Thursday, April 11, 2019

Aging Dis-gacefully


Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Rinse and Repeat
Or
Aging (Dis) Gracefully
            Subjectively, no one grows old in increments; one day, all of a sudden, you see your reflection in a mirror (or in someone else’s eyes) and you ask yourself who that old person is, and it’s you. Of course you make light of it “shucks, if I knew I was gonna live this long, I woulda taken better care of myself (diet, finances, exercise, dentistry, dreams, aspirations, family commitments, love and/or life in general)!” That sarcasm doesn’t wash well as a rationale, and even you can see the flaws in it, so you lose yourself in memories and the memories of the different bodies that you’ve inhabited along the way. Ponder, if you will: time is a thief; it steals all of the selves that you ever were.
            What is your earliest memory? Is it being tossed in the air (and caught) by some big person, being cuddled, being suckled; standing in your crib crying because your diaper is full, you’ve just woken up and you’re alone in a dark room? Perhaps your memories don’t go back that far.
            How about the feeling of being little around bigger people; learning, in a group of kids your own size to deal with the politics of school; falling in love with your first grade teacher; learning to tie your shoes, read  phonetically, sit patiently with hands folded or take a forced nap after ‘cookies and milk time’? Having your rage suppressed.
            What about being told to go to bed when you’re not tired; getting awakened before you’ve slept enough; told to clean your plate, drink your juice, get dressed, get dressed, you’re not wearing that (!) and button up your overcoat? What was your first nightmare?
            You grow into a preteen and your voice changes, your feet and nose get bigger, you’re judged by how well you play sports, pull off mischief without getting caught, defend yourself physically and verbally; you want to belong somewhere but you don’t seem to fit anywhere. You tell your mother that you didn’t ask to be born. Your face breaks out. Girls get breasts and begin menstrual cycles.
            High School happens and your hormones rage; everyone is against you; you learn to slow dance, French kiss, have a crush, go steady, and get your heart broken; rinse and repeat. You join a tribe, rebel, study, and can’t wait to get it all over with; nobody understands the ‘real’ you, you’re artistic, sensitive, all knowing. Finally you get a driver’s license, a Social Security card, a part time job, an acoustic guitar and a peer group. You sing out for social justice.
            You graduate into a radical departure; you leave home, join a band, cult, Army or fraternity/sorority. You’re drinking with the best of them, no longer a virgin, doing your own laundry and you can play your music as loud as you want. You have roommates, you watch art movies, discuss philosophy, name your cat Rimbaud, roll your own (cigarettes). You protest inequality. At this point there is so much to do in life that you get very little done, it’s okay, you’re young, free and independent; you wire home for money. You visit the folks on holidays, surprise them with your new wardrobe, hairstyle and ability to talk adverse politics peppered with expletives. 
            At twenty-one you’re exhausted; you’ve taken lovers, gotten a tattoo, had a brush with the law, been fired for incompetence. At twenty-five: you’re golden, twenty-seven: you’ve been kicked to the curb, twenty-eight: you give up, thirty: you settle into a career. It’s time to get serious about relationships, money, security and the possibility of having a family of your own, a golden retriever named Marilyn, 401K and a car that is dependable. You buy insurance, use your degree to get ahead and embrace the responsibilities you once avoided.
            The years tick by in a flash; you take on more than three people should. You start a business, buy a house, raise kids or live alone in an apartment with a tank of tropical fish and the work that you’ve taken home from the office. You’ve been paying your dues and bills; you’ve fallen down and picked yourself back up, people count on you, you’ve found and lost Jesus on several occasions; you’re the life of the party, the master of the snappy comeback, always ready with a smoke or a joke. Shot at and missed, sh*t at and hit.
            Settling into what might pass for maturity you trudge along, taking happiness in your accomplishments, disregarding your shortcomings, everyone around you finally knows what can be expected of you. People around you get sick, get well, some of them die. Younger acquaintances get married; you go to weddings, funerals, baptisms, sometimes you just send a gift. You forget birthdays. You get regular checkups, quit smoking and cut back on the booze. You don’t understand the current musical trends, electronic gadgets; don’t know who these people are at the Academy Awards, all young people start to look alike and upstarts begin to call you “Sir (or Ma’am)”. You still pay attention, you’re interested in the news, you remember when you marched and protested; you believed that good would triumph over evil.
            And then one morning you see that that old person in the mirror is you and today you tarry a little longer and look deeply at that face. It’s a good face.  A roadmap of decades of a life; lines of laughter, sadness, worry and joy.  A scar here and there where a memory was born; an obstacle overcome; a time where you were laid low by an enemy, or worse, by a friend.  A scowl, surprise, suspicion, sorrow or a satisfaction, leaving telltale signs that are unseen from the inside but apparent when viewed in the looking glass (or someone else’s eyes). So much done; so much more to do.

