charles Avenue against all odds and traffic and makes his rounds visiting folks that he knows and that care about him; an ice tea at Café Maspero; a visit to the Louisiana Music Factory (Bob LOVES music!); Beckam’s Bookstore and also to our shop. Those are only the places that I know about; there’s probably more. I know that he goes to Rouse’s for the daily lunch specials, I know that he goes to Walgreens and he’s not averse to going anywhere else that his chair can get in and out of easily.
A lot of times people look the other way when they see Bob; there are things that are basic to you and I that are beyond Bob’s ability and capabilities, one of them is grooming. Someone has to wash Bob, and it isn’t done often; someone has to lift him onto the toilet and that only happens five times a week; someone gives Bob his infrequent shaves and haircuts; someone else has to make phone calls for him, trim his nails, make appointments, get him a cushion, a blanket, listen to him when he speaks about his needs and wants.
A lot of young adults make fun of Robert Duprey; they call him “Push Me Bob” a name left over from the time that he had a chair with a faulty battery and once again had him relying on the kindness of strangers to get him back home. They seem to enjoy mocking the way he speaks and doesn’t have the same motor skills that we take for granted. Some of them are disgusted by Bob’s appearance and everything he stands for.
Sometimes the tap dancing kids on Decatur Street will snatch the cap from his head and tease him like an animal, tossing it to eachother in a mean game for their amusement before throwing it to the ground and scampering out of reach; getting their jollies from taunting someone who cannot stand up for himself… the fact is, Bob cannot stand up at all. I’ve seen them bring him almost to tears before an adult steps in and stops the humiliation.
Bob doesn’t want pity; in his words “sometimes you just need a little help from somebody”. He never asks for money; he takes care of himself, as well as he can. He could use a lot of help but rarely asks for it, usually only in an emergency, and, in case you’re wondering, he doesn’t want to be in a care facility, he enjoys his freedom, such as it is. He’d like to get the PBS station on his TV though.
Bob reads the daily newspaper through that little window in the vending machine, he’d like to have a computer so he could keep up to date on things, maybe record some of his adventurers, follow what’s going on in the world and someday be able to vote; imagine that, in a city where less than half of eligible voters turned out for the last presidential election …..
When Bob was young, his father moved the family 3,000 miles for a better school for him; imagine that, in a city where teachers cannot get a conference with a parent about their failing child short of a court order…..
His helper is trying to get him a recliner to alleviate the swelling in Bob’s legs, maybe stretch him out, because he lives in his chair, he eats in his chair, he sleeps in his chair and, I’m sure, Bob dreams in his chair.
Pause for a moment and ask yourself what Bob’s dreams are made of.
For that matter, what are any of our dreams made of and why should Bob’s be different? Why should any of the dreams of the flotsam and jetsam of the human condition be any different from anyone else’s? Around us we see collateral damage caused by the vagaries of fortune; damaged minds in otherwise good bodies and conversely, able minds trapped in faulty bodies possibly dreaming of dancing, flying or making love.
There are little things that we may take for granted that are not granted to those flawed by misfortune: and I’m not talking about the Bush tax cuts here. I submit to you items that I enjoy and do not take enough time to be thankful for: close family and friends; gainful employment; the ability to have and care for pets; physical and mental aptitude for performing specific tasks and the capability of being responsible enough to take charge in the case of an emergency. I also have the freedom to explore new worlds: I can submit the written word to you; I can decide that it’s time for me to take up artful projects like painting or playing a musical instrument; I can decide what, where and when I want to eat. Sure, you say, I can do that too.
Bob can’t. Bob doesn’t go to movies; Bob has never been to Jazz Fest; He doesn’t have a kitty, a car or a girlfriend; He hasn’t and never will play sports, cook his own food, tie his own shoes, pop a pimple or whistle. Bob has a motorized wheelchair and he’s thankful for that.
One thing that you can be pretty well sure of as you sit around your dinner table this Thanksgiving, tucking in to the turkey and stuffing, gravy and mashed potatoes, candied yams and pecan pie: the closest that Bob will come to that might be a turkey wrap from the store. What does it take for someone to quit bitching and be thankful for what they have? Bob says: “if I can do it, then they can do it”. Happy Thanksgiving.

Aussies in New Orleans OMG

2011-08-06T15:14:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
No Worries, Mate
Or
Misstra Know-It-All
Since my last article on bicycles (you did read it, didn’t you?) I’ve become a bit of a Go-To Guy when it comes to passing along information on little or notatall considered subjects. Now, sometimes you’ll hear a very authoritative voice coming from god knows where informing you of: “BREAKING NEWS!!... Sources… whom asked to remain anonymous… tell me that apparently an independent study is rumored to confirm the possibility of the truth behind blah blah and blah”.
Let me say this about that; certainly, there are questions that everybody should be asking themselves, especially about blah, blah and blah; but ask yourself this: has anyone thought to ask ‘who are these Australians, where do they come from and what do they want”? No? I didn’t think so. That’s why you have me.
Australians are people that live in a land far far away; a place called, oddly enough, Australia. Most of Australia is inhabited by non-human things that would like to kill you and primarily they live in places that humans do not, which is most of the country. Australia has a buncha buncha deadly animals, insects, plants, spiders and snakes that are only found in that country; and in a greater variety than say… the entire North American hemisphere. This is why Australians mostly live urbanely (or in populated areas). There are only two human beings for every square kilometer in Australia but because most of the country is uninhabitable, by living in what’s left after that’s taken out of the equation, Australia is one of the world’s most densely populated countries. The 50th to be exact. Australia is three quarters the size of the USA with a little over six and a half percent of our population. When you fly from Australia to the good old U. S. of A. you’ll arrive before you’ve departed; when you fly from here to there you lose a whole day from your life: gone forever. Does that make any sense? No? Well, neither does most of that country.
For instance; their indigenous peoples, called Aborigines, have been carbon dated to 60,000 years ago and nobody can explain where the heck they came from because Australia has been an island for a lot longer than that. Incidentally, Australia has no apes for the Abo’s to evolve from; ergo, God created man in his image in what would become the land Terra Australis (a name that means “someplace down under”). Either that or they sailed there before boats and Vegemite were invented. No one talks about Aborigines much; I think that it’s because they’re embarrassed by that whole ‘in his image’ thing or else they’re real sorry that white folks used to treat ‘em like they was, shall we say, less than human.
Anyway, in the 1600s the Dutch came, called the place New Holland and then quickly left, wanting nothing to do with it; in 1770 Sir Jos Banks discovered it as New South Wales, recommended that the Brits should colonize the place and then he came to New Orleans and opened a clothing store, supplying our colonists with much needed seer sucker suits. The Brits promptly emptied their gaols (that’s what they called their slammers) and sent about a thousand petty crooks to the Great Down Under in 1788, many of whom died because they could steal but they could not forage very well. Yes, and Australia missed being a French colony by this * much.
Onward: what do they want? Simple: they want to have fun; and if you’re an Aussie in America you’re having nothing but fun. That and they want us to love Vegemite as much as they hate peanut butter. Why do we see numbers of Aussies in New Orleans? Simple: they love to drink and they’re good at it. That plus they’re just all around the most upbeat, polite, and friendly of folks that you’ll ever meet unless you try to give them a peanut butter sandwich. Mention Vegemite… and watch them light up. Aussies avoid conflict and arguments I think because they know that they are always right and they know that they can kick our asses; that attitude comes with the belief that eating Vegemite makes you tough, smart, easy going, good looking and healthy.
We’re also seeing more and more visitors from Down Under because it’s affordable for them now and they’re happy to be somewhere where there’s not a crocodile stalking them or a giant spider or small snake ready to kill them with deadly venom just for the fun of it. Plus we have plenty of beer.
I’m reading In A Sunburned Country by Bill Bryson which is instrumental in my knowledge of Australia, supplemented by addendums from the Aussies that I work with. e.g. Bill Bryson tells me that the city of Adelaide is called the ‘City of Churches’ and why. Kristin (whom I work with), on the other hand, explains to me why the city of Adelaide is called the ‘City of Corpses’ and why. A nice balance if you ask me.
When visitors from Australia visit my shop I tell them that I’m reading Bill Bryson’s book they invariably look at me and nod politely as if I had just told them that I was reading the back of a cereal box. When I ask them where in Australia they’re from… their ears perk up They mention that they’re from Australia as if they were saying that they live in Gentilly… not like they happen to come from the sixth largest country in the whole frigging world. Then I mention Vegemite and tell them that I love the stuff. Bingo!, we’re now BFF.
I tell Yanks, that inquire, that Vegemite is an acquired taste; most Americans can’t even get past the smell. I’ve been told that it smells like gorilla butt breath and tastes like decomposing gym shorts. Sometimes I wonder where some people spend their time.
In closing, know that Aussies use slang words like Bluger, fair dinkum, squzz, bluey, figjam, pash, bogan and coo-ee. And here’s a word of advi: if you’re sinking piss with some Sheila and get off your face or rotten and decide to sound like a broken record with the “G’day Mate; toss a shrimp on the Barbie!” routine she might go Aussie on you, do a frog in the sock or get mad as a cut snake and knock you arse over tits. If you don’t believe me, give it a burl, ya nong.

Social Aid and Pleasure in New Orleans

2011-07-23T11:28:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Social Aid and Pleasure
Or
Of Yats and Who Dats and Dem
When I’m asked if I’m from New Orleans I sometimes reply “no, but I got here as quick as I could”. If I’m asked if I’ve lived here all my life, I generally answer “not yet”.
That’s the way it is with people who ‘get’ New Orleans; we are here, we know that we’re here and we wouldn’t be anywhere else; believe me, we know that we’re supposed to be here. So here we are. And we don’t listen to anyone else’s take on the subject; I mean, if we were supposed to be somewhere else, why would we be here? Why would we be back?
We’re here from the Esplanade Ridge to Saint Roch; from Faubourg Marigny to Central City; from the Garden District to the French Quarter; from the Ninth Ward to Lakeview; from Holy Cross to Broadmoor, Fountainbleau, Gert Town, Buck Town, Back of Town, Bywater, Black Pearl, Saint Bernard and Bayou Saint John. We wander in and out of the fabric of the city; Oak Street, Carrollton, Tchoupitoulas, Desire and Ponchartrain Park.
We gather at coffee shops, second lines, barber shops, bars, festivals, churches and the steps leading to our front doors; we love our sports teams, Mamas, food, music, pets and children (in that order). We either are or know musicians, tipplers, chefs, artists, writers, hustlers and people in various bizarre states of economic flux. We say hello to eachother on sidewalks. We are a tribe. We’re here for better or for worse.
We don’t participate in anything that we are confused about or not good at; hence our low voter turnouts and high Saints game followings. We are the murder (per capita) capitol of the country; lead in teen unwed pregnancies; incarcerations and graduate a mere 53.7% of our children. We are described as a third world country not an American city; rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer, Indian chief; we’re a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction, taking every wrong direction on our lonely way back home. We’re sassy, flirtatious, opinionated and, most of the time, witty (the rest of the time we’re half witty).
We litter where we stand, we park where we want to, dress as we like, stay out as late as we like, say whatever we like to whomever we like. We cannot for the life of ourselves manage to drive down a street with any degree of safety, simultaneously making a phone call, turning the music up, checking out a hottie by the side of the road AND work a turn signal, but that doesn’t stop us from going for a best three out of five. We live our lives on auto pilot like some confederacy of petulant adolescents; or, as one pundit described our particular way of doing things: “it’s not the heat, it’s the stupidity”.
Would I call us stupid? No. Would I call us a lot of other things (contradictory, illogical, unmotivated, inconsiderate, and insensitive)? Ignorant? Hmmmmm. Defensive? Me?
Would I say that we are the greatest city in the world? I dunno, I haven’t been to all the great cities…yet; but, you have to admit, we’re up there. However, we’re like spoiled children with a rare book that we neglect, mistreat, disregard the value of (and at times wipe our asses with the pages) that cannot be reasoned with.
Who knows why? It’s easy to say “This is the twenty-first century, can’t we act a little more advanced than we have been?” Can we really expect more of ourselves? Can we not? Can we not expect the parents of yesterday to have raised the children of today to be somewhat more evolved? Of course the answer is here, and the answer is no. We, by and large (imprecisely generally speaking), cannot.
Of course, as evidence shows, we are not so much worse than other places; but consider this: we are not better than other places, and we could be. We have a rich fertile environment here that could be the poster child of the progress that the twenty-first century can hold; and what do we show the rest of the world? A bucket of sludge.
And sure, there are bright, advanced and enlightened elements here; but they’re just drops in the bucket. The forces for good are trumped by the forces of inertia, ennui and complacency. The ways that we fall short and the ways that we can improve as a city are easy, easy to see; only, evidently, no one is looking. It’s more like we’re wedged in Forest Gump stupid gear where we think that New Orleans is a box of candy and we never know what we’ll get at any one pick; Politics, police, health, education, ethics, crime, economy, jobs, etc. None are as appetizing as they appear; and any discussions about the value of life, economic opportunities, liberty, personal safety and the pursuit of happiness are rife with definitive qualifiers. We’re stuck in Gumpville when we should be in Will Shortz land or even the realm of Alfred Mosher Butts.
You see, Alfred Mosher Butts invented a board game where the participants are given letters and make words out of them (Scrabble), Will Shortz takes those words and makes crossword puzzles out of them for the New York Times newspaper. How much easier to solve and excel in city infrastructure challenges than to have clues to those challenge’s solutions and to just plug the answer in to where they fit with all the other answers, figure everything out, complete the puzzle, and BAM! Triple Word Score!
The trouble is that to anyone who plays those word games and puzzles, it is that easy! And it drives us nucking futz that them candy pickers cannot see it for the glitter of the wrappers and the coating of the sugar; on the pieces of candy that they juggle and then work with sound and fury to keep all their balls in the air and accomplish nothing at all. It is that easy to find that all of the answers that we need to all of our challenges can be worked on together so that they fit with other answers to correct this dysfunctional dilemma that we are in. Does that make any sense to you? It does to me.
To have a superior city everyone needs to participate in making it happen and if you cannot participate then possibly you’re not part of the solution…

Restaurant Droppings from New Orleans

2011-07-23T11:20:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Carpe Diem
Or
Fish Of The Day
Eddie begins his workday at quarter ‘til seven every day; well, he considers it the beginning because every day he’s outside the restaurant at that time, every day; sipping on his coffee and waiting for the day manager to show up and let him in. The manager doesn’t get there until seven and it gives Eddie time to catch one last smoke before he hits the ground running. Eddie is the backbone of the restaurant and he knows it; he works seven days a week and hasn’t had a day off in six years. He only works until noon thirty because they discourage overtime and that’s fine with him; he’s got better things to do, like, a life. Whatever. The manager is on time today (for once) and Eddie’s day can begin. The manager is fresh out of hotel management school; he thinks Eddie is trash. Eddie has worked in restaurants since he was twelve; he thinks the manager is a pussy.
Hose out the trash cans, bring them in. Take out the kitchen mats and hose them off. Next, hose down the kitchen floors, squeegee them dry, take in the mats and hose off the sidewalk; check the windows to see if they need cleaning and hose off the walls outside the restaurant just in case someone has peed on ‘em and on to the bathrooms to clean ‘em up before sweeping and mopping the dining room. Eddie is a water sign. A soap and water sign.
The kitchen manager and prep cook get there at seven thirty (they ride in together), start a pot of coffee and check in the food deliveries and linen. Only the kitchen manager is allowed to check in the seafood and meats. The prep cook checks in the veggies for weight, freshness and quality, and stores the new stock in with the old keeping in mind proper rotation and the avoidance of cross contamination. The kitchen manager checks the schedules and reads any notes left from the night before. After putting up the deliveries and rotating stock, the prep cook gets started on the prep list left from the night cooks and lets the first dishwasher in just before eight o’clock who, sets up his station, fills his machine and pot sinks, sweeps out the walk-in refrigerator and then starts peeling onions and potatoes.
Eight O’clock, and the lunch cooks show up (hung over) turn on the overhead fans, ovens, fryers and start setting up the line, prepping their mis en place and changing the radio station, which has been on NPR, to the classic rock station that will keep pace with the rhythm of their slinging of pots and pans, slicing, dicing, lies and tall tales about the wenches that got away last night at Pal’s Bar.
The waitresses (and the second dishwasher) come in for nine and start setting up the dining room; slicing lemons, topping off the condiments, salt and peppers, rolling silverware, positioning and wiping down tables, chairs and making the first of many batches of ice tea. By ten o’clock the hostess, busboy and bartender show up just in time for a staff meal of leftovers and kitchen rejects; followed by a staff lineup and meeting to discuss the specials of the day and service points to be worked on. Fifteen minutes to grab a smoke, straighten aprons, fill up ice bins, finish some gossip or a page in the book that they’re reading and crank up the espresso machine. Places everyone; the first customers are at the door. Show time.
To the uninitiated, restaurants are staffed by invisible servants. We rarely are aware of back of the house goings on, we follow a swinging butt to our table or belly up to a bartender who could be working naked from the waist down for all we know; we face our servers and bussers at crotch level. It has been called the last vestige of pseudo-nobility; we arrive, we eat, someone else cooks, serves and cleans up and we have the right, if not the duty, to complain if things are not precisely to our satisfaction. If we’re feeling flush, we can pump up the gratuity and feel like Bill Gates. If we’re having a bad day, we become Vlad the Impaler; we can take it out on the waiter, busboy, hostess, manager or all of the above. The rules are simple: If we’re happy, we tip. If not, we withhold our love in the form of money, even to the point of leaving nothing at all. I mean, screw ‘em; tips are only the employers way of justifying low wages, right?
Conversely, anyone who has worked in the industry knows that customers might just as well be butt-ass-naked the moment that they walk in. To restaurant workers, the antics of customers are the theater that helps to pass the shift time in an ever changing fluid diorama that ranges from dark tragedy to absurd comedy and all points in between. From the front door entrance to the tooth picking exit, the diners and drinkers of the world are the meat and bones of discourse and edification to service staff; as if their inner selves cannot help but be bared for all to witness and wonder upon.
I’ve been in the service industry for over a half of a century and not a shift goes by without a ‘guest’ exhibiting behavior so amazingly unique and contrary to any rules of basic sanity and civility that in the least, I am given pause and at most I’m taken aback and primordially aghast; no shit, you guys can be weirder than dirt! I’ve seen ‘em drunk, blind, crippled, crazy, underage and old enough to know better doing stupid stuff that your mama would snatch you bald headed for.
Philosophically speaking, when you put people in an environment where they only need to consider the price of a meal and you turn them loose in a public forum, it seems that they cannot help but make fools of themselves. Maybe it’s the lack of outside stimulation that encourages them to come up with outlandish somethings to say or do; and since they are at a loss, fabrications, flirtations, inebriations, faux pas, pretentions, passions and prevarications become the rules of play. Of course the staff plays along, just as they play along with each other.
But, come hell or high water, with delayed deliveries, lunch and dinner rushes, equipment malfunctions, menstruation cycles, crying babies, grouchy oldsters, petulant teenagers, uptight queens, slips, spills, miscommunications, the ringing of cell phones, personal tragedies and nicotine starved cooks with sharp knives, the show perpetuates until closing; and until, with a big sigh, the restaurant is put to bed by the closing managers. Another day. History.
Everything will be fine; Eddie will be here in the morning.

Bike riding in New Orleans

2011-07-22T15:33:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Friend or Foe
Or
Who Goes There?
Recently on an idyllic retreat to Fairhope, Alabama a local news story caught my attention. A young man riding his bicycle to work at 6:40 in the morning had his customary commute interrupted by a three hundred pound bear that came out from the woods that the man was pedaling past and slapped him for no apparent reason. Slapped him for no apparent reason, tore off his back tire and lumbered back into the woods (note: bears ‘lumber’; it means to move clumsily). The cyclist’s injury was reported as minor and his quote was “well, I’ve been hit a couple of times by cars but this was the first time that I’ve ever been hit by a bear!”
I wondered aloud that if something happened to me of that magnitude; (excuse me, but getting slapped by three hundred pounds of bad breath brings the word magnitude to mind) that wouldn’t it be prudent of me to rethink my transportation choices. Especially if I had already been hit more than once by automobiles. Girlfriend’s quip in response was: “ya think?”
Since then I have looked up the different run-ins that bicyclists have with wildlife. Bears, deer, dingoes, coyotes, skunks, snakes, moose, squirrel, owls and bats to name a few. Survey shows that once you hoist that leg over that cross bar… you open yourself to a world of weirdness. The Bicycle Zone.
Here in the city we are not without bike nemeses: car doors opening on us, taxis without turn signals doing NASCARs, trucks stopping short in front of us, random idiot pedestrians thinking that they’re indestructible and the lady with the bomb in the baby carriage. We have drunks on bikes, petty thieves and riders that are either discourteous or ignorant of the rules of the road as well. We also have a culture of bicycle stealing here that is unexcelled in other places; I do believe that since their inception bicycles have been nothing short of harbingers of heartbreak, hurt and havoc.
Be that as it may, consider the possibility that animals might be jealous of riders. After all, when Prometheus and his brother Epimetheus gave the animals their attributes and talents they had nothing left to give the poor naked humans but fire… and bicycles. Put fire and bicycles together and what do you get? Civilization. And pizza delivery.
Another consideration is that historians would like us to believe that mayhem mischief and marauding were accomplished by conveyances other than bikes. Nothing could be further from truth; Attila, Alexander, Napoleon, Caesar, Tamerlane and Charlemagne all conquered on two wheels. Bicycle wars are as common as ticks on a hound; how do you think the Crusades were fought? That’s right, it’s a fact; ask anyone.
Bicycles begin their life cycles as paper clips, cute little things, aren’t they? Then in adolescence become wire coat hangers, all gangly and stuff, hanging out before they mature into full fledged bikes. Retarded bikes invariably get training wheels; everyone knows that normal bikes wouldn’t hurt a child who is just learning to ride. Manhattan Island was purchased from the Indians for $24.00 worth of paper clips which led to the great western migration that was only stopped by Bicycle Bill and his Wild West Riders who decimated whole herds for their tires which were made into chewing gum traded to the Indians for cigarettes, popcorn and tickets to the local drive in movie.
Indecently, the settlers at Plymouth Rock traded coat hangers to the Indians for turkey sandwiches and pepper jelly (what do heathens know from coat hangers?); and even as far back as the early 1800’s merchants in California were trading bicycles to the Chinese for sweet tea and fortune cookies. The Mescalero Apache, from their safe havens in Mexico, raided Arizona and New Mexico for bikes that they traded for tequila and tacos. Especially prized was the ‘bicycle built for two’ which anyone can see is a genetic mutation much akin to Siamese twins. You didn’t know that stuff, did you? See the knowledge that you can get from the written word? Here’s some more:
Recently in France cave paintings were found depicting cave people killing wild animals from the backs of (you guessed it) bicycles and then off to the side of the rendering (in axle grease, of course) the first evidence of a bicycle rack with crude locks to keep away thieves. This was confirmed by my archeologist friend Amanda who told me that similar drawings were found in caves in the Black Hills of Dakota.
Now, I’m no creationist but did you happen to read that in some Dead Sea Scrolls the mention of God creating bicycles on that first Friday night was discovered and suppressed? I guess those scientist would have us believe that bicycles evolved from prehistoric wheelbarrows; they must think that I’m stupid or something.
Bikes came to Louisiana as currency 400 years ago by Ponce de Leon who was on his way to Florida to discover the Redneck Riviera. He was actually laughed out of the state because at the time we were using bottle caps and go cups for money. We had not yet set up a foreign exchange, especially for the big money that was in Styrofoam that was being strip mined from what is now Audubon Park. By the way, old Ponce was killed by surfers at Destin when he tried to cash a counterfeit Schwinn.
Nowadays in New Orleans there are rumors of bicycle vampires and werewolves; it came to my attention when I spotted a bike locked up on Dauphine Street with the back tire gone and in its place was some Spanish moss. The poor thing didn’t have a chance, locked up with one of those Kryptonite locks. The vampires will just suck the air from the tires; the bicycle werewolves will tear bikes apart.
Bike thieving here goes back generations also, with folks at family reunions, cook-outs or stoop-sits bragging to the younger generation on how cool it is to steal bikes and then sell them to other suckers and then steal them again. It’s even sanctioned by the church, no one speaks out against it or even questions where little Johnny got his new ride or why you see two guys riding (fast) with three bikes. It’s like “Thou Shall Not Steal (except bicycles)”.
In the meantime, once a month bicycles take over our roadways in an attempt to “Take Back The Streets!!” to which I say: “you can have ’em; just watch out for Fiats, ferrets and felons.

July in New Orleans

2011-05-09T13:49:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Summer Fresh
Or
Some Are Not
One way that you know that it’s summer in New Orleans is when your eyeballs sweat, or when you look at your watch and it resembles a terrarium, complete with moss growing on the northern side. Another is when you take your dog out to the lake and she just stands in the water and doesn’t want to move. Still another is when any outing that you plan must involve a place with arctic type air conditioning; e.g. Prytania Theater. In the summer here the smart investments are in talcum powder, sunscreen and Boudreaux’s Butt Paste. Oh, and that awful stuff that you spray on your body to prevent you from becoming a mosquito buffet selection.
Wardrobes change drastically as well, as evidenced by the use of ‘no’ as a fashion descriptor. No socks; no long sleeves or pants; no drawers; no bras (how do I know that?). Personally, I don’t want much clothing on at all anyway and surely my only prerequisite signature fashion accessory is a traditional cool beverage, adult in nature. At home my diet involves cool salads (especially fruits in season) and pyrotechnics on my outdoor grill. Woe unto those without FWPs (Friends With Pools).
Another sign of summer here is the seemingly inordinate amount of time that I spend watching the weather; in the newspaper, on the television and over my shoulder. What am I interested in? I’ll bet that you can guess. I’m looking for any advanced warning that will keep me from the ass whupping that I took from that last big hurricane. Taking-into-account the weather beating that the rest of everywhere has been taking this past year-- floods; tsunamis; cyclones; earthquakes; tornados; fires; blizzards; sh-t storms and the like-- I figure we’re in for our own share of misery whether we’ve been pure of heart and said our prayers at night or not. It seems as if ‘disaster immunity’ has become an oxymoron due to the ubiquitous nature of our planets ire toward humans as a race. In other words: with the planet’s tendency to want to shake us off like a dog with blood sucking ticks, what less can I expect this storm season than to have a gale force tragedy flaunting her ‘hundreds of miles per hour windy titty burlesque’ ( with impunity) heading straight for my assets (and everything I love and hold dear)?
Chances are that no serious calamity will occur and we should look forward to a nice safe sweltering miserably hot and brutally humid summer and storm season. Chances are that there will be some storms in the gulf battering third world countries and those smug people on the east coast and we’ll blithely go about our crawfish boils, trips to the coast and plans for naked drunk monkey love. But an ounce of precaution is worth a pound of ‘shoulda/coulda/woulda/ain’titafrigginshame regret.
So, when I pick up this issue in the beginning of July, assuming that nothing too catastrophic has occurred beforehand, I will want to make sure that I took the following precautions for our very own storm season. Whether my preparedness is warranted or not, for me it’s a ‘once burnt- twice learnt’ scenario: I call it the
Katrina Inspired OCD Mambo.
Numero uno: when push comes to shove, the main item of importance is to have a way out of the area. What I learned on that last memorable summer evacation was that my blasé attitude toward owning a vehicle in New Orleans could have cost us our lives. Period.
Right now, I’m the proud guardian of a 1994 Lincoln Towncar, Cartier model; bigger than some apartments that I’ve lived in and more powerful than a locomotive. So, a trip to the mechanics; engine tuned up; tires examined; fluids topped off and backed up; spare checked; insurance and AAA paid up; battery updated; full tank of gas; basic tools packed and anything else that the law of unavoidable havoc can challenge will have attention paid to. Remember: before you have a destination you have to have a reliable way to get to it, reliably.
Which brings up the next point: where are you going to go besides ‘the hell out of town’? Suggestion: plan a place about a four to six hour (normal) drive away. Far enough to be out of harm’s way and close enough to make getting back semi-painless. This also helps when it comes to provisioning yourselves.
Speaking of which. Provisioning yourselves: two considerations: are you planning on leaving or are you planning on staying? Both alternatives call for having the stuff in your refrigerator at a minimum; basically only having what you can consume or carry: pate; wine; cheese; olives; cornichons and perhaps a cream puff or two. Same goes for freezer; clean it out, save the cubes for the cooler and eat the ice cream on your way out the door. Dry goods are also a consideration; remember, some people were in contraflow evacuation for twenty hours or more and not even a hundred miles away. So, snacks, water, ice chest with sandwich stuff, flashlight, paper products, battery operated fan and radio, food for the critter(s), entertainment for the rug rat and music for your mind. Also bring any important papers (including your pet’s), an amount of cash, medicines, can and wine openers, cell phone charger and photos that you might want safeguarded. I recall that some folks thought that they’d be home in a day or two and were gone a month and a half. Don’t forget yer toiletries; for god sake bring some deo for your B.O. and also consider your need for eating and drinking utensils and paraphernalia.
And lastly, there’s no putting lipstick on the pig when it comes to the matter of safety and protection for you and your loved ones.
In the wake of Katrina, the phrase was coined ‘civil disobedience’. Which is to say that, unlike the Japanese disaster where everyone is orderly and honest; in New Orleans (before the storm winds had died down) there were citizens in our streets taking things that were not being freely given to them (looting, robbing, breaking and entering). There were citizens in New Orleans that had weapons and used them to inflict bodily harm on other citizens. Whether you leave or stay, you need to have a contingency plan for safeguarding everything that you love and hold dear; from your main snugglebunny to your mama’s sapphire and your mutt Sophia.
Good luck and Goddess’ blessings.

