Anthropometaphorisms

Po-Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Anthropometaphorisms

Or

Swingin’ On A Star

                       

THIS: Anthropomorphic: “The attribution of a human form, human characteristics or human behavior to nonhuman things. PLUS:  Metaphor: figures of speech or symbolism that does not literally represent real things; implicit comparisons. EQUALS:  Anthropometaphoric.

We bipeds are forever Anthropometaphorisizing our and other’s attributudes; you know who you are, you old polecat. Hold your horses, you’re as crazy as a loon, blind as a bat, stubborn as a mule and as mean as a snake. Just for starters. Sly as a fox, slippery as an eel, brave as a lion and happy as a clam. Quick like a bunny, breeding like rabbits, pregnant as a goat, slow as a tortoise and still as happy as a pig in slop. Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if you ain’t been workin’ like a dog; you need to go take a cat nap. I smell a rat, be quiet as a mouse, we don’t want to come off cock sure, like some dumb ass. “she was the roughest toughest frail; but Minnie had a heart as big as a whale (hidee hidee hidee ho)”. Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. (We shan’t go into the different ways that we describe our sex lives------ we’ll just not go there.)

            We’re as strong as an ox/bull, as weak as kittens, can swim like fish and the world is our oyster. Our hackles are up. We’ve had our shoulder to the wheel, nose to the grindstone, panties in a wad and we’re up to our asses in alligators. We’ve gone bananas, laughing like hyenas, crying crocodile tears; busy as bees and mad as hornets. We’re either swimming against the tide or up a creek without a paddle, cornered like rats, got us up against the ropes and the shoe is on the other foot, (waiting for the other shoe to drop); it’s like banging your head against a wall; whadya want, blood? Don’t give me the third degree, don’t make a Federal Case out of it; get off my back!!! She eats like a bird.

            Make hay while the Sun shines; grab the brass ring, scream like banshees and fight like demons or the devil to keep your head above water; well, whadya want, an egg in yer beer? You’re drunk as a skunk, high as a kite, quit horsing around you clown; come down from that ivory tower or pick up your marbles and go home. Fish or cut bait, jump into the fire. “Like an eagle protects its nest, for you I’ll do my best; stand by you like a tree and dare anybody to try and move me.”

            Sweet as Tupelo honey, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, swears like a sailor, drinks like a fish, squirrels away money, industrious as an ant, come up for air…. Take a hike!

            She’s the bee’s knees, flat as a board, legs from hell to breakfast; damn straight! Full as a tick, one olive short of a Greek Salad; dumb as a sack of hammers. Can I get fries with that shake? Cat got your tongue? Hen pecked, take a powder, pull a Houdini, don’t get caught with your pants down, like a bump on a log. Pigeon toed, bow legged,  salt of the earth, hot as a two dollar pistol or firecracker, mad as a Hatter, pure as the driven snow, honest as the day is long. “She walks, she talks; she crawls on her belly like a reptile” Hard as a rock.

            Nutty as a fruitcake, queer as a three dollar bill with a heart as black as the ace of spades, stupid as s**t, like a fly in a spider’s web, trophy wife, pond scum, a real honey or eye candy. Like a chicken with its head cut off. Cat on a hot tin roof.

We have the patience of a saint, we cocoon with our families or ‘nest’, we sequester ourselves like a gopher or badger, draw into ourselves like a turtle, or put our head in the sand like an ostrich.   “I am a rock, I am an island”. Straight ahead and steady as Gibraltar.  Puts her on a pedestal, on her like a cheap suit, off like dirty underwear, mad as a wet hen. The balls of a brass monkey, cackling like geese, hen party. “SAY CHEESE!!!”

            We’re green with envy, yellow cowards (yellow bellied sap sucker; chicken); we see red when we’re overtly angry and purple when we suck that anger up. My mood is black or I can be feeling blue, I may be having a gray day and orange you glad to see me (kidding)? “You ain’t been blue ‘til you’ve had that mood indigo….”

            Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch. What’s your number sweet cucumber? “If you don’t want my peaches, don’t shake my tree” My boy Lollipop. Sweet as Cherry Pie. Give Mama some sugar; give Daddy some of that sweet Jelly Roll. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

            Healthy as a horse, crooked as a snake, forked tongue, Indian giver, beating around the bush, a**hole, doormat, wet blanket, all day sucker. It’s dog eat dog in that rat race, big fish eating little’ns. Top dog. Bottom feeder. Packed like sardines, honest as the day is long, cow eyes, cat eyes, bedroom eyes, like a deer in the headlights. Shrinking violet, poison ivy, pretty as a daisy, swat you like a fly. “I’ll hit you so hard, your head will ring like a ten penny nail hit with a greasy ball peen hammer!” Skinny as a rail, toothpick, string bean; thick as thieves, slow as molasses, dead as a doornail, done to a turn, it’s down to the wire: say goodnight, Gracie.

“Goodnight Gracie.”

.

You Know You're From New Orleans...

The “WE” Word

Or

Proud To Call It

You know you’re from New Orleans when a joke about lawyers will bore you to tears but mention ‘the one about the nun and the horny monkey’ and your attention becomes as focused as a sniper. Other indications abound.

New Orleans is neat because we can bike anywhere in the city and never consider that some bikes have gears.

We can discuss gumbo at length, have at least ten ‘favorite places’ to eat, know that going to Galatoire’s is not about the food and that a woman should never be expected to wear stockings unless she’s in a burlesque show. We know that the four seasons are food groups not weather patterns, that alligator is ‘the other white meat’ and that we can get locally baked po boy bread, but baguettes and ciabatta have to be imported from California. We regard ‘Slow Food’ as something we’ve been doing here since 1718. We start our red beans to soak on Sunday night, don’t consider it a special occasion when we eat beignets and haven’t had a Lucky Dog since playing tour guide to inebriated relatives years ago.

There’s no question in our minds that all politicians will tell you what you want to hear and then go where the money tells them. We know that when you call 911 they might not respond at all unless you say “Shots Fired!” and maybe not even then, with any sense of urgency. We know that when we call an ambulance it will be accompanied by a fire truck and a huge bill for the ride which is why when we’re hurt it’s cheaper to call a cab or have a friend drop you off at the emergency room.

None of us understand why Charity Hospital stayed closed, why the 610 overpass has not been torn down or why we aren’t allowed to drink in our cars anymore. We don’t want our IDs checked in bars; we’re all older than we look. We don’t give money to tap dancers, know where we got our shoes and suspect that those folks with signs that say “Homeless/AnythingHelps/GodBless” are making more money than us.

 We’re not surprised to see crops growing from potholes in our streets, waiters rubbing elbows with judges at art openings, men in red dresses, women dressed as pirates and/or just plain painted gold or silver. We would rather get our health care from our veterinarian because we trust them more than doctors. We shy away from adult beverages that come in colors not found in nature. We are nonplussed when greeted “good morning” but shy away when a stranger wants to shake our hand or “just ask you something”.    

We’ll pin money on a birthday shirt or blouse, support WWOZ rather than PBS, feed stray cats, brake for crossing chickens, consider going to Chalmette a road trip and  avoid Bourbon St.

We believe Paul Prudhomme and Susan Spicer are saints and we believe our Saints will pull it off this year. We wonder why some people think that football pools are illegal. We don’t consider ourselves part of American South, more like Caribbean North. We don’t drink Sweet Tea. We know what we mean when we say” Lagniappe”, “Red Gravy”, “Making Groceries” and “Ya Momma and Dem”. We dance every day, on any occasion, for any reason or none at all. We dress our sandwiches.

We don’t give direction by compass points, everything to us is either Uptown, Downtown, River Side or Lake Side. We use our favorite Bars as MapQuest.

Just as New Yorkers believe about their bagels and Californians believe about their morning coffee, no New Orleanian doubts that it is the water here that makes our food so tasty.  We believe that the words “Last Call” are an abomination before God and man. We wonder why visitors seem surprised that we have ghosts. We have no ‘Role Models’. We don’t know whether money can buy happiness because we’ve never had any (money) and we’re already happy. We think cold weather is just “Stupid”.

We all have our own ways of dealing with fleas, ticks, roaches and termites. We’re stung by mosquitoes, caterpillars, spiders and we have insects here that haven’t even been named. Our cats hunt Palmetto Bugs in our houses. We think Monk Parrots and cicadas make music not noise. We’re not surprised to discover raccoons, possums or rats at our compost. There are alligators and snakes loose in our parks. We run the gamut of birdlife here. We have only one degree of separation. We have opinions about everything but know better than to talk about sex, politics or religion in bars.