Adoption Myself


Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
New Jeers
Or
Guy Friday
            I’ve decided for 2019, I’m gonna put myself up for adoption; it’s the only way out of this mess and I think that it would be mutually beneficial for me as well as my new family. Of course, we’ll have to set some ground rules and conditions; that would be as simple as knowing what would be expected of me balanced by what I would expect from my new family.  Believe me. I am a catch and will be an asset to wherever I land and to whomever I land on. I travel well and can learn languages… but I don’t do windows.
            First of all, you (whoever you are) would have to be able to afford me; I am not going to trade poor for poorer and if that doesn’t make sense, you can stop the application process right here. In return for my services which include cooking, simple errand completions and maybe a little light housework, I definitely need some financial stability in my life. You can be singled, coupled or nuclear familied in condition or number; although, I don’t do well in crowds or Eight Is Enough type situations, so, size does matter.
            Picture it: you get up in the morning, your coffee is made just the way you like it; I’ll know what you like for breakfast, I will have picked up your clothes from the cleaners, sorted your mail and have your newspaper ready at your place at the table. POINT 1: there will be no electronic devices at mealtimes, AT ALL (deal breaker). If there are dependents involved, whether they be four legged or bipedial, I expect that you will already have housebroken and trained them; I don’t mind reading to them, helping with studies, walks or chauffeuring them to their sanctioned outings. POINT 2: I don’t change diapers, clean up after or take crap from your kids.
            As you return for the evening after you’ve busted your hump for the man, I’ll have your favorite beverage on hand, dinner will be in its final stages of preparation and softness and peace will prevail in your household; your mail will have gone out and your expenses analyzed and laid out on your desk for your consideration in your short ‘attention to life’s details’ time in your office. At this point I will ask you if you’d like a bath drawn, then if nothing else is required of me I’ll clear the table, lock down the kitchen and retire to my quarters. POINT3: I fulfill a finite function in your life and am not on call 24/7, after all I am human (or so I’d like to believe) and need some down time of my own.
            Imagine: I will do your shopping, I will remember birthdays, special occasions and make reservations and such; I’ll take care of (getting someone else to do) your laundry, carpets, windows and heavy lifting.  I’m not sure who’s going to make up your bed (it’s not me) or clean your toilet but we’ll find someone (else). I am a quiet person who likes things organized and neat and intend on maintaining that sort of life and environment for you. I ask nothing in return except one day off a week, a stipend of a reasonable amount, and perhaps my own wing of your castle. POINT4: Sanitation of your area is your responsibility, I am your functioning ward (for life) not your husband or your wife.
            Reflect that now you will have time to do all those things you’ve been trying to fit into your ridiculously mundanely cluttered and busy life; you now can exercise, read, paint, study piano, go sailing and/or binge watch the Blacklist while drinking beer and eating potato chips. Relax, I’ll pick up the (reasonably mild) debris and make things comfortable for you. Tobacco use is NOT allowed ever in your life (or any other self destructive influences).  POINT 5: You will not jeopardize my tenure by screwing up your health and well being; if you feel the need to talk things out, I’ll be in the kitchen doing the dishes, grab a towel and I’ll impart some life lessons.
            Well, you say, if I’m going to live by all those rules (POINTS) why the @#$!%&# do I need you? Well, I say, you’ve obviously got money but no time and I offer you a way to have both. Who’ll keep the pool cleaned while you’re on vacation? Who’ll take charge of the floors being done for the holidays; hell, who’s gonna make sure you have candy for the Trick or Treaters, flowers for you anniversary or getting your bills paid on time--YOU? Oh, and speaking of my living arrangements, I come with a couple of critters and a mate (she likes to clean so perhaps a package deal?), so, I’ll need room (I’m also thinking a little garden space as well).
            Seriously, don’t you (or someone that you know of means) need an older (wiser) more organized than you (clean shaven with minimal tattoos) music loving (no rap or twerk stuff), educated and personable live in Mister, who is non combative, emotionally stable, politically correct and a fabulous cook to boot? Listen, all you’ll have to do is make some dough to support us all and I’ll take care of everything else; kind of what you’d expect from a clone of yourself. If you’re independently well off or just some Dude(ette) that wants to focus on your own egocentric driven existence, you need a guy like me OR someone like me; for goodness sake, I need someone like me, except, I can’t afford me!
            So, I have a passport, a set of knives and the ability to prepare virtually anything that suits your palate; and, oh yes, I forgot to mention: I will polish your silver (as long as he’s not your horse).
           