Aging in New Oreleans

2011-04-30T12:46:00.000-07:00

. This is not going to be a feel good piece because this is a subject that I do not feel good about. This is "The Pandora Punk OCD Sooner Or Later You’re Gonna Die So Let’s Hear It For Your Future Mambo Rag In Three Quarter Time Piece". This piece is about what a killer life is.
. First off: life is not for wussies; life is not for the faint of heart; life is not for the sensitive. Hope is a four letter word; résistance c’est futile; the meek shall not inherit the earth and all that you can expect from love is a broken heart.(it's important to note here that although it may have felt like it, we've rarely lost anyone human to a broken heart; it just feels like it.) If life doesn’t kill you in your prime (or before) it will whittle you down until sometimes you’ll wonder why it just doesn’t and get it over with. That’s the good news.
. Unlike love and war, in life all is not fair and only in ignorance is there bliss. If you live long enough you’ll get old enough to watch your loved ones and your friends die. If you live long enough, If life doesn’t kill you right off, sooner or sooner (there is no later) it is going to suck being you; whether you like it or not. And believe you me; you’re not going to like it.
Let’s mention here: Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, MS, heart disease, renal failure, asthma, osteoporosis, pneumonia, spontaneous aneurisms, deadly allergies and the seventy different terminal types of cancer. Add to that, things like getting hit by a car, bus or train; slipping on stairs, ice or the sidewalk and falling; physical encounters such as muggings, runaway bicycles, terrorist attacks, a stray bullet, skateboards or some random nut with a ball peen hammer. A natural disaster such as an earthquake,fire, flood, random lightning strikes, tsunami, hurricane or open manhole cover could really ruin your day of not your life. Mental illness is another grim reaper; depression, loneliness, thoughts of suicide, paranoia, schizophrenia, anger, grief and despair can be just as debilitating as anorexia, leukemia, diabetes or bulimia. There's just no way out of this life alive.
. As you live a longer and longer life, what you will get is …older and older; and you know what? Your body does not come with a parts warranty, just as your heart and mind did not come with an instruction booklet. Piece by piece you are going to fall apart like a ’53 Buick Roadmaster; once classic, once king of the highway and now junkyard relic. Your drive train is shot; your fuel pump is clogged. Your points and plugs are beyond replacing, there’s no adjusting your carburetor or flushing your radiator. Rotating your tires, wiping your windshield, tightening your brakes and adding oil or transmission fluid ain’t going to do you one bit of good. Your body will turn against you and mock the legend of your youth. You’ll drive that car as far, and in most cases as fast as you can and then, as they say, that’s a wrap. Lights out—nobody home.
So, why do we do this? Why do we participate in this fiasco, lottery, and crap shoot? Is it the job description? No, I’ll tell you what it is: we’re not willing participators; we didn’t have much of a choice and we didn’t ask to be here, isn’t that right? We’re just now getting a dose of the real meaning of the ‘Life Ain’t Fair’ blues and why didn’t anyone ever tell you what a ball breaker life was going to be? Your parents tried to tell you but you wouldn’t listen, your grandparents didn’t tell you because they didn’t want to spoil it for you, they rathered to have let you find out for yourself, bless their cowardly, well meaning hearts. Them that knew wouldn’t tell and them that told were not listened to.
We were led into this world a blank canvass and we filled it with our dreams. “Dreamers live forever and dreams never die”, is what they told us. Rather they should have said: “You ain’t getting out of this world alive and all of your dreams will be dashed before this is over”; but, we probably wouldn’t have listened to that either.
Okay, so then what’s the point of being here? One guess is that the point is to make life a little easier for other people, the old Buddhist selfless dance, you know, karmic yoga, that old white magic and on to your next life; so what if it bites being you this time around, there’ll be pie in the sky when you die. Wanna buy some beach front property in Nevada?
So let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that you are done with disappointment, over having your hopes hung out to dry and you’ve come to realize that all along you have been nothing but a spoiled child taking advantage wherever you could and pitching fits when you couldn’t have your way; that you’re you done with whining until someone holds you and tells you that everything will be alright. (It’s not going to be alright). What’s the next logical progression of your unenlightened life, you may ask, and how soon can it start? It all starts with patience and recognition of the grand illusion of life. That’s what the Guru said.
Or it started when you woke up in the middle of the night in a sweat realizing that this is as good as it gets -- that when the lights of your life are turned off that final time, it is… final; and you become afraid to die. It’s too nice here; you’re not near done here; you’re not ready for eternal darkness; you’ll never be ready! It starts when you realize that as little of a choice you had in being alive, you have even less of a choice about leaving this life. It’s not a matter of the if; it’s just a matter of the when and you have absolutely no control over the when. Death does not make a reservation or an appointment.
It starts when you find that this is all illusion and that you are caught in the birth, life, death syndrome that has no clear evidence of any other reward than for you, at the end of this grand endeavor, to believe that you have done the best job that you could. What’s your alternative? Die ignorant. Die anyway.
How about we die young and leave a good looking corpse complete with a full set of teeth, twenty-twenty vision and no physical flaws? For most of us it’s too late for that. How about existentialism? I mean, screw it; if it’s all for naught, let’s just party ‘til we puke; bop ‘til we drop; drink a little poison ‘fore we die? That’s nice empty bravado talking.
How about we dwell on it every waking minute of our lives until we make ourselves and everyone around us miserable; we could do that. Or we could find a way to just not think about it and get going doing all of the things that we should, would and could be doing as if we were going to live forever. Not putting life off until tomorrow
because there is no tomorrow.
Okay, I’ll do that. End of piece, beginning of peace (yeah, right).

French Quater Droppings

2011-04-17T13:45:00.000-07:00

Po boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Tumblin’ Dice
Or
Down The Rabbit Hole
With my perverse propensity for life’s theater, I take pleasure in reading the streets of New Orleans. I read its life forces, its vitality and its levels of triumphs and tragedies. There is nowhere better to witness this passion play unfolding than in my beloved French Quarter; believe you me, Damon Runyon has nothing on us and that’s no phedinkus. So… let’s commiserate about the Quarter.
Trust visitors to see the French Quarter at best through rose colored blinders and at worst through an alcohol induced haze. However, ask a local, and they would probably tell you that it’s more like a kaleidoscopic mosaic of neighbors and nuisances; street musicians and magicians and face painted balloon merchants; cool shops and rip off emporiums; lap dancers and aggressive street hustlers; local pubs and tourist traps; small groceries and inconvenience stores; an explosion of sensory input where nothing is revealed.
We’re still a Mecca for the great unwashed migration in winter on their way to tarnished dread locked futures, canines and musical instruments in tow. Girly boutiques add luster and tee shirt shops take it away. Why anyone would come to the French Quarter for a foot massage is anyone’s guess. Pre-owned book shops both fancy and fanciful are (thankfully) safely entrenched. Bourbon Street is on its own spiral, rolled over for the Yankee dollar and playing that ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ for the masses. Greed, destruction and neglect have robbed us of basic services: Laundromats, hardware stores, post office, shoe repair and stationary supplies. We endure like abused spouses.
The economy has taken its toll on residential offerings; a lot of previous residents have found digs elsewhere: rents go up, folks move out. Children are imported to fill the schools, service personnel come from the outside; the voting base is left in the dust, Mom and Pop stores are gone as well as ethnic and racial diversity. BUT, art, architecture and aesthetics hang in. Preservation organizations jealously keep the draw of the Quarter alive and attractive but her name is still the Mother of Exiles, taking in the tempest tossed.
Some people come here and rise up from mediocrity; some fall through the cracks into obscurity. Some follow love to get here and others are fleeing heartbreak. People that live in the Quarter, work in the Quarter, spend time in the Quarter find themselves part of a small closely knit family. They celebrate their victories and mourn their losses; for indeed, some come here to live and others to die.
They know their bartenders, shopkeepers, neighbor’s pets, and local homeless by name and they’re outgoing and giving by nature; held together by bonds of cocktails, crab boils and classless distinction.
Anyone finding that they’re too busy to notice will actually miss a lot of what is going on in the street. The hungover clown; the drunk asleep in the doorway; the overweight cop smoking a cigarette; the pickpocket ready to strike; the stripper on her way to work. Plain clothes police; a man selling bananas; another washing windows for spare change; unruly teens making more money tap dancing than the dishwasher that’s grateful for the employment and the night shift waiters heading for the Gumbo Shop pass almost unnoticed. A scruffy guitarist holding down an alcove; the day crew smoking across from the Omni or K-Paul’s; kitchen help hosing the sidewalk in back of Café Maspero or Antoine’s; Johnny’s Poor Boy delivering another of the city’s treasures; a deal going down on Dauphine and St. Louis; Joe, outside his wine shop catching a bit of sun before heading off to afternoon mass at the cathedral. Lucky Dogs and Good Friends welcoming you to my world.
Michael is up on a balcony with blood dripping down his arm as a local gendarme (gun drawn) tries to talk him down; a group gathered by the river to celebrate Jerry the waiter’s life and too bad he got drunk and fell down the stairs and broke his neck; William out walking the dogs at noon and heading down to Flanagan’s for a scotch on the rocks; a small woman is selling her homemade jewelry shop door to shop door; a second line from Fahy’s for Cindy who choked on a piece of meat and then there’s Jennifer the hairdresser with her beautiful baby girl; all going on if you’d just look a bit closer. Frank and Winnie on their stoop, seeing it all; Amzie Adams on the street, knowing it all.
Ryan rides her bike to work at Michaelopolis at five minutes to ten so regularly that you could set your watch; they’re boiling crawfish at Yo Mama’s; the best jambalaya is still at Coop’s; WWOZ is on the radio at Kitchen Witch Cookbook Shop; the server up the street got a sweet settlement from BP and hasn’t taken a sober breath since; there’s a new shop and a sucker born every minute so watch your back or there’ll be a shoeshine goon trying to bully you out of your hard earned. No wonder that Tom Waits feels so comfortable here.
Movie stars have moved into a house on Ursuline Street across from Marinette who is throwing her annual ‘Christmas In June’ cook out, Croissant D’Or still has the best pastries but the best coffee is at Royal Blend where the lox and bagels are, Mr. B. at Rouse’s agrees on the blessing of the day and Samantha the checkout lady catches you with a hearty “Howyoudoin’??”, The Toulouse Grocery has breakfast for less than five bucks, music spills out of the Touché bar, the buggy driver is stopping in for a wine; Gerry and Danny are still running their culinary show at Café Amelie and HERE COMES A PARADE!!
Most folks employed in the French Quarter are overworked and underpaid, have clean bodies and dirty minds, know where the best music is, a parking place or a restroom; wouldn’t have a drink on Bourbon Street on a bet and are here only because they want to be. They know how to get from point (a) to point (b) skirting wide hipped tourists blocking the sidewalk only to get hung up on conversations with the woman selling the Newspaper on Royal Street, listening to Grandpa Elliot or the etheric violin player.
In short, if you come here and think that you’d never want to leave…don’t; with that attitude, you’d fit right in.

New Orleans short story interlude

2011-04-17T11:45:00.000-07:00

“Pa, we ain’t got nothin to do” was just about the worst thing that I could have said that morning. It allowed me and my brother the unique growth experience of having our ears assaulted by an unanticipated and unusually loud parental barrage of profanities:
“Godammit!!!!!, you spoiled rotten stinkin’ sonofabitch lazyass bastard ingrates… then… do something to earn your goddamn keep! Yer Ma’s outside with the laundry an I been workin’ my ass off all week! The day’s clear as a friggin’ bell, and we ain’t raisin’ no southern god-damned piss-ant aristocrats on this here worthless piece of shit property! This ain’t no sissy dude ranch and it ain’t no time in your pipsqueak, waste of breath lives to go mopin’ round here bein’ ‘bored’; If you ain’t got nothin’ better to do with your sorry assed selves, git them poles and go catch us somethin’ for supper! When I was your age…….”
Well, I was twelve years old, goin’ on thirteen and my kid brother had just turned ten and we doubted if our Pa had ever been our age. However, acting on instinct born of experience, we grabbed our poles and got goin’ quick; little did we know that we were about to have a day of life changing occurrences that was to be a slap dash, set yer hair on fire doozy. One that has stuck with us to this day and if I’d a known then, I would have just ducked under the covers and kept my big mouth shut.
It wasn’t too late a morning on a warm spring day in our home town of Gretna, Louisiana in 1962 when my brother, Nuthin, and I set out on our way to Nunez’s Grocery for a couple of bottles of Regal Beer and some ‘twofers’ to take with us fishing just to help pass the time; we had a silver half a dollar that we’d snitched from our Pa and an extra quarter from our mama for a loaf of French bread and a dime’s worth of baloney for lunch. Now, don’t get taken aback or uppity about children and alcohol and nicotine and playing fast and loose. It was something that kids did in those days; you know, get some supplies, pack up some lunch and go fishing on a Saturday afternoon, smoke a couple of cancer sticks and drink warm beer like the big boys. Curse and scratch and spit and talk about girls. Weather permitting.
Grandma Nunez, at the store, knew us and our family and knew that when a couple of boys went off to fish for their folks dinner, instead of wasting time like little slugs, that they could be treated like the responsible young men that they were, or so she thought, and that was good enough for us. She took one look at us shoeless and already hot and dusty and gave us her biggest Grandma smile. Even with most of her teeth gone she could sure lay on a grandma smile second to none; that smile never did nothing but make us feel real good, and these days I can’t help but miss it. That smile.
“Awwww, ain’t you sunshine sweet boys good little angels to be goin’ out fishin’ when you coulda been watchin’ those communist homosexual cartoons on that mind rotting teevee set, like them other pinko piccaninnies that’s bein’ raised around here. Are y’all sure you wouldn’t rather have red drinks? I guess its okay, y’all will be on the water in case y’all gets a case of the dehydrates. Now go on with y’all, the sun’s startin’ to git high and mighty an it looks like it it’s gonna turn out to be a real scorcher”.
She was a pretty big woman for her size, with her finger on the pulse of the neighborhood, and we knew that if a whiff of any stupid behavior or mischief on our part were to get back to her that, well… we be cut off from any future grown up privileges without so much as a ‘fare thee well’. Period. Until then, with a wink and a nod, our vittles could, would and did get packed in a sack and we could, would and did go on our merry way unimpeded by anything as inconvenient as ‘adult or parental concern’; you see, in the old days, in southern Louisiana, kids had always been more mature than other youngsters in practically every way and we were treated as such. At least until we screwed up.
The day was as picture perfect as a peach pie, although getting a mite on the warm side, with a slight breeze comin’ in off the river. We had an old half sunk pirogue tied up at the batture that would drift us just far enough out to be in uncurrented water shaded by some old willows where the croakers and gaspergous liked to hang around.
My brother’s real name is Nunzio but everybody calls him Nuthin since the days when we was little and the older kids (especially the girls) used to taunt us, calling: “Nunzio, Nunzio Nuthin; you know somethin’? Somethin’ somethin’ somethin’; you know nothin’?” My folks had named me Sumpter, after the neighbor man who drove my mother to Charity Hospital when she was birthin’ me and having a hard time of it. Most folks call me Sump but the mean kids call me Sumthin’ and my brother Nuthin and we don’t get along much with the ones that they call ‘normal kids”. We don’t care much about that, we get along fine with each other; we’re Italian, and that’s why.
So, me and Nuthin were on our way after getting us some beer and butts. Incidentally, Twofers were what they called cigarettes that are sold separately, two at a time for a nickel. They’re also called ‘loosies’ and ‘stoops’. We’re workin’ our way through the old neighborhood heading towards the river when we passed by Pearl Prentiss’ house where she’s sitting in her dirt yard trying to teach her talking cat to play jacks because since her cat’s brother ran off the cat is depressed and needs some distraction. Pearl’s folks plant dirt in their yard the way some people plant okra; they wants their dirt. Rumor has it that dirt reminds them of the ‘old country’ or something.
Anyway, Pearl looks up at us and puts her finger to her lips like she wants us to hush, naturally this get our attention (as boys, we’re naturally inquisitive) and she points to a length of string sitting in the road like a long skinny snake. She calls us over and whispers: “Old Man Fennish just passed with Mrs. Fennish’s Lazy Boy chair on a four wheeled dollie heading up the street and dealing out a line of string behind him like he’s Hansel or Gretel or somebody”. Sure enough, that’s exactly what it is, a damn string in the damn road; and it sure sets us all to pondering, cat included.
Old man Fennish has been working a maintenance job at Antoine’s Restaurant in the French Quarter since before mayonnaise and everybody knows that he has been collecting the string that their laundry delivery company ties the clean towels with… at least for that long. In fact, everybody knows this because the Fennish’s two foster kids has told us AND showed us these behemoth balls of string; but, be that as it may, it still got us to wondering why he would perform so oddly on a warm Saturday in the middle of May, especially considering that if we acted that way we would catch heck and no doubt about it. Our consensus was put to voice by Nuthin when he remarked: “he finally gone off ‘round the bend, idn’t he?”. Sanity wise, I couldn’t have said it any better.
Then we hear a terrific rattling coming down the street like someone throwing ash cans full of old silverware down the steps of the courthouse and we look up to see the Fennish kids pushin’ a shopping cart down the road with Mrs. Fennish sitting inside of it. Yep, here come Immaculata and Timpani Fennish rollin’ their Mama down the road and trying to follow that there string, and the three of them sweatin’ like hogs and all out of breath, each for their own reason; Timpani because he has the asthma, Immaculata because she’s doin’ most of the pushin’ and their mama ‘cause she just can’t breathe too good to begin with. Mrs. Fennish is perched up on some pillows puffing away on one of those Chesterfields that she’s partial to and the kids stop to take a break from their exertion long enough for us to query them; Mrs. Fennish goes into another of her coughing fits. Ever since that cold snap last winter Mrs. Fennish can’t hardly take a clean breath-- without hacking her lungs out-- between her smoking them non-filtered cigarettes and her terminally clogged sinuses.
Immaculata, who is nine and is called that because she never seems to get dirt upon her, tells us in a low voice “none other than Conway Twitty is coming down to a revival at the skating rink and my papa has gone ahead with the Lazy Boy to get a good spot for mama, he’s trailing the string behind him so’s us kids can follow in his footsteps, so to speak”. Obviously Mr. Fennish perceives his kids to be as dumb as a box of rocks; of course, he knows them better than we do, so it is possible.
We had all seen the posters hung about town with a large image of the star, Conway Twitty, posed Elvis like, in a sky blue leisure suit heralding the big to do with a large white banner acrossed his chest announcing in no uncertain terms that the event was to take place for ‘ONE NIGHT ONLY!!”. Mr. Twitty was ditching his singing career for one in the preacher business, having been called by the lord to go forth and heal the sick and such and we all vowed to sneak out after nightfall and be witness to this auspicious nonsense. Especially since none of us believed that anything could cure Mrs. Fennish of her emphysema and constricted air passages.
Of course, we have to explain this all again and again to Timpani who is kind of slow in the head and too busy trying to peer through those coke bottle thick eyeglasses of his. He’s eight years old and is called Timpani because, in his old home, his Pa who plays bass drum in a brass band, used to whup up on him with his drumstick, which led to Timpani’s inability to concentrate, or so word has it. Old Timpani has got his attention glued to that line of twine and hardly hears us with our plans for the evening. We made plans nevertheless, including him and the cat, for seven thirty that night.
The sun had barely set and the moon was on the wane when we gathered behind the Livaudius Middle School. We had agreed, or so I thought, that we would all wear dark clothing to aid our inconspicuousness. Immaculata obviously didn’t understand because there she was in one of her white dresses, shining in the moon like an apparition. Timpani were still in his dirty coveralls and barefoot just like we had last seen him that afternoon, the only difference was that he seemed to have spilled his whole supper down the front of his clothes.
“Immaculata! We’s ‘spossed to be movin’ on the sly! What don’t you know about dressing darkly?” Hissed Pearl (dressed all in black, like a shadow)
“I ain’t got no dark clothes!” Immaculata hissed back.
Immaculata was found roaming on highway 90 late one night by Mr. Fennish one night on his way home from work, dressed in a white night shirt. She was dressed in the white night shirt, not Mr. Fennish.
“Like to scare me sober” Mr. Fennish would always recall.
He took her to the police station who told him to take her home and that they would see who was missing a girl in a clean white nightie. Well, nobody came to claim her and she just kinda stuck around. That was two or three years ago and at first it was like she couldn’t talk at all, but, she gradually came out of that and could talk, sing, yell and curse with the best of us. Except that at times she would get a faraway look in her eyes and we would wonder if she was in hypnosis or a trance or maybe even Egyptian or something.
We made it to the skating rink just about the time that things were heating up and sure as shootin’ there was Mrs. Fennish in the front row in her Lazy Boy with Mr. Fennish standing up at her side. There was a band playing in the background and a choir of women dressed up like angels and they was all hummin’ like angels would do, and all of a sudden a spotlight appears and here comes the now Reverend Mister Twitty in that self same sky blue leisure suit and he gets up to the podium and starts his salvation show.
“Brothers and Sisters!” he begins “I am not here to tell you that you are going to heaven, to get your halo, to sit with the heavenly host in glory and eat fried chicken and lemon meringue pie forever and forever after!” A great groan was heard from the congregation. “NO!” he continued “I am, here to tell you that you will all burn in hell with fire and brimstone and suffer eternal damnation and third degree burns! YES YOU WILL!!!” here he started raising his voice and pacing like a panther, “for you are unclean and unfit to sit with the angels on high basking in the glory of Jesus Christ and his father, the one god of us all. You all are sinners and you all will be damned to drink bitter water and eat hog slop on your knees in dirty clothes!”
His choir of angelic voices began singing a dirge and the band started in at a cacophony of angst and terror. The crowd was swaying and lowing like cattle, when of a sudden a high pitched keening sound started coming out of Mrs. Fennish which just about scared us to death.
‘eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” it was like nails on a chalkboard and the entire tent dropped to silence. “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’ and here it come again “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” and Mrs. Fennish all glassy eyed starts up from the Lazy Boy. And Immaculata starts drifting dreamlike towards her, and the reverend, like he’s walking in his sleep, is also drawn to the same spot. The cat has jumped out of Pearl’s arm and, hissing like an air hose at the filling station and with all its fur stuck up like a porcupine, starts sidling up to the commotion and we can see that they all are going to collide like planets in a space movie. The choir starts a wailin’ and the band has put down their instruments and they’s all moaning and the congregation is gnashing their teeth and rending their clothing and falling down and crying and a screeching in tongues. We kids are struck as dumb as Lot’s wife and frozen in our places when the apparitions start in to materialize.
There are sounds coming from outside the rink of thunder rumbles and lightning crashes to beat the band and all of a sudden -- and this is just from what us kids can recall because nobody else that was there that night seems to be able to remember anything that happened—
A black cobra about sixteen feet in height raised itself up in back of Mrs. Fennish with eyes as red and luminous as a Highway Patrol car’s lights, forked tongue lashing and slithering like a gargantuan garden hose toward the preacher who had turned into a giant bald eagle with a gnashing beak and beating wings working up a wind and cawing like a freight train whistle. Pearl’s cat had turned the size if a tiger and was snarling like a hurricane wind advancing into a tornado and Immaculata had risen up twelve feet with the biggest damn archangel type sword that I could ever have imagined and Mr. Fennish appeared like a demon possessed with his eyes rolled to the back of his head and drooling enough to wet down the front of his shirt and I could have just puked on the spot yesterday’s, today’s and tomorrow’s breakfast, lunch and supper. Had I not been so scared, frozen in my tracks and trying my best not to wet my pants or throw up; friends or no friends, brother or no brother, I swear I would have run off so fast it would have made all of their fool heads spin.
Just then a lightning bolt split through the roof of the building smack dab into the middle of the impending chaos and my kid brother stepped right into the light and commanded “STOP!” and everyone collapsed like a bunch of rag dolls. I looked at Pearl and Pearl looked at me and she said: “damn, that was something!”
And I said: “no that was Nuthin”.
Shaggy Dog.

New Orleans Story part 11... I, The Cat

2011-04-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

Short Story Part 11: I, The Cat
So, I gather first of all, that you may be a mite skeptical about me, my attributes and my abilities; this, I suspect, is due to your lack of a cohesive definition of my species written for your perusal; one that you can study at length and digest at your leisure. A sort of ‘when in doubt, see point (a.)’ sort of thing. Well, as a vehicle to your awareness here is the point (a.) to which you can refer to, recall and hopefully remember.
Point (a.) The cat: (felius catus), also known as the domestic cat or housecat, to distinguish it from other felines and fetids, is a small (relatively speaking of course), furry domesticated carnivorous mammal that is valued by humans for its companionship and for its ability to hunt vermin and household pests. Cats have been associated with humans for at least 9,500 years, and are currently the most popular pet on the planet. Owing to their close association with humans, cats are now found almost everywhere in the world. Cats are similar in anatomy to the other felids, with strong, flexible bodies, quick reflexes, sharp retractable claws, and teeth adapted to killing small prey. As nocturnal predators, cats use their acute hearing and ability to see in near darkness to locate prey. Not only can cats hear sounds too faint for human ears, they can also hear sounds higher infrequency than humans can perceive. In cat society, all felines have a three part name, and as a species are supremely superior to all other animals.
I am all of that to the tenth power and more, but, my life did not begin that way.
Fifty years ago (in cat years) the human that you know as Pearl Prentiss found myself and my littermates one cold rainy morning in a dumpster behind a cheap motel in the Treme section of New Orleans. There had been six of us, four were dead. Our mother, feral herself, had chosen the dumpster as a place to birth us because it was out of the wind and weather, and all was well for the first couple of weeks. The dumpster was thick with rags, cardboard and debris that kept us, if not comfortable, at least, protected from the elements. The dumpster was also home to some rodents; however, with mother’s presence they kept their distance. One morning mother stepped out to forage for food. She could not have foreseen someone closing the lid of the dumpster, leaving us inside without the comfort of her warm body, her nourishing milk and her protection. We did not see her again.
Days and days and days later, my brother and I, shivering and starved saw the lid lifted and were practically blinded by the cloud covered daylight that brought in rain and colder air. A giant, what we thought was giant, head appeared, looking, peering about and curious about the pitiful mewing sounds that we were making. It was Pearl.
Two of my siblings had died of the elements, namely, hunger and cold; two had been taken by the rats. My brother, who Pearl named Bob, had had his tail eaten by one of the rodents and we were literally with our backs to the wall when she open the lid that fateful day, calling for deliverance of any kind.
Pearl Prentiss rescued my brother and I, came back to bury what was left of my siblings and even to search for our mother. She fed, comforted and cared for us into a strong kittenhood. We both had voracious appetites, grew strong and by the time six months had passed we had lost any physical signs of our trauma. My brother was consumed with anger and the need for revenge against the entire rodent world. At a half a year of age he was big for his age and was obsessed with getting away from our home and beginning his murderous crusade. One night during a full moon, the bedroom window was left open; which is when my brother, a fine dusty colored male but more feral than I, escaped and wasn’t seen again. I am much wiser, possessed with more talent, cunning, and above all, the gift of loyalty; you might say that I got the brains in our family. Pearl had become the center of my universe and I loved her like a mother. My real name is Midnight Secret Seeker; my brother’s name is Shadow Rodent Slayer, we are of the breed. You may do well to seek out your feline’s ‘real name’.
One night while napping in Pearl’s lap she heard me purring a song that she had sung to us in the early days and the cat, so to speak, was out of the bag. Little by little, Pearl pampered, cajoled, encouraged and wheedled my ability to communicate, in words, from me. We did, however, make a pact at the onset that promised that I would only speak in her presence-- even to other humans-- that way, if pressed, she could always admit to a practical joke and explain that she was a ventriloquist.
Oh the joy of being able to tell her the pleasures of being feline. Almost all humans regard us with varying degrees of love, fear and hatred; with a little envy thrown in for good measure. Not Pearl. I would sit on her lap for hours telling of my prowess in hunting with fang and claw; of my abilities to run, jump and turn; hurry and hide; wait and strike, to bathe in the sun and to stalk by moonlight. She alone knew of all the little things that amused and attracted me, the ways that I would toy with my victims, the triumph of the killing bite and the taste of warm blood in my mouth. We are much alike, we are each-others familiar.
And now my mission is simplicity itself; to find the best, most direct (with stealth as a primary concern) route across the neighborhood rooftops from Pearl's point a. to Pearl's point b. It’s something that I excel at, finding routes; huntress that I am. I love my job.

More about the Short Story

2011-03-11T13:09:00.000-08:00

Okay, so you've read all ten pieces of our adventure in New Orleans larceny by a group of pretty much lovable n'eer do wells (or have you?. And, by now you would have surmised that the actual deal is about to go down at that French Quarter restaurant. (haven't you?. Well in a couple of real weeks there is going to be a real Tennessee Williams Literary Festival at a real French Quarter restaurant where I will attend and see exactly how the gang is going to pull this one off, really. Stay tuned for Parts 11, 12, and concluding with part 13!If all goes well I'll get this published as a complete work which will include a lottery ticket with each copy sold!

New Orleans Chocoholic

2011-03-06T12:31:00.000-08:00

Po-boy Views

By Phil LaMancusa

Theobroma By The Bayou

Looking over the family library last night, my eye was caught by a
book on chocolate. Then another book on chocolate. Then another and another
AND another, and surprisingly, others. This gave me cause to pause. So pause I did; then, I counted twenty, yes twenty, different books that I had collected on this one subject. Books whose titles read like exotic perfumes at the “Smells R’US” counters at J.C.Macy’s Fifth Avenue.
Titles like Chocolate Obsession, Chocolate Decadence and even Chocolate Sex! Or books that promise The Joy of chocolate, Chocolate Ecstasy, The Chocolate Fantasy, or Chocolate: the Consuming Passion. One that threatened: DEATH By Chocolate, and one to be used when all else failed; Chocolate Suicide.
Then it happened. (what?) I began to sweat. I was trembling……I was dazed and confused. (huh?)
I thought I had kicked it (what?). I thought it was over. (WHAT?), (I'll tell ya).
There I was, at eleven at night, in my BunnyJammys having a full-blown CDA! (a what?) Chocolate Deprivation Attack! ( whaddya do?)
I opened the Chocolate Bible, where for years I have saved my favorite
wrappers with little notes to myself:(“Valentine’s Day '97; she’s gone, but at least I’ve got the Godiva". Or,” Xmas ‘98: Champagne Truffles RULE!") and
hyperventilated the remains of past acquisitions like an asthmatic in the throes.
My heartbeat returned to normal. I calmed down. Almost.
After a strong glass of Nestles Quik, which I keep for such emergencies,
and with my Chocolate Bible under my pillow, I spent a restless night; resolving
to find out what our fair city has to offer a Chocolate Addict such as myself.
Directory Assistance has no listing for Chocoholics Anonymous and The Yellow Pages has only two listings under Chocolates and Cocoa: Cuccia Chocolates at
622 Royal and Wilbur Chocolate Company, on Clearview Parkway in Metarie, the
latter being a distributor and not a retail outlet. In the morning, I headed to Royal Street.
Even when we hit bottom, the truly lost soul of a chocolate addict will never take chocolate at face value, buy blindly, or stoop low and sample a perspective supplier’s wares in their presence. We do have some standards; and with those standards I made my way to Cuccia’s with an innocent look on my face and my stomach creeping up my throat (to be closer to the goods when they entered my bod).
. I met Jace Cuccia without knowing it when a booming “Howya Doin?” greeted
my arrival. We exchanged pleasantries about chocolates, sizing each other
up. Hmmm, I thought; "clean store, kinda geared for tourists, he’s big for his size
and young for his age". What he thought of a bald, slightly overweight, middle
aged man taking eyeglasses out of a Curious George holder I couldn’t say.
Then we got down to it. “You local?” he says. More of an observation than
Question. “Yep”, Says I (two can play this game I thought).
“whatcha lookin for?” He asks, eyeing me intently.
Our gazes lock. The moment of truth. “Solid Hit” I say firmly, quietly.
We look into eachother’s souls. We understand. He guides. I ask questions. We
drop names. We talk formulas and percentages of cocoa to fat. We shake hands
three times before I leave with my purchases.
Theobroma (food of the Gods), is another contribution to world cuisine from the Americas; others, such as, vanilla, chilis, tomatoes, and corn will have to wait for their own stories to be told, we're talking chocolate here.
The Aztecs, Toltecs, and Mayas knew about choquatl (bitter water) long before Columbus decided to find a shortcut to India; and on his fourth voyage (1502), Chris brought some back home to no one's amazement.
1519 saw Montezuma and Cortez at a party turning each other on to things they both would regret, except possibly the exhilaration of the drink that they share; and in due time, Cortez queries his host (about the drink).
Well, Cortez (from Montezuma), learns about a tree native to the area that grows forty to sixty feet high and bears gourdlike fruits, that are harvested year round, each containing twenty five or so 'seeds'. These seeds are laid out to ferment, then roasted, and ground up, mixed with spices and water. The brew gets him off like a shot (in more ways than one). Cortez brings some back home too, but this time with instructions.
. The king of Spain thinks the brew is too bitter and dumps a bunch of sugar in it and we get another reason to celebrate the caprice of a Monarch. History is made over a cup of cocoa!
Anyway, to make a long story longer, it takes a half a dozen complex steps to turn a slimy seed into a religious experience and you should read up on the subject; right now, you've caught me with the goods; red, I mean brown, handed.

In the doorway of a closed shop I open my bag, salivating and sweating, I remove and consume the first candidate. It's called a Mintini: (.75) a dark, minty, chocolate square, rich, nice. But I’m not looking for nice.
Next, Dark Chocolate Truffle ($1.00) smooth, almost smoky in flavor, yummy, but not quite an epiphany. Nobody knows the truffles I’ve seen.
Now, lastly I remove the final contender, saved for last because of its potential
and my intuition. The Dark Chocolate Bar ($2.00).
In the New Orleans heat it’s already starting to get a little sticky. I break off
a piece and place it carefully on my tongue. It melts slowly. Yes. Smoothly.
Yesyes. The taste spreads of its own accord enveloping my soul and senses.
The night air purrs. Close by, an acapello group sings “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”
The sunset receives The M.C. Echer award and I drift home in a haze of glory.
I’m there. I’m really there.
My wife takes a look at my faraway eyes. “Where have you been?” she asks.
Where else? (thinking of a great name for a book); “Chocolate Heaven”.