We love the Krewe Du Vieux, Muses and the Society of Saint Ann.  We know that a second line trumps traffic, there’s always some kind of festival going on and your bike is about to be stolen no matter what kind of lock you use. We wear socks in winter and when we have to go to work. We know when a friend is on a diet of caffeine, nicotine and alcohol that there’s a heartbreak going on. We ‘get’ Confederacy of Dunces. We all have worked in the service industry at some point, know musicians or are one (probably both) and find it funny that when the bridge toll was cut out, ferry prices cut in. We wonder why the streetcar tracks haven’t been finished in nine years and the Super Dome was up and running in six months.  

We believe that it’s a blessed day when we wake up in the morning, more so when we haven’t missed a meal and especially so when the conversation at mealtime is centered on our plans for the next meal. Our city flower is a balloon.

       

Symphomaniac

Symphomaniac
Or

Inchoate Aspirations

                  (Sorry Charlie) you can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish. Q: So, who wants to play a musical instrument anyhow? A: Just about all of us. 

          I myself am a veteran of musical instruments; mostly mismatches, miscarriages and mistakes. Fruitless fiascos culminating in comical conclusions of ineptitude realized. Disappointments and disillusionments at not being able to find the overt soundtrack of my life in real time. “Bummer, Dude”.

        I come from a family of singers, have a fair voice and an audiographic memory-- the ability to recall songs and lyrics. Quite naturally this was mistaken early on as potential propensity for instrumental virtuosity. Nothing could have been/ is further from the truth, proven time and again, to my everlasting shame and chagrin.

        I was put in the musical program in junior high school solely on my ability to tell one octave from another; and, after the shape of my jaw and overbite were assessed, I was handed a clarinet, told to practice and be ready to join the band.

           With each squeak and squawk I elicited from that tortured woodwind, I could hear John Philip Sousa groaning from his grave. Alas, I was a crippled clueless clarinetist (not to mention the uber-bane of my seventh grade music teacher) by age eleven. But wait, it goes downhill from there.

             With the advent of my ability to grow facial hair came the idea that a guitar would suit my temperament and affinities; for what better screams from the aura of a young adult strumming six strings than: ‘I am a thoroughly misunderstood and sensitive artist who needs to get laid more’ (?)   And following in the footsteps of musical tradition I ‘got me an old guitar from a pawn shop’ and set about articulating my angst.

             Well, to make a long story longer, I learned my A, B, Cs and even Ds, Es and Fs, and there I sat lost with my short attention span and the inability to sing as slow as my ability to change chords. I could demonstrate for you what exactly I mean by that, but I’m haunted as it is by the looks of pity I provoked back then.

              Enter now the world of a young man (me), who had been to foreign climes; physically, mentally and spiritually; who had traveled the atlas and the astral; had wandered, freak flag flying, to face angels and demons alike. Did I hear you say “flute”? You must be psychic! Yes, as Pan, Jean-Pierre Rampal and Herbie Mann before me, I took the flute, first bamboo and then silver and lo, did achieve notes and octaves. My fingers found expression and voice and I played by dawn’s breaking to moonlight’s beam. Unfortunately, I couldn’t play anything recognizable to the common ear; oh sure, it all sounded celestial, but what was that I was playing?  Stuff and nonsense… cosmically melodious…. but….forgettable.

        Congas –yes, congas- fun to play, but face it; nobody invites you over for a romantic evening saying: “oh, by the way, why don’t you bring your drums with you?”  I sold them back.

      In my middle years I settled upon tenor saxophone, which still sits in its case.  My goal was to be able to play backup for Aretha Franklin, Etta James and/or Otis Redding. I mean, I do have the music in me.