           
                       


Viet Cajun


Po Boy View
By
Phil LaMancusa
Gung Hay Fat Choy
Or
Nguyen Ever

Cats and Hats: It’s February! Happy New Year! Wherever you are, whoever you are and whoever you want to be, New Year’s Day on this planet is like Happy Hour in the French Quarter… there’s always one going on somewhere.
If you are Christian countrified you’ve already celebrated your New Year’s Day on January 1st   and are pretty much done with it. What rubbish. If you don’t approve of the previous New Year’s celebration (that you probably screwed up somehow), pick another and do it all over again! Who said that the first day of your calendar year had anything to do with what space (and other people) believes is the first day of the year. What(?), the beginning of a year of the cycling of this globe that we live on that’s shooting through space at 67,000 MPH, while spinning at 1,040 MPH, going around a Sun that’s orbiting the center of the universe along with the rest of our galaxy (100,000,000 planets or so) at 480,000MPH? I’m dizzy all the time; it’s always friggin New Years!
Jewish calendars have four New Year’s days (Nisan, Elul, Rosh Hashanah, Tu B’Shvat); Islamic folks have Al-Hijra/Muharram starting on the 31st of August and is celebrated for 29 days. The Hindis have at least eight New Year’s days (mostly in mid April) depending on what part of India you’re in; Nepal, Sri Lanka, Myanmar and Laos are also celebrate mid April.  Celtic New Year (Samhain) is November1; Thailand has Songkran (twice). My astrologer tells me that the New Year begins at the Spring Equinox March 20-21. She says “it’s lunar, fool”.
So, missed any New Year’s celebrations? Maybe you were busy slinging drinks for drunks? Well you’re in luck because; here comes another one, just in time for the February edition of Where Y’at; Chinese and Vietnamese (Korean and Tibetan) New Year, February 5th! Rock on with your Bad Self!
For those that might be unsure and possibly insecure, Asian cultures celebrate a twelve year lunar cycle and each year is symbolized by an animal; we’re just coming off the Year of the Dog and going into the Year of the Pig. Other animal years are horse, rat, snake, ox, dragon, monkey, goat, tiger, rabbit and sheep; their outlook on animal attributes are completely different than you might think and the best way to start understanding this  form of astrology is to find out which sign you are and what it means (talk amongst yourselves). For an example, if you were born in the year of the pig, you fall into one of five categories of pig corresponding to the five elements (metal, water, wood, fire and earth). Pigs are considered a wonderful astrological sign (what’s yours?) they are generous, diligent, loving and giving; compassionate and entertaining. It’s a good thing to be a Pig Sign; if you are one, this is your year!