Man Bites Dog in New Orleans

2011-03-06T11:32:00.000-08:00

Po-boy Views
By Phil LaMancusa
Man Bites Dog: A guide to fun on a bun
“Do you know what’s in that thing?” My daughter asked.
With all the control I could muster I delayed that first bite, my mouth filling with saliva, the dog poised, hovering inches from my incisors, canines and molars; fully loaded. “You mean nitrates?” I inquire
“No” she said, “Piggy toenails.”
I was ready to campaign for this pup like a southern diplomat; turning the dog sideways and presenting it like the model of a great sailing schooner, I said proudly: “You see before you, representatives of all the major food groups!”
A sympathetic hand on my sleeve was attached to a patient: “Papa, I hate to tell you, but there are food groups in that thing that we haven’t begun to suspect exist.”
“This”, I replied undaunted, “is a Chancy Dog. And it says right there: A New Orleans Creation Since 1938.”
“THAT one may have been around that long. Why would you want to put that thing (she said “that thing” as If referring to a real canine appendage) in your mouth?”
“Research” I bravely announced, taking off the first three inches in a single bite, chopped onions flying, cheese product on my shirtfront, chili oozing from the corners of my mouth, and the rest of the bun falling apart; leaving me with two hands full of ingredients, and an impotent, soggy, six inch square of wax paper.
“Ah,” I thought brightly, “A two fisted!"-- I made a mental note: "use Italian Death Grip” (a hold usually reserved for one of Elizabeth’s famous Potato and Gravy Po-boys).
My daughter and I had searched half the world looking for the perfect “dog”. We had eaten bowsers in baguettes in Paris, Mongrel con Mayonaisa in Mexico, Jodi Maroni’s Haute Dog in Venice, Ca. and Sabrett’s on the streets of the Big Apple.
We’ve had them made out of turkey, beef, chicken, pork; alone and in combinations, even tofu. Fully loaded (dressed is a term for sandwiches not pups) and Spartan.
We checked them out in Airports, Train Stations, Circle K’s, K marts, and high falutin’ restaurants in San Francisco. We even once went to a baseball game (but, that's another story).
This is some of what we’ve found out:
The Dog. The dog is a total experience, beginning with the seller. We learned to turn away from a stand solely because of the demeanor of the dealer. They have to enjoy what they do or it can throw the taste off. No kidding. The best ones will remind you of the Dickens’ character Fagin, if you get my drift. This MAY be what drove my daughter to become vegan.
Loading the dog: the seller, not the self, should load the dog; this in itself is an art. Too much or too little of any one of the condiments can ruin the balance and is best left to the professional. Feel free to observe technique before you commit to a purchase.
The condiments: are best put on with wooden implements, (this practice is largely lost,) the onions fresh chopped and uniform in size or nicely stewed, the relish not liquidy, the sauerkraut not soupy, the chili thick and viscous, the cheese product loose and fluffy. Choice of mustard is nice, but always pick the brightest color. Catsup only from a non-refillable squeeze bottle and optional. Putting the catsup and mustard on the bun instead of the meat is always a nice touch. You should be able (except, we found in Chicago and San Francisco’s windy wharf area) to almost sniff out the individual ingredients as well as the accoutrements. Temperature should be “HOT”
The bread should be soft enough to give easy access to components yet strong enough to contain them. We find the more “economical” types that need a bit of tearing open to be the best. In other words cheap, white buns. They should last all the way to the end of the pup, neither running out too soon nor being leftover. Steamed or grilled or not at all. Never toasted.
The meat; (first of all: sausage is for a sandwich and should not be considered of the same philosophy as pups.) What we’re looking for is bits and pieces and parts of farm animals, ground very fine and mixed with all of those unpronounceable ingredients that will build up our immunity to nuclear fallout, stuffed to bursting in casings preferably of natural origin. Either seared crisp or stewed in juices for days. When bitten into they should “pop” and the meat (?) and juices should fill the receptors of both oral and olfactory senses. The experience should be transcendental the closer you get to the perfect dog. Needless to say, we haven’t found it. Yet.
“I approach each new test as a quest for a Guru at a sacred shrine.,,,,,,,,” I continue.
“I ain’t eating nothin’ made from mechanically separated animals” is the response I receive. Where did I go wrong?
The dog’s not bad, it bears further testing. I return to the shrine. “Please” I ask, “make me one with everything”.

Insect eaters guide to New Orleans

2011-03-06T11:23:00.000-08:00

The Next few unrelated blogs are from a long lost floppy disc that I have found and resurrected. These stem back over ten years when I just began to explore the thousand word (give or take) word format. Please forgive the naiivete.
Po-boy Views
By Phil LaMancusa
An Insect Eaters Guide to New Orleans

“If you haven’t eaten ‘gator tail before, you’re in for a surprise. It’s so good, you’ll wanna lay down and scream!”
“Don’t change the subject”, I replied, “I said…. People all over the world eat insects.”
“Yeah, but in Looosiana, we just steps on ‘em!” Matter of factly, I was getting nowhere, with this subject, with my coffee companion slash culinary professional slash tall, cool drink of water.
“Okay, let me start again”……….I can be patient, I patiently told myself. “It may surprise you to know that in many foreign countries insects are eaten as part of a regular diet”……..I began.
"And that’s why they call ‘em that”. “Call them what?” “Foreign countries.” She said, I said, she replied. I was starting to get dizzy.
“Huh?” (I said)
It was now her turn to be patient, as she addressed me as though I had the intelligence of a box of rocks. “That’s why they call them "foreign" countries: only someone foreign would eat a bug!"
Well folks; that’s how it started, two consenting adults, speaking the same language over coffee, and as usual, one of them (me) gets intellectually cut off at the knees.
But I haven’t given up! I lay my case before you, Gentle Reader. (I stole that Gentle Reader thing).
Scorpions, Waterbugs, Dragonflies, Termites, Ants, Spiders, what we know as Stinkbugs, Water beetles, Crickets, Grasshoppers, Tarantulas, and a large variety of Grubs, Worms and Caterpillars, are in fact perfectly acceptable parts of daily diets around this old globe of ours. And we’re not talking isolated countries here. We’re talking countries with nuclear weapons, fashions and digital watches!
They’re served up (the insects not the watches) fried, sautéed, in casseroles, soups and stews as well as eaten (especially termites) fresh from wherever they happen to live.
Does this scare the insects? Not a bit. Does it scare me? Let me put it this way: I’m a reasonable man, against prejudice of any kind, especially culinary; however, the thought of crunching down on a deep-fried cicada throws me off my feed. Immature? Ignorant? Unenlightened? I hang my head in shame.
But, do I mind YOU eating insects? Not one bit. Just don’t try to kiss me until you use some Lavoris. No, really, insects contain a lot of protein, can be prepared a number of ways (are you listening Paul?) and as we all know, they do be plentiful in New Orleans!
I would like to interject here that none of my researches uncovered (?) cockroaches as delicacies, so they still don’t deserve respect. Thankya Lord!
Anyway, perhaps as a culinary Mecca, New Orleans can be at the forefront of the next undiscovered cuisine: Entomophagy.
Do I detect an amount of scoffing out there? Did you know that a lobster is cousin to a spider? And what about those little items we call Mudbugs? Ever wonder about Shrimp? What is so far fetched about a nice steaming dish of Grasshopper Ettoufee? Or, Fire Ant Gumbo? We can Join the dozens of other countries (foreign or not) that hold up their heads and floss that antenna from their teeth with no embarrassment. After all, as Jonathan Swift said in 1738 “ He was a bold man that first eat an oyster”. Think about THAT one!
Armed with my argument on paper, I returned to coffee the next day and confronted my companion. She read. She sipped her coffee, stretched those long legs, flashed her eyes a big blue “NO”, and she said quietly, slowly, almost venomously “I ain’t no bug sucker!” Then she brightened, and like a window opening to a cool coastal breeze said: “ “Now, Possum Gumbo, you ever had possum? Or Squirrel?……………”

Bad Liver in New Orleans

2011-03-06T10:32:00.000-08:00

Po-boy Views
By Phil LaMancusa
Bad Liver and A Broken Heart
It's my Pate and I'll Cry if I Want To

I refuse to believe that my life is passing me by; rather, I believe I just saw it ride by me on a bicycle, going in the opposite direction! It is for this reason I think more about the food that I've eaten than the food that I have yet to cook. Let me explain.
First, about that bicycle. As inoffensably politically correct as I can state, I hererby declare that as a full and rich blooded ---------, naturally (and I think that it has something to do with nature), I am very attracted to, and I mean very attracted to--------------------- (fill in the blanks). Especially on bikes!. Whew!
As a person that has seen over a half century of life go by, I realize, all too sadly, that there would not be a sane person in that category that would find the least bit of attraction for this seasoned veteran at this particular stage of his physical form. That's one of the "facts" of life that used to really depress me. In fact, it depressed the holy !@@##$%$% out of me.
What did I do? Simple. I applied, as I do in such cases, irrational philosophical reverse logic fantasy. In other words, I made up a story that made me feel better.
Here's the story. That --------- (read: HOT NUMBER!) that I see passing through my life is actually on their way to meet me in some other point of time; either in my future or in my past. I know that that's probably not true, but who's to say? It works for me.
Now you say; "Phil, what the hell does that have to do with the food that you've eaten?"
And I say: "that was a trip on the "segue" bus; and, I wanted to get it out of the way before getting to the real subject."
Which is this: While I'm cooking breakfast for the gang at work, my thoughts are saying: "Mama used to cook potatoes in a cast iron skillet. I had to make sure, and darn sure, that there was not the least bit of peel or blemish on the potatoes after I peeled them. We didn't call them "hash browns" they were "home fries". Those puffed ones at Antoine"s were sure funny, huh? What about that dose of cream and cheese in the ones I had in San Francisco, whew, what a heavy hit!, remember the midway in New Jersey where they supplied vinegar as a condiment for french fries so hot they'd burn the roof of your mouth if you weren't careful?. Why do they call them "French" anyway" and on and on and on. Instead of "being here now" I find myself "being there later"…. sometimes much later.
Either I'm getting old, going crazy, or I've cooked and eaten a hell of a lot of potatoes. I prefer to think the last is probably the most true; although, I would not rule out the other two. If my theory is correct (going with my "lotta spuds" theory) that would explain the other culinary mind ramblings that I've been experiencing; lately:
My Grandmother never used a cutting board or a recipe. She went shopping, got what she needed, cleaned the product, as was it's wont, and then simply cut it directly into the pot/sauce pan/skillet, no muss no fuss, just good cooking. How come professional Chefs can't/don't/won't do that today?
We were raised in a mixed neighborhood and the smells of corn beef and cabbage mingled with spaghetti and meat sauce, fried chicken, and black beans with fresh tortillas. We never thought of it as "ethnic food"; to us it was just "dinner". Where did this "ethnic" crap come from? When did we stop calling it 'The Italian Place', or 'That Arab/Greek/Chinese Joint'?
Everybody's Dad could fix their own car, everybody's Mom could cook a chicken. Everybodys chicken was different, but, it was the same chicken. (Things that make you go "hmmmmmm?") The same chicken.
Ten years ago, I wouldn't have been able to tell you where a Vegan was from. Now, I'm having an affair with one.
Do you remember the wonderful aromas coming from that potato chip factory by Elysian Fields and Decatur?
What was the name of that donut factory that you could go to at four in the morning? And don't it remind you of the smell coming up through the gratings outside the Royal Sonesta?
How much was beans and rice at Buster's as far back as you can remember? Did you even ever have them? Have you ever had better?
I can still feel that sick, gut knotting, nauseousness I got that time, with forks poised, she told me she "needed more space". Ironically it was a hearts of palm salad, and I still can't eat one to this day.
God, I hate the taste of sour milk!
Well, there. That's it. Of course there's more but you get the gist; how much can you take? And besides, I'll never get published going over 1,000 words
This piece is on the drawing board right now; BUT, should you ever see it published, please feel free to unburden yourselves of your own culinary stumbling blocks by writing to me in care of these guys, whoever they may be.
That'll show'em we're a force to be reckoned with; people afflicted with "Deja Food" or "haven't I eaten this before?"

Two views of Kitchen Witch in New Orleans

2011-02-20T13:06:00.000-08:00

Update from New Orleans

2011-02-17T11:10:00.000-08:00

P0-Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Paperback Writer
Or
TWNOLF: It’s Me, Phil!
Okay, this is me getting bigger for my britches, and who could blame me? This is me, celebrating my tenth year with the illustrious Where Y’at Magazine, a few hundred, thousand word, essays and blogs and not being satisfied with that, I’m charging ahead with writing short stories.
As a novice, self taught, short story writer, I’ve had my share of trials and tribs; let’s face it, at a certain age; going to school or classes is naught but an interruption from the basic needs for supplying oneself with food clothing and shelter. And because at this age a certain misplaced pride sets in that says that anything that you can learn from someone else you can certainly teach yourself, you’re satisfied with that. This is categorically not true; however, name me someone has not fallen prey to this deception.
My first rejection as a writer was from The New Yorker; you cannot consider yourself a real writer until The New Yorker has rejected you. Consider it your rite of passage and once you get one, frame it. The next thing that will make you a ‘real writer’ is getting paid for something that you’ve written or in my case something that you haven’t written; I was once given a buck to get off the computer at the library, so technically I am qualified in that department.
The next requirement to being a writer is to be published and as you know by reading this you give credence to me being a published person. BUT, as Louie says at Matassa’s Grocery Store about the New York Times: “It may be all the news that’s fit to print, but is it fit to read?”
Well after ten years at Where Y’at there’s been some high points and some not so high, however, I’ve been rejected, I’ve been published and I get paid. So there. Now I’m ready to stretch my wings and go for a bigger enchilada.
My first short story rejecter told me that I had too many characters in my story, notwithstanding that it was a poignant coming of (my) age account that, yes, had a damn lot of characters: namely members of my immediate family. My next rejection came with a note saying that my format was one that had been abandoned, whatever that means. My next was a rejection with no reason, only the now used to "despite its obvious merit” crap; If you’re a writer, you get used to that so-called ‘soft landing’.
Then last year at a Tennessee Williams Festival panels on short story writing it became clearer: eighteen pages, double spaced, Times New Roman with no more than four characters, protagonists or points of reference, “unless you’re Shakespeare or the bible” (their quote, not mine). You see, if you have more than four subjects, they said, your readers will not be able to keep your story straight. I guess they think we’re not up to snuff in the reading-with- intelligence- and-retention-of- information department. Duh.
My next submission was to the Tennessee Williams Festival itself. The story of a disoriented young soldier back from WW1 to his southern small home town where he pigments his skin to get a job as a Negro cook in a whorehouse and falls in love with one of the servants who is African American. It has a kindly sheriff and a motherly Madame and it should have been a shoe in. It was called Strawberry Nest.
It’s two weeks before the Festival and I’ve received no word. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Am I a winner? Am I a loser? Who knows.
Am I deterred? Disillusioned, disheartened, distraught or dismayed? No. I’ve already started on my next short story about a cast of characters (including a hunchback) that plan abduction, robbery and doublecross at the Tennessee Williams Fest itself! I’ve named it ‘Casual Encounters’.
They all have assumed names, they all have specific qualities, they’re all smart, saucy and sexy. There is a division of sexes and an amount of dynamic tension. It involves the stealing of an electronic reading device that doesn’t exist and kidnapping a professor who is really not a professor but one of the gang and getting paid by the winning Louisiana lottery jackpot which is controlled by the Chinese (of course) and the attempted outfoxing by the CIA and the setting of a fire in the kitchen of a famous New Orleans restaurant where the festival is being held and escaping in the end with a butt load of money. Or not. There are women in tight clothing, men with powerful weapons and vice versa. There is adventure, mystery, excitement and menus supplied by the author and a Costa Rican catering company Los Tres Bastardos Grasientos (The Three Greasy Bastards). Who knows, it may just be based on a true story?
To make sure that I don’t lose any of this story, I put it piece by piece on

my blog and backed it up on a zip drive just in time for my computer to have a friggin’ coronary. Let that be a lesson to you up and coming writers. I learned that on a Sex And The City episode; Carrie Bradshaw lost her material and did not have it backed up and, Lord, was it a mess! She almost cried.
Which brings me to this question: how come, no matter how much Sex the girls were getting in The City, Carrie was the only one who never was seen with her clothes off?
Anyhoot, back on the subject of short story writing. It’s fun. It’s a chore. It’s not as easy as pounding out a thousand words at a sitting (I’m up to twenty thousand on this one), but you get to experience what it’s like to be an exhausted writer. It’s true, you don’t know what your characters are going to do once you breathe life into them. Sometimes you don’t know what they’re going to say until it’s on the page in front of you and sometimes there’s a knock at the door where a completely new character wants in. It’s like art. It’s a reason to keep going back to the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival this year March 23rd -27th. You might see the deal go down or get to listen to my acceptance speech.

New Orleans Short Story Part 10

2011-01-16T12:00:00.000-08:00

Short Story 10: The House on Conti Street
Well, just as we surmised, Hinch did value the gang more than the money that he could have skipped with and, as instructed, took the ‘fast cash option’ and deposited a cool two million dollars in the Whitney Bank branch office on Chartres St. in the French Quarter.
The next part was equally as easy. Hinch located a real estate agent that was working as a bartender at Molly’s on Toulouse Street and purchased a less than perfect, three-story apartment building at 926 Conti Street for eight hundred grand. He took out a loan for the place using the bank account as collateral, with the interest on the two mil taking up the bulk of the mortgage payments and we all moved in together. The building had three apartments in the main house, one per floor. There was a two-story slave quarter attached to the front house, which gave us two more small, but perfect, flats; a courtyard enclosed by eighteen foot brick walls topped with wicked barbed razor wire and broken wine bottles cemented into the cap for good measure. A two story maisonette in the rear of it completed the layout, all according to the specifications of Pearl’s plan. But, I’m jumping ahead of myself.
**************************************************
Return now to the night of the culinary disaster, Greasy Bastard cooking and a nice chat with Pearl on how we would split up more money than any of us had ever seen, compliments of a sophisticated software heist, a kidnapping and some strings pulled by Chinese businessmen who controlled the outcomes of American lotteries, and Billy butting in with his special brand of pessimism.
Pearl had countered the interruption thusly: “Alright Billy, I’ll bet my Porsche parked outside against you getting circumcised that whoever cashes this ticket in on Wednesday will be the winner of four million bucks. How ‘bout it?” Billy’s jaw dropped at the mention of his Johnson.
“Ahh, c’mon Bill,” Anne threw in: “it’s not like everybody hasn’t heard about that ‘purple hooded serpent’ that you’re always bragging about.” Billy liked to refer to his penis by that name and it was a quick and effective riposte that got Billy to cease his vocal objections to the plan or anything else for that matter; you might say that Billy had effectively been rendered verbally impotent.
Petey was up next and with a sigh of resignation he said: “Alright, Pearl-- run it down -- what’s the plan?”
And Pearl replied: “The caper will take place at Blanche’s restaurant where Brandi already works. Anne will volunteer with the festival and be our inside contact in case anything starts to go awry. Billy will get a bartending job at the restaurant and coordinate our escape, Hinch will get a job as a buggy driver, Syl and I will handle the technical stuff, Petey will be working in the kitchen at the restaurant and Morriarity will cover our backs; but first, we have to all move in together and get our asses cracking. any questions?”
“Just one,” I squeaked “what about me?”
“Oh you,” beamed Pearl “you’re going to be the professor!”
“But you said…”
“I said that the device will be presented by a professor; I didn’t say who the professor would be.” Here she let the other shoe drop “besides, any other person who would do the presenting would know that the machine is a fake and probably give us some trouble if we were to attempt a snatch.”
“You mean…” Started Sylvinia
“Yeah Syl, there’s no such device; but you and me is gonna build one with a receiver in it and we’ll control the show from our little home away from home, you know, re-mote-ly.”
“Alright, so the New York Times…”
“I got that article published” said Pearl with great satisfaction “just to sweeten the pot, so to speak; the Chinks went ape shit when they read that.”
“So,” said Petey “we’re gonna sell something, and steal something that does not exist, kidnap a man who is on our side, split a hundred million bucks…”
“ninety eight.” She corrected
“Whatever” Petey continued, “and we’re just going to disappear?”
“No,” said Pearl “First, the CIA has got to steal it from us…”
“WHAT????”
"Oh, you worry warts; we'll work it out; besides, the fire will keep everybody way too busy to notice our little shenanigans."
***********************************************************
Sooooo…back to the present. As adroit as you readers are, you probably have not overlooked the mention and allusion to a talking cat named Professor Morriarity or P.M. If the existence of this feline, in this story, has not raised any red flags for you then I assure you that he resides in your subconscious ready to pounce into your reality with a question about his history and identity… sooner or later. Either that or you’re really not paying proper attention and we’re wasting our time here. To clear things up for those that are paying attention here: first of all, Morriarity is not a male cat, ergo, that is not her real name. Point in fact is that all cats have not two, but three names. All cats do; and Professor Morriarity, in this case, is NOT her name.
Another thing is that very few felines will converse in a human language; they all can, but very few will. It’s just not done, breach of cat policy and all that. You might say that it could and probably would lead to a catastrophe of humongous and epic proportions. So we all doubted that P. M. would talk to Pearl but frankly we couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to risk crossing her. Leave it to say that we (collectively) wouldn’t trust P.M. with ‘our backs’. (Besides, we all knew that Pearl was an accomplished ventriloquist.)
Likewise you may have surmised that all characters portrayed in this tale live in their separate realities, but none so much as the lady that’s known as Pearl (had she not come through with the two mil, we would not be having this discourse), and it’s not as if we didn’t not believe in a’ talking cat’, let alone its inclusion into our larcenous little family…. but…. what if she wanted a cut of the take?
Be that as it may, we all settled in to our new digs with a mite of trepidation, a slight tickle of apprehension and a boat load of the hormones that only a group of thirty-something’s could keep airborne.
Hinch took the downstairs slave quarter efficiency mainly because he had to get up and leave early for his job as a buggy driver and to be with the dog. Billy took the room above him with space for his exercise equipment. Brandi and Anne took the downstairs flat in the main house with Sylvinia and Pearl using the upper two floors for laboratory and habitation. Petey and I shared the upstairs of the maisonette with the downstairs converted into communal kitchen and dining area spilling out into the courtyard. I was in charge of the cooking for us all; where’s a greasy bastard when you need one?
Hinch asked P.M. where she would be staying and the cat replied with typical feline candor: “wherever the fuck I feel like.” Pearl was quick to point out that P.M. would be running reconnaissance to find the most direct route over the rooftops to Blanche’s for our electronic feeds and we all settled into a funk of suspicion and doubt for our success. We had a scant six weeks to fine tune this adventure and I realized that my cooking would be the easiest (and best tasting) part.

About that New Orleans short story

2011-01-14T10:37:00.000-08:00

Okay Cats and Hats, just a heads up: the story started on the blog in October and it is yet unfinished, we're getting ready to throw in part ten, I keep going back and tweaking chapters as I forge ahead with new ones. We both won't know exactly what the outcome is until I write the words "The End" on it. I thank you so much for your continuing support, patience and interest in me. Please feel free to email me with suggestions, comments and/or suggestions. Keep reading! Yours Me, Myself and I plamancusa@aol.com

New Orleans PoBoy Views 3/11

2011-01-07T13:44:00.000-08:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Forward March
Or
How I Won The War
Okle-dokle, I know that there are March events to write about; French Quarter Fest, Tennessee Williams Literary Fest, Saints Patrick and Joseph, Mardi Gras, Time changes, a big Krishna event, Passover, the first day of spring and a planet-wide day to light up a big fatty. Also, March 3rd is my brother’s birthday, but I’m not writing about that either (although I could dig some dirt in that acreage, it won’t be in this issue).
I’ve got another event that I want to talk about: March 2nd over half a century ago I entered into the United States military. The U.S. Navy, needless for me to say, forever changed my outlook on many things including life, love, a supreme being, travel and the wisdom that comes with being cooped up on a floating, self-sustaining, outdated, lumbering and cramped boxhauler with two thousand testosterone pumping teenagers roaming the seas; ready to do battle.
I come from the projects of New York City. At the time of my youth the city had not changed much since the great depression; it was a city for only two classes of people: the very rich and the very poor. I sold newspapers in bars, hitched unsanctioned rides on the backs of trucks and got into as much trouble as my family would allow, which was never enough for me. I hustled my way out of high school a month after my seventeenth birthday with the plan to get out of my circumstances and join the ranks of older kids who had found their way out by joining the military. I was convinced that these guys were accomplishing my two greatest life goals: drinking and whoring. I chose the Navy because of my fear of being wounded or, even scarier, killed on a battlefield far from any bar or bordello; the reflection that an enemy using live ammunition, aiming anywhere in my direction, was a disquieting thought.
It is amazing to me now, a half a century later, that any country can enlist children and have them fight and die for ambiguous reasons of territory and the greed that old men have; the same old men who are comfortable in knowing that they will not be the ones out there with weapons, spoiling for a fight and anxious. But, that’s another thought for another time.
Well, children we were: dumb crackers, poor blacks, city punks and a smattering of ethnics: Hispanic, American Indian, Asians, Indonesians and Jews. It was the time that coming of age in this country made you eligible for a thing called ‘The Draft’; you were going to spend time in the military sooner… or later, so I chose to join.
Whether or not you know it, the military, when not engaged in actual warfare, rehearses for it with the same zeal. So, I spent four years being in and practicing for my ass to get blown to Kingdome Come, traveling the world and ready for action that rarely came. We came close one time in what is now known as, “The Cuban Missile Crisis”. Of course, at the time no one told us that we were saving the world; all we knew was that we were spending months cruising around a piddlyass third world communist island when we could have been elsewhere letting off some steam.
Being in the Navy meant that I got to travel; in fact, I got to spend four consecutive winters in the Caribbean. I also saw England, France and Germany in my wild teenage days. Furthermore, for all the times that you practice or are in military skirmishes, there are periods that are called R&R (rest and relaxation). These times should be called I&I (intoxication and intercourse) for that’s what those times are really about.
Puerto Rico, Jamaica, Panama, Haiti and Cuba all have left indelible marks and scars on my psyche. At the time of my tour of duty, the military was touted as the place to send your child if you wanted him to become a “MAN”. What we were were armed children, harassed and told what to do by ‘lifers’ every minute of every day until our next port stop and what we called our ‘Liberty’; ask anyone who has been there.
A ‘Lifer’ is someone who has found a home in the service and someone who will retire with benefits before they are forty years old. What they get in the meantime is food, clothing and shelter and the joys of bossing around anyone younger than they are. As a city punk, I was in more than my share of trouble and swore that for all of the good times that I had getting drunk and laid, I would “pick shit with the chickens” before I would ever repeat the experience. What am I now? An old guy who gets free medical care from the VA and loves to travel.
In the service when a young man cannot be fully controlled they have a place for them: the kitchen with the other fuck-ups and that’s where I spent the majority of my time, in fact now, it’s where I’ve spent the majority of my life. Even out in the “real world”, Kitchens are where you find the largest concentration of dysfunctional misfits. Ask any cook.
After four consecutive winters of sunshine I was unsuited for northern life and that’s how I came to be transplanted in New Orleans in the late 1960’s. I love the hot summers here, I tell people that, for me, it’s just like being back in a kitchen. After living in the men’s world of the military, when I came to New Orleans I got to (and still do) experience a childhood as in nowhere else I’ve ever lived or visited. I’ve also gotten to do a lot of cooking here, both personally and professionally, a unparalleled adventure.
So you see, at this time of year I think back to all the roads that I took to finally get home, and I’ve found that New Orleans is my real home; if I hadn’t left that other home at seventeen to sail the seven seas, I’d probably be a geezer street punk in New York City, without a profession, wandering about and wondering who the hell all these yuppie white kids are.
Most important: to all those children who wear or have worn the uniform of this country, thank you for serving and keep your head down and your powder dry. May you also live long and prosper.