              I realize that the vast majority of readers here have seen saxophones, heard them and probably enjoyed them as well. Have you ever held a saxophone? They’re heavy, that’s why you have to have a string around your neck, to hold them up (and to be able to use both hands). The big and little knobs, levers and buttons to hold down and let go to make intelligible music are as confusing as the outside of a Death Star Space Cruiser, AND you can’t see them when you’re trying to play. The mouthpiece is weird and you have to keep the reed tight and moist, your fingers are all stretched out and your head swimming from oxygen deprivation. Either I’m too small or this thing is too big and as I said, it sits in its case. If anything I’ll take it out and practice on the street with a sign that says “Will STOP Playing For $$$”

         Fast forward a few years and see me answering the ad on Craigslist for a piano, yep, all eighty-eight keys of one. “A perfect Baldwin with seat and sheet music $350.00” I paid three big guys a hundred bucks to move it up (5 steps) onto the front porch and it just about crippled them; a piano (even a small one) weighs about as much as a ’56 Chevy Bel Air.

           After getting it tuned and buying every simple beginner and idiot’s music book, I discovered that learning to read music is akin to learning Coptic Russian while driving bumper cars. I made flash cards, labeled keys, studied DVDs and introduced my left hand to my right on several occasions…. to no avail.

            The half-fast person that can easily take up any musical instrument and bring forth manifestations of musical, harmonious and pleasing to the ear sounds is as common as the chimpanzee that can sit down at a typewriter and bang out: “in the beginning was the word and the word was ….”

             The sad truth is that I know why I fail miserably when it comes to learning to play; I grok that if I want to learn virtually anything, including musical instruments, I need fortitude, dedication, discipline, perseverance, and at some point, instruction; mind-sets that I have yet to muster/master and dimly perceive on my horizon.

 My lesson would be to remember these directions:

“How do I get to Carnegie Hall?”------------------

“Practice!”

 

  

Katrina 9 years past

Air Supply

Or

The Gathering Gloom

            On Tuesday, August 23, 2005, a tropical depression known as ‘Twelve’ is given category one hurricane status and named Katrina.   Monday, August 29, 2005, in the early morning hours (really Sunday night), Katrina (at Cat 4) made landfall. Some people got lost in the storm some made it out alright.

In New Orleans the mayor had ordered a mandatory evacuation the day BEFORE.  The traffic was stacked up for a dozen miles. We hunkered down in our second floor French Quarter apartment on Dauphine Street, veterans of many storms before.

Saturday September 3, 2005 small white 2005 Toyota Corolla with seven critters and three humans was seen speeding out of town as the first First Responders were entering their part of the Quarter This column is way too short to tell the entire tale so I’ll just sketch in some particulars.

The storm hit like a giant off-the-rails-run-away locomotive. A pained banshee of an uproar; screaming, tearing, growling, thrashing; the virtual embodiment of tortured spirit: howling with malice, pure evil and soul sucking.  Trees coming down on houses, tornados roaring up and down the streets; chimneys imploding; roofing, siding and gutters being ripped from buildings. On and on and on the punishment went until it didn’t. We hid in the hallway under mattresses.

As soon as the winds died down, I went looking for coffee and a newspaper; in the same moments, looters were taking out the shops at Canal Place: Gucci, Brooks Brothers, Pottery Barn. They were more successful than I. The French Quarter looked like Agrius and Oreius had had a drunken brawl and had wrecked everything in their path.

We didn’t know it then but, we were the lucky ones. The gulf coast took a wall of water thirty feet tall (with five foot crests). Water flooded 80% of New Orleans. We were stranded on an island called the French Quarter. Island: a piece of dry land surrounded by water.

It got real quiet. Most of our neighbors had left. We had access to a land line; all satellite communications were down. Tuesday I started a journal:

8/30/05: Light rain, kind of sweet—no breeze and gladly NO WIND. Talked to Gallivan about letting us ‘loot’ his apt for supplies He says reports are that the French Quarter is the only dry spot for miles—35,000 and counting at the Dome w/ no elect, no AC.

Walked down Dauphine to share some dog food, Told about Looting. Dress To Kill looted by staff’s relatives at D.O. that are staying for free, Robert’s, Radio Shack and emptied Walgreens on Decatur. Johnny White’s and Molly’s at the Market open for beers. Saw Chris Owens and husband on the street, waved high. Pretty complete silence.