As you know (or should) we have a generous Vietnamese population and this New Years promises to be big; it promises to go on for days.           Last year, Mary Queen of Vietnam Church, 14011 Dwyer Blvd, was the location for a weeklong celebration with dragons dancing, wishes granted, flowers, parades, fireworks and festivities that thrilled throngs. This year is gonna be more of the same--- family friendly fun and participatory events, activities and games will abound. And there is no admission; it’s all free to attend but be sure to bring some spending for souvenirs and the delicious treats: Ban Mi, Pho and spring rolls supplied by vendors!
Now, those of you that have watched David Chang’s Ugly Delicious will already know this; but, for you others—let me be the first to clue you in--- Viet Cajun Food.
This is a twist on our local fare that has not caught on in New Orleans, they say, because we’re too steepid (combination of steeped and stupid )in our traditions to adapt or change our tried and true what works for what may be something that will possibly blow our minds with its uniqueness. Viet Cajun--consider this--suppose, just suppose, you take five pounds of our spicy boiled crawfish in the shell (yum) and you put them in a sack and add ginger, lemongrass and lots of butter and eat them like that. Yummer, huh? But noooo, according to folks in Houston, where this adaptation is going strong, us folks in New Orleans are stuck in our ways.
            Tell me this: how come when you go into a convenience store operated by people from other cultures (Asian, Islamic, Mediterranean) you really only find fried chicken, ham hocks, beans and rice? Why can’t I find Ban Mi or Shwarma in corner stores? Is it because the citizens of my ward and precinct are too thick to try something in their bowl other than gumbo?
            Let’s make a New Year’s resolution this February 5th: ask that Vietnamese counter clerk that makes that dynamite shrimp po boy to put some pho on the menu; in the same vein, find out from that Islamic guy at Brothers by the overpass where they keep the Harissa to spread on your fried chicken. Dammit, I want some gochujang available as a condiment; is that so wrong?
Granted, there are a handful of ethnically run small convenience stores and filling station outlets that have fried rice or egg rolls or even a few with Ban Mi sandwiches; but, by and large, if I want non mainstream Saigon selections (my favorites or new ones to try), I’ve got to drive out to Dong Phuong (which James Beard Foundation calls “a vital part of the local culinary landscape”). Do you know where Dong Phuong is? Well you had better find out before February 5th because that’s where the festivity epicenter  for our own Vietnamese New Year’s celebration is gonna be. Chuc Mung Nam Moi!