New Orleans Story Part Eight and a Half: The Party

2010-12-24T13:37:00.000-08:00

Short Story Part Eight and a Half: The Party
And the guests, they did arrive.
Hinch was at the door in his Casablanca outfit of fez and caftan, acting as doorman and announcer. I thought that each guest was going to either throttle, choke, knife or put a bullet in him. Petey was behind the bar making Mojitos, Caipirinhas and pouring shots of Agave liquor, also there were papusas, mini tacos and fresh fruit with Pico de Gallo laid out and ready for the taking. And, I’ll tell you, after Hinch’s introductions the guests had eager hands for refreshments, both liquid and solid.
There was a soft knock at the door and Hinch went to answer it. He re-entered, clicked his heels together and said in a clear, well enunciated tone: “Announcing the arrival of ‘Anne the Fair’” Hinch began “Mistress of the young knowledge seekers and those fortunate literary swains who find exposure and experiences in all that she readily imparts and makes access to in various parts of her repositories of information and repose.” and with a lewd wink, backed out of the room, the perfect smart ass.
Anne came in looking like a fresh flower and as innocent as spring. She had on a simple scoop neck cotton shift with no shape other than the one she gave it; and she gave it. Her figure started with the daintiest of feet encased, bare, in low-slung walking heels. Her shape followed up athletic legs and thighs to pear shaped hips, a whisper of a waist and on to small, but perfect, breasts that did their best to seek freedom from confinement. Topping that, if you could get that far, was a shapely neck leading up to a perfect face. Her shockingly blond hair framed ice Blue eyes, the prettiest of pert noses and one of the most sensual mouths that wore the only make up on her that was apparent. The color of her lipstick, as well as her thong panties, nail and toe polish could only be described as arterial blood red; she wore no brassiere. She radiated heat and sexual pheromones that washed over the room like a gosling feathered storm surge. She was so stunning that she was unapproachable, that is, until she turned her light upon you with that ethereal smile.
She took in, and glided into, the room, melted the ice cubes with that smile and lifted a small glass of Agave liquor to her perfect mouth and slammed it. She looked at Petey first and quipped: “Long time, Soldier,” and sprawled her hot body into a grey knit colored, mid century Kai Kristiansen, Danish modern lounge chair that I had purchased through the Scandinavian Mafia, crossed her legs revealing the alabaster of her inner thighs and dropped her shapely arms down to the outsides of the arm rests. “Phew, the fucking traffic is horrendous!” she said and asked for a smoke. “Nice to see you again, Anna.” Hinch sweetly called from the doorway.
“How’d you like a knuckle sandwich, midget?” she snapped back, took a Players Oval that I offered and a light from my vintage Zippo lighter.
Nonplussed, Hinch turned back into the room and announced: “I give you now, ‘William the Conqueror’, leopard of lovers and defiler of the unsuspecting, bane of the fair sexes and with his knowledge of how to quickly slay with every aspect of his fine tuned physique, brings us the cleanest of bodies and the dirtiest of minds.”
Billy stalked in on velvet paws, eyeing the corners of the room for prey or adversaries. He was about the same height as Anne, five foot nine or so, but looked taller somehow. His finely polished alligator boots, pressed form fitted jeans and black muscle shirt ensemble was held together by a military Garrison Belt and matching leather vest. He fairly rippled with animal masculinity. His square features were topped by three quarter inches of dark hair that came low on his brow, razor cut. He radiated a ‘don’t fuck with me’ aura and he snatched Calistoga water out of the air that Petey had tossed in his direction faster than the eye could follow. A small diamond in his right ear lobe and a vintage Submariner Rolex watch were the only jewelry that he wore.
The only chink in his armor seemed to come from the frequent batting of his perfect dark eyelashes that fell across dark chocolate brown eyes that was an effect of his ill hydrated contact lenses. Petey started humming softly: a Carly Simon song which was entitled “You’re So Vain” and Billy eyed him suspiciously, not getting it, but knowing that a slight had been slung.
Billy turned to Hinch’s retreating back and muttered “asshole” to which the gnome replied brightly:
“Everybody’s got one!” and sniggered his way back to his post at the door.
More food was getting passed around by a young Tica girl; the one that I had seen nursing a baby earlier in the kitchen. It seemed that the greasy bastards (I was getting to like the sound of that) were from Costa Rica; I silently prayed that she had washed her hands. Billy was leaning against a doorway, Petey was grinning from behind the bar and sweet, evil Anne was still slouched as the effects of food and drink began to make their magic on prevailing moods. I had seen the sober Billy Price (everybody’s got one) slip a small tablet into his mouth, surreptitiously (I’m sure that he thought) and he relaxed perceptively also. Small talk was served up and nibbled on. I decided that I was the one who should break the ice, so to speak, and started with the easiest mark:
“So Petey, tell me, if Petey Pappas is not your real name, how did you come by it?”
Petey told us about how, “after I met, and spoke with Anne (with a solicitous nod in her direction) and with the semi clandestine encounters with her that included several elevating forms of attention that she had guided me through, she and I formed a plan.”
The plan was this: Petey would find where his sister had stashed the purloined birth certificates and pick an appropriate one that would show that he was old enough to join the U.S. Marine Corps and that her ‘friend’ Billy would do the rest. The name on the birth certificate that he found most suitable was Patroclaeus Papracapolis.
Anne smiled promiscuously in his direction and joined in: “Yeah, Petey was one of my earliest disciples, eh? Remember the hallway closet and the break room? Yum…. Some times, eh?” You could just about hear Billy’s scowl. Petey was lost in thought with a stupid grin on his face, evidently reliving some smutty tryst or other.
“Yum, yum.” He agreed.
Hinch came back with our next caller: “You unlock this door with the key of your imagination” he said slowly; I had to give it to him, he was back to his natural rare form. “Beyond it is another dimension, a dimension of sight, a dimension of sound, a dimension of mind. You’re moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You’ve just crossed over into… the Brandi Zone.”
There was a smattering of applause as Brandi Mae entered; and she entered without seeming to touch the floor, you might say that she ‘swept in’. And she was here, the ocean’s daughter, dressed simply in sandals, jeans and one of those Oxford collar man tailored shirts open at the throat that she wore with her natural aplomb. Patricia Clarkson. Meryl Streep. Forgo formality and simply say that she was every inch Brandi Mae.
Her sable colored hair was cut shoulder length, with longish cut bangs and has natural curls, her eyes are wide, blue gray and set and open. Her hourglass figure spoke simply: ‘round, firm and fully packed’ and you knew that you had, in fact, always been her lover. She had Wayfarers perched on top of her head acting as a hair band and she matched Anne ounce for ounce in sensuality; even the sweet bangs of her hair set a fire going inside of me, her eyes drank in my being, and my inner animal screamed: “Dip me in honey and feed me to her!!! In fact my inner everything went on high alert.
She put her arm affectionately around Hinch who purred and molded himself to her right side, his head resting on her perfect hip.
“You know, Hinch” she quipped “I can help you out with that hump”
It was a famous line from Young Frankenstein and Hinch picked it up right away. He turned to her and looked up at her very seriously and replied: “Hump? What Hump?” They both giggled.
“And as they say:” said Billy sarcastically “they laughed like they didn’t have a lick of sense”.
“Now Billy,” said Brandi, flashing a most disarming smile “you’re not still angry at me are you?”
“Hah, Billy stays sore a long time, sweetie.” Threw in Anne
“But that was so long ago… “
There was another knock at the door and Hinch rolled out to answer it. In came Mo, I mean, Sylvinia.
Hinch came in, clapped his hands three times and said: “I give you now…”
‘snik’.
The room fell silent; Hinch closed his mouth and backed up. We all knew what ‘snik’ meant. It meant that Sylvinia had let open her six-inch, pearl handled, Sicilian, early twentieth century stiletto. When you hear ‘snik’, you freeze; it is the sound of death. And dealing that fate with poker faced relish would be of course, Sylvinia Wolfpath. Syl liked to call it, the stiletto, ‘Little Zipper’ and none of us wanted to have a run in (no pun intended) with it. We had all heard tales of the thing.
She was dressed in the only color I had ever seen her in (besides au natural, but that’s another tale for another time): black. Flat, head to toe, unadorned and un-accessorized… black. Today it was leotard, turtleneck, leggings, hair-banded and light denim jacketed… black. She wore those eye glasses that changed hue from dark to light depending on the sunshine (or not) and on her feet a simple pair of Capezio dancing slippers, black of course. Her hair was back in a tight bun and she was a fine, lean and toned woman of about six foot four and a half. She reached back, seemingly to scratch her scalp and we heard the Little Zipper slide back up her sleeve. A collective sigh could be heard.
“You were saying, Little One?” She said to Hinch
“I am exalted by your presence, my Lady” Hinch bowed away from her and back to his post.
As Hinch turned he bumped into another, unexpected, guest. The room turned when we heard the little guy’s muffled exclamation. Considering their size differential, what happened, and what we saw was, Hinch with his face pressed against the crotch of our new arrival, she had her hands on both of his shoulders and was grinning from ear to ear.
“I love your approach, my little man, but shouldn’t I have a drink first?”
Hinch blushed furiously and our new guest smiled at the assemblage and cried out: “I was hoping that I’d find you all here; okay, who wants to be a millionaire?”
Petey was the first to speak: “why, as I live and breathe! What cat dragged you in and what scheme are you cooking up now?” He turned to us all and said: “I suppose you all know my sister Pearl and at this point my advice would be not to agree to purchase anything.”
“I take offense to that last remark and I’ll have you watch your tongue, Sir” commented Professor Morriarity, who had followed Pearl into the room.
Pearl pulled a small device from her shoulder bag and proceeded to reel us in like brook trout from an Arkansas creek on an August afternoon

Valentines in New Orleans 2011

2010-12-19T12:59:00.000-08:00

We interupt our story telling to post the February WhereY'at article before I lose it.
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Hearts And Flowers
Or
Hello, I Must Be Going
“ Love doesn’t come in a minit; sometimes it doesn’t come at all. I only know that when I’m init; it isn’t silly, it isn’t silly, love isn’t silly at aaaaaaaaallll.”
Yes Cats and Hats, it’s February and time to take love and Valentine’s Day for another spin around the block. So, kick the tires, check your gas gauge and fasten your seat belts.
To begin with: In the time of the Roman emperor Claudius the Cruel there was a priest named Valens or Valentine or something. Claudius the Cruel wanted to raise an army but guys didn’t want to leave their wives and families, so in a typical political maneuver the emperor outlawed weddings. He figured that if guys didn’t have wives and families that they would be more likely to give up their lives in battle for nuts like him. Typical political thinking. Rome was called a republic, which makes Claudius an early republican.
Well, Val was a priest that didn’t see eye to eye with Claude and went on marrying couples; so Claude had him bludgeoned to death with clubs and decapitated. The execution took place on February 14th, which was, by coincidence, the feast day of Juno, the goddess of childbirth and marriage. The Following day was the beginning of a festival called Lupercalia. (Actually Lupercalia was from Feb 13th-15th). Lupercalia was the celebration of purification and pregnancy, named for the she-wolf who suckled Romulus and Remus, for the Greek god Pan and all his lascivious antics, and for the cleansing ritual named Februatio (after the Roman God of purification and washing, Februus) for which the month February is named. What’s the point? The whole point of Valentine’s Day was for the church to subsume another pagan ritual with a feast day of a saint whom they would later defrock, along with others such as Christopher and Nicolas. In Euclidian geometry a point is something that has no parts. And if you think that I’m handing you a line, I’ll take it a step further by quoting Euclid again who said that a “line is a length without a breadth”. If you throw religion out (imagine) the whole pagan festival is like a big three-day pure nurturing love fest, complete with body fluids; or, a line with a point at both ends, a beast with two backs. It’s more like the arrival of spring weather and a reason to party like it’s nineteen ninety twenty-two. Think about it.
So, there you go; full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. How’s your love life? Got your Valentine’s cards out yet? Got a Valentine? Want to beat them with clubs and cut their heads off?
Oh, before Val’s execution he passed a note to the jailer’s daughter, with whom he had developed a ‘friendship’ (yeah, right.); he signed it “your Valentine”. What was in the note is anybody’s guess. Supposedly, that was the beginning of the whole Valentines card thing.
So, let’s flog this horse another mile and touch on the subject of love. Love is, for the most part, a trickster, a shape-shifter and a mischief-maker; in all mythologies god and godlike beings personify these types of rascals and one thing they have in common is a proclivity and propensity for procreation. Like love, they also are not trustworthy. Eros, Loki, Kokopelli, Hermes, Ananse and Raven are prime examples. Not know many of those guys? Well here’s a story:
Once upon a time (it’s a ‘once upon a time’ story) there was a being born of the elements: fire, water, air and earth. This being was enormously unhappy because they did not have another crutial element, an element that was missing from their life, or so they thought---the element of LOVE.
This being was to wander the earth and spheres and witness the love that others had; the love of a mother as she suckles her babe, the love of a faithful and obedient pet, love to a just and merciful god, the love that comes from fealty to king and country and the love that the fortunate have for their local bartenders. There’s the love of arts and beauty, of food that is tasty and well prepared, and of the gifts of the muses: poetry, drama, dance and dirty jokes (just kidding); the love of a good book, a trusted friend, fauna and flora and a juicy piece of gossip.
Everywhere that this being looked they saw love: the love of toys and playthings, the love of a harmonic gathering of like minded individuals, of nature and of marshmallows toasted over a campfire at sunset. Then they saw the love that people have for being with other people: double Dutch rope jumping, card games, singing in harmony, playing dress up, playing undress up, doing shots together, group hugs and working together to achieve a common purpose.
Then they saw the love that a person has for themselves: in doing good deeds, in helping the less fortunate, in setting goals and reaching them, in tending the infirm, in preserving their natural surroundings, in those little ‘toys’ that are kept in the bedside drawer and in sticking it to BP for a butt load of money.
The being that was formed of the elements gave a big sigh (BBBBIIIIGGGGGSSSSIIIIGGGGHHHH!!!!!) and thought that there must be a down side to all of this love stuff, so they retreated to a mountain by the side of a lake and felt the breathing of the waves and listened to the whispers of the wind in the cool bright beatific shining of the sun and by the light of a pure moon and heavenly starlight. For a millennium they sat and pondered the human condition and came up with the insight and image of an insecure spirit trapped in a flawed body, greedy for power, materialistically oppressive, vindictive and cowardly petty; these belligerent bipeds, who infested the planet like a rash on a baby’s butt, thought that they were hot stuff armed with the belief that, if nothing else, being on top of the food chain made them something special.
The being that was formed from the elements came down from the mountain with this knowledge and was promptly bludgeoned with clubs and decapitated. It doesn’t pay to look too close at love. Happy Valentines.

New Orleans Story Part Nine: the Caper

2010-12-13T10:07:00.000-08:00

Short story Part 9: The Caper
And thus spoke Pearl: “Alright kids, this is the prototype, okay? That means there is only ONE of these babies, (plus plans). It’s like a kindle only this one actually reads to you and with you, if you hear a word that you don’t understand all you have to do is repeat the word and the machine will stop and explain the word; if you say the word and then say “thesaurus”, the machine will give you a lexicon. The machine is thin and the size of a folded newspaper and it is back-lighted, you sort of read along with it, you know?”
“Now”, she continued “the business section of The New York Times printed an article recently about a wireless router+ home backup hard drive+ digital picture frame. It (D-link DIR-683) will broadcast your internet connection wirelessly and will, with it’s strong Wi-Fi signal, turn your entire house into a Wi-Fi hotspot and give you port forwarding, Application Rules. Individual website blocking, a sophisticated firewall, UpnP, Multicast Streams, Wake on LAN, users and groups, network access lists, scheduled lockouts, log security formats like WPA and WEP and much more including the ability to inspect your router’s settings and the display of dozens of internet informational widgets; weather, headlines, sports, stocks, Twitter posts and- delightfully- photos from your Flickr or Facebook accounts. This baby kicks that one to the curb and spits on it”. She glanced around at suspicious faces: “ And guys, it’ll make a 6G network look like a field mouse in a Kansas wheat field! AND,” here she beamed a rare beam “ --wait for it”—“It comes with the option of background music!”
“It, also,” she continued “is ‘hand imprint’ operated; meaning that it is not opened by anyone but the owner who has been micro-chipped in perfect symbiosis with the thing. The machine can be kept as a diary, confidant, older sibling and shrink. It will tell you when not to drink and dial, correct you if you decide to text while tipsy and warn you if you’re about to facebook while you’re fucked up.
“A professor will be demonstrating the device as part of a panel at the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival called… ‘Book Reading; Dead or Alive’”. She paused for a breath; “And that’s when we steal it… and him.”
She eyed the skeptical room. “My Chinese contacts will give me a hundred million dollars for it, no questions asked. Every kid in the world is gonna want one”
What she was describing was a system called ‘TUTOR’ it would make schools and learning institutions obsolete and the rest of the world irrelevant; you could be taught anything you wanted to learn by a patient teacher who would talk to you and not down to you and one that would explain again and again until you got your information in your own time; in you own language. You could learn to paint from the masters, read the sheet music of the maestros, fix your lawnmower or your love life and no, not every kid in the world would want one…. EVERYONE IN THE WORLD WOULD DEMAND ONE!
“Wait, wait, wait” interrupted Billy “before you go any futher, I got a few questions that you might want to answer.”
“Whoa, hold on Billy boy, let me finish.” Here she raised her hands and arms for silence and composure before she continued: “We can do this as a team or I can form another group but I really think that knowing eachother is important and we all have history together that I believe will act as grease for the gears that we’ll be spinning to pull this off. Of course, some of you will have to change your names.”
After a collective groan was heard she said: “just joking! But you see how you all act as a team already? How does two mil sound as a down payment for starters?” And she waved a small piece of paper.
There was a loud sound at this point that came from the bar area; it sounded like a POP (!) it sounded like a POW (!) it sounded like a BANG (!). Pearl hit the floor, Billy hugged the wall, Mo had a gun out and was at a crouch, Hinch had fainted and the girls, Anne and Brandi had their hands to their mouths in horror. Pearl went into a fit of Saint Elmo’s. It sounded like --and it was—the sound of Petey opening a bottle of champagne to make Pearl her favorite drink, a Kir Royale.
Petey jumped over the bar and yelled: “quick…Hinch!” and I sprang from my perch; together we pinned him down just as he went into spasms. Petey got some smelling salts under his nose and within seconds he was as right as rain, and everything settled back down.
Billy piped up again: “ that don’t look like no two million bucks to me!”
Pearl called for silence again “Okay, I’m gonna ‘splain it slow and don’t make me use no flash cards. We’ve got—assuming that we all agree to this—three months to pull this off. What we do is, we buy a house in the French Quarter and move in together and rehearse and train and plan our asses off until we can do this thing slicker than snot on a doorknob. We split ninety eight million dollars and fade to black, back to our lives or any other lives that we may wish. Now, c’mon guys, we’ll be perfect together, have some fun, some laughs and be rich by this time in April. Whaddya say?”
Billy piped up again: “ I don’t know where the big bucks are for starters and I don’t think that piece of paper that you’re waving looks like two million bucks; that looks to me like a lottery ticket, do you mean to tell me that the Chinese control the winning numbers on the American lottery?”
“Bingo! No flies on you Bill” said Pearl “This particular ticket will win the four mil pot on Wednesday and we cash it out for two and buy us a house, like I said, move in and work out the kinks for the heist. Perfect, eh?”’
“And who, exactly who, do all of us trust to cash in that ticket and not do a Houdini on us? Which one of us can be trusted enough to get the two big ones and not take a powder?” Asked Anne. “I’ll tell you right now, it’s not me!”
The company started eyeing eachother like curs surrounding a bone and with each second that pregnantly passed we all knew that none of us could be trusted.
Just at the time that the gang reached a unanimous stalemate, our eyes started focusing on the one person that we all could put our faith in; the one person that we knew would not double cross us. And then we all came to the same unanimous conclusion and our stares turned to the chump/champ that we could pick for our champ/chump; the one person that we could all agree upon. Hinch.
“Wha wha wha wha?” Hinch started to say
Brandi spoke up first and said it the best: “Of course! Hinch is the only one of us that has the capacity to put love before money.”

New Orleans Short story PartEight: Mo

2010-12-12T09:20:00.000-08:00

Short Story Part Eight: Mo, the story
It was a clear dark night in Las Cruces, New Mexico. The sky was the color that the Scripto Ink Company calls Blue Black, there was a riot of stars in the sky and a 1950 Chevrolet pickup truck, brush-painted silver, with the name ‘Lazarus’ printed on the passenger side door slid to a stop on the gravel driveway outside of the Saint Dymphna Church of the Quiet Mind. Saint Dymphna is the patron saint of nervous breakdowns… but that’s another story for another time.
The Mescalero Apache, a small post middle aged, grizzled man named Luke Crazy-eye, who was the driver of that truck that sounded like honeymoon bedsprings in a cheap motel, opened his complaining driver’s side door, stepped down, crushed his cigarette out in the gravel with a scuffed Tony Lama boot that had seen better days and pulled a bundle from the orange crate that was sitting on the front seat. He carried the bundle to the door of the church and rapped loudly. It was Christmas Eve 1975, there was a definite chill in the air and Luke wasn’t breathing too well; Luke didn’t know that he had lung cancer and would be dead before Easter. But that’s another story.
One of the two women who ran the church, Sister Miriam, answered the door. There was a small fire going in the kiva oven and the thick adobe walls were doing their best to insulate the sparsely furnished room; Luke, as he had planned, said nothing and handed the bundle over to the first person that he came into contact with, which was the woman who opened the door, who was one of the two ministers of the church, the other being Sister Françoise
There was not a big Christmas turnout at the little church that year since the Holy Christian Church of the Bleeding Tortured & Beaten Caucasian Redeemer across town had started spreading rumors that the ministers at St. Dymphna’s were lesbian lovers who sought shelter from society behind the protection of the church.
The hand that reached out for the bundle had a number tattooed to the wrist from an unpleasant stay in Poland a few years previously and she stepped back into the room as Luke turned silently, walked back to ‘Lazarus’ and slowly drove away leaving clouds of smoke from a perpetual oil leak, a faulty carburetor and the steam from the temperature differential.
Sister Miriam brought the bundle to a table where she and Sister Francoise unwrapped it. (And no, they weren’t hiding behind the skirts of St, Dymphna and yes they might be happier in each other’s arms than anywhere else; but that’s none of our business.)
Inside the bundle they found a very newborn baby with a shock of black hair, bathed in a thin coat of mucus and with the umbilical cord still attached. The baby was curled in a fetal position and it would be a few minutes until they could determine that it was a little girl. They were doubtful that the child would live but they did what they could; they milked their nanny goat (a very apropos name) managed to feed the child and, after turning out the lights in the church, brought her to bed to sleep between them. Three virgins. Three naked virgins.
The Sisters talked into the night and decided to name the child, whether she lived or died, in a combination of their favorite writers: Sylvia Plath and Virginia Wollf. They tried many combinations and finally lit on Sylvinia Wolfpath. Sylvinia would later tell people who asked about her parents that her father was a traveler named Lazarus and that she had two mothers. Then she would transfix them with eyes that the Scripto Ink Company would call Blue Black (the same color of the sky on the night that she was born) and say “but that’s a story for another time”, and leave it at that.
Somewhere in the middle of that first night under New Mexican chilled skies, the baby, whether from warmth or pure love, stretched to her full length. Newly born as she was, her head rested between the minister’s breasts and her tiny olive skinned toes touched just above their knees. Sister Francoise awoke briefly and muttered: “Mon Dieu, someone, I think, has given us an anaconda!”
Christmas morning came and the baby still lived.
In fact the baby, partially thanks to the warmth and care of the two Sisters as well as a diet of good goats milk, thrived, grew and gave all indications of being hale, hearty and healthy. At two years of age she had outgrown her foal-like appearance and carried on more like a spider monkey; all arms and legs. She possessed the uncanny ability to scale furniture, climb anything vertical and box with the sister’s Tom kitten without getting a scratch; this she did with no change of expression on her sweet, but somber face. Her hair was long, straight and blacker than night, her skin took on a café au lait/olive hue and her eyes were dark and piercing; her mouth appeared petulant but was actually the only way her mothers had ever seen her look. “It must have been the cold of that first night that froze her expression so” Sister Miriam often remarked. She potty trained early, although she preferred to use Mother Nature as her lavatory and she was late to utter any words with which to communicate her wishes. If little Sylvinia wanted anything she would sit and stare until someone noticed and guessed her needs correctly, more often than not it was Sister Francoise that could tune in most successfully.
By 1979 the small but perfect family had been driven out of the west by the good Christians of Las Cruces and had purchased a Creole Cottage in the Lower Garden district of New Orleans on a street named after the muse Terpsichore, the muse of dance.
Her mothers thought it fitting to enroll her in classes of gymnastics and ballet, which she showed an aptitude for and in fact excelled at. Later she took fencing lessons from the one remaining master in Exchange Alley.
By four years old she was reading, well, as much as her mothers could tell for a child that did not speak. She would carom around the rooms, up bookcases and into crannies to select things to look at, her favorites being Nation Geographic, the Times Picayune Metro Section and cookbooks that offered photographs of different dishes. It was Francoise that first gave her colored pencils and paper and watched her scrawl out words. Albeit primitive, her first written words were: “muthers good”, and drew a picture of their home as it had been in Las Cruces; she Sisters wept in each others arms, hugged the baby and put the masterpiece on the refrigerator with magnets. They, the mothers, worshipped their child and treated her with respect, patience and love. Sylvinia Wolfpath was a perfect child, gifted with natural intelligence and good sense with the self-actualized countenance of a poetess, which, of course she was.
At five years old she uttered her first words. She was perusing the obituaries in the newspaper and looked up to find Sister Miriam studying her.
She put her finger in the middle of the page and said: “These people are dead. Why are they smiling?”

New Orleans short story Part Seven: Me Me Me

2010-12-10T13:14:00.000-08:00

New Orleans Short Story 7: Me Me Me
So now it’s four-thirty of the afternoon in question and the drugs have successfully kicking in; hell, they done kicked in hours ago and at this point they have taken me over. I looked over at the bed stand and saw the time and a half empty glass of Scotch. I feel good though, my head is clear, I feel rested and I’m only seeing one each of everything; however, I can still hear god laughing at what a fool I am.
Petey looked in on me from the bedroom door. “Morning Sunshine, rise up and join the world, you have a party to give in two hours.” He said cheerily.
“What the hell did you give me?” I queried
“A little thing that I mix up myself” he replied “kind of a variation of Desbutol*, you know Desoxin and Nembutal? This one starts with the downer, puts you out, mediates your nerve endings for relief of your sore-nesses and then time releases the upper so that you wake up feeling bright eyed and bushy tailed. You’re good to go for another twelve to fourteen hours Chum, by which time, with any luck at all, you should be three sheets to the wind and ready for a good nights sleep. Now, at and up ‘em Soldier!”
“Swell” I said and jumped out of bed; I immediately got a vertigo rush, staggering against his waiting arms.
“Whoa there Kimosabe, you not want move fast, might fall back in canyon.” He sounded just like that frigging Indian.
“Whew, thanks Tonto. Where’s m’horse?”
Petey handed me a glass of orange juice and a stick of Juicy Fruit gum. “Juice for head, gum for breath, you smell like horse and look like buffalo dung.” he said sagely “Time to pow wow later, after long stay in rain room, go shower; Lone Ranger sweat much while sleep; remind Tonto two pounds crushed coyote sphincter.”
Well, how do you argue with a man who channels a faithful Indian companion? Short answer: you do not.
After twenty minutes in a scalding shower I was almost as normal as I ever was and Petey filled me in. “Okay Bud, nix the poultry party, likewise the use of this side of the house. I’ve got a cleaning crew working on the wreckage and I’ve called Los Tres Bastardos Grasientos catering company with dinner to be served—Voila—next door-- in the billiard room which, with the creative use of plywood and your Mama’s damask rose patterned linen, some candles and air freshener we now have ‘Chez Pierre’; the hottest ticket private eating establishment this side of Elaine’s. Oh by the way, you’ve had some cancellations so we’re down to five including me; I’ve got a call into Mo, so I’m really expecting us to be a sixer, you, me, Billy, Brandi, Anne and hopefully Mo. Sorry I couldn’t scare up Julia Roberts or someone of that ilk, they’re in Cannes or some such place watching movies and dancing naked by the pool…go figure.
“Mo, Mo?” I queried: “Really, Mo is the only one you can get? I’d even take Pearl over Mo; I’ve already had my maximum daily requirement of downers for the day; couldn’t you get anyone else?” I moaned. “Even Pearl would be preferable!”
“So solly Cholly”, Petey retorted, “Miz Pearl is either making her own movies, run off with the circus or in a slammer somewhere south of Peoria. You know that wacky sister of mine: at ease with sleaze. Besides,” he continued “what’s wrong with Mo that we can’t and haven’t dealt with? AND… you didn’t talk like that when you had her behind closed doors!”
Getting back to real time, reader, of course you know that Mo is not her real name. Onward:
Alright, alright… Mo and I had had a brief but intense ‘thing’ until I found out that she was moody, cynical, sarcastic, vindictive, armed and full-blown bat shit crazy; those are her good qualities. Her bad qualities would send a saint to Smirnoff, Seconal, and smoker’s cough. We affectionately, and between ourselves only, call her ‘Mo’ because she looks like a painting by Modigliani, if you get my drift. She’s extremely intelligent, creative, imaginative and a really great canoodler; and that’s a story for another time.
Now with mere hours to go, I hitched up my britches, put on a tie, a smile and a pair of cheap sunglasses and, ignoring the commotion of the repairmen, trundled next door to my saloon/salon. Once again, I was glad to be alive.
Over in the saloon that I had named ‘L’auberge ne relachez pas’ or ‘The Don’t Drop Inn’ Petey had been setting things aright as I could see when I wandered out of my back door, which, again, was in the front of the building and over to the back of the pub, which was likewise. The caterers were busy in the kitchen and the smell of freshly squeezed citrus mingled with the scent of burning animal flesh; a woman in the corner was making fresh tortillas while another chopped vegetables and herbs. They were joined by a couple of scruffy children in diapers; barefoot. Three burly, Hispanic looking, men were wreathed in steam and smoke from the cooking appliances and fat cigars, they were wearing matching grease stained wife beater undershirts that did their best to cover hairy bellies and the sweat flowed like wine from their pores into the food. I started to say something but feared for my safety and judging from the look of their jailhouse tattoos of old English lettering, saviors on crosses and virgin mothers, rightly so. I averted my eyes just picturing the pleasure that they would have taking a scrawny gringo in white duck trousers and burgundy velvet smoking jacket and playing ‘dunking for French fries’ in the deep fryer that they had set up outside the door using what looked like old furniture (I hoped not mine) for fuel.
I found Petey at the bar going through my mail and asked him about the seeming culinary chaos. “Who are those guys?” I hissed.
“Oh, you mean them greasy bastards?”
“Shhhh!” I whispered, “don’t let them hear you talking about them like that!”
“Hee hee” Petey laughed “That’s the name of the catering company, paleface, ‘The Three Greasy Bastards’, oh, I told them no chicken; I figured that you had enough fowl play for one day” He really got the giggles over that one.
“Very punny” I retorted, not feeling amused.
“Okay, okay. Boy, everybody’s a critic these days. Listen, folks will be arriving soon; by the smell of it, grubs about done. Take a load off, I’ve set us up in the mode of ‘Uber Comfort’. Here, smoke some of this."

New Orleans Story Part Six: Billy

2010-12-03T11:29:00.000-08:00

Part Six: Billy
Okay, who is Billy? Well, consistent with the other characters in this story, Billy is not his real name; in fact Billy has had several names that he’s used that are other than the name on his real birth certificate, which is, believe it or not, Melvin Tennabruso. As I said, or at least inferred, Billy had gone by a number of different names since shedding the (he thought) hideous names that he was given at birth, in baptism, communion and confirmation. As a kid he wanted to be called Frosty the Snowman. He once saw a name on a wooden pencil: Mandarin #2 and wanted that one, he tried on ‘Esquire’ and that didn’t stick. He tried a one-word name of: ‘Face’ but nobody wanted to call him that, especially in the pool hall. Jack Frost, Brady Brady, Charles Wright (he dreamed of “Sir Charles” but that was also Teflon), Aaron Presley (Elvis’ middle name), Philip Mann (it was easier at the dry cleaners) and then he was Thomas Katt for a while, before stumbling onto Billy the Kid.
Well, he couldn’t use Billy D. Kidd (too obvious) so he settled on William Price, it had a nice ring and he could call himself Billy Price; his inside joke about the last name of Price was that he figured that everybody had one, a price that is. So his running joke was, when introducing himself, he would say: “The name’s William Price, everybody has one… but you can call me Billy”. He took great pains to introduce himself as often as he could; it never failed to bring a smile to his face. Not many other people got it, though.
Mel was raised in Hoboken, New Jersey where his folks moved when he was seven, much to their shame. His family for years had lived in New York City, in tenements and slums, and when gentrification reared its ugly head in their neighborhood (Greenwich Village) the poor people were the first to go. And being his family was racially and ethnically biased (They didn’t like anyone that wasn’t Italian or Irish and certainly no one that wasn’t Catholic), they had nowhere to go except New Jersey, which to them was like living in exile.
Mel and his friends and young fellow big city refugees tried to make the streets of Hoboken as dangerous as possible, just so that they could feel at home. They formed gangs, vandalized property, got into fights and stole things. They were the first kids to smoke cigarettes and drop out of school. They were mean to anyone that they found weaker than themselves. They were sneaky, crafty, brutal and without exception, cowardly. They bullied young girls into ‘putting out’.
Melvin being a typical Irish Italian Catholic became an altar boy and did his time at religious instructions; he was given (in his estimation) hideous middle names; one at baptism and another for confirmation. He felt that his family hated him and wanted only to humiliate him. His old man beat him regularly but that was no big deal; his father would get drunk and beat everybody he came in contact with: his wife, his kids and other drunks. Mel didn’t make no federal case about his beatings; he knew that someday he’d be out of that place called home or big enough to kick his old man’s ass, if for no other reason than the way his father mistreated his mother, whom he loved like a saint.
His chance came soon enough. One night Mel TennisShoes (as he was called on the street) and Tommy TooTall broke into the neighborhood pawn shop to rob anything that they could put their hands on. They broke in through the skylight. They dressed in black and put shoe polish on their faces just like in that Robert Mitchum movie. They brought a rope that they lowered themselves into the shop with and started looking around with flashlights that they held in their teeth. They made the mistake by pulling the rope in after them.
The silent alarm went off and they couldn’t get out; the front door was barred and the skylight was too high to reach. The police sat outside and laughed at them while they waited for the owner to show up with the keys to let them in to nab the two seventeen year old amateurs.
Their mothers cried at the trial, their fathers got drunk and got into a fight, the other kids laughed at how stupid they were getting caught like that. “Yeah, dere dey wuz, like rats in a trap, stoopid reeeelie fockin’ stoopid.”
The judge gave them a choice (some cherse!); off to the big house or volunteer for the armed services. Thomas James Joseph Tatarino volunteered for the U.S. Navy and Melvin Alfred Aloysius Tennabruso chose the Marine Corps. Tommy spent four years drinking and getting laid, he did as little work as possible and squeaked by with an Honorable Discharge. Mel (call me Billy) spent the first two years getting his ass kicked and the next two working at a recruiting center in New Orleans.
After completing his basic training at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, Private First Class Tennabruso considered himself a trained killer; unfortunately he had his father’s propensity for not being able to hold his liquor and lose his temper, so Mel (call me Billy) would regularly go off base, off sobriety and off his rocker and get into fights that he never won. One day a fellow Marine, Deanjelo Dagostino (call me Dino) took him aside, talked sense into him and inspired him to lay off the booze. Actually, Dino introduced him to drugs, which they both liked a hell of a lot better than whiskey. Drugs did what you told them to do, either waking you up or putting you to sleep; they invariably made you feel good about yourself. Billy and Dino became fast friends and Dino taught him the two cardinal sins of drugs; one: don’t get caught with them and two: use just enough and no more. Both sins were punishable by dishonor, which both buddies feared more than death. Dino was from New Orleans and he was conniving, wheedling and manipulating a transfer to the recruiting station there, where a couple of the guys he knew were due to be discharged soon. He planned on getting his good buddy Billy to be transferred with him and it did come to pass that they did serve out the rest of their time in New Orleans, were discharged together and settled down for a spell. Dino and Billy shared an apartment in the French Quarter even while they were in the service of their country. They liked to troll the quarter at night looking for women that were a little worse for the wear of strong drink and ergo easy pickings.
Pat O’Brien’s bar was a favorite because it was raucous, loud and made a drink called a “Hurricane’ there, whose sole existence was to get people fucked up. Billy and Dino would hang around the bar until they spotted likely semi-disabled women, and having the advantage of being sober (albeit high) they made their moves and culled them from the herd for some hanky-panky at their place which was only two blocks away. Let it be known here, that the good times that the boys enjoyed was by mutual, although inebriated, consent. The buddies were well versed in that special point of weakness that came before moods became maudlin, and generally, a good time was had by all.
Billy had turned into a good looking man and as these things went, having doubted his attractiveness for most of his life, was insatiable in his lust for conquest. He often wandered off on his own picking up shop girls, waitresses and even a librarian or two. But, Billy was having sex, he was not making love; and this, shame that it was, would not occur to him until much later in his life.