8/31/05 Mint’s roof (all copper) litters the F.M. We’re boiling water to make it drinkable. All day seeing looters with bags. One policemen said that when they started looting Winn- Dixie and the cops arrived—citizens opened fire on the police. Trees, debris, tile, glass and bricks litter the street. No groceries to be found. We have a sign on the door “THINK TWICE!!!” big letters Paula ready to shoot to kill any intruders. Roving bands—armed--- on Iberville. 3 ft of water on Poydras. Electricity went out at 6:35 AM. Had beers @ Jennifer Flowers. Breach on 17^th Street identified.

9/1/05 Walked the streets with the dogs (Molly, Ginger, Rosie), trying to train them to bark on command. no building unscathed. Back of the cathedral—huge trees felled and down except statue of Jesus. Magnolias down in Jackson Squarer. No police presence on the street. We still have gas and water and all the junk in the pantry. Woke up with the fear that someone might burn us down by lighting the collapsed tree on fire---cedar---make a lovely blaze. Cleaned the yard. They shut the water off about 9. Neighbors to the left scooted yesterday, now with no water the neighbors across leaving. We were given a transistor radio.

 Got a ride to Dauphine and Conti and walked to Canal in water and Rampart where it was up to my thighs. 6:30 PM got back from 2 beers at Molly’s- quick sandwich and coke for me and Deb and I took our last bath. Helicopters incessant, rumors of roving gangs, lake has risen to sea level.  Mass lootings and fires, words of rapes in7th ward.

9/2/05 4:36 AM what happened was that there was a giant noise and a light like sun. Fiery missiles shooting across an otherwise black night. Explosion after explosion the whistling of projectiles, the fear of being attacked. Safety becoming illusion. (we found out later that a propane storage unit couldn’t stand the heat.)

6:30 AM Being too nervous to sleep we determined that as hasty an exit as possible was now a necessity. We sewed money into our waistbands we gathered supplies and got ready to dash when opportunity came.

Mosquitoes starting to bite at 9:05, sitting in the yard at “Dogpatch, La.” four dogs around me. Time for coffee. Word on the radio is that thousands are still standing crushed while they wait for busses they got water to them and some MRIs but no Portolets, no pets allowed, animals running wild, children crying and people standing in their own urine. Got extra water from Mark who was leaving, freed a chained Pit Bull, missed Happy Hour at Molly’s. Gave away some socks. Police snipers on roofs.

9/3/05 8:00AM went over to Deb’s apt and saw Kevin, had a beer and listened to him tell about his wife, sister and ma got evacuated and had left him the keys to the car… “and they KNEW… I don’t drive!”

With famous last words, I turned to him and said quietly: “Kevin…I drive.”

 

 

Rear Window

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Rear Window

Or

Invitation to the Blues

            Where I’m sometimes staying now is a typical New Orleans experience, whether you’re Streetcar Named Desire, Walk on the Wild Side or just another Po Boy View.

My shop is in one of twin buildings built in 1830 by two brothers from France to house their mercantile businesses and their families.  Their businesses were on the first floor; their living accommodations consumed the remaining property. The dining room and parlor would have been on the second floor; master’s and daughters bedrooms on the third and the boy’s bedroom (garconniere) up in the attic. Rounding out the classic layout is a breezeway entrance, probably used for wagons and supply deliveries, and quarters in the back for the servants; the third floor for them; the second floor for the kitchen and the ground floor a household shop for repairs, maintenance and inventory. A courtyard anchors the property; back to front.

 The horse trough and fountain still remain in the courtyard, filled in and used as planters. The kitchen and the dining room (on the second floor) are connected by what is known as a ‘whistling walk’--urban legend has it that whoever brings the food to table would have to whistle so that the family would know that none of their food was being eaten by the servant. The kitchen with the servant’s (slave) quarters above them were built away from the main house because of the ever present danger of fire…. the most favored servants were located in back so that they could be on call and wouldn’t have to travel far to get to work. The staircase to the upper floors of the main house is outside of the building at the entrance to the courtyard. This completes the archeological picture of the structure itself.

In olden days, on warm days, the ladies of the house would have tea in the parlor next to a table that had perfumes on it for them to inhale; the streets in those days were reclaimed wetland and full of traffic, manure, stray animals of every sort and the contents of chamber pots; very ripe, indeed. The men would work in commerce and the servants would be kept busy shopping, cleaning, cooking and mending wood, leather and mortar around the building. As a side note: the building that my shop is in (the one of which I can speak) is still owned by the descendants of that family.

