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.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Aussies in New Orleans OMG
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.
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.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Social Aid and Pleasure in New Orleans
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…
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
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.
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.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Bike riding in New Orleans
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.
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.
Monday, May 9, 2011
July in New Orleans
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.
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.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Aging in New Oreleans
. 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).
. 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).
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