New Orleans Story Part Five: Brandi

2010-11-28T12:03:00.000-08:00

New Orleans story part 5: Brandi
Beatrice Mae Buttons had always been a big girl. She was born on the Button’s family farm in Eagle Rock, Missouri. In those days Eagle Rock was no more than a cluster of failing farms with a post office, a fire station and a filling station next to a convenience store that sold hot lunches to migrants in a bend in highway eighty-six; Eagle Rock was a haven for Hispanic illegals because there were no police to speak of in the vicinity.
Migrants hired themselves out to the dirt farmers around planting and harvesting time before moving south or north following the crops. They worked for a little money or the barter of goods and services. You see, there is an unmarked migrant workers highway that stretches from Canada to Louisiana where camps are set up and abandoned as the workers move south to north starting in spring working down up to the Canadian border and then back to the Gulf of Mexico to catch harvests; in this way hundreds of undocumented workers could remain below the radar, make a living, feed and clothe themselves and raise their families. That song “On The Road Again” was not a hit amongst those who had no other choice.
There were waystations and wooded encampments, abandoned farm buildings and even a midwife or two within reach and ken of the growing, moving, traveling, gypsy hands that were an important part of making the best of bad land and low incomes in places like the one that residents called ‘Eagle Rock Misery’ and other small poor communities and properties that no one could afford to live on and nobody else was fool enough to want to buy.
The Buttons’ farm was no better or worse than any of the neighboring properties; there was one thing that Mr. And Mrs. Buttons did raise in larger quantities than their neighbors, and that was children. They had nine living children and they all got as much schooling as necessary and then worked the poor land from that age on. In prosperous times they had a milk cow, yard chickens and occasionally a pig in a sty. Prosperous times were few and far between. The farm was just east of the highway and just west of Fire Road 2285. Forty acres; no mule. Help from migrants when they could afford it.
In hard times they ate corn and potatoes cooked in lard. Mrs. Buttons planted a truck garden every spring and usually a good portion of the crops were eaten by insects, stolen by migrants or rabbits which Mr. Buttons took great pleasure in shooting at with an old Winchester rifle. They often had rabbit for dinner but never a migrant worker. The Buttons worked the land a parcel at a time, when one parcel got played out they would work another parcel that they had cleared; an acre at a time. With all the clearing and planting and harvesting, the Buttons had no end to work. Just as the last parcel played out, the first one was ready for replanting. So it goes.
This was the world that she was born into; poor whites, poor browns and had she lived further south, poor blacks. These are folks that we hear referred to as ‘dirt poor’. Beatrice Mae Buttons was the fourth youngest and only one of the two girls, her sister Bonnie Jeanne being the baby of the clan. Beatrice, or Bea as she was called, was born after a late harvest on a dark and stormy night; there was a chill in the air and a north wind whistled through the chinks in the wall and under the door. Mr. Buttons had long since given up on helping with deliveries; Mrs. Button’s body had so much experience birthing babies that Beatrice literally fell out of her cervix. It was Mr. Buttons pleasure to never have to plow hard to plant another baby Buttons into the Missus.
Little Bea was cute from the start. She was born a little dumpling with freckles and dimples all over her, she had a shock of strawberry blond hair that would soon turn to pure sable. She was born with blue-grey eyes which would remain the same color all her life; they shone with a fire from within. Upon reaching her mother’s breast for her first taste of milk she looked up at Mrs. Buttons and smiled with her entire face and being; an angels smile. Mrs. Buttons wanted to hold her close forever, in fact, Mrs. Buttons did not know if she could ever not be holding her this close… or closer, forever. Another fact was, Mrs. Buttons had never been more in love with any thing or person in her entire life.
That’s just the way Bea affected people throughout her life; to see her was to love her; to love her was to want to touch her. To touch her was to want to hold her. The only challenge that Bea ever had was that anyone that held her would want to own her.
But Beatrice Mae could not be owned. You see, Bea is what you might call a free spirit. She gave of herself freely and all to whom she shone upon felt blessed. To her it was a simple act of bodies touching, souls entwining and spirits joining. At puberty she also found that there were body fluids to contend with and she went on and on into her early twenties until a trip down south to New Orleans entranced her. Without a shred of guilt or misgiving she said good bye to her family and caught a bus back with her worldly possessions packed in an old Pan Am bag that she bought at a garage sale. Six years later she received that phone call from her second cousin Anna Marie.
And that was six years ago. She had been living across the river from New Orleans proper in a place called Algiers Point; she had saved enough money to buy the house that she lived in and Anna Marie had moved in and out close by in an area called Gretna. Pretty much Anna Marie, now Anne, played her cards close to her chest and except for the askance occasional piece of advice or wisdom, the women stayed as close as they could, being a little ways apart in more ways than one.
Bea, now Brandi, opined that little Anna Marie, now Ann, had an unnatural affinity for trouble and rough times, like that Marine sergeant that she had lived with for a spell; what was his name? Oh, Billy something; he was sure a piece of work. Brandi had dropped him like a hot potato, but Anne had scooped him up like an inside fly ball. He didn’t last long with her, either; although Brandi heard through the grapevine that they still saw each other from time to time.
Brandi wondered, one time while putting on her make up for her weekend job, what had happened to old Billy; and as fast as that thought lit on her mind like a gad fly on the rump of a French Quarter mule… that’s how fast she slapped it like a fly swatter on a kitchen counter. “Good riddance to bad trash’, she said as she dismissed him from her aura. You see, Beatrice had learned the value of her warm spots and had no time for pikers, losers or bullshit artists.
Brandi had grown into herself, a wise woman now in her early thirties she was, as they say, round, firm and fully packed. Women trusted her instinctually as much as they did not trust their men around her. Men instinctually wanted to move closer to her. Men talked in lowered voices about her, referring to her as many adorable things and knowing deep in their hearts that she was, at the end of the day, just an invitation to the blues.
Brandi worked weekend nights as a hostess at a restaurant named Blanche’s in the Quarter on Chartres Street. The restaurant was named for Blanche DuBois of Tennessee Williams fame; you know, the woman that relied upon “the kindness of strangers”? She made all the money that she needed at her job and made still more in her spare time giving solace to lonely ‘new friends’. People seemed happy to give her money; money made no earthly sense to anyone that Brandi came in contact with, it was just something that they had and they wanted to give it to her. If you think that Brandi is special, if you think that she is wonderful, exciting or amazing… think again; Brandi is a frigging miracle, and make no mistake about it.
If she could see Billy now, she would not have changed her mind about him though, for he had not changed much in the last few years; although he didn’t live but across the river from her, that was still too close for her memories of him.
It was an early afternoon somewhere within a few weeks ago and Billy was getting ready for his nocturnal adventures. He picked up his phone and dialed a number. “Hello Dino?”
Continued in part six and

New Orleans Short Story Part Four

2010-11-27T11:02:00.000-08:00

Short Story Part Four: Anne Kenney
Anna Marie Kowalski came from Ville Platte, Louisiana. She was the middle child of five attractive and gifted children that graced the lives of Maude and Paul Kowalski. The family had moved to Ville Platte from Eureka Springs, Arkansas when Mr. Kowalski’s company opened up a branch office in Ville Platte. Paul Kowalski was a mortician who specialized in body contouring, which meant that his specialty was making people, dead people, fit into the coffins that had been picked out and purchased by miserly next of kinfolk. “You wouldn’t believe how many cheapskates want to carve off savings by putting a size eighteen body into a size nine casket” he would tell his wife and children over one of Mrs. K’s wonderful home cooked meals. A transfer to the facility opening in Ville Platte meant a sizable raise for Mr. Paul and the Kowalskis bought a roomy house with an equally sizable mortgage on West Main; three bedrooms, two baths. There they settled were fruitful and multiplied.
Ville Platte was the home of the Louisiana Cotton Festival. Anna Marie attended school at Sacred Heart Academy where she had average grades and a reasonable amount of friends both male and female. At fourteen she went out for the cheerleading squad and was accepted; it was one of the happiest days of her life, she loved Sacred Heart Academy and she loved being a cheerleader. It made her feel like a goddess.
On a late night drive, after the football team suffered a bitter defeat, while with the fullback of the team, she was informed as to what was logically expected of her as a cheerleader of the mighty Sacred Heart Trojan football team. She was kind of excited when she was told that she would be giving ‘succor’ to the team as part of her duties. The fullback explained patiently (his forte) how much pressure and stress a football team member is really under. “You can’t believe how much of a load one of your team’s players carry” he told sweet Anna Marie. Anna Marie felt tears coming to her eyes as she pictured the poor brute hulks, wearing the Trojan uniform, weighed down by such strains and burdens.
She wondered aloud if she really knew what ‘succor’ was, and the fullback kindly offered to show her. They drove to Hope Park, which is on the corner of Lincoln and Railroad Avenue and she learned on a picnic table, under spreading oaks, about ‘succor’. There was a bit of alcohol involved, but just a bit. Nor did Anna Marie know exactly what a Trojan was; her new friend obviously didn’t know either or didn’t care because he didn’t use one and Anna Marie was with child six months before her sixteenth birthday. She reasoned that, although she far from minded giving her all for the team, she probably wasn’t prepared for the consequences.
Anna Marie wondered, as she lie awake in the bedroom that she shared with her two younger sisters, what course her life should take from here; she hadn’t yet informed her parents of her dilemma, and she knew that in time her condition would avail itself to wiser eyes. Already some of the older cheerleaders had noticed, and told Anna of their experiences with that ‘succor jive talk’. Most had been suckered into ‘succoring’ at least twice; once by mistake and the second with the succor-er of their choice. “You should have seen the silly look on that quarterback’s face when I looked into his baby blues and said ‘ohhmy ohhmy Johnny, how ever can I ease that heavy load you’re carrying? Do, oh please do, show me all about succoring” one of the star cheerleaders told her with a laugh “but ya know, ya gotta take precautions!”
Anna Marie decided to call one of her second cousins who had moved to New Orleans to work with widows and orphans and ask for advice. Beatrice Mae had always been like the big sister Anna Marie had always wanted. It only took a few moments on the phone with Cousin Bea before Anna Marie was sobbing out her story.
“You mean that you actually fell for that succor line?” was Bea’s first impulsive query before her voice softened “I guess you fell for it hook, line and succor, eh, sucker? Now, now, you just relax, honey, and call me in the morning. I’ve got to rush off to some poor Merchant Seaman’s rescue; he’s locked himself in his hotel room and will only talk to a trained professional therapist, and that’s me, baby; by the way, it’s Brandi… I’m callin’ myself Brandi Mae now, that’s Brandi with an I”. As it turned out, Brandi Mae was in a succoring business of her own.
When Anna Marie called the following day (“not before noon, hon”), Brandi had a plan. “Listen hon, it’s almost Christmas break; why don’t you tell your folks that you’re comin’ down to see old Beatrice ‘cause she’s feelin’ a mite bit homesick for kin company. Act like it’s a big inconvenience, but say how much I’ve been such a good friend to you and that you can’t stand for me to suffer and be lonely after all I’ve done for you, and besides which, I can’t leave my job as a therapist during the holidays, can I? You got that?”
Brandi told Anna Marie that she had a “cute little place” in an area called Algiers Point and that she was welcome to stay with her while she made some phone calls and “set something up”.
And so it was that Anna Marie Kowalski went further down south on her school break and stayed there, explaining to her folks that Beatrice Mae had gotten her into a school that was training her in the field of Psychopharisaicpharmacology, for which she had scored high marks as an applicant and seeing how Beatrice was a recent graduate who could help her with her studies in a school, one not found anywhere else in the whole country, she would work hard and do her family real proud. Naturally her family, good god fearing country folks that they were, was flummoxed, confused, impressed…and gave their consent. “Imagine, Mrs. K told the ladies at her quilting bee, “my daughter in school to become a psycho-Para… something or other. I’m sure she has a fine and secure future ahead of her; oh, I do hope she meets as wonderful a man as her father is.” To which the other ladies could not but roll their eyes, Anna Marie’s true story was common knowledge to everyone but the Kowalskis.
What happened next was, at Brandi’s encouragement Anna Marie Kowalski became Anne Kenney and got a job shelving books at the local library. She got her GED and met a Marine Corps recruiter that she liked well enough, and with adequate protection, occasionally ‘succored’. His name was William Stratford Price but everyone called him Billy. Billy had an apartment on Spain Street in the Faubourg Marigny; Anne would sometimes visit him when she thought that he would be less boring than whatever else she had going on. Brandi had introduced them; Anne considered him (as had Brandi) a failure as a lover.
Billy Price was also a failure as a Marine Corps recruiter, and was in danger of being shipped out to the prevailing war, wherever that might be, because his ‘numbers’ were too low. Anne could not let that happen to her; after all, she had boring Billy trained to behave her way and she didn’t want to have to start over with training a new, boring, boyfriend. So Anne, when she saw an opportunity, found recruits for Billy… in likely young boys that she picked up at her job in the library. Anne had grown and prospered. She had taken courses in Library Sciences at Delgado College and had matured into a lovable, but well seasoned, credit to her gender. She still shared a house with her second cousin and sometimes to relieve her boredom with Billy, went on house calls with Brandi as an ‘assisting therapist’.
Anne had visited her family from time to time and on holidays she would send many presents, but she was damned if she would ever move back to Ville Platte. She received word regularly on boring subjects like births, deaths, marriages and babies. She had made up stories about how she decided to forgo the career in Psychopharisaicpharmacology and pursue a cerebral career as a librarian to the public. She told her family how she took the ferry across the Mississippi river each day and how exciting her life was, dispensing knowledge and wisdom to the underprivileged.
Actually, Ann Kennedy was pretty bored with her life and just about the only thing that got her juices going was the effect that she had on the boys that she picked up at the library. They clearly could see the goddess within her.

Possible New Orleans Part Three

2010-11-26T11:15:00.000-08:00

Part Three: Petey
Petey Pappas told me that he never used his real name because he didn’t know what his real name was. He was raised in the lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans by mute parents and a mean spirited older sister. He knew his sister’s name. His sister’s name was pearl. Whenever Petey asked his sister what his name was, she would give him a different answer…every time. So, Petey, finding it easier than contradicting her, stopped asking and accepted whatever name his sister gave him at any given time. Because his parents were mute, they could not repudiate his sister’s edicts. His sister’s name was not really Pearl either. It was a name that she adopted.
She had come across the name ‘Pearl Prentiss’ in a batch of birth certificates that she had stolen from the mute parent’s doctor. Petey’s parents were named Moe and Marsha. Moe and Marsha McMannis; Mister and Mrs. That was not their real name either, in fact, they were not his real parents.
Petey didn’t know when his birthday was either; he could only go by what Pearl told him. Pearl would change his name and his birthday on impulse. One day Petey came home from school and Pearl had a cake waiting for him. The cake said “HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROBERT!” It had an icing drawing on the top of the cake of a cowboy on a rearing black stallion with a lasso that he was twirling right around the name ROBERT. The side of the cake had the sweet white flesh of coconut on it and a spiral trimming of azure blue. The lettering and the drawing of the cowboy, stallion and lasso were on a snow white background; it smelled like heaven.
As she lit the candles, she explained to Petey that his real name was Robert and that today was his birthday; Petey believed her and wanted to know what the day’s date was so that he could mark it down. Pearl exclaimed (as she always did) “April Fools!” and Petey, now Robert, believed her; the actual date was June 12th. At the birthday table a chair had been set for Maureen, a headless doll. Pearl told Robert that Maureen was his other older sister and that she, pearl, had decapitated her (Maureen), because she refused to obey her (Pearl). Naturally Petey/Robert believed her. Pearl also told him that the new kitten that she had found could actually speak to her in English. Petey would take a long time before he disobeyed Pearl or questioned her. That’s how it was when Petey was growing up; at least that’s what he told me. He also told me never to believe him about anything.
Pearl was a kleptomaniac that had St. Elmo’s Fire seizures, that’s how she came to be in Moe and Marsha’s doctor’s office. While the doctor and nurse were trying to get information from the mute parents, the young girl was thief enough, even in her starry eyed condition, to glom a fistful of the doctor’s documents, among them couple of dozen copies of stillborn birth records and stash them in her book bag. One of the certificates was in the name of ‘Pearl Prentiss’; the rest was herstory.
Mr. and Mrs. McMannis, along with Petey and Pearl, lived in a camel back house on St. Maurice St. Saint Maurice is the patron saint of infantrymen, armies and oddly enough weavers and dyers. I say oddly enough because the McMannis household was a household of weavers. The adult McMannis’ were weavers of bath mats, you know, the kind that are made from scraps of materials braided together in an oval shape? Pearl wove fabrications and Petey grew up weaving possibilities.
Moe McMannis roamed the streets and alleyways late at night, gathering rags to bring home to the missus. Marsha cleaned and disinfected them with the vigor of the demon possessed; of which she was one. Later into the evening the adults would weave the scraps into mats, Pearl would fashion falsehoods into realities and Petey would fantasize about the meaning of life and the workings of his universe.
Petey used to fantasize about his other brothers and sisters. Pearl had told him that he had four other brothers and three other sisters and she pointed with pride at the seven cigar boxes by the space heater in her room where she kept their ashes. Each box was labeled with the names of the departed siblings. Pearl often told Petey of the tortures that she had inflicted on each one before she killed them and cremated them in the space heater, prior to labeling and boxing them. She told Petey that if he ever looked into one of the cigar boxes that the spirit of the dead child would escape in a cloud of ashes and choke him to death. She also told Petey that she wasn’t quite done with Maureen yet and that Maureen was still alive and that if Petey listened closely, in the dead of night (pun intended), he would be able to hear poor Maureen’s screams as she begged for death. She also showed him two empty cigar boxes that she said were reserved for him and Maureen. She also told him that her pet feline had revealed to her that his name was Professor Morriarity and that if he (Petey) crossed her in any way the Professor would tell her straight away and there would be hell to pay.
Moe and Marsha often wondered why little whatshisname slept with pillows covering his head. Moe and Marsha didn’t know Petey from a turkey giblet, and no matter how many times Pearl had used sign language to explain his presence they remained baffled at his presence. They finally eased their confusion when they decided that he probably came with the house. The condition of miscommunication occurred because Pearl signed in the English language and the McMannis’ only understood sign language in their native language. It was a language that they had made up because neither one of them could get the hang of their native language signs, which were in Macedonian; and who could blame them.
Petey came to a sad realization on his fifty fourth birthday when he was sixteen; that is to say that Pearl had given him fifty four birthday parties, an average of three point five per year. Pearl was a real nut for birthday parties and she bought birthday cakes at the day old bakery counter and fashioned Petey into whatever name was written on the cake; on occasion she would regress Petey’s age, like when she bought a cake that said “HAPPY FOURTH BIRTHDAY LITTLE RALPH” when Petey was eleven.
Anyway, Petey’s mournful epiphany was this: Petey finally realized that his sister was lying to him with every breath and that she was using him like a frigging tool for her own warped amusement and that he was destined to be her plaything for the rest of his miserable life because he was too weak to do otherwise. Truth be told, it had taken the cat months to get Petey to answer the ‘get-a-clue phone (you know, “ring ring? GET A CLUE Petey!). Better late than never, you say? Well, that was before Petey met the librarian.
From the time that Petey was little, Pearl had dropped him off at the Martin Luther King branch of the New Orleans public library system and told that it was school. He was also told that if he misbehaved that he would suffer a worse fate than his sister Maureen, and Petey wanted ever so much to keep his head on his shoulders.
To Pearl’s credit Petey did not lack for education; she schooled him at home and gave him lists of things to take from library shelves to read and understand. She started him easy and advanced him as required, even giving him diplomas and graduation parties with her and Maureen. The cakes that were served had nothing written on them. Petey advanced through the grades and sections of the library until one day a young librarian stopped by the corner of the library that Petey had used for years as his desk and workspace. He was reading a book called The Art of War by Sun Tzu. By this time Petey was a long gangly youth with peach fuzz and acne on his face; his ears, nose and feet were four sizes too big for his frame. When he was older he would learn that this life stage was called ‘adolescence’ and was quite natural.
The librarians name was Anne Kenney. Anne Kenney was twenty years old, willow thin and as pretty as a speckled pup on a red rug. She gave Petey’s pheromones an olfactory stimulation as fresh as a soft breeze in springtime and as intuitive as rutting season in the Rockies; and just as nature intended in situations such as this, all the blood in his body rushed to his face and his groin. And also, as nature intended, the winsome Miss Kenney was as oblivious to her affect on an adolescent boy as a female mantis is to her doomed lover.
Anne was wearing a light cotton dress with daisies and black eyed Susans printed on it, at her waist was a cinched patent leather belt. The sun was streaming in a window behind her and cloaked her in a radiance that Petey had never seen before; the sun was also shining through her dress, outlining her shapely legs and torso. She stood with her legs slightly apart and Petey had never dreamed of seeing anything so stimulatingly exciting.
“Can I help you with anything?” asked Anne.
"Grummasigamafrackers". replied Petey softly.
Anne didn’t miss a beat “I’ve seen you in here before, haven’t I? What’s your name?”
Petey was able to blurt out that his name was Billy and that he had just had his thirtieth birthday two day ago.
“Well… my, you look young for your age” said Anne, sitting down beside Petey and glancing over his shoulder. Petey inhaled a breath of the sweetest aroma he had ever taken into his lungs; the earthy aroma of a female in estrous.
Anne put her dainty hand lightly on his forearm. She gently started asking more questions and slowly Billy/Petey opened up to her like a lotus and emptied the contents of his soul and mind; for an hour and a half.
He told her of taking law courses by mail (he wanted to be a lawyer), how he had just about mastered chess except for the famous problem proposed by Edward Laskers and how he had taught himself four languages and could navigate by starlight.
Anne asked about his future plans and told him about a friend of hers that was “looking for a few good men”; just by coincidence, his name was also Billy and he wore a very manly uniform that she was sure that he would look “just dreamy’ in. She turned her sloe eyed Alice blue gaze deeply into Billy/Petey's big brown cow orbs and sighed.
About that time Pearl came in to fetch Petey.

addition to possible New Orleans story part two

2010-11-19T14:47:00.000-08:00

Part two.
Anyway, while my dog was being dogged by druggies, my kitchen helper was drinking and toking deeply and consequently went into a dream-state. As I mentioned before (or did I?), Hinch’s personality changes upon any type of slumber: naps (including catnaps), daydreams, nod outs, beddy-byes, space outs and any sustained states of drowsiness. In these states of semi-somnambulism he is prone to mischief, mayhem and maliciousness of an advanced order, hence the straightjacket. It is for his own protection, believe me.
That being said, at the moment that suspicions (“it’s ALL his FAULT!!”) were dawning upon me, I was busy bleeding and heading for the dining room for some first aid; as I passed the bathroom I saw (and heard) the fire engines pull up. I quickly dropped to all fours and scuttled back to the laundry room to look out of the front windows leaving a trail of blood behind me. I cursed the day that I rescued Hinch from the Oompa Loompa casting queue at a Hollywood soundstage.
Here I must segue a moment to explain my living arrangements; hold these thoughts and images though: zonked out Hinch, Hector and Hermes in hiding, howling Hercules, smoke, shots fired, fire detectors clanging, police pounding, chiming clocks, screeching cockatiels, fainting canaries, speed bump tortoises, half awake bleeding heroes (me), stepped upon felines, fire trucks, thunderclaps, phones ringing, Petey Pappas rushing to my rescue and not one of us had a clue as to what was happening. ‘What else could happen?’ you might ask. ‘It’s just getting started’, I would answer.
I live in what is known, down in New Orleans, as a double shotgun house; meaning there are two apartments side by side in straight lines and named so because, the way the rooms are laid out, you can virtually fire a shotgun in the front door and hit whoever might be standing at the back door. Let me clarify that I don’t actually live in New Orleans; I live in a place called Gretna, across the river. Neat, huh?
This building as well as a small trust fund was left to me by my parents who deserted me on my twenty-first birthday and went to live in the south of France with the instructions that I never try to contact them…ever. My precociousness as a tot and young adult obviously did not impress them; but, that’s another story for another time.
One half of my ‘double’, as we call the structures, is a fully ‘operation ready’ private (mine) saloon and pool hall which I open on whim or when I feel the need for entertainment. I hire staff for the evening and simply go out… next door. No driving, no last call, no spending out of pocket (except for impressive tipping); AND, I live in the other half! Five enormous rooms that I have aligned so that the back of the house is in the front of the building and you have to go around back to be let in the front door.
At the moment, I was crouching in the back of the house in the room that was in the front of the building, in my Star Wars pajamas, bleeding from my left temporal lobe and holding a silk handkerchief on the wound to stem the flow of vital fluids. I then backed into the darkened kitchen just as my neighbor reset the circuit breakers and I reached out and came away with a handful of electric wires and slid on dead chickens and what turned out to be bullet shell casings; I was thrown against the 1928 Magic Chef stove that took four men, big men, to carry in. The corner of the stove caught my lower back, chickens fell on my feet and one hundred and ten volts coursed through my body until I, as a faulty conductor, blew the breakers again and the imported Italian bakers rack (another two hundred pounds) crashed into a spot directly between my shoulder blades.
The clock chiming had mercifully rung its course and the windows had been opened by my neighbor, Petey Pappas, who was also my lawyer and who was at this time explaining to the police and fire department that this was all one huge misunderstanding and that they could leave with a large donation to their widows and orphans funds. The birds and beasts had quieted and there was only a soft guilty sobbing from Hinch in the dining room which I would shortly sooth with sweet approbations and heartfelt forgivenesses. The Hispanics had blended into the shrubbery and disappeared
“I thought you said the party wasn’t until six-ish” was the first thing Petey said to me as things started to die down.
“Call for the doctor, call for the nurse, call for that metaphorical lady with the alligator purse!” I replied with all of the self control that I could muster.”My back is in excruciating upheaval, I cannot straighten from the fetal position and, even in my semi-conscious condition, I canassure you that I am in need of strong medication, it feels like I’ve been run over by a school bus of gibbering capons. Mother Superior, jump the gun!”
I was still bleeding, my head was still pounding and my shins were still barked, my back was beyond injured, but it was quiet at the homestead and I was grateful for that. I had tried to find out what happened from Hinch but he was no help, having been in an altered state of mind at the time the catastrophe was occurring. Petey and I again reset the circuit breakers and crept to the kitchen to put some of the events into perspective.
We found five naked chickens hanging from ceiling fans (three on the floor), two fans, one bird on every blade that had not broken. With the electricity back on the fans began to turn and we quickly shut off the wall switch. It was a good thing that we did, for we discovered that Christmas twinkle lights had been wrapped around, and inside the twirling birds as well as ribbons and a red Sharpie marker had been used to draw targets on their little chests: little heart shaped targets. We knew that they were targets because there was not one but two guns, as well as spent casings on the floor by a barstool and bullet holes in the birds and walls and appliances. All this time I thought Hinch’s guns were toys. Idiot Moi.
The image came to me of an inebriated Hinch, up on the stool in his cute cowboy suit with two guns, firing wildly at the spinning birds and causing a short in the electricity, starting a fire, setting off the alarm and it all going south from there. I was grateful that I had no sprinklers.
“Well, that’s it for the party” I said to Petey.
“Nah” he said “we can salvage this, I’ll make some phone calls”. He handed me a tumbler of single malt Scotch and two little blue and red pills. “Now, take these little helpers of mother’s and go lie down; I’ll call you when all’s well.”