Fast forward a hundred and eighty five years. Sometimes my shop goes into overload and I am obliged to spend the night there. Above me lives a mid-aged sweet and comely woman that is into photography and bondage; she doesn’t mind walking around with little or no clothes on with her balcony windows open. The men across the street love that about her. She owns at least one whip that I know of.

Above her is an apartment, of the same size, that has changed hands since the first tenant that I met poisoned the landlady’s pet canine. He told me once never to go up to his floor because he had a gun and would shoot anyone coming up there, without looking to identify them and only asking questions later. Since he was evicted the flat has turned over three times to young professionals—the last a restaurant manager—with able bodies, ones that have the energy to climb those forty-five steps up the perfectly round spiral staircase that like I said, stands outside at the entrance to the courtyard. The apartment is frightfully expensive and usually newcomers realize quickly that there are better digs at lower rents elsewhere in the city, or they have made a mistake coming to New Orleans. The ‘Big Easy’ is neither big nor easy.

In the slave quarters, three or four couples take turns using the ground floor apartment for weekend getaways, leaving it empty most times. I have no idea who these people are or where they come from; I only know that they show up for weekends when the city is busy with one of its many planned festivities. They bring in their groceries, leave their trash and take their dirty linen home with them. They contribute nothing to our infrastructure or our voting base; they’re just people who are, nothing more. I’m waiting for them to renege on the rent so that I can take it over and use it for office and Pied de Terre.

Above them lives a nice guy prep cook that doesn’t go out much but shops a lot. And, that’s not a bad thing, surely I can appreciate a love of shopping; a harmless vice that we two have in common. I accept packages for him, gladly, at the shop, and he has always been courteous, polite and agreeable. A solitary man he is, both likeable and easy to talk to. He keeps mostly to himself and shares the duty of making sure that the trash cans are put out and taken back in on pick up days. He willingly and without question shares this responsibility with me and the man who lives above him who’s only character flaw that I can see is that he takes in women as lovers to live with and in all the instances that I have known, abuses them physically until sooner or later they leave.

I can be sitting in the courtyard at any time after working hours and hear the silence shattered by raised voices from the third floor followed by the sounds of a woman crying or in pain. He’s been through four women at least since I’ve been here and it’s a shame because he is otherwise a good specimen of his gender. It’s like a spider with flies. He lures them in and soon after, sets about destroying them. I suppose that pointing out those analogies would not alter their temperaments or destinies; holding up a mirror to someone’s inequities has never been a popular parlor game.

I am no stranger to domestic violence; I was raised around it. I understand the concept of loving your mate but not liking them; still the sound of a woman in pain upsets me. But philosophically, a woman---young, intelligent and attractive--- should be able to grasp the theory of free will; she could leave. He departs for work earlier than she and one day she could get a grip, pack a grip and go away…far away. Eventually, like the others, she will; I just hope that it’s not on a stretcher.

Tennessee Williams would be no stranger to these passion plays. Me? I remain (hopefully) an impartial observer, not called upon to be participant nor prey to the dramas that surround me; the same situations that are continually enacted wherever mankind is a slave to their passions and not their productivity; their personality and not their individuality; their lower and not their higher instincts.  

These scenes are enacted around me on a universal scale; man’s inhumanity; windows breaking; children hungry; the good left to loneliness and the sly willfully taking that which is not freely given. Optimism with a bloody nose; bleeding but not bent.

It’s two in the morning; I sit with my goodnight beer in the courtyard and wonder at life being forever thus. There is a light rain falling as late night mists will. My neighbors are all at rest, I should be as well; but the solitude and silence stalks me as would a lioness lover. I ponder at how the rain and sleep falls upon us all without discrimination or regard; the loving and the loved; the lonely and the lone; the victims and the thieves that rob them of their rights.

How there is no end to this story. How there is no cure for the human condition.

 

 

Writer's Picks Spring 2014

Writers Picks June 2014

By

Phil LaMancusa

Best local organization: New Orleans Catholic Churches

            Having spent my formative years learning the traditions and lore of the Catholic church up in Yankee country, I was pleasantly surprised at how that church has so adapted itself to the New Orleans mind set and lifestyle. What other religious group has  a saint whose invocation is “please help us immediately”? Or, a patron saint of nervous breakdowns? But, those things aside. what other church has combined (so well) religion, adult beverages and our New Orleans passion for food?