Jazz Fest 2019 first week


Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Nearer My God
Or
Walk It Off
            Okay Sparkles, you’ve made it to the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival gates, or simply put (like a native) “ yer at da Fest!” There’s really only one ‘Fest’ in New Orleans, other gatherings are simply piggy backing on the usage of the word ‘Fest’ and use it as an adjective and not a noun. Got it? Good.
            Now, take your clothes off and come inside; I’m speaking metaphorically of course, unless you’d really like to disrobe and that’s more than fine with me. You go right on Brothers and Sisters, it’s a free country last I checked (about 1967).
I’m talking about the shedding of all that crap that you’ve been putting up with for the last year and which will await you after you leave the Fest. Those layers of protection and personality that you need put on to get through life’s daily sh*t storm. Leave all that stuff outside, you won’t need it inside and besides that baggage doesn’t do you any good inside. That’s the first piece of advice I have for you and the only one you’ll need. Trust me.
All of the ‘outside’ aspects of your life require of/from you a degree of perfection, efficiency and responsibility: get up, get dressed, go to work, pay your bills, dress your part,  be smart, funny, wise and witty or simply sit down and shut the f**k up; AND be good and quick about it! Find the love of your life, settle down; if you want you can marry. You want other people to admire you, look up to you, listen to your wisdom, take you seriously or not at all. When in doubt, you’ll take a selfie and post it on social media, hoping for some ‘likes’ to vindicate you existence. Consider that that’s life’s reoccurring olfactory bovine excrement experience. At the Fest it’s just horse manure that you’ll smell.
            Anyway--once inside--you’ll see your brothers and sisters are just here to have a good time, listen to music and eat food; it’s great to see so much fun. Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer and Indian Chief: you purchase your ticket and the rest of the day is Coolsville. Occasionally you’ll see complainers and want to ask “if you don’t like it, why are you here and why don’t you leave?” Resist that temptation; absolve them and pass on. Right now there’s Rosemint tea, praline stuffed beignets, Brocato’s gelato and wonderful Quail Andouille Pheasant Gumbo; stroll around the grounds until you feel at home Mrs. Robinson, Al Green loves you more than you could know.
Figure that this is the evolution of the rock concerts of a half a century ago except there’s no free kitchens, limited access to controlled substances and, for the most part, no children will be conceived on premises; god I miss those good old days. It’s now 2019 and the Rolling F**king Stones are gonna be here (!); okay, if you’re really cool they don’t matter as much as the weather, John Boutte, the line at the Cochon de Lait po boy stand and the glorious feeling of cosmic amnesia. Today--inside--there’s no tomorrow, there was no yesterday; there’s only now.
            I admit it, I am a Fest junky. I buy my tickets early, I attend every day (well, maybe not that $185.00 day), I take off work, I save my money, I live one block away and my Fest starts when I wake up and goes well into the evening. I don’t drink alcohol until after I leave the Fest (when it closes at 7:00 PM) and then I sit on my porch or wander the neighborhood enjoying the afterglow and action. The first weekend I have a big pot of red beans and rice for our dinners and the second weekend another big pot, this one with gumbo. Nice breakfast before we wander over. Always getting there for the opening bell.
            I may carry a small shoulder bag with a towel or heavier shirt, sunscreen and my 32 oz bottle of water that I bring in—it’s allowed—unopened. I don’t mind standing in lines, I avoid crowds and know the best places to see any stage without being crushed. I know where the good bathrooms are. I’m never bored, disappointed or discouraged. I’m your model Fest attendee; somebody should give me a friggin’ medal!
            Back to you. As you know, there’s music going on around town after the Fest and it doesn’t stop for days, day in and day out; but, you know, you’ve got to set your pace. Go out afterwards but stay sharp for the next day; remember, this is a marathon and not a sprint
            And, just a head’s up: these musical geniuses that you witness at the Fest are not going to just get in their jet and split after their performance and they’ve got to go somewhere to relax and chill. For example: on the second Thursday, is it possible at all, at all, that after the shows shut down, that Mavis, Mick, Ivan Neville, Ziggy Marley, Rita Coolidge and Big Sam’s Funky Nation are just going to retire to their hotel suites and take the rest of the night off? Or… any of the other performers on any other evenings? Are they just pimping their talent or…. do they really enjoy what they do? Keep your twitter feed open, Sparky, Bonnie Raitt might be cruising Bullet’s Bar with Delfayo, Branford and maybe Irma Thomas. As they say “In New Orleans the music never stops”; a good reason not to overindulge in anything that will mind bend you into being missing in action missing the action. That’s it, have fun, live long and prosper; go forth knowing the value of time well spent.
           