Possible Short Story from New Orleans

2010-10-30T13:31:00.000-07:00

Casual Encounters
by
Phil LaMancusa
Po-tee-tweet!
It all started when I organized a chicken dismemberment party; another in a long line of my culinary travesties and here’s how that fiasco occurred: news was out that the local super market had whole chickens on sale for sixty-nine cents a pound, meaning that I could purchase some at couple of dollars each. Such a deal; I decided to call seven of my pals to show up at my house for a lesson par excellence in the art and science of bird dissecting, bidding them to bring themselves, implements of destruction (knives) and adult beverages of their choice. The evening promised to be one of blood, sweat and beers;
I replenished the first aid kit. I cleared the dining room of debris and furniture except for the dinner table, which I added leaves to, stretching it to its eight foot maximum length. I laid floor tarpaulins and removed artwork from the walls. Little did I know that I would be laid low because of a two buck cluck.
Did I listen to my instincts? No. Did I stop to the read signs and portents suggesting the day’s occupation would be one of endemic, ominous and prophetic significance? No. I was the man, I had a plan; the man with a plan, that was me. Oh, was I to be brought up short; and oh, how the mighty did fall.
The plan was to deliver naked shivering dead birds (one per guest) and perform avian surgery together, laughing and scratching and imbibing and generally just have a hell of a grand evening. The plan was sever the wings first to get started, disjointing them as South East Asians do for appetizers: deep fried and served Buffalo style with ranch dressing and celery sticks. Next we would filet out the breasts and pound them savagely for cutlets sautéed in Madeira wine and mushrooms, bone the legs after breaking them at the hip joint and cut them small for a Bolognese sauce, a la cacciatore, over homemade fresh basil rigatoni and lastly make a scrumptious stock from the skeletal remains and vegetable peelings to be served as a veloute diffused in Russian vodka laid over coddled eggs (mother and child reunion) with a mousse prepared from their delicate livers and a confit of giblets and neck bone renderings. Red, white and amber colored drinks, with high alcohol content would incite the mood and excitement like a goosed locomotive belching steam until all would be madness unchained and culinary lunacy unleashed. I was to be aided and abetted by my faithful cohort, Hinch the hunchback henchman, and that was the plan in a nutshell.
On the morning in question I walked the six blocks to the store with a song in my heart and gluttony in my soul, imagining the pullets served eight ways from Sunday; a gourmands dream come true. I bought the birds, celery, vodka, wine, French bread, ranch dressing and several other items and cursed myself for not driving, for dubious were the chances for a public conveyance at the ungodly hour of the morning that I had chosen to deal with my consumer issues.
The market was crowded at dawn’s crack with cretins, insomniacs and dazed unquiet minds on weekend passes. The pace remained dreamlike and frenetic throughout the experience with scattered flurries of cosmic debris falling and uniformed, obviously over-caffeinated, stock clerks rushing at erratic frenzied paces to complete sinister and mysterious errands. I was caught up in the maelstrom and weighed down a capacious shopping vehicle in record time.
As you all know, the grocery stores seem to possess an unlimited supply of plastic bags to burden one with. Evidently the persons chosen to do the bagging have been told to limit items placed in these petroleum based abominations to two per bag, at most; and, before I could say ‘pheasant under glass’ I was homeward bound as oppressively encumbered as an overzealous Sherpa, and looking, as I pictured it, as encumbered as a wandering Albanian refugee. I sensed that everything was packaged individually for the express purposes of humiliating me and insuring that any taxi driver in their right mind would speed up rather than stop for me; if you ask me, the super market service industry human resource department is rife with moonlighting comedians. Naturally, I took this affront on a visceral and personal level. Bravely I was determined to maintain, what my Indian chums call, ‘a high vibration’ and keeping a stiff upper lip, I soldiered my way back to my digs.
And so it was that I managed, bravely, to stagger and struggle home with every muscle wracked, every bone aching and every last nerve worked. To my dismay, Hinch had already been hitting the Herbsaint as a chaser for his prescripted antibiotics and antidepressants, a ghastly combination I ventured to surmise. I unloaded the bags and cursed the eight chickens one by one as I unbagged them, gulped four aspirin and a juice glass of absinthe and went to lie down with spasms in my sacroiliac. It was ten in the morning and the gang was due at six. I had decided on an early night so that they would be relatively sober, arriving and departing (who was I kidding?). A nice quiet nap would be just the thing. I left Hinch in charge of putting the kitchen in order; he was dressed in his cute little cowboy outfit. I asked myself: ‘what could happen’?
I awoke to shots being fired, the smell of burning pungent foreign substances and the sound of the smoke detector clanging like a prison break. Clouds of haze wove through the room like giant cuttlefish tendrils, and the acrid aroma of bloody, battling rodents in a convenience store Dempsey dumpster assaulted my senses. The gaseous miasma of werewraiths unleashed from hell assaulted my senses; My vision refused to focus, I was supremely disoriented and I struggled to assert myself master of the situation. Oh, woe.
“What mischief is afoot?” I shouted, trying to rise, and swatted at a scuttling, shrieking, delirious midge that was bouncing on my half prone unfocused carcass, clawing the air and raining spittle upon me.
“Hold, Sir!” I cried, for I recognized the form of Hinch (an obviously hallucinating, Herbsainted, hypochondriac hunchback henchman) who slathered and railed, as against the coming of a lubricious and apocalyptical catastrophe. Hinch was inconsolable and raved in his native language (Hungarian or Hawaiian or some such heathen twaddle), flourishing his little arms and slinging his stilted legs as if caught in some advanced form of Sydenham’s Chorea (St. Vitus Dance).
I managed to get Hinch into his straight jacket, usually reserved for his naptime and strapped him into his custom constructed cushioned highchair to query him further; hopefully he would explain in a language that I would be able to understand. Placing a raving stunted hunchback into a highchair is difficult enough, but when you’re seeing them in twos and threes… it is a challenge. I was indeed attempting to thread moving needles with undulating threads.
It’s important to note that Hinch is, most times, a docile little fellow (except when he’s sleeping); one of our most simple and uncomplicated of thinkers; to wit, he raises plush toy unicorns as in a family atmosphere and not as a playful past time or hobby. He actually wonders why they never seem to grow and only to age. He tries to feed them, worries that they might be catching something debilitating and sings little unicorn songs to them. It is heart rendering; the burden and curse of too much parental devotion cannot be overstated.
I jumped as the phones rang and my collection of cuckoo clocks chimed the noon hour. I have five land based telephones and they ring in tandem, letting me know, in whichever room I happen to be in, that a verbal communication is at hand; also, I have fourteen chiming wall clocks that I have lovingly synchronized to ring in scatological sequence. What with the phones and the clocks and the smoke alarms and Hinch shrieking, cacophony reared its ugly head and prepared its assassination.
It started to thunder outside, the dog began a primitive howling and just as I started up, I stepped on the cat’s tail who reacted with slashing claws and razor sharp fangs. This state, from a rapid eye movement slumber, zonked on absinthe, without my eyeglasses, was further exacerbated by what I thought was a pounding in my head. It turned out to be the local gendarmes that some concerned citizen had called hammering on the door, rounding out my experience with blue and red lights pulsing into every cranny of my house and fiber of my being. I roundly cursed the chickens again and told Hinch to shut the fuck up. I needed to think. Just then the electricity went out, taking all available light with it.
My matched pair of Peruvian cockatiels were screeching at my fainted canaries and my head was pounding like a Grateful Dead drum solo. The only cool head in the situation was the giant land turtle that had befriended me on one of my desert retreats; unfortunately he/she/it had chosen to withdraw into itself (all 300 pounds) center stage and quite par for the course, I tripped again, banged my shins and getting a nasty gash on my temple thanks to the placement of my imported teak Maru tea table.
To make a long story longer, what had happened was that Hinch (the hallucinating, Herbsainted, hypochondriac hunchback henchman), upon my departure, called an acquaintance of his: a Honduran named Hermes. Hermes and his brother Hector have a cottage industry business selling Humboldt Hemp; they have a process in which they transmuted the hemp into a heavenly hashish. Hermes and Hector paid a visit to Hinch. Hermes had brought Hector along because, although he spoke enough American to get by, Hermes had a harelip. So, Hector had self-appointed himself as helpmate in matters of translation and high finances. They had been at my place when I had returned from shopping but were in the back yard baiting my hound Hercules; the self same hound that was now howling as the Hispanics hid from the heat in the hedges, who were hammering on the door of my house. It is safe to assume that Hinch had partaken Hermes’ and Hector’s Hispanic Humbolt hemp heavenly hashish as well as my Herbsaint! I’ll halt here and let you imagine the other possible repercussions of what I found when my rest was so rudely interrupted with the (I can’t help myself)… havoc.

New Years in New Orleans 2010

2010-10-24T10:35:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
New Jeers Leave
Or
Never Too Late
It seems incongruous by rhythm or rhyme for us to chose to label our days with numbers on pieces of paper, catalog them into some nebulous kind of order and give meaning to their sequences and individual merit.
Likewise strange is our inclination to separate life into camps of ‘my ways’ and ‘your ways’, of boundaries and borders, of mendacities and integrities? How is it, at the beginning of (what we’ve decided is) our periodic calendar, we can become inspired and intimidated into asking ourselves if we are good enough for ourselves and exact from ourselves vows to become the person that we would rather be or become? Well, Cats and Hats, fools that we are, we can and we do. We call those absurdities New Years Resolutions; and, like it or not, we hold those truths to be self-evident that not all of us are created in god’s image until we shape up or are shipped out.
In a perfect world, resolutions (the process of re-solving) is merely our way of raising the bar for ourselves with a firmness of mind and purpose. Of course, you live in a perfect world; unfortunately, I do not.
My resolutions now are not to make any resolutions because my past resolves were selfish, harebrained or so far out of my reach and attainability that they were simply self-indulgent horseshit. Lessons in the futility of ego and ability; it’s almost like me asking myself what I want to be when I grow up, never admitting to myself that I will never grow up. I don’t have the ability or the inclination to mature, it’s enough just to be able to be responsible; I’m afraid that that’s as good as it gets for me. Of course, you’re different.
So, what’s it gonna be for your New Years resolutions? What do you want to change in your life? Your home, your partner, your job, your family, yourself or all of the above? Diet? Exercise? Quit smoking, go back to school, join a club, get a fleur-de-lis tattoo, go traveling or get a phone booth?
To want to change is a dissatisfaction with who you are and what your behavior is, right? Right. So, what you do one day out of the year is to sit down and give yourself a report card with those god-damning words scribbled at the bottom: “needs improvement”? Good move for you, I say, but not for me. You see, I make all of those resolutions…every day! Along with immortality, intelligence, integrity and the ability to make a butt load of money! In short New Years resolutions have got nothing on me. Every blessed day I want to hit the lottery, lose fifteen pounds, have twenty-twenty eyesight, and have… a phone booth!
But wait, to illustrate that illusive elucidation; here’s ‘the Superman myth’ that I/we was/were fed as kids: Take Clark Kent (please). Clark Kent is a wuss; he wears glasses, is unsure of himself in conversation and behavior and Lois Lane treats him like the lint on her impeccably tailored jacket. What’s his cosmic retaliation? His phone booth. He’s got a friggin phone booth!
He ducks inside (after doffing his fedora, loosening his cheapass tie and taking his glasses off so we can see his finely chiseled features) and comes out: “ Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. !!!!!!!” music crescendo, “LOOK, up in the sky; it’s a bird… it’s a plane… It’s SUPERMAN!!!!!!!!!”
Yes it’s Superman-strange visitor from another planet who came to Earth with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal man. Superman, who can change the course of mighty rivers, bend steel in his bare hands and WHO (disguised as Clark Kent, mild mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper) fights a never-ending battle for Truth! Justice! AND The American Way!!!
{oh, by the way, I was able to write that Superman stuff from a memory etched into my brain of a television series that was on from 1951 to 1958. What are the chances?}. Question: What was the difference between Supermen and young mild mannered me? [Already I had girls treating me like lint, but that’s another story.] Answer: The phone booth!
NOW what do I have? Do we have phone booths any more? No, we hardly can find a public phone anywhere. So what would happen if I achieved my old New Years resolutions of stronger/faster/harder? I’ll tell you what: nowhere to change! Not that that would make a difference to me, I wouldn’t change out of that suit; it never stays dirty, it has great boots and a cape that I’m sure is hard to hide under your cheap mild mannered suit and tie. I’d probably look like “hey, look at that mild mannered guy with a hunchback!” It has that flashy S right in the middle of my now muscular chest. Nah, I’d stay in the suit, sleep in it, swim in it, walk on the beach with Lois (in her Victoria’s Secret bikini) and even go out for super cocktails in it; for, if anyone smarted off at me or stepped on my cape or distressed some damsel… boy, I’d give them a super ‘what for’! That’s what I’d do!
Every year I made the same resolution, the same wish on a star, the same birthday ‘blow out the candle and make a wish’ wish. The four-leaf clover, the golden ticket, the lottery ticket and that bet on the nag that never crossed the finish line. I even read a book titled The Phantom Toll Booth, thinking that it would give me clues to that phantom phone booth that I wanted and was looking for.
I even thought for one second that, maybe, in the movie The Birds, Tippi Hedren was gonna rip off her clothes, shake her hair out, reveal chiseled features and emerge from the phone booth to give those damn pesky birds a what for. She could have, but, she didn’t. Wrong phone booth, I guess. Gee, she would have looked great in a cape and tights, sigh.
Okay, okay; I’ll give it one more try. Ahem: this year, once again I make my New Years resolution to only use my x-ray vision properly, fight for truth, justice and the American way, and to find that damn phone booth!

Early Xmas in New Orleans

2010-10-07T11:20:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Sweet Baby Jesus
Or
Fools and Mortals
Okay, this is not a holiday article about Joe and Mary on a Harley looking for a room or three fat men on a bicycle with gifts of Frankenstein and Mirth. What do you think I am, an antidisestablishmentarianista? Not me. It don’t pay to make no fun of peoples fates or faiths; if I did that, the Pope would have a hit put out on me quicker than Salome can shed a veil.
And so this is the Christmas season where good Christians everywhere proclaim ‘Peace on earth, good will towards men’ as if that has been a possibility since the riding of Tamerlane’s horde. Think about it.
Here’s a question: how come you can write the word ‘Xmas’ and not Jesus X? Is that what Malcolm X was thinking about when he took that surname? Work with me here; this may get fast paced and require a little more knowledge than your GoogleTexterPedia can keep up with. I hope that my editor doesn’t correct my spelling or my voice; I actually make both of them up as I go along… much to his chagrin.
How about A Christmas Carol a-la-New Orleans? Scrooge can be played by anyone you’d like him to be (played by); preferably someone that pisses you off because they have a power over you and misuses, abuses, or uses it without it with a shred of honor. Someone you would love to see an epiphany of biblical proportions come down on (him, her or them) like a can of WhupAss on an irritating drunk. Like white on rice. Like ugly on an ape. Like a cheap suit on a used car salesman.
So, here comes the Ghost of Holidays Past looking like John Goodman in biker gear saying: “back in the day, Dude, you were stand up! Remember hangin’ at the Seven Seas with Sonny Dupre and Lady Blue?” and he takes Scrooge back to the French Quarter that was, when it was genuine and there were no parking meters. There were phone booths on the street and vegetables at the French Market; you know, when dinosaurs and hippies ruled the world. On Christmas, the saloons and public houses would serve huge holiday meals; everyone was invited and no money was asked for or expected.
Jimi, Janis, Jim and Joni were on the jukes. There was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air. The Quarter was a candy store and the kids were in charge, rent was cheap and the grass was greener and more plentiful (or was that: ‘the rent was greener and the grass was cheap’?).
“Hey,” sings John Goodman in leather and now lace as well, “remember how we rolled? Reelin’ and a rockin’, we was reelin’ and a rockin’ way ‘til the break of dawn.”
Exit, John, exit stage left, let sleeping dogs lie and leave the past to fade….
BAM! Then comes the Holy Friggin Ghost of the Future played by James Carville; the economy has flat lined, there’s nutria swimming in the Carousel Bar in the Monteleone Hotel and all electronic devices have been rendered useless.
Other horrors and acts of depravity pervade the city on a scale that would make a category five storm seem like a walk in the park. Boats are sunk in the river, one on top of another and smoke and ashes cloud the sky. City Hall is housed in a FEMA trailer surrounded by razor wire; Chris Rose is now mayor and can you guess who is Chief of Police? Chris Owens? John Besh? Fats Domino? Some dude named Emiril?
“Don’t get me started!” yells James “you blew it, FEMA blew it, the Corps blew it, God blew it and even I blew it! The reason that you have drive by shootings is that there’s no place left to park! Kids have Ichips put in their heads at birth and The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has declared New Orleans a hazardous teenage wasteland; AND, now you’ve brought down the wrath and curse of the Bloody Blue Blazing Ball Busters! Oh woe! Oh calamitous unharmonic convergences! I told you that you shouldn’t have been nicer to good old whatsername!” here old James takes a deep breath.
(This is James taking a deep breath: “whuuuuuuuyuup!”…) “What you see around you is desolation, loneliness, hunger, darkness, madness, frenzy and a weariness of the soul. Despair and desperation from the lack of love, and the pains of broken hearts litter the streets like go cups on Sunday morning after a Saints game. Right now, it would suck being you!”
Well, needless to say, Scrooge is taken aback, dumfounded, and flummoxed. “Nay, nay I say!” he screams: “show me no more, Great Spirit, for I am humbled and will surely change my wicked ways!”
“What the !@#$%^&* are you talking about, Ebenezer” says James, “this is what happens when you do change your ways! You see, the world needs rat bastards like you, and you are a rat bastard of an epic proportion. And, had you not been so bad… others would have not been so good, just to have the satisfaction of not being like you!” Fade to black.
Next, Scrooge wakes up in his own bed in a cold sweat; there is a knock at the door, a knock a little louder, and then a banging to beat the band. “Let me in Scrooge, I am the Ghost of Christmas Present!” (Brad Pitt)
“Screw you,” says Ebenezer, “go tell those worthless pricks that I’m raising their rents, their vet bills and their taxes, I’m lowering their wages and their expectations. I’m not going to repair their streets and roads and I’m going to feed their babies pickles! Bwahhahahahahahahaha!” And rolling over in his covers… smiling peacefully, Ebenezer Scrooge goes back to sleep.
Oh, by the way, that’s you, in the future, tied to a red ant mound on Monkey Hill while your best friend steals your Jazz Fest posters! Mend your ways now; there’s enough rat bastards in the world. Happy Happy and Joy, Joy in the holiday season.
Has anyone seen my life; I left it around here somewhere?

The next short story in progress

2010-08-27T11:38:00.000-07:00

Christian Pilgrim’s Progress
Cover Page: I’ve been told by the doctor that it’s good to keep a diary of the happenings in my life and a record of my feelings; I don’t believe her, but anything is worth a try when you’re on the brink of a maelstrom that you feel isolated and insular in, and one where you fear that you might not be understood by whomever you or I confide in, so here goes. The shrink said to write a little every day, but I don’t know that I have that many words in me; oh well, we can not but try. I’m not sure who is supposed to read this; perhaps me when I’m well or maybe it’s just for the exercise of expressing myself; I’m no dummy, you know. Anyway, she says to ‘get it out of me and onto some paper!’ I’m not sure what IT is.
Friday July 16th Okay, hello my name is Christian…. Oh Qwerty!!!! that’s not right, nonononononono let me think about this !@##$$%^%^&&
Monday July 19th Here goes: This is what I recall: from the pillowed nest, the blanketed womb, the coverlet warmth that I’ve constructed in my long overnight, my right eye emerges from the covers to view the clock and my environment. Not much sunlight, just a blue gray haze that signals the breaking of dawn. check. Ceiling fan’s spinning, lazily as an old negress in a sweltering country church, check. The dog is curled at my back as if I were her litter mate and the rest of the bed is empty, check. Twenty minutes until seven, check. Back for more winks, double check. Lost in the DMZ of my REM’s, if you catch my drift, down to mine more dream gems.
I’ll repeat this ritual at least twice more until the sky’s hue changes to Alice blue and the clock gives me no alternative but to rise; swing out to sitting position and there’s my coffee, right where it should be, right where she leaves it, right where she‘s left it. But that’s not the only thing that she’s left. Somewhere in my slumber and her wakening she has leaned into my ear with a kiss and a curse. “Here’s something for you to sleep on…” she whispers, “you know what the doctor says about your drinking, and you know the trouble that you’re having with your penis…
“six beers while we were out last night and another four before you went to bed and that whiskey bottle is down to less than half. Sometimes I think that you’re more interested in getting drunk than having sex.” The words pour acid on my otherwise
Okay, so when I get up nothing is mentioned and everything goes according to ritual; I’ll go shower, shave and shampoo and Daisy’ll make the bed while I let the dogs out the back door and put some fruit in the blender. A morning But there is a boulder that is between us as we pack lunches for work and I drive us into town. She’s has said something cutting, and it can never be taken back; see, that’s the thing about talking and saying things: you cannot take back something once it is said. Sure, I’ve been told that drinking may contribute to my ED and I’ve done nothing to curb my thirst.
I have no defense, at my age I should know better and the child in me decries: ‘I shoulda never told you what the doctor said!’ but, at my age I am aware that honesty is not only the best policy; it’s the only policy, and I’ve dug my own grave with this one: I honestly answer any question asked me.
“So, what did the doctor say?” she had asked. Oh well, at least my TB test came in negative.
Tuesday July 23rd Today After I told Daisy about my journal she said: “I want to play too!” So round and round we went, and round and round until I just said “go ahead but don’t expect me to read what you wrote, after all it is my journal and my illnesses and my recovery thoughts and use your own pages and just slip them into the journal and maybe I’ll look at them sometime later and she said “Jerk!”
(this is Daisy in a completely different font) Tuesday July 23rd Yes, ‘Jerk’ is what I called him! And a silly man as well! He is glued to the computer night and day and is he looking at sports? No. Is he gambling or playing the stock market? No. Is he watching pornography or in some imaginary parallel world? NO! and NO again! He is on the medical sites finding cures for imaginary afflictions! He’s a dear man but his compulsion for complaints physical and mental could try the patience of the frigging Pope! He really thinks there are real doctors that can prescribe and send medication for every little irritation is somehow beyond belief but he keeps getting stuff in the mail to take; powders, pills, ointment, unction and advice. I’d say Lord help the woman that lives with him, but THAT’S ME!!
(Back to Christian)Friday July 30th: Let me tell you about my doctors. On the advice of my MDs and GPs I take a pill for high cholesterol, one to slow my urinary visits to the bathroom, one for my prostate and two for calcium. I wear a knee length support stocking on my right leg to help circulation and at home I have prescription Claritin and nasal spray from the time that I mentioned that I had a sore throat and a cough (both that went away on their own). All of the teeth that I smile with are not my own. I talk to the shrink once every two weeks, not that I can see the good of it; I’ll probably die before I’m cured of whatever I have.
At the MD’s I complained about a sore back and was sent prescription strength Aleve and muscle relaxers; I was issued a blood pressure machine to check my blood pressure twice daily (which I’m lax about) and I’ve been told to soak my big toes in vinegar water to rejuvenate their nails. I’m also told to exercise at least three times a week (I try to), to stay off smoking and to cut my drinking down to no more than two drinks a day if I have to drink at all; no caffeine after twelve noon.
I’m told that I will have to keep up this regimen for the rest of my life. My doctor told me also that I could pass for a man half my age if it weren’t for the lack of hair on my head and if I dropped about fifteen or twenty pounds, at least he never mentions my nervous tic. My indestructible youth has gone with the wind and the passage of time, sometimes I feel that I’m fighting to stay alive and young; and, that being young is the only proof one has of really being alive.
****************************************
Thursday August 12th: I know that I’m not writing as often as I should. My neuroses seem to be repetitive in nature and I try to keep them in check. I was in a conversation at dinner the other night when I brought up the fact that according to television, back aches are now so commonplace that I believe that they’re actually being sanctioned-- there are literally thousands of sites on the computer that will recommend remedies-- as in “sure you’ve got a backache, it’s perfectly normal but take this and you won’t feel it!!” and so my doctor sends me pills so that I won’t feel my back hurting and they never questions the cause of my discomfort. Go home. Take a pill. Take more pills. Ignorance (and medication) is bliss.
Did I also mention that cholesterol pill that I am taking? At my last visit my cholesterol level was perfect and I mentioned to the doctor that I was watching my diet (mostly vegan now) and exercising and wouldn’t it be about time that I stopped taking that pill? I was told that the reason that my blood pressure was so great was because I was taking the pill and that I would be taking the pill for the rest of my life. I whined to my dinner companions that I should be able to lead a life free of the medications that I feel are being foisted upon me as long as I watched what I put into my body and how I treated it.
Well, you guessed it; silence around the table until one of my companions (a man older than I) put it in a nutshell, and succinctly as well: “you’ll be able to do that as soon as you’re able to grow younger instead of older.”
Monday August 23rd It appears to me that nowadays man and beast are bombarded by the media with maladies that are unknown to them and that they may have, and that they’d better take remedies for before it becomes too late to go on that biking/hiking/camping trip with their grandchildren, balloons and all. They’re told very explicitly that they have this one life, this one body and your next heart attack (the one that you’re sure to have if you didn’t take this medicine) is lurking around the corner unless you take this medication. The ills that we are contracting appear as fast as the medications to assuage them are presented; their names are so long that they are relayed to us by their abbreviations. COPD, TTP, OTC, STD, CTS, MSD, IBS etc. And quietly (Shhh) at the close of any television commercial for relief of your three or four letter abbreviated lurking demon illness, you’re told the side effects: runny nose, thoughts of suicide, constipation, headache, dizziness, vomiting and/or shortness of breath! My favorite is: “seek immediate medical attention if you experience blurred vision, nausea or an erection lasting more than four hours”. They are trying to make me dependent on the medications hoping to get me hooked on taking stuff like a hypochondriac but I’m looking for a way out before they find more stuff wrong with me.
Which doesn’t take away from my current situation: the curse of the cat people. Note: conundrum number one: nothing that I used to do has done me any good and stopping doing what I did has done me no good either; the one supporting brick in the edifice of my immortal fortress remains to be dismantled and all of my instincts resist. For peace and happiness I have to take the first step to curb my alcohol intake. I guess it’s like the man says: nothing to lose.
But first, naturally, a few days of petulance and pouting; refusing solace as well as my usual excesses of alcohol. Daisy asks me if there is anything wrong, did she do something, did she say something? Of course I know that answering those questions is just what she wants; she wants to talk about this and I’m smart and experienced enough to know that that path is a one-way ticket to ‘It’s All My FaultVille’. No, it’s not my inner child, it’s my inner twenty-five year old reacting: I want to get drunk AND get laid!!!
Instead I beg off with the ‘a lot on my mind’ gambit, which is the lame stall tactic that gives me time to adjust and digest my predicament.
And so, I’ve gone kicking and protesting into post middle age; the one where one feels like they’re seventeen, acts like they’re twenty-five and is treated like an octogenarian. It’s a ‘tween’ stage where reality, philosophy and wisdom conflict with compulsiveness, spontaneity and vigor; and you’re not safe until you embrace an ignored inevitability of there are more days behind me and fewer days ahead and I’m going down slow.
It goes beyond the flip “I never knew I would live this long” excuses. I am now that old. I’m now old enough to know better, I’m old enough to realize that I’ll never be young ever again and that my body is going through the great recession. It can lead to the Great Depression if I let it. Coming to terms with degeneration opens up a whole new can of worms. Is the world conspiring to usher me into decrepitude? There was never any need for this much medical attention until I asked a doctor if there was anything wrong with me. Daisy says that I spend too much time at the SuperDoctor.com and she questions the advice that I’m getting; I tell her not to knock it until she tries it.
At sixty-seven years old with unimpaired mental facilities, I’m stuck in a
typical male dilemma:
*************************************
Sunday August 30, This morning I arose from the dead; that is, I awoke and she made love to me and it was good. And so we entered into the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell of my drinking. One thing that has never been in question is the love that we have for eachother; we are eachother, we are friends, lovers and romantics. We share a home and family, we are more or less happy with eachother and the life that we have carved out of this crazy world, and except for the fact that we both are having backaches now, our lives have an established rhythm. Oh, the hospital called to set up chest x-rays and a lower GI; I wonder what that’s about.
September 1st For whoever is reading this in the future: Daisy and I have a small bookshop in the center of town, which to say two miles away. We live in a spacious flat, half a shotgun it is called, and we’re away from the madding crowd that we used to run with. Peace and quiet in the country; alone… together.
We also have a yard for her to tend with flowers, fern and herbs; in this torrid climate it’s all she can do to keep up with the pandemonium. I’m more at home in the kitchen, a reversal of roles if one would look at us as a traditional couple; but our backgrounds have put us in a different kind of harmony: she a country mouse and I a city mouse with rituals and habits exclusive to our backgrounds. We also have critters: two felines and two canines. One big happy family. The doctors say I need a colonoscopy and a CT to measure bone density also I’ve noticed a ringing in my ears that they call tinnitus which they won’t give me anything for and I’m distracted by that noise in my head that make every thing sound static.
I let go of youth in a state of angst, I am betrayed by my body, I ceased looking in mirrors because I don’t like what I see. I take my medicines religiously and I am insulted at my age and the things that I can and cannot do. Daisy is ten years younger than I and has been nothing but patient with me and my whininess, and yet I’m hiding from her. I’m hiding my weakness and preoccupation with aging and death. She follows me around like she thinks I’m up to something
***********************************
September 7th and I want to ask someone; anyone: “what would you say, what did you say, what can you say when fleeting youth is treated with pills and powders but never cured? Would you sell the soul that you denied in your past that you possessed to go back to being young? Do you rail against the finalities and weakenings of your strength and agilities? Do you start conversations with your young friends with “when I was your age… or I remember when…?” Oh well, just a thought.
When I go to SuperDoc.com I can ask any question and it only costs $19.95 and sometimes there’s a special offer with the time that I spend and heck, they give some great advice; like yesterday, I was on SuperDoc.com/psychiatry and I asked why all the obituary photos that I see are of smiling people? It’s almost as if they are happy to be dead. Well, my psychiatrist on the Super Doc site told me plenty, I can tell you. Pages and pages! I’m glad that my every medical question can be answered so readily and that my medications will come in the mail and just be directly withdrawn from my bank account.
September 9th: Our shop is a quiet and whimsical bookshop; it makes enough money to support itself but not enough to contribute to our money situations. For this reason we have alternative employment for our living expenses, I spend two nights away from home and she works three days at the same establishment where the rest of the staff is pretty much younger than my grown children. I’m the oldest employee with my foibles and fantasies of immortality and basically the children that work around me are going through conflicts and challenges that I met lifetimes ago. I wonder what they would say if they knew how trivial their youth will all seem in twenty years; thirty?
I’m really sensitive about the dust in the shop, it seems to be everywhere and pervasive. I spend a lot of time dusting things but the dust seems to reappear the next day. I think that people look at me funny, which is why, if I’m not dusting, I sit at the keyboard on the computer and only look up when someone wants to pay for something.
*********************************
September 16th: They took more blood tests this week at the Super Doc pharmacy up the street, it was as simple as sticking my arm in a hole and it was over real quick as well; and the screen said that perhaps if I add some antidepressants to my regimen that I might feel like my old self. I tell her/it that my old self is a stranger to me. I felt better when I was drinking. She asked me if I knew what serotonin is. Does she think I’m nuts? She also wants to know if I’ve tried Cialis or Viagra. I told her that I have but I don’t like them because I still finish too quickly and then all I do is feel pain when my erection won’t go down. She wants me to have chest x-rays and an eye examination. I think that I have a lot of thinking to do but I can’t seem to concentrate. The words seem to flow out on the paper without me thinking about them. Maybe they’ll want to read this, but I don’t think I’ll let them; I mean, they’ve got all of my history anyway some where in their computer banks. Oops! I forgot that I’m not supposed to think of them as computers, that that is counterproductive; they tell me that I can only get well if I think of my help as coming from a real person doctor.
I wonder what they would say if I told them that sometimes, a lot of times, when they talk to me I can’t make out what they’re saying and that I can only stare at the computer screen as so much gibberish comes out of their mouths and I don’t understand a word of it? I wonder what they would say if I told them that that happens to me with a lot of people that talk to me, ask questions of me or try to reel me into a conversation?
September 20th Daisy wants us to take a week off before it gets too cool out and go to the cabin by the lake where we can laze about, yippee! I’m all for it and we’re even taking the dogs! The doctors want me in again next week for a spinal tap to check my bone marrow (again) and fluid, it sounds like it’ll hurt. I guess I’ll log in and ask them.
I asked about the numbness that I get in my upper left thigh and they told me that it might be fibro neuralgia or something and that I should spend ten minutes a day sticking a pin in different parts of my body to find out where I might be numb. They warned me that I should not stay away from them for more than a day if I want to get well; mercy me, I told them that I forgot what was wrong with me in the first place. Boy THAT didn’t go over well. Almost immediately my shrink came on and started talking real loud and fast. I told him that I couldn’t concentrate and that I would log on later when the fog in my brain clears. Then it sounded like thirty voices were talking at the same time and boy, that really freaked me out so I pulled the plug on the computer. I can’t think… I can’t tell what is real and what I imagine any more. I’ll be glad to get out of here.
October 1st: Up at the lake

New Orleans Giving thanks

2010-08-20T13:37:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Sine Qua Non
Or
Who Loves Ya?
Well, we’re coming up on Thanksgiving and besides the blessing of being alive, in relatively good shape and possessing a somewhat cognitive mind, I can’t think of a thing worth being thankful for.
Except-- (you knew that was coming, dincha?)-- except for the dear hearts and gentle people that live in my life or, I in theirs. The ones who call us friends and that we call friends in return. Friends.
You got ‘em, I got ‘em; I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours. If you’re anything like me, you’ve done nothing to deserve them aside from just being yourself. Funny how it works both ways; you know, free to be you and me and all that kind of stuff.
What do you call them? What’s in a word? Friends, chums, buddies, pals, amigos or a ‘peep’ whom you would look to for approval when you take a spur of the moment sheet-shaker in for a sleep over. Oooo, maybe a con-fi-dant? And, what defines a friendship? Harmonic reciprocative symbiotic convergence or…
Someone that would take a bullet for you?
Hmmm; well, well, well, a bullet? I don’t know that friendship, or I, would go that far; pause, deep breath, that sounds more like love, parental contra-interception, sacrificial masochism or in the least filial piety. No, I wouldn’t go that far under incidental circumstances; however, if we were in a food fight in Packastrami or Upper Nuoc Mammou I may concede to cutting the mustard but not just for any Frank… furter.
Two peanuts were walking down the street; one was a saulted… peanut.
Defining a true friendship is unformulated and nebulous in nature at best, just like those last lines. Is a friend somebody whose advice you take? Nah. Somebody whose advice you listen to? You bet, and not only that, it’s the person who you will ask for the advice that you’re not going to take!
A friend will take you on an adventure but probably not on a vacation, a friend is someone that will share bad news with you when they need a mirror of empathy and share good new for the same reason; it’s that same person that will laugh with you when you look silly and stop you when you’re being stupid, or absurd. If you and your friend have a difference of opinion, you will talk of other things, period. A friend doesn’t mind you listening to the Wu-Tang Clan (as long as you do it by yourself). If you want the last slice of pizza and your friend does also, they won’t feel bad about you sharing it.
Perhaps (you or) your friend knows more about something than you do; you know, rumors, gossip, how to tame that outbreak etc; well, when your friend’s (or you’re) talking, it’s ‘shut up and listen’ time, idn’t? Y’all will always listen to eachother in polite contemplation and understanding; that goes without saying, dudden’t? It’s what friends do, ain’nt?
It’s as if you, looking up from your reading, asked: “what exactly do they mean by a ‘stitch in time’: how do you stitch time?” Why, your friend would turn politely to you and reply: “what the !@#$%^&* are you talking about?” (See what I’m saying?) Friendship.
In the world of humor that we have, that bases its funnies on human frailty, your friend will catch you before slipping on the banana peel busts your butt. A friend will pull tricks on you but will never knowingly hurt your feelings; and, malicious mischief will be one bullet that they will take for you. Protection and attraction makes friends friends. A friendship is the best thing that you can have in a lover, relative, child or parent; and yes, somebody is giving me a nickel for every time I use the word “friend” in a sentence. (Not really, it just seems like it.)
Onward. Friends are friends in proximity and at a distance, I have people that I can call my friends that I haven’t had contact with for years. Years. And so have you, if you’ve got any friends at all. Being around your friends make you want to be around them all the more, they have compassion and concern for you. You will seek their endorsement on important matters: “does this dress make me look fat?” semi-colon, immediate response: “you’re not fat!” (Friendship).
Sit down, I’ll tell you a little story:
Girlfriend, once upon a time, back in the day, did belong (belonged?) to a loosely knit and tightly dressed group of women who rallied around a single philosophy; they called themselves…The Slut Sisters. Well, to make a long story longer, time and tide spread the girls out hither and yon where they found nests, neighbors and other lives; but they never did (or do) lose track of one another. When Girlfriend and I started getting closer and closer, about a half a dozen of the Slut Sisters came to town to have a look at me. Word was that I was in for either a pleasant chat or an ass-whupping on a major scale. If I remember correctly, Girlfriend left the room while I was having my ‘chat’, which was an interview nonpareil; that I still have my hide intact is proof of me having the right answers, whew.
Okay, now that we’ve flogged that horse another mile, what have we learned?
Lesson one: Chose your friends like you do your wardrobe: durable, comfortable, reliable and able to adapt to weather changes.
Lesson two: it’s not a good thing if your friends don’t like or approve of your choice of a partner. Friends can be more objective and subjective at the same time and they see things that you don’t because your eyes are clouded by your ‘lover’s logic’ or a film of body fluids. Besides, you never want to say: “I should have listened to my friends”; that’s a bummer, you don’t want to go there.
Lesson three: be true, loyal and thankful concerning your friends, they are a reflection of you and who you are; and hopefully you’ll be proud of their choice in picking you to that exalted station. Friend. Be proud and thankful that they like the person that you are becoming.
P.S. Girlfriend is my friend.