            During Carnival you can buy a drink on the steps of Catholic churches; during lent they hold Friday night fish fries and sell beer (as well as other liquids)and wine to wash down those hush puppies, fries, catfish and coleslaw.

            Nowhere else have I witnessed the Saint Josephs Altars or even known about them until I was transplanted here. I mean, who would have thought in the northern tundra to celebrate this saint’s day with an altar, lavish and loaded with food, food, food! And then on the day of…… feed any and everyone who comes by. They even have little goodie bags that the give out with cookies, a fava bean (for luck and money) and a slice of French bread that you throw out your window when a hurricane approaches to make the storm veer away from you. This happens at churches as well as people’s homes!

            Sure, all Catholic churches celebrate their masses with bread and wine; but in New Orleans, literally, our cups (and plates) runneth over.

 

 

 

 

 

The best fried shrimp po boy: The Orange Store

            I am not going out on a limb when I say this. Okay, here’s what you find at virtually all the places that you might purchase a fried shrimp po boy: you’ll get so-so French bread that’s generally hard to get your teeth through, them little baby shrimps- that everyone is using- that come in a frozen block and are thawed under running water and if you’re lucky, sparsely dressed with lettuce, some tomato and a quick swipe of mayonnaise. What’s more, there’s usually more French bread than any other component.

            At the Orange Store (sometimes called the Orange House)- a small convenience store run by what appears to be a tribe of Vietnamese workers- first of all, they use Banh Mi bread (about twelve inches in length) that they heat up in the oven! Then, there’s the shrimp which are fresh and big; I believe that they must have a fisherman connection of sorts because these shrimp are simply deliciously fresh; by the way, they put at least ten shrimp on the po boy. Okay, you have your oven warmed beautiful bread; you have your wonderfully battered fresh shrimp, then what? Well, they put mayonnaise on both sides of the bread and then they lay down a carpet of shredded lettuce, a layer of thinly sliced tomatoes and they’ll ask you (if you don’t tell them) if you want hot sauce. BAM!  

            Another plus is the bank of adult beverage coolers. The drawback is that it’s a takeaway joint, no eating in. And for reading this far, I give you the specifics: Rampart Food Store, 1700 N. Rampart St. 7:30 A.M-8:00 P.M. (Oh, also try their scrumptious chicken Ya Ka Mein $3.99 a quart)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Best local boozer’s book: ”French Quarter Drinking Companion”

            On the final Sunday of this year’s Tennessee Williams/ New Orleans Literary Festival, I saw in my program a panel entitled “Spirited Tipplers in New Orleans”; naturally for me, the sound of that subject resonates with my inner imbiber. How could I resist; me who has spent the better part of his misspent youth preparing for a misspent adulthood? It was as lively an audience and panel as I have ever been to.

            On the panel there were three: Allison Alsup, Elizabeth Pearce and Richard Read, at first glance, an unlikely looking alliance; until the meat of the matter was revealed. To wit: this trio went out to French Quarter bars and put together a guide book; now, why didn’t I think about doing that?

            In the French Quarter, (in approximately one square mile) they pointed out, there are over two hundred “watering holes” and that’s not counting delis, grocery or convenience stores; unfortunately the Terrific Trio only made it to half. That seems to be sufficient for most of us; I, on the other hand have been to too many of the ones in the book and I’m looking forward to (hopefully) their next book: Volume Two.

The format of the book is brilliant. They give you names, addresses, phone numbers, average price range and advise to as to what you’ll be wearing, hearing, swilling ; what kind of tattoos you’ll see, best features and who your drinking companions will be. And then, there’s an entertaining little story about each place. A must read, a book that’s useful, informative, intelligent and witty. I LOVE these guys!