Stoneless


Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Who’s On First?
Or
They Canceled
            So it’s the second weekend of The Fest and you were gonna see the Stones; too bad, so sad. You settled for Fleetwood Mac; guess again. Now they say it’s gonna be Widespread Panic; you know what I say? Who the !@#$%^&* knows? Another ancient throwback mystical million dollar regression music experience? Another ‘legendary’ white group? Euterpe only knows. I’m having a hard time coming up with anyone still alive from those lifetimes ago, music mania monster band days that would fit the bill. Of course, only me, your Mama and possibly your Granma, remembers that far back, when dinosaurs and rockers walked amongst us, singing, dancing, making love and wreaking havoc with the established establishment.
Suffice to say that, during those years, minimum wage was pitiful but everything was cheaper and there really wasn’t anything to spend money on anyway. That’s why it was called the generation of ‘Sex, Drugs and Rock n Roll’ because besides rent, transportation and food, there was nothing else to spend money on. Besides, we hitchhiked everywhere, skated on rents and ate what grew by the side of the road; sometimes dirt. Oh, there was fashion of course, but who knew what that was?
            In New Orleans in those days my rent was $60.00, bus was a dime, phone calls (phone booths?) a nickel and a plate of red and white at Buster Holmes’ in the French Quarter a whooping thirty-seven cents! Bands played for free in the public parks; we had free clinics and coffee houses with folk singers instead of Wi-Fi. New Orleans was a candy store; the kids were in charge. What did we know? We knew nothing.
            We knew that there was racism, sexism, crooked politicians, inequality and armed conflicts started by men that would never see the battlefield; but as old folks are apt to say: “business as usual”. We thought that we could change the world through our music and loving vibrations; what happened was that most of us turned into our parents.
            Now we have the Fest, eight days of peace, love, music and mud (sound familiar?). Will we have another group that will blow the roof off the stage, whose combined ages are also about three centuries and have collectively been playing Rock n Roll music for 200 of those years? Not likely. For sure, the food booths won’t stop serving at 4:00 and other performers will be performing.   
Fortunately the Rolling Mac wouldn’t have been be the only ones that could bring back memories, keep our hands clapping and our booties shaking: Tom Jones, Rita Coolidge, Mavis Staples, Los Lobos, Diana Ross, John Prine, Aaron Neville, Ziggy Marley, Gladys Knight, Cowboy Mouth and other geezers will also perform this weekend. This will be the weekend of  the performers that not only know HOW to play, these will be the guys that know WHY to play, WHY we love this music and can tell you where it came from; forget it, you probably wouldn’t believe them.
            On the local front, the Dixie Cups, Al “Carnival Time” Johnson, Frogman Henry, Big Sam, Irma Thomas, John Boutte and Walter “Wolfman” are here there and everywhere. Indians comin’! Betta git out the way! Oom Ma Lay Cootie Fiyo and a Hey Pocki Way!
What? Oh, you only came for Mick and the group? You weren’t here last week? You didn’t have the Quail, Pheasant and Andouille Gumbo? No Praline stuffed Beignets? You sacrificed for the Stones? I’m sorry; however, as the immortal Roger Miller once sang “You can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd; but, you can be happy if you’ve a mind to”.
            Here’s a question for the folks that will miss seeing the Rolling Stones. Did you really miss them? My answer is yes and no, but I’ve already seen ’em; so, next question: what’s your hurry? Slow down, you move too fast. The Fest has never been a hit and run kind of thing; circle back around, breathe deep, have a seat, take a load off, take another day off.  This will be the safest place other than a bunker that you’ll ever be; especially surrounded by this many people. After realizing that you might quite possibly be the last generation to walk this planet, don’t you think that you should pause to listen to the music, savor the moment, smell the horse manure, stand in line patiently?
            True story: there was a lad of nineteen sitting on a couch, with his grandparents on either side of him, watching television in their trailer when a boulder drops from the hillside behind them, crashing through the roof and killing him instantly. The grandpa gets a broken arm, granny got nary a scratch. The kid is history. Guess who doesn’t live here anymore? See how it goes?
            I have four forms of employment, four jobs; each of my employers knows that during Jazz Fest I am in absentia, not available, lost to communication, no call, no show; if you want me, I’ll be at the Fest, come find me and bring me something cold to drink. Say nothing. I got nothing to say, nothing to show, nowhere else that I want to be and nothing else I want to do. Needless to say, I’m not gonna be sitting on a couch watching TV and there’s no hillside behind me from which a boulder can drop; if the Gods want me, I’ll be at Angelo Brocato’s stand getting Spumoni. I’ll take my chances.
Listen, sure it’s bucks and the whole weather, crowd, toilet confusion thing might be daunting. Is it worth having days in your life whose memories will last and last? I believe it is. So, call in and take days off, and get down with the rest of us for the Fest of us. Live life like the best of us.
           