Katrina fifth anniversary part 6

2010-07-31T11:20:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Katrina Fifth Anniversary VI
Or
No Rest For The Weary
Could I get away without finishing the epic adventure? Probably. But I wouldn’t have believed that the tale had ended so I’ll go on (and on and on) with the suspicion that someone in the future will want to know what happened after chapter five.
Okay, where were we? We made it up to Shreveport and our asylum where we had respite for two nights and a day. They, the folks that took us in, were a lovely couple in a large house in an upscale suburb and they opened themselves and their home to us as if we were better than kin. We were asked (and received) whatever we needed and we showered and shaved and shampooed like royalty. Kevin, it turned out was somewhat of an introvert; it took him a bit to come out, but with a couple of beers and non-threatening company, who wouldn’t. They even threw a cook-out for us and some other refugees that had landed in their neighborhood. They really went all out for us, no questions asked. Food, clothing and shelter.
We had Molly, the yellow Labrador, with us and Gallivan’s girlfriend was coming to pick her up. Little Trey, the bitty dog that was given to us by some evacuees in N.O. was taken to a refugee shelter where people and pets were treated with respect and he was almost immediately adopted by one of the workers. That left us with five of our own critters and Kevin.
We didn’t want to overstay our welcome and besides, Kevin’s sister in law, the one who had said we could keep the car, was threatening to call the authorities on us and have us arrested for car rustling, so we set up a time to be in Dallas to return the Toyota to her and took our leave of Shreveport (after finding that scamp Bob the cat wandering off in the neighborhood, obviously ready to relocate on his own) and headed to Texas.
We had agreed to rendezvous at the Dallas airport, where we had decided to rent another car for the trip to the west coast. Debbie was adamant that we have a car before returning the Toyota and I readily agreed that our baggage and pets should not and would not be left by the side of the road just because an ex alcoholic was reneging on a promise made in haste; that promise being that we could keep the car, her car (that we got out of New Orleans) as long as we needed it. In our heart of hearts we really couldn't blame her, but it was sort of a pain in the ass. We arrived on schedule and got a bigger and better car and waited and waited and waited for her to show up; we were wasting daylight at the edge of nowhere, and our nerves and patiences were fraying further than they already were.
Well, the sister in law finally shows up. It seems that she was so stressed about the ordeal that she had to go to a meeting before she could get her act together; by the time she showed up Debbie was fit to be tied and I believe that she wanted to rip this woman’s lungs from her body, and, to make things more complicated, she had brought Kevin’s spouse, Kathy, with her, who was there to plead with Kevin to stay in Dallas and not make the trip to California. All the time, it’s hotter than hell and no shade to speak of.
After a tearful reunion, Kevin decided to stay with Kathy and we hugged and left the lot of them and continued off on our own.
The drive to the coast was pretty much of a blur with us getting a motel room for the night wherever, and whenever we were to pooped to continue the driving. We would invariably order a pizza and get some beer and get the critters situated and zone out on television that we, again invariably, had tuned to the disaster reports from New Orleans; we had become media junkies and disaster ghouls. We would sleep and wake up to the awful motel coffee service, get a bite and head on out again, day after day, through Texas, Arizona and up into California. In the back of my head I was dreading the drive through Los Angeles, having had that experience before and not liking it one bit.
We drove up the coastal route, along the beach communities, keeping to our motel, pizza, beer, coffee breakfast, driving routine, never stopping for very long; burning gas and rubber and the demons from my brain.
While I was in New Orleans, I would wake up in the morning and have to wrap my head around the disaster and being there; on the road, I would wake up and it would take me a moment to realize that I was not still in New Orleans. Debbie kept me going and took real care of our charges: Ginger and Rosie the canines, and Phil, Pepper and Bob the felines. For the most part we talked little and I’m sure that I wasn’t good company. Like I explain to people: I really, really needed a long drive to clear my head and so I drove and drove, my copilot and our crew of critters reaching the southern outskirts of Los Angeles, where we rested overnight to get up the energy to go through that most horrid of stretches of highway, the L.A. freeway. I think that I had tried to warn Debbie of the rigors that we were about to face, as it turns out neither one of us were fully prepared for that ride.
If you’ve never driven through Los Angeles in the years around 2005, you have missed the most nerve wracking, patience and driving ability trying experiences of a lifetime and I wish you well. We started out at day break and drove six lanes to four and back top six as fast as we could, mostly to keep from being over run by the other cars, trucks and busses that were hell bent for leather to get wherever they were going ahead of the person behind them and in front of them; it took us until 9:30 in the morning to get through L.A. and in the middle of all that, Phil the cat decided to lean on the power window switch and almost jetison himself; and if that weren’t enough, he and Pepper decided to kill eachother, in the car, on the freeway at eighty miles per hour. I was practically in a froth by the time we reached sane driving conditions and this hero stuff was wearing a bit thin, I don’t know how I knew it or what those around me thought of my demeanor, but I was holding all of my emotions in check for the last week and they needed out. I had rationally explained to myself that I needed to be the strong one, in charge, when I felt the weakest of the lot of us; I wouldn’t have wanted to be in that car with me driving if I were anyone else but me, and maybe not even then.
We stopped, I think that it was in Capistrano, for the night and then up to San Francisco where we had a safety net in place; however, we never did need to strain any of the relationships that I had up there. The Red Cross was set up in town and they got us (with pets) accommodations at an art deco motel on the beach, gave us meals as well as food stamps and bus passes and people were right friendly. The Red Cross had expected tens of thousands of refugees and got less than nine hundred, so we had almost too much attention lavished upon us with Social Security, FEMA and disaster money and volunteers galore, plus we had a brand new luxury size Buick to tool around the area with.
There is one moment that I will never forget; as we were driving into town we had the radio tuned to the public station and they were broadcasting a benefit for New Orleans musicians. We were just getting in, with the San Francisco skyline above us and feeling pretty good about being at the end of our trip and the song that they happen to play at that moment was: “Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?” I think that we were crying so hard that I had to pull over because I could not see the road for the tears that we both were crying. We both literally had our long overdue breakdowns, in traffic, sobbing for our lost city. I guess that that kind of took the wind out of our sails and I believe that at that point we both knew without speaking that we could not but return home, no matter what San Francisco or any other place might show us in the form of hospitality. At that point we fully knew what it meant to be orphans of the storm.
So ends part six. That was our journey out of the hell and high water and it got to be only better and better from there until we returned back to New Orleans. Five weeks in California.

Oh, Kevin did make it to California, to his relatives, without Kathy.

halloween in New Orleans 2010

2010-07-29T12:23:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Lucky Stiff
Or
All Hallows Eve
Are you awake? Well, c’mon take a trip with me down the lazy Mississippi, the river that’s too thick to drink and too thin to plow. Let’s take Old Man River on down to that easy, sleepy, ne’er do well crescent city…New Orleans. Nowhere, in this country, will you find a city that is more likely to take any excuse or occasion and transform it into a celebration; and that’s what this missive is about.
First off: Our forbearers, in their infinite and ultimately misguided wisdom, transmuted pagan ritual days into religious holidays on a particular purpose and, I think, with the likes of us in mind. They figured that if the kids were going to be jazzing and jamming with the changing of the seasons, (and other natural occurrences) that they could capitalize on it by relating it to the church and to their infinite and ultimately misguided religion. In the course of that, they hoped to somehow rein us in. It is not totally a coincidence that Mardi Gras corresponds with spring plantings as well as Halloween the conclusion of harvest; the church will have us believe a connection to Easter and All Saints day; WELL, fat (Tuesday) chance, we know better. Consequently we celebrate these holidays with abandon. Both Carnival and Halloween call for costuming, consuming and canoodling; how pagan is that? “We need to fete the dearly departed saints and sinners…"THIS BUD'S FOR YOU!! Or…. It’s getting’ time to knock it off for forty days until good old whatshisname rises... "BREAK OUT THE BOOZE!!!" So it goes, and…
That being said, consider that there’s a certain fascination and fixation with death that is pervasive here. Our thing with death is also something that goes un-witnessed in other parts of this country; certainly not to the lengths that we go to in our near obsession. In fact, in New Orleans death is celebrated, revered and as we all know, easy to come by; it’s not uncommon for a spat to escalate into a homicide here, is it? We’ll cry on the way to the graveyard and we’ll dance on our way back; the brass band leads the way and we form a second line behind it. Visitors love to gawk at our cemeteries, we love to light candles on people and we read the obituaries religiously (pun intended). We pay little attention to dying; it’s death itself that intrigues us most. AND…
Compounding that, New Orleans is as welcoming and as friendly a city as you’ll find anywhere, consequently, it’s easy to make comrades here. Something as trivial as a gap in a generation or the diversity of a background never stands in the way of close bonds that allow the symbiosis of personal philosophies to come together like ticks on a hound.
And, until somebody pisses somebody else off, you’re pretty much good to go in the pals, peeps and buds department in any area of this city. However; leave it to me not to point out that there’s always an occasion that the best of us will cop an attitude over nothing and alienate a playmate, but what can you do? That’s the exception to the rule; c’est la vie, laissez faire and laissez le bon temps roulez. To make friends is to lose them, albeit briefly. C’est le guerre.
So what do we get when we mix up that metaphoric gumbo? Bone Shakers on Mardi Gras, black folks dressed as Indians singing “jockimo findo hondo in de mawnin”, vampires, devils, ghouls and demons dressed on Halloween, men dressed as sexy women and women dressed even sexier. We also get twenty-four hour drinking in the streets, red dress runs, swashbucklers, strip clubs, our own running of the bulls (where you get chased by a babe on roller skates with a bat) and the parading of hearses backed by blaring brass bands; all in the thinly disguised demeanor of danger, debauchery and death. Boy, aint we sumthin’?
Our fascination with death comes in different forms: the death of a celebrity (i.e. Lena Horne), the death of an eccentric (i.e. Ruthie the Duck Girl), or of a celebrity and eccentric (i.e. Ernie K. Doe). You’ll read in the news a freak accident and be mesmerized, you’ll see on the telly a disaster that took innocents and your eyes will widen. You’ll hear of animals thoughtlessly killed and become tearily outraged. A death in the family, of a friend and add to that the deaths of strangers, soldiers or someone that you just see in the newspaper and you pretty much have it. A real Spoon River Anthology.
I believe that this addiction to death has to do with the realization that our own time is divided between the days that we’ve had and the days that we have left: our personal mortality. It’s something that we can do nothing about, weaving a spell of finality toward a mirror at the end of the road. If you live long enough, you get old; if you stay old long enough… you die. AND as your days pass you will see people that you know, people that are your friends and people that you are related to… pass The O-bits will call the process “entering into eternal peace or rest, called home, transitioned or departed this life”. Gene Wilder in Young Frankenstein quips succinctly: “What difference does it make? Dead. Is. Dead!!”
The difference is that perhaps at some point you’ll realize that you are not dead…yet, and death will become a personal issue; and so will your life. Death will become something that you will not be able to escape or avoid. Life will be something that you think about and cherish. At some point when you hear someone say that they are blessed by being alive another day, your heart will answer ”I know that’s right!”.
And perhaps you will start living like you mean it, like you want to make it last or make it matter. Not that it will make much of a difference.
But, in conclusion, when you costume up this, or any other, season, remember that life is short, fun is the best way of having a good time, loving is as natural as breathing and courtesy is contagious.
And when I die you better second line!

See you in September

2010-07-09T14:21:00.000-07:00

I was going to publish Katrina Fifth Anniversary part 2 but hey, isn't there enough bad stuff out there? So I wrote something a little lighter than storms and seas and sludge and fumes. Bless me, Father for I have sinned.

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
From The Heart
Or
Game over
Okay, enough of this gloom and doom; enough, enough, I say! If you don’t have anything light and airy to say… put it on a blog (I did) and away from the public domain and sensitive eyes.
I know, let’s give presents! What better time of year to give gifts than this; a time of year that nobody gives gifts, unless it’s your birthday? What better time of year to celebrate than the time of year when we still haven’t been flooded or crudded off the planet? Let’s celebrate that we still are living in New Orleans, unless of course, we are not.
Five years ago I wrote the September article that got flooded out of print, and, oh boy, aren’t you glad that that hasn’t happened this year?
So now, I humbly suggest that we all turn to our partners and give gifts that coincide with our anniversaries together. One, two, three, four and more; c’mon work with me here, chose your side of the relationship, back off ten paces and give from the heart. This ought to be fun, right? Here are some suggestions.
After Six months: Surprise them with a roll of duct tape and a bottle of Nyquil; and a card that says “use your imagination, Dear”.
First year: a slab of ribs is an excellent gift because if they don’t know what to do with them then, there is no use going any further in the relationship, is there?
Second year: give your Honey a pet. You should always wait until the second year to adopt a critter. Why? Because the first year should be about you and yourselves. This applies only to the couple who didn’t already have pets upon the initial canoodling and/or cohabbing; in that case then, just bring something alive home and work it out, or you are ready and able to skip the second year gifts and go directly to:
Third year: In the third year (and NOT before) it should be time to talk about the ‘C’ word (no, not that ‘C’ word). The “C” word that I’m talking about here is CHILDREN!
Yeah, you’ve been shakin’ the covers long enough to now discuss the possibility of increasing your personal population; and believe you me, I wouldn’t blame you for deciding not to have any part of procreation. I have a theory that all young things (birds, cats, puppies, chirren) are cute for the sole reason that if they weren’t just darling, there would be more drownings around here than on the Titanic; whatever YOUR perspective, it’s time for the talk.
Fifth year: yes, after you make it the first three years you can skip to the big numbers (five, ten, eleven, fifteen etc.). After all, if you make it past the ribs, the cat and the kid talk… Plus, the fourth year isn’t all that anyway, is it? On the fourth it’s a quiet dinner, asleep by nine, you know who you are.
So, on the fifth year give something big, like say, a hundred square feet of sod, full camping gear and a reservation for a week in Okefenokee or a country turkey roaster (a broomstick, a steel garbage can, fifty pounds of charcoal and a quart of gasoline). Onward.
Year Seven: the seventh year is a tricky one and you’re apt to opt for separate vacations and that would not be a bad thing; after all, how can you miss them if they won’t go away? But better yet, a vacation to a place that neither one wants to go is just the ticket to test your already testy relationship. I recommend shared accommodations at a fat farm, a visit to an insect infested ashram (with no electricity) or two weeks at Betty Ford’s.
Tenth Year: are you still here? Well shucks, here’s a couple of suggestions just to keep things lively; renovate your house orrrrr… go into business together! See, thus far y’all get to go your separate ways for a portion of each day: your jobs, shopping, sporting events and/or quilting bees. Now’s the time to take the plunge and either be at each other’s sides and throats for a really large percentage of each and every day, or put up with contractors, electricians and third world laborers, twenty-four seven, just for kicks and grins. Take my word for it, trips to Home Depot three or four times a week and wondering how you’re going to pay for it all or spending endless hours talking shop and wondering how you’re going to pay for everything are exactly the situations that will make or break a couple’s mettle and cohesiveness. Tenth year… push the envelope; after ten it’s all clear sailing or downhill, one or the other.
Fifteen years: how old are you now and would anybody else want you? Well, if you are still with the same person for fifteen years then now it’s time to do big things for eachother. I call this ‘the year of daring’. After fifteen years, give eachother the gifts of new and challenging things to do, like a Bucket List but younger. Listen, if you’ve made it with another human being for this long, you already know everything about them that they are going to share with another human being; you know the dirty laundry, you’ve accepted the baggage and you are aware of the skeletons in the closets; now’s the time for mid-life crisis gifts: dueling pistols, an electric guitar, tango lessons, a course in Swahili or a cooking class on how to cook ribs. See, at this point it is love or ignorance; and either way, you’ve proven to all your friends, and anyone else that cares to view you, that it is possible to maintain a friendship for a long period of time or that the both of you are full blown bat shit crazy and have found solace in each other’s company mostly because no one else could possibly put up with either one of you.
Better yet, now is the time, yes, right now is the time to turn to that person that you are betting your life and future on and tell them how worthwhile they have made your very valuable time. It’s either that or what?
See you in October….. I hope.

Oil Spill in the Gulf part 3

2010-07-03T11:21:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Not My Problem
Or
Let Them Drink Oil
Okay, here we are on day seventy-five of the awful, awful miscarriage of oil in the Gulf and now the estimates are up to 80,000 barrels a day.
Remember last oil blog’s arithmetic lesson? Well, here’s another lesson: in today’s newspaper it was revealed that thus far BP has set 238,000 barrels of oil on fire. The quote was “Controlled burns have collectively removed…”. That is to say, if you took that quart of oil that you put in your car’s engine poured it in your filled bathtub and set it on fire, here comes the math part (ready?), you would need to do that 533,120 times a day to keep up with them. You can trust me on this, or you can divide the number of barrels thus burned (238,000) by the number of days (75), multiply by the number of gallons per barrel (42) and then multiply by the number of quarts there are in a gallon (4). Viola! Or Voila! Or whatever; that’s a lot of friggin’ oil. Wouldn’t you say?
Environmentalists worry about the hazards the plumes of noxious smoke may have on wildlife. What are the chances? “The fires burn 2 to 3 millimeters of oil every sixty seconds, rising as high as 100 feet and generating massive plumes of smoke”. Environmental groups are suing BP because they have found that the fires are burning sea turtles alive in the process.
So, now we have the spill, the chemical dispersants AND the fires; I’m telling you out there that we sure are having a time way down yonder in New Orleans. Oil is already in the mouth of the Mississippi River, 100 miles away. They’re predicting oil on Miami’s beaches and into the Florida Keyes by mid August and who knows how many storms we’ll have by then. The spill is now the size of the state of New Jersey. Break out the flags and sparklers, it’s July 4th weekend and business in the French Quarter could be worse, but I cannot imagine how. At least we’re eating regularly, but not the local seafood..
So, who’s fault is this anyway? This whole disastrous tragedy? Hmmm. Let’s start by taking into consideration that our dependency on oil and petroleum based products is the culprit. Let’s see. Plastic containers, Styrofoam containers and ‘peanuts’ for packing, my after shave lotion bottle, disposable razors, sanitizer bottles, plastic cups, ball point pens, cheap flashlights, colored markers, the keyboard that I’m typing on, the computer parts as well as printer (and ink cartridges), packing tape, spice jars, soda bottles and mailing envelopes and I haven’t even gotten to my car’s usage and consumption yet. My credit cards and identification are made of plastic, foods that I buy are packed in plastic and I’m sent from the store with my purchases in plastic bags. In New Orleans, where it’s illegal to carry alcoholic beverages in the streets in glass or metal cans, we have plastic ‘go cups’, drink containers shaped like glasses and even plastic beer bottles. AND WE HAVE NO RECYCLING!!!!!
We had an old air conditioner at home that just was not doing it’s job efficiently; when we called around to have it serviced, we were told that it was cheaper to buy a new one and that, anyway, no one worked on residential units any longer. I’m talking about a big steel, electricity-eating thing that was an example of machinery the likes that you will not see again. Our option was to swelter or purchase new. We purchased and indeed the new unit was not expensive (relatively speaking) and when it came time to install the option was to send the old unit to the landfill. The new unit is made of… guess. The unit was not manufactured in this country.
BP is not the bad guy… or are they? Political conservatives would have us believe that if the political liberals had not objected to drilling on land or in shallow water (it obscures the views) that BP would not have been FORCED to drill in deep water. As a student of capitalism I would say that profit oriented businesses (such as BP) would drill on the moon if they thought that they could make a buck and that brings up the theory that BP WANTS to keep the well flowing so that they would have the first crack at harvesting the well’s output with their ‘relief drillings’. What, after all, would happen if the well was closed for well and good? Perhaps a moratorium on the drilling site? How do we know? We don’t know NOTHING (double negative intended) and nothing is clear except that the oil keeps coming out of the well.
Is BP the only miscreant? The only scoundrel? The only reprobate? The only villain? The only criminal? Not on your tintype.
Shell Oil in Nigeria has the populace wading in oil spills, their environment in ruins, their economy nonexistent, their natural resources gone. No fishing and very little agriculture as the result of oil spills the size of the Gulf that are a regular occurrence on their land. Protesters have been beaten and murdered.
Does a poor citizen give a flip about the white man’s oil spill except where it impacts their employment or food sources? As a rural disenfranchised American in northern Mississippi, do I care about a sea turtle or my food stamps? If I get my seafood from the Missouri River do I really care about gulf shrimp?
Do investors put their money behind those that would do good or behind those that will give them the highest return on their investment no matter what their products produce or the effect that that company, in producing that product, has on the environment that we all collectively live in? Would a sane and rational person take a job with a company based on its integrity or it’s pay scale? Therein lies the rub.
Does a working stiff think about making plowshares from oil shares? Do the oil company executives give a flip if a well blows up, workers die and the environment is fouled past their lifetimes as long as it does not affect their bottom line and income? Do you want to bet that behind every great fortune that there is not a great crime perpetrated by great criminals, and in the case of a great oil spill; as Dr. John so rightly pointed out, are not the criminals then put in charge of the crime scene?
Make no mistake that poor people are impacted; they work the rigs, they fish the gulf, they work for the oil company that allows the spill to continue BUT they are also the one who get to clean up the gobs of crude oil that washes up on our shores and can turn a living doing that, wearing plastic suits. Or use their fishing boat to skim oil from their once fished waters using expensive fuel. Or wait in line for handouts from relief groups, in their cars, burning gasoline. As Pogo so succinctly put it in 1974 “we have met the enemy and he is us”.

Hurricane Katrina Fifth Anniversary part 5

2010-06-26T11:46:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil
LaMancusa
Beethoven’s Fifth
Or
Away We Go
I reckon that it’s only fitting that I squeeze a fifth installment out of this subject; after all, I’m sitting in the shop that we opened five years ago without the benefit of customers or cash, just me and my computer.
Business in The Big Easy is anything but easy; Summertime and the livin’ is anything but easy, there are no fish jumpin’ unless they’re already heavily oiled.
After the ‘event’, naturally business was bad enough, prospects were dim enough and economic hopes were not springing eternal enough so, the light at the end of the tunnel was extinguished. We came back to more than half of businesses closed and moved or moving away. The city was a shadow of its former shadow and rather than picking up the pieces and moving on a lot of folks just pulled up their pants and moved out. It didn’t help that landlords were doubling rents and in some cases people came back to find their belongings on the street; FEMA worker’s rent money was being planted in town and the landlords were eager to harvest. The bars and restaurants that were able to open quickly enough did very, very well. When I called from our exile to see about re-employment the question that I had was about whether the beer trucks were delivering; when I was assured that they were, I knew that I could come home and that the city’s recovery was a possibility.
Yes, we did make it out of New Orleans after the storm and flood, albeit six days afterwards, and we left like the proverbial bats out of hell. Literally.
On that Saturday morning after Kevin had it settled in his mind that he could leave his three dogs with a friend that was determined to stay here and after Kevin gave me the keys to the car, Debbie, he and I set off to see if the cars actually existed and whether it was able to be driven as an escape vehicle.
We reached the garage where the gates had been left unlocked and on the first four levels we saw cars that had been vandalized. At the fifth level with Debbie waving and yelling that we were not looters to unseen forces we found some cars left intact and among them was the 2005 Corolla which opened with the keys that Kevin had provided, the engine started right up and the gas tank read full. Getting the car out of there was going to be an ordeal of different magnitude, the street was littered with debris and the water was calf deep all the way to the Canal St. median.
We walked back to Canal St. thinking possibly that we could push the car through the water if worse came to worser and let the engine dry off enough to eventually start it.
I had noticed a water line on the walls of the buildings higher than the level of the standing level and I was assuming that the water was in fact receding; we were told that the level of the water rose and fell with the tide in the lake, ‘swell’, I said, ‘all we have to do is wait for low tide’. A policeman informed us that this was, in fact, ‘low tide’.
We went back to the car and plan b. The pushing plan. I drove the car down to the first level and to the sidewalk wondering if I could just drive the sidewalks where it was more shallow. Too narrow. I put the car into drive and took my foot off the gas. I racked my brain for someone reliable to send up prayers to.
As we all know, the depth of a street is lower by the curb and higher in the center so that rainwater might travel from the street to the drains. The car, with me at the wheel and Kevin and Debbie scooting debris out of the way ( to prevent tire punctures) dipped into the street up to the grill and my heart sank from my chest to my stomach and I felt the need to void my bladder. With still my foot off the gas petal and the car in gear and moving on impulse power alone, she came out of the water and kept on going, like a frigging ship of state at sea. Tears came to my eyes; and ever the pessimist, I allowed the car to roll, on its own, to the middle of the street where it sloshed through water that was higher than the hubcaps, up to Canal St. onto the median where Kevin and Debbie got in and we drove to Royal St. and up Royal, the wrong way, to Conti where we let Kev out so that he could pack and then up to Dauphine where we were already set to get going. My heart had re-inhabited my chest and was singing the Ode To Joy.
We stashed the car behind the locked driveway fence to pack the trunk; the day before we had been warned by police not to be on our bicycles because of jackings taking place aimed at anything with wheels for transportation out of town, and we were taking no chances. Wouldn’t you know it that at that precise moment the National Guard finally made it into our neck of the woods.
Animals are easy to pack, all seven of them, critter food was ready as were our belongings and we were wearing the traveling clothes with the money sewn into the waistbands; we bid adieu to our sanctuary within twenty minutes, picked Kev up and headed down Decatur towards the bridge to freedom with the National Guard waving us toward our destination which was anywhere but where we were. It was then that I knew that if we had been young and black we might not have had such an easy way out. On the way out we saw the body bags.
We were headed towards Shreveport where the safe house had been set up for us by Gallivan and where we would reunite him with his dog; I was following any road sign the said that we were headed north and west. We were dirty, we were weary, we were motley. We were crowded. We were ecstatic. Kevin wanted a Carl’s Jr. burger, Debbie wanted to use a lavatory. We stopped at a filling station and Kevin got something in a large cup that had ice in it, he had the smile of a child as he enjoyed ice for the first time in almost a week. Debbie took a long time in the rest room and I was beginning to worry until she emerged with the explanation that she had been mesmerized by the flushing and re-flushing of the toilet, and that she had washed and rewashed her hands just to feel the running water.
We eventually, that night, made our destination, which was only the first leg of our exile that took us all the way to San Francisco; on the way we had many more adventures that some day over a couple of cold ones, if you get me in the mood, I’ll relate. Right now, I’m exhausted just finishing this thus far… say goodnight, Gracie.
ANYBODY OUT THERE???