 

 

 

 

Hurricane Season 2014

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Hurricane: Not Just A Drink

Or

Wind Win

            Okay Sailor, you’ve made it through the Holidays; Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, King Cakes and Krewe du Vieux. Spring Break, Tennessee Williams, French Quarter Fest, Jazz Fest, May floods and every other occasion that this city can cram into your life; you know what I mean? So now, you think that you can just slide in to a long hot summer on the sweat from the small of your back? Not a chance, Sparky, don’t put them ballet/tap shoes away just yet; we’ve got another twirl around the dance floor for you. Welcome to “The New Orleans Hurricane Season”, in three part harmony; a block party extravaganza complete with food booths, brass bands, dancing girls and groping hand puppets!

            First up, decision time: will you remain or are you splitting and exactly what is your criteria for making that decision? Stick around for a three or less or have your tent packed for ‘first sign of trouble’ bolting? Remember, the Mayor has told you that there’s no cavalry or welcome wagons for anyone deciding to ride one out, no shelters, no free lunch. Period. Yes, there’s pick up points for the bus out; but, there will be a point when the busses will stop running, so you need to make the call. Preferably now.

            Alright, so you’ve got a jalopy that could take you out of Dodge; is it up to snuff? Had it tuned lately? How’s them tires? Got AAA? Is it in good enough shape to be in traffic from six to twenty four hours? Personally, I take mine to Will and Lenny’s before storm season to be as ready as I can be; I keep my tank full and have jumper cables, motor oil, steering fluid and basic tools in the trunk as a matter of course until October.

Also, do you have a ‘safe house’ destination to run to? The time to decide is before you leave; I recommend some friend that’s within a day’s drive and doesn’t mind your bad jokes and menagerie.

Should you decide to ‘hunker down’, as they say, do you have your supplies and creature comforts in stock for such an occasion?

Here’s a list: batteries and battery operated fans, flashlights and radios; one of the things that we do is to have about twenty of those solar lights in the garden and front yard and we let them charge in the daytime and then if the power fails we bring them indoors at night. Simple; not enough light to read with, but enough so that I won’t trip over the furniture, run into doors or inadvertently step on the cat.

            Also, you need food for you and your critters and possibly some way to cook, should your gas get shut off. Got a Weber or some such? Better get some charcoal, firewood or propane and matches, don’t forget matches! During the last one we rode out we were without power for over a week which means that the stuff in our fridge only lasted two days before it started to go south; which was why we had very little in the fridge and only a small amount in the freezer. Consider that and get you in some canned stuff that you can heat up.

Water, water and water. Fill up jugs, barrels, bottles and your tub when you suspect ill winds. Water to wash, drink, brush your teeth, give to the dog, make coffee with and trade for whiskey. Speaking of which, how’s your wine cellar?

            Do you have ice chests? You’ll probably be able to get ice up until the final moments and make sure that what you keep in them are cleanly packaged (you may have to drink that melted ice). Enjoy that cold beer while you can.

            Now, what about amusements other than debris cleanup and visiting the neighbors to trade water for the insect repellant that you forgot to stock up on. Do you have books to read? Don’t forget that should your stay become protracted, your electronic devices will eventually go down (say good night Kindle). How about board games, storytelling and marshmallow roasting? S’mores anyone? Hand puppets? Keep a journal. Break out your crayons, jacks, checkers, marbles and sidewalk chalk (hopscotch anyone?).

            Should you give consideration to boarding up your windows? I dunno, but you should have already thought about that, y’know?

            Say, this is starting to sound like the best decision would be to visit Granny for the summer, isn’t it? Well, playing the devil’s advocate for a second consider this: we stay for cat 3 or less; why? Because, with the necessary precautions we’re pretty sure that there will be no injuries (oh, don’t forget your First Aid kit); and then it’s just like camping, only at your own home. Besides, do you know how much it costs to evacuate? I do. The last time we evacationed (for what was not a strong blow) it was over a thousand dollars for the week. I don’t know about you, but, I could have spent that dough on something good!

            Plus, I kinda look forward to having the time off from work and a chance to get some stuff done around the house that I’ve been putting off. I charge up the electric drill and any batteries that I may have a need for and get ready for some major guy stuff. In fact, the staycation is all about guy stuff. But as they say: “’sup to you”. Besides, it’s an adventure, it’s getting to plan stuff AND it’s an excuse to do some major shopping! I figure I got a thousand bucks that I’m saving by staying, so, I can afford to buy some toys; and BONUS!, I’ll get to eat all the ice cream before it melts!