Survey Says


Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Survey says
Or
Jigsaw Puzzle
Stopping by our table one morning, a young man earnestly inquires a moment of our time to ask a ‘quick question’ for a project that he’s doing, a study; we’re handed business flyers as means of validation, he introduces himself as David. The question is: do you think that it’s possible to live debt free?
First of all, I’m thinking, never ask a couple of caffeine jacked up geezers for their opinion on anything; don’t you know that we were thinking existentially since before your parents were born? First of all, I think, let’s break that question into three parts: do I think? Yes. Is it possible to live? Sure. Debt free? Define debt free.
Is living debt free the absence of the necessity of need or the ability to effortlessly pay for anything you require? Does it mean you needn’t worry about money because you have so much or that you have none at all and don’t need any?
There’s a tramp in the intersection with a sign. He’s breathing in exhaust fumes for the most part of the day waiting for drivers to give him money; he probably doesn’t pay rent. Sitting on his milk crate, ‘trying to waste his time, with his mentholated sandwich, he’s a walking clothes line’. Is he debt free or does he owe his body and being better? If he gets sick (and you know eventually he will), who will have the debt of taking care of him or will he carry that future debt starting now?  His sign says “God Bless, Anything Helps”; does he live by the kindness of strangers and is that ‘debt free’? After all, what does he owe anyone?
Are food, clothing and shelter considered debts? Child care? Transportation? Taxes? Make-up, dry cleaning, toiletries, drinking water, rent? It’s not debt if you have money coming in from somewhere… like employment. And to what do you owe your job? Is your performance for money a debt that you have to pay so that you can pay the debt of your responsibilities to other things like Entergy, Sewerage & Water and flea medicine for Fido? It’s a loaded f*cking question.
Is debt free a condition where there is more assets than liabilities; more income than outlay; more credits than debits? With more pluses than minuses, what do you have to pay to be on the positive side of that equation? Is it a case of ‘them that gots is them that gets’? If that’s the case asked Ray Charles, ‘how do you get it in the first place (a mystery)?’ How do you get the resources to become debt free without going into debt--- rob a bank?
If I have a business that allows my life to be debt free, here’s how it works: I can’t get a lease until I have insurance; I can’t get insurance until I have an alarm system and fire alerts. The State taxes my inventory every year whether that inventory is new or left from last year. I need to replenish inventory as it sells; I might have to pay someone who works for me; I pay lights, cable, trash, supplies, repairs and maintenance. I take the profits and suffer any losses. Somehow at home I’m not worried about the living expenses for me and my loved ones. Am I debt free? What exactly is a debt?
Are living expenses considered debts? Is my growth and well being (physical, mental, emotional, spiritual) a debt? Is the happiness of others that have come to be part of my life’s function a debt that I have incurred? Do we not pay a debt to love every time we express and exercise that feeling? Is care in and of itself not a debt that we take on? Is responsibility a debt? Is loving something a responsibility, and therefore an expense; a debt?
So, what would you say to that sincere lad who approaches you with a seemingly innocuous question? “Sure, you dimwit squirrel, move to City Park, live in a tree; eat acorns!”  Or do you tell him “Lad, you went into debt while you grew in your mother’s uterus and you’ll be in debt until the moment they lay you in that pine box.” Not very reassuring, eh?
And when you get to heaven will you still owe your soul to the Company Store? Are you gonna leave some debt behind for someone else to pick up? Did I inherit debt from my family? Do I have to repay kindnesses? Do I owe anyone an explanation? Have you ever considered: ‘can I live debt free?’  “NO!” says your bartender. Also, NO says the doctor, NO says the nurse and NO says the lady with the alligator purse; we live in a debt society, suck it up.
So, you have to wonder (or I do) is debt a happy thing? It is, if you consider that the things that you’re paying for give you happiness; if things that you’re paying for don’t contribute to your happiness and well being… why bother?
Well, what’s the alternative? Join the counterculture who refuse to go into debt—sounds easy, right—don’t become materialistic. Also be willing to make sacrifices as to what you bring into your life—is this a debt you really want? Practice self control, be goal driven and run away from anything that causes debt; in short, a lot of work for little reward.
True story: I once built a covered wagon and bought a mule with the intent on traveling the country (with woman and child) being totally off grid forever; a foray through white nationalist country resulted in the burning of the wagon and poisoning of the mule. Can you live without being part of the debt system? No. Life, as we know it, will not allow that.