More on the oil spill 6/25/10

2010-06-25T13:38:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Greasy Kid Stuff
Or
So Who's Counting?
Okay, now it’s over two months and the oil is still vomiting into the Gulf of Mexico as rapidly and at such a great rate and in such the volume as it ever has or ever will. It, the oil, is spewing out of the well at such a rate that there is now oil within the oil and more oil to come and the toxic rain of oil and dispersants to follow.
Yes, we have rumors abounding here in River City and all that oil to back them up. Over 1,250,000 gallons of dispersant laid out over and under the spill, the reports posing as rumors posing as reports ask us to consider that this dispersant when warmed will become acid rain that will affect the east coast of the country as well as us here; and the effects will be with us for years if not decades. Some fun, eh?
How many gallons of oil in a barrel? Forty-two. How many barrels have been noted as gushing into the Gulf? BP says that the flow rate was never important; “its focus is stopping flow, not estimating it, exec says” –our newspaper further goes on to say that “estimates have steadily grown- starting at zero in the wake of the spill, and inching up to an early estimate of 1,000 barrels per day, then 5,000 and most recently up to 60,000 barrels a day” !!!!!!!
Pilgrim, that’s over two and a half million gallons a day. Want to see that in numbers? 2,520,000 GALLONS A DAY!!!
If you want to measure that in the familiar size of the quart of oil that you put in your engine to keep it running smoothly…. How does ten million of those puppies sound? Ten million quarts per day.
You’re probably not privy to be close enough to get accurate information because the press is not allowed within five miles of the site; however, if you worked in a restaurant and a couple instances of off duty Coast Guarders in uniform were to tell you that you have absolutely no clue as to the extent of the spill, it might give you great pause. You may ask yourself ‘where is that ten million quarts of oil a day going?’
The answer, of course is, it aint going nowhere but up our coasts, in our marshes, on our beaches and even some into the air that we breath. It’s killing organisms from the microscopic to the sea porpoises and turtles and air birds and nesting sites and it goes on and on. And BP never considered the flow rate important?
On the news earlier this week a reporter broadcast from five miles away and added to his report that even at that distance it was difficult to breath.
What BP IS interested in is capturing and processing oil from the well and there in lies the rub. When we asked why we couldn’t just blow the sucker up we were told that if we damaged to well it may just fall apart and explode with oil, for years into the waters. Hmmmm. What is more prudent, they told us, since nothing else has worked, is to wait (and wait and wait) for the relief wells to be completed. Then they will be able to capture it all, if it works, and it’ll be back to business as usual.
In the meantime, there is hue and cry against a moratorium on deep-water exploration and drilling for more oil costing jobs and I suppose if we can no longer put our fishermen to work we might as well put the offshore drilling teams to work and damn the consequences.
Do you know about Nigeria where this type of spill is commonplace and that protesters are beaten and sometimes lose their lives, all thanks to Shell Oil Company?
Are you following this at all or is the oil crimes and criminality only dredging up in your mind a ‘better in their yard than mine’ attitude?
Here’s what I’d like you to do for me: go purchase a quart of oil, the same kind that you put in your car engine, and pour it into your bathtub which you’ve filled with water. Now picture yourself cleaning that up ten million times a day. What, you say that you cannot do that all in a day? Well, give some to your neighbor to clean up and his neighbor and the cute couple that has just moved in across the street. Would you believe that you could give everybody that lives in New York City that task and still have enough to put the entire city of New Orleans to work also... every day. Think if it then as BP thinks of it; it’s not 10,000,000 quarts a day, it’s not even 2,520.000 gallons a day. It’s 60,000 barrels a day, except that it might be 35,000 barrels a day or maybe there is so much oil going into our life, livelihood and lives than we could never hope to shake a stick at it. BP has not considered that worth measuring.
Here’s more from the Times Picayune: “Ultimately, the flow rate will be important to the company, whether it wants to focus on it or not. The federal government is charged with imposing fines under various environmental laws on parties responsible for spills, and those fines will be based on total barrels spilled and range from $1,100.00 to m$4,300.00 per barrel.” Maybe it is time for them to count the barrels, what do you think?
And, this in the other day, one of their little robot submarines ran into the little thingy that was in place to capture spewing oil and knocked it off so that the flow of oil was unabated.
Oh, I tell you, it’s a barrel of laughs down here, or is that forty-two gallons?
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Fifth Anniversay Hurricane Katrina part 4

2010-06-25T11:37:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Waltzing Matilda
Or
Escape from Dogpatch
In the six days that we had post Katrina, there was one thing that we had plenty of. Time.
We had time to walk and bike the near empty streets, to view where tornados had ripped up fences, taken off roofs and knocked down walls. We had time to hurry past looters breaking into a convenience store by ramming the door with a newspaper vending machine while a police car sat idly by, the officer inside busy looking everywhere but where the action was. We had time to marvel at a city bus abandoned after not being able to make a turn on a street that it definitely wasn’t supposed to be on.
Time to walk streets where rubble abounded and witness enough foliage down on Esplanade Avenue that it resembled an abandoned lumber camp. We talked, or rather listened to the ravings of citizens, some armed, about the collective confusion as to exactly what the hell was going on: police snipers stationed to prevent looters from torching the French Quarter as they had Saks on Canal St. after looting Gucci, Brooks Bros and Pottery Barn, the possible deliberate flooding of the Quarter to alleviate the Ninth Ward and the rantings of the mayor yelling over the AM airwaves to anyone who was listening to get their ass down here, about him being pissed off at the Feds response- or lack of one- and about how we had a city of people “off their meds”. I was wishing for some meds myself.
Some time during each day was allotted to the sweeping of our all but abandoned street, foraging for supplies and fortifying our small balcony facing the street to look like a dangerous place for trespassers to consider. At night we would bang on sheet metal to simulate gunfire, hopefully keeping bogeymen at bay. Oh, what a time we had.
When I went to release a Pit Bull in the Treme armed with nothing but a screwdriver and a hammer I naively assumed that we were talking about a regular dog leash type chain. What greeted me after wading into an alleyway, was a male Pit Bull chained by the neck with the type of chain used to secure chain link fences and park gates. He was chained to a metal spiral stairway and was perched on a milk carton to keep him out of the water.
Surprisingly the dog did nothing but regard me with anxious eyes while I tried, with no success, to put the screwdriver through chain or padlock. After accomplishing nothing but the denting of the screwdriver and the working of the poor dog’s nerves, with heavy hearts, we returned to Dauphine Street; defeated.
On reaching Dauphine St. we passed one of our remaining neighbors, a young saloon owner with resources, who asked about our mission; when I relayed our impotence against the shackle, he called back: “why didn’tchu SAY somethin’? I got a bolt cutter!” Debbie and I waded back, found the woman who let us back in the alley and snipped the animal free. The cur shook itself, gazed up at us and without animosity or appreciation walked calmly away. We, of course, were too late for cocktails.
It seemed to us, at the time that there had been no contingency on any level for the care of pets and critters. Debbie, on Canal St., on a couple of occasions tried to get media to pay attention to the plight of animals that had been abandoned or left behind. It’s interesting to note that the SPCA here has a policy in effect to evacuate all in their charge thirty-six hours in advance of an impending storm. It’s also interesting to note that they had no contingency to leave anyone behind to help any animals that had been overlooked or left here in need of care.
Debbie likes to tell people that we had to leave because we had run out of wine. That is making light of the facts and our emotions at the time, it’s a good way to gloss over and cut short the need for full disclosures and explanations. The simple reason that we stayed is because we didn’t have a way to go and did not consider that it could and would get as scary as it did. The reason that we left was that we were presented with a way out.
Neighbors upon leaving left us food and keys to their apartments; for access to land-line telephones, rubbing alcohol, peroxide or other supplies to be foraged. One neighbor left us his battery powered radio, another left us a fast warming cooler with foodstuffs that perished before we could eat them. Our saloonkeeper neighbor sent over hot soup one night. The family run grocer down the block stayed open for a couple of days before calling it quits and leaving. Another grocer opened his doors and let people take whatever they needed and only asked that they consider paying for stuff when they returned; he remarked that he considered the circumstances were god’s way of getting him to stop drinking and smoking. One friend that was leaving gave us a key to a courtyard where five-gallon jugs of water were stashed.
The man around the corner told us that he had been to the Convention Center where looters had set up tables to sell their ill gotten goods and that the mood was festive, needless to say, that was going to change as the numbers of refugees rose, heat, thirst and conveniences dwindled and security got tighter.
There were reports of bodies left to rot in the streets, one just around the corner from us; naturally Debbie refused to go gawk with me, so I didn’t see it myself. We found some adult diapers in our landlady’s apartment and tried to donate them to the old folks home that had not been evacuated, thinking that they could use them. We were met at the door by a petite elderly woman that carried a shotgun taller than herself and were told that nothing was needed and that we should leave the premises.
One afternoon on the radio, two commentators were talking at each other when one of them says: “you know, these people have been crowded up on that overpass for thirty hours in the hot sun and I suddenly thought to myself: ‘they have no food, no water, no shade and no bathroom facilities’; where are they going to the bathroom?” No one would answer that question, we all knew.
Actually, after the first twenty-four hours, we all became campers in the waste elimination department and we went where we could, when we could; with no water to flush a toilet, we went wherever we could.
TIME TO LEAVE COMMENTS, QUESTIONS, GOSSIP?

Hurricane Katrina Fifth Anniversary part 3

2010-06-24T11:38:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Caledonia
Or
Hurricanes Rock
Okay, where were we five years ago in the first days of September? Where were we when the sun went down? Where was Moses when the lights went out? In the dark.
After the first effects of the hurricane had passed, the electricity was cut off; we still don’t know why, but, the city became… powerless. That meant no lights, no fans, no air conditioning and no radios. The storm had knocked out cell phone usage as well. And then, our water supply was cut; again, we didn’t see the why or wherefore. We were left… in the dark… dry. Anyone left here by choice or circumstance was left, literally, in the dry dark… without the ability to bathe.
Us veterans of past storms didn’t sweat it much; a couple of days without amenities and we’d be back on the grid, eh? “Let’s go get some coffee and a newspaper and find out how bad it had been”.
Too bad nothing was open and the only thing I found outside was the quiet and the heat, that plus a tree that had crashed onto the front of the building that I was living in.
We did have gas, so one would assume that we would have heat and hot water; but with the temperatures being hotter than hell outside and the water supplies at nil we could only use the gas to cook whatever was left unspoiled in our powerless refrigerators or of a dry ingredient unused until that time. It was like camping in hell. The toilets are useless if you can’t flush, eh? Minute by minute it became increasingly clear that we were not prepared.
Before the storm hit, and just before the storm hit, the mayor checked with his lawyers to see if he’d get into much doo-doo ordering a mandatory evacuation, so no one thought it was going to be very bad; I mean, if there is no mandatory evacuation order… Besides, the storms always turn at the last minute and miss us, right?
Wannabe writer that I am and with not a small amount of ego, I started keeping a journal of our days and nights stranded from America. It wasn’t until I looked down and saw that I had written the words “I am very scared” did I accept the fact that us, I, we just might not make it through this one; that this was an adventure that was spiraling out of control; that it was just dangerous enough to take my life and the lives of my loved ones and those that I had become responsible for.
Added to that, the biggest damn explosion that I ever heard was in the early (still dark) hours of Thursday morning; it turned out to be a facility that housed propane tanks. The sky was on fire and Boom! after BOOM!!! had me assured that we were being bombed and that we were all but doomed.
We now know that that did not happen. I did not know that then; at the occurrence of that epiphany I went into a different gear, a survival gear. We began to go into the ‘we have got to get out of here’ gear and without the prospect of hope of any kind we began packing, consolidating, planning.
When Kevin (Debbie’s neighbor) said those words (“they left me the car and they know that I can’t drive”) I was already ready.
The car was a Toyota Corolla, 2005, white and it was parked on the fifth level of the Hotel’s garage. To get to it we had to walk the block past Canal St. which was ankle deep in water to the garage where the street was calf deep in water. We did not know if it was even there or in what condition we would find it in if it was.
We had been advised earlier, by one of the uniformed guys that had started to occupy the Canal St. zone, that the water that we were standing in was becoming “noxious” due to human, animal, chemical and petroleum waste matter. He intimated that rotting carcasses and bodies did nothing nice to standing water. The water was waist high on Rampart St. and we could see black people wading away from the projects with bundles balanced on their heads, water chest high.
We had seven animals in our care by then and as a lark I had painted and nailed to what was left of the tree in our front yard a sign that announced us as ‘DOGPATCH’. In some kind of moment I must have thought it cute or catchy or something, I don’t know.
Thursday of that week that sign had attracted a young woman to us that wanted us to take in another puppy or two, which of course we couldn’t. She then asked if we could come release a dog that had been left by its owners who had split after the storm leaving the dog stranded in water chained by the neck. She had already taken into her care a female and pups. I, fool that I am, took up a hammer and screwdriver and told her to lead me to the unfortunate canine; it was almost time for cocktails and the bar that we had found still in operation had a curfew just like the rest of us.
Debbie had insisted on being part of the escapade because as she well knows, just her presence will keep us safe; we started off. The woman turned the corner up Saint Philip St. toward Rampart St. and I asked what our destination was: she replied “Treme”. A little further up the street and I asked what breed of dog we were going to rescue and she replied “Pit Bull”. She spoke in a matter of fact voice as if we were going to the bakery for a King Cake. I, on the other hand, saw my life flash before my eyes; Treme was where there was a lot of trouble of a violent type even in the best of times and releasing a chained Pit Bull was quickly becoming the very last chore that I wanted on my plate. I thought of that nice cozy tavern, Molly’s At The Market, and the warm beer that awaited me among friends and fellow strandees and began to regret my mission.
By the time that we reached our destination the water was knee high and we were deep into the Treme neighborhood, an area that I wouldn’t have dared enter in any earlier juncture of my life approaching a task that I would have surely thought more than once about volunteering for had I been in my right mind.

Katrina fifth anniversary part 2

2010-06-20T10:45:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Crowning Miss Adventure
Or
Are We There Yet?
Well… last month, by request, I wrote a fifth year anniversary article on Katrina. Aaaaand…. a thousand words was just not enough, so I ended with ‘to be continued’. Our Katrina experience was BEING IN the French Quarter for six days into it which coincided, oddly enough, with the first sign of responders to make it into our neck of the woods (I know some folks on Esplanade that say that they are still waiting); bringing us well into September, which is more of an anniversary for me than August. Go figure.
As you know, my lead time for publication is six weeks, so my first question is: “Are we still here?” Did the mud and the sludge and the grunge and oil; a hurricane, a tornado, hail as big as tombstones, acts of god or man do us in again or are we all still just waiting to inhale? Did we make it back up off the mat or were we sucker punched by unseen powers…again? Has it rained BP oil on our parades? Are cruise ships braving the slick to dock in our port again?
If we’ve taken it blindside again, then this, like the September article five years ago, might never get any further than my blog; so here I come: five years later and you have to pay a buck to put air in your tires; how’s that for blowing goat? Five years in and prices are up and wages are down and baby needs a pair of shoes.
Five years in and a plan to issue all children life jackets so that “they get used to them” is the best we can do.
Remember that closing scene in the movie “San Francisco’ where Clark Gable, Jeanette MacDonald and Spencer Tracy are coming back into town, comrades in arms. Singing? Well, that’s us guys! Except that we’re covered in oil and for every three steps forward we take two steps back. I’ll tell you what, Cap, we all deserve a frigging medal for our mettle, a tall one for our tenacity and a second line for our sincerity, just for the fact that we have chosen to still live here, and that’s just for starters.
For us, September is when the situation that we’ve come to know as the ‘Katrina incident’ really hit home; it was September when we awoke to a stream of refugees washed from their homes by flooding conditions not of their making or consent. The citizens passing us with their meager possessions were going to what they were told was ‘the refuge of last resort’. What they did not know that it was was a situation better described as ‘the end of humanity as you’ve ever known it’. It was the Super Dome and later the Convention Center that became our face of misery, neglect and abandonment and once there there was no way back to nourishment, kindness or sanity.
People’s pets that were brought to shelter were not welcome; they were turned loose in the street, abandoned and separated from their humans. In some of the lower parishes, on the rationale of the possibility of the animals forming packs, they were shot on sight. Having a pet did not necessarily exempt a person from being forced to evacuate either; authorities had the authority to shoot your pet as incentive to get you to leave, in fact authorities had the authority to do anything they damn well pleased including shooting innocent citizens, looters or criminals of and by their own determination.
Not all uniformed personnel in charge of keeping the peace and maintaining order were Gestapo-like. Only a portion abandoned their posts or went rogue; but it’s important to note that girlfriend and I had three things going for us: our age, our skin color and our ability to converse intelligently. Those attributes gave us an even break and playing field.
We stayed for six days mainly because we were not prepared to evacuate in the first place, we had no vehicle, we had no money, we had three cats and three dogs and we had no plan. We holed up at a second story apartment on Dauphine St. that had minimal damage: two chimneys collapsed, roofing, siding and gutters ripped off and a sizable cypress tree fallen upon the front of the building; but, as I tell people, we were the lucky ones.
It was real real quiet in our neck of the woods, most had evacuated early to spend days on the road not getting anywhere; of the ones who had stayed, most left by mid-week. We had taken into our care another dog whose owners were opting for the Convention Center, we were running low on supplies and had only an AM radio for information. The only thing we know for sure was that there were a couple of taverns still open to commiserate with those of us left and that with no electricity or water things were getting worse.
We had been in touch with the owner (Gallivan Burwell) of one of the canines in our care via the telephone land line of a neighbor’s and had a safe house set up for us in Shreveport should we be able to escape. People hoping to get out by walking across a bridge to the other side of the Mississippi River were turned away at gunpoint by police, there were bodies in the street, there was lootings, gunfire and disorder. There was no cold beer.
Gallivan had left us the keys to his apartment on Saint Philip St. where he alerted us to a stash of cash that he had kept for emergencies, like fugitives we sewed the money into our clothes and gathered and consolidated our supplies to be ready for a break to come to us. It was flood conditions all around the French Quarter but pretty dry for the most part within its boundaries.
Six days in and we’re over at girlfriend’s apartment to check for anything else helpful in an escape. Eight in the morning and her downstairs neighbor (with warm beer and cigarette) explaining how his womenfolk had been evacuated leaving him and his three dogs and the keys to a new car, fully gassed and “they know that I don’t know how to drive!” he happens to say to me (!!!!!).
Thus ends another thousand words but there is more

Oil Spill in the Gulf

2010-06-12T09:48:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Gulf Oil Spill
Or
And Not A Drop To Drink
Okay, here we are on day fifty four, day fifty four and the earth is still hemorrhaging vital fluid of a poisonous nature into waters that supported life… once. I find myself in a Costnerish moment, but I believe not even Kevin in all his psycho-environmental weirdness could have imagined this ass kicking. An epic adventure of a monumental catastrophe without a hero, plot or frontal nudity scene. This one is rated WFN (We’re Fucked Now) and is not suitable for impressionable minds. Watch nonstop, via video-cam, the world turning to pitch and washing up on a shore near you.
Fifty-four days in and it’s like a Grateful Dead set, we’re caught in a ‘no way forward and no way back’ conundrum. Fifty-four days in and there is no relief in sight; the oil is spewing, gushing and vomiting from a depth of over four miles below the surface of the Gulf of Mexico and not all the kings horses nor all the kings men can slow or stop the calamity.
Does it seem like I am using many words of the doom and gloom nature? You bet your sweet ass I am. In a few short days our oysters will be a thing of the past; the great Louisiana oyster, a hybrid of indigenous stock and Croatian implants cross-cultured and bred over a century to produce the gustatory sweet soul sensation that we here were so proud of. The banning of our bivalves across the country met with sneers here, whoever these people were that shunned our supplies just because of potential health hazards could just go without, period. The call to process the oyster by some kind of sterilization almost caused riots; how dare someone tamper with perfection. We do not eat our oysters for any other reason than they taste wonderful and they are ours. If you have health issues, we say, don’t eat ‘em. Simple.
But, there goes the oysters, there go local shrimp, there go any wild caught seafood; the abomination that pollutes the Gulf, insidiously is creeping up the coast, into Mobile Bay, up onto Florida’s beaches and rounding the bend and heading into the Atlantic coast, how’s that for tragedy? This one is not getting swept under the rug, my friend, and we’ve got the seabird, turtle and dolphin carcasses to prove it.
What is being done? Not much; we’re promised, for sure, that the completion of the drilling of the relief well will solve everything IN AUGUST!!!!
Word around here is that if they pour enough concrete into the sucker it will stop, but then the valve that has become a piece of evidence will be sealed and no-one will ever know what happened. Another thought around here is that if they did stop the flow it would cut off the access to a lot of income; most of us don’t give a shit, we want the disastrous leak sealed. And the prevailing opinion is that it has taken too long and gone on too far and we are really screwed this time.
“Well, what about hurricane season?” you may ask. And well you may ask; this season is supposed to be a rip-roarer and there is no way to prepare for that except to keep your perishables at low inventory and your vehicle tuned and gassed. “What if a storm picks up the oil slick and dumps it on you, is that a possibility?” Who knows, the gulf waters are now in the eighties, El Nino is coming in and it’s hot as hell here; the levees are not up to the pre-Katrina levels and WFN!
Now it’s day fifty-five and headlines of local newspaper articles include “Thousands of people, vessels already in Gulf to combat oil”
“Dredging to create sand berms in Gulf may start this weekend.”
“Rig owners waiting for next step.”
“6- month moratorium called too short.”
“Vessel carrying oil from the leak arrives in Mobile today.”
“Grand Isle mayor plans to deploy barges in two passes.”
“Petition seeking shorter drilling moratorium gathers steam in Louisiana.”
“Some say hurricane would flatten berms.”
“Animals go into labeled containers, frozen.”
Yeah, about those animals. We now have an ‘Animal Collection Report’ in the paper.
Birds: collected 1,183 alive 504---dead 679
Sea Turtles: collected 351 alive 55---dead 296
Mammals includes dolphins: collected 39 alive 2
Other quotes in today’s paper are:
“IT’S LIKE A CLOUD OF WORRY” which means that we’re in a world of hurt down here. “Seafood supplies are dwindling”, “The Coast Guard tells BP: too little, too slow” and “Cleanup crews appear to be one step behind the spill.”
Meanwhile our President is making up to the Prime Minister of England while our mayor is spatting with his counterpart in London. Oh boy, I know you’re saying, why is God so mad at them poor crackers and coloreds in Louisiana? Well, to tell you the truth we really don’t know; it’s as if we are under siege by the sirens leading us to our demise. We are flummoxed by our fates as the cosmic whipping boys and who, just who do you complain to? It’s another case of the Department of Happy Endings being closed to those that are the most in need.
Oh, and by the way, we can smell oil in the air here when a good breeze blows in. There are people down here that are getting chest pains, shortness of breath and headaches. Oil? Airborne ‘dispersants’? Our imagination? For the record, I don’t feel so good myself. More later.
I’m posting this, unfinished, to get your reactions, I’ll be adding to it later today, tomorrow and on and frigging on……..stay tuned

Katrina fifth anniversary

2010-05-16T10:35:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
All The Kings Horses
Or
Hey Jude
Hurricane Katrina: what can I say that hasn’t been said ad nauseam? What can I tell you that you haven’t already seen on ‘Treme’? That we were some of the last ones to leave and some of the first ones back (and that’s with putting in over five thousand miles on the road)? That when we left the city was broken, we thought beyond repair, and when we came back, it was to a battered but unbowed wreck, mugged by nature, left to drown when levees didn’t hold, occupied by the military and ravaged by civil disobedience? Yes.
Yes, we came back to take a sad song and make it better. What else could you do after a wash the size of 16 Manhattans bitch slapped the Gulf Coast? 50,000,000,000 gallons of water from broken levees in 80% of New Orleans alone and alone we found ourselves; 500,000 citizens displaced, blown to the four corners. “Crying won’t help you, prayer won’t do you no good; when the levee breaks, Mama you’ve got to move”.
The waters shredded all boundaries with its destruction: economic, social, political and racial. Patricians and plebeians alike perished and providence had no regard for the pureness or poorness of a person’s soul; we all took the hit. All at once, we all became very fragile and extremely… mortal.
For the first nine months back we swept our own streets until the mayor signed a company for five times the cost of pre Katrina times, recycling became a distant memory, light poles were out and eighty percent of the city was in darkness, coffin flies blackened the air and trash and rotting refrigerators lined the street. No mail delivery. Remember? Debris piled up stories high, our stories piled up like psychic debris, we came back not because we wanted to; we came back because we had to. In prescience how could we not have come back? Unthinkable. Would we abandon a wounded comrade? A dying relative? A beaten home team?
We rolled up our sleeves and got to work putting back together the city that care forgot; we were a city of motherless children coming back to care for our home--we are still orphans of the storm--it’s been three steps forward and two steps back for five frigging frustrating years. It’s as if greener pastures are not in our futures.
The mayor said that he wanted the recovery to be driven by the economy; ergo rents doubled. The mayor said that the city wanted everybody back; and so they closed and eventually tore down the projects and homelessness tripled.
We developed three different strains of Katrina coughs; predictably, we were told that there was no such thing. We knew about lootings, rapes, bodies and gun battles between police and citizens; blithely that was all swept under the rug and whitewashed.
The fuster cluck of the repairing of miles of sewer pipe and fresh water lines and gas pipes and streets, oh the streets. Get this, the administration said that, purposely, they, and this is five years in, only went around repairing twenty percent of the streets that accounted for eighty percent of the traffic; that traffic being commuters. I personally don’t know who these commuters are and I also don’t know how, in five years, we have only been able to fix a paltry twenty percent.
Five years in, we have cell phone towers in our streets that serve no function; we have electronic parking meters (even in less affluent sections of town) with increased rates, property is being taken away under the guise of imminent domain, still almost 60,000 residences on the blighted list, new hospitals in the works while storm affected ones remain shuttered and the majority of the so called ‘recovery effort’ being accomplished by volunteers and faith based groups. Five years in and we are still a city racially divided four ways from Sunday.
Do you want to talk about drugs and violence? Want to know the murder statistics and how we are still highest per capita in the country? Don’t get me started.
Five years in and we’re still the country’s step-child; should another storm or disaster occur we will still be crying ‘po mouf’ to our neighbors. We are still in no position to offer succor to others should they need us. The great American city.
Five years in and we wouldn’t live anywhere else in the whole damn hemisphere and although our optimism flags at times, we are here for the long haul; we are among others that feel the same. At our home we pay private recyclers; our neighbor composts. I work the voting polls and participate in the process in which we elect our officials, I reserve the right to bitch about our inequities. We have a new mayor and hopefully our city is on its way to a better future: physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.
There is a philosophy that tells you that only by your cognition does the universe actually exist and that when you close your eyes it no longer does; that when you put your head down for the final sleep it will be gone. Poof. In the meantime all that happens is illusion spurred ahead by greed; the grand scheme that goes on within you and without you is here for your temporary education, enlightenment and transcendence.
That existential crap only goes so far until you may realize that, even if true, you have this one life to live; that you still bleed when cut, that you still cry when hurt and that you still are inclined to live a full, happy, productive and honorable existence. Even though it appears, at times, that the cards are stacked against us; even though we take pistol whippings by the fates; even though when the going gets tough(er) we are inclined to get going. To experience New Orleans is to experience love; for me, to live here is to want to make it better.
“The minute you let her under your skin, then you begin to make it better”
“The minute you let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better”
To be continued…

Big Easy Picks 2010

2010-05-07T12:58:00.000-07:00

Big easy picks
Best Television Production Yet Starring New Orleans
HBO’s Treme, first of all, is NOT a documentary. It is a fictional story told about a real time; that time being three months after the Gulf Coast’s decimation by hurricane Katrina. It’s characters are based on real people and the real people are based on characters and they run a gamut: Rich man, Poor Man, Beggar man, Thief. Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief with a Chef and WWOZ DJ thrown in. Treme is a ‘you love it or you’re still sore from the last hurricane to enjoy’ program. I’m not sure that it will play in Peoria, where they’ll probably need subtitles but, check it out. Local Sundays at 9pm. Local musical performances and recognizable storyline.
Best Guilty Summer Pleasures
That too but…the Casino at City Park for a butter pecan cone under the oaks on a hot Summer afternoon is almost as good as good can be and …. a trip to Angelo Brocato’s at 214 N. Carrollton Av is simply a giddying experience and the iced creams and confections are nothing if not bordering on sensual; however, after reading Sara Roahen’s hunger inspiring Gumbo Tales I became a Hansen’s Sno-Blitz Sweet Shop (4801 Tchoupitoulas St) disciple and have joined the ranks of knowing New Orleanians that wait each Spring to watch for the updated sign outside updating the years that they’ve been in business that signals the beginning of their business year (now having been open 71 years). In Hansen’s you may wait in line because there are ‘no shortcuts to quality’ and the original snow making machine still operates at it’s own pace and the syrups are house made and new flavors are always surfacing to our amazement and enjoyment. Open 1 til 7 every day but Monday
The Very Best Local Cookbook
Books about our local foods have been written for over a century and a half and there is not a runt in the litter. Paul Prudhomme’s Louisiana kitchen is where Creole/Cajun became cool for the rest of the world. Written in 1984, it’s in it’ 91st printing, it took two years to write because at the time he was not measuring any ingredients. Paulette Rittenberg stood next to him and cooked and wrote and tested, bless her heart and patience, consequently all of his spice mixtures (for every dish) are broken down by ingredient. The Remoulade Sauce is the blueprint for every one you’ll have today in New Orleans, color photos on how to make a roux and how to blacken a fish. Every basic recipe and I mean every basic recipe. Check out the Sweet Potato Pecan Pie and the BBQ Shrimp. $28.99 new but working copies can be had for less.
Best Unadvertised Restaurant
Café Maspero 601 Decatur St. at Toulouse not to be confused with Pierre Maspero which pales, has been open since 1974 and run by the same family from inception. The philosophy is simple; large portions, small prices, no frills.
The very best Muffelatta in the city; served hot, individual size and there is more filling than bread. Seafood platters as big as your head, $1.00 daiquiris and house wine; tap Abita in frozen mugs and a great onion soup among other offerings. No credit cards, no reservations, no dessert, no blaring televisions and no waitress in a uniform explaining the daily specials and telling you their name and that they’ll be your ‘server’. Cost conscious, brisk, casual with the occasional celebrity or walk in party of thirty. Open 11:00 am-10:00 weekdays 11:00 pm weekends. Closed Christmas and Thanksgiving.
French Quarter Computer Café in operation
Oxymoron? Pretty much. With the closing of the Bastille and other private ones that couldn’t hold on after hell and high water hit (not to mention escalating rents and naive management) The French Quarter Postal Emporium at 1000 Bourbon St. has been the only place to send anyone in need of computer time, fax services and mailing services. Into this breach comes That Internet Café On Toulouse, 717 Toulouse (off Royal toward Bourbon) to be exact next to Glass Magick. 522-2020. Summer hours are 7am until 2:30. They’ll be offering access, sales repairs, fax and tutoring. Again another locally owned and operated and in need of support in these trying times.

July in New Orleans

2010-04-30T12:34:00.000-07:00

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Jewel Eye
Or
Isle Of Views
Well, here we are in another July with another set of a thousand words to amaze, entrance, mystify and amuse you………or not. And as we sit, looking for any breeze at all, watching the weather channel and hopefully sipping on a cool one, our thoughts harmonically converge on ways to pay our bills, preferably without breaking a sweat.
How about we write the Great American Novel? That’s great! That’s novel and that’s American, huh? Well, hold on Pilgrim; it’s not as easy as all that. Pretty much in these economic times, getting a first book published is called fat chance. Getting any other books published is possible if you have already published or if you are somebody; add to the blah blah blah that you cannot become somebody until you’ve been published and you’ve got your predicament and mine: you’re not a recognized author until you’ve been published and you, in this economy, cannot get published until you are a recognized author or have shagged a celebrity out of wedlock (fat chance).
Or, unless you have a plan; I’ve got a plan. We, hit the lottery, steal a couple of horses, jump a twenty foot fence and make it to Mexico, riding hard, by morning. Noooo, that’s my escape plan. My ‘getting a book published’ plan is simply this: start small.
By starting small I mean, write a short story, enter it in a contest, win the contest and BAM! publishers will be breaking down your door to get you to accept a book deal and give you a bazillion dollars just because that’s what publishers do. Are you up to running off eighteen pages double spaced in the font of times new roman?
We think that we are ready (using second person here); besides that, we’re ready to set four circumstances, antagonists, protagonists or pains in the asses into motion if that’s what it takes to get a story moving. Advice that they have been receiving (slick switch to third person) had them being aware that more than a four cornered (for example: the Cook, the Thief, the Wife and Her Lover) manuscript was daunting to all those readers other than the wise guys that can fathom Shakespeare, Virginia Wolff or the first chapter of Genesis; no wonder our lives seem so complicated. If we only had to concern ourselves with three challenges (persons, places, things) at a time…
Speaking of which, writing should be relatively easy for them/you/us because all it really takes is for the suspension of reality as we/me/y’all know it. Simply do not believe what is happening in everyday life and it friggin flows. i.e. “I don’t believe I left my driver’s side window down in that rain storm, got a ticket, there’s a Tomahawk Missile in my back seat, I can’t find my cat, a cop car just pulled up, I gained ten pounds just standing here in my pajamas and boy, do I gotta pee.” translates to the writer’s mind as: ‘Well, what wouldja believe?’
1. It’s not really your car; your car is still at the nightclub and you were too drunk to drive last night.
2. Somebody laced your morning coffee with LSD and you’re hallucinating everything except your bursting bladder.
3. You’re being set up by aliens from a fraternity on a distant planet who think that it’s one big funny flummoxing inferior bipeds.
4. It’s your cat’s fault for leaving the window open when she put the missile in the car and you’re really still asleep in your bed and about to wet it.
Orrrrr: “It was a dark and stormy night, somewhere in the distance a dog barked; three men sat around a camp fire. One of the men, the good looking one, asked the returning veteran to tell the blind one about his tone deaf daughter with the wooden leg playing for tips at the smokehouse with her little dog who was worrying towels with vowel usage and syntax.
Sudden storm warnings appeared on the horizon; they were in a category all of their own, fighting a burning oil spill while the governments of four states formed committees to study the subject of the missing cat, who had stolen heavy artillery in her attempt to fight fire with fire only to blow out the window of the sleeping crime fighter’s car window. Very little was revealed except that a note was left on the windshield disguised as a Christmas card of a pleasing and very attractive design, especially appealing to officials who mistook them for dinner invitations or sliced luncheon meat, “dressed or undressed?” I asked.
The sun came up, the phone rang, the waters rose and Dondi was packing his batteries in a carry on bag that he hoped to store in the overhead compartment without an additional charge; the Goodyear blimp glided over depositing weight everywhere and discouraging forecasters who only predicted rain from open windows of squad cars equipped with radar detection. “Sorry” said the elephant in my nightclothes, “I don’t do windows; you’ll have to ask the midget posing as a little wolf in sleep’s clothing.”
“PJ’s? Sorry, no coffee for you; it’s bound to stunt your growth” I replied with candor, alacrity and a Hubig’s humble pie.
“Well, cry me a river” said the person surveying the broken window on the driver’s side eyeing the Tomahawk Missile in the back seat as the cop car pulled up to examine the ticket on the windshield. The missing cat stuck her head out from under the vehicle, trading oil, with Olive the other reindeer, and replied: “I hope not The Yellow Stream by I. P. Freely!”
The End.
Now wasn’t that simple, minds? Was that such a dill, Emma? Just suspend your bee, Lief!
I do it all the time and look where it’s gotten me; a one way ticket to Palooka-ville, is where. I could’ve been a contender and still can. I’m writing a short story about a soldier that comes back from……… sorry……. they also told us at the class to never tell anyone what your writing because you cannot trust other writers not to steal. Shame shame. It’s on my blog but don’t tell anyone that I told you, okay? Me? I gotta pee.