Where Yat Picks Summer 2024

 

PoBoy picks 5.24

Best Local Food Guru This is a tough one because mainly there’s two; the good news is that they’re easily accessible. Poppy Tooker has weekly residency on WYES Steppin’ Out and Louisiana Eats! radio and podcast.  Ian McNulty writes about restaurants and food culture NOLA.com Times Picayune newspaper and intsagram (@ianmcnultynola)

Best Place to buy Crack Creole Crack that is. After Kitchen Witch cookbook shop closed after 20 years here, the demand for their spice blends did not abate. They have sold and shipped worldwide; considered the best by more than a few; available through their website (www.kwcookbooks.com)

Best Hidden Pop Up Restaurant, right before graduating from New Orleans Culinary and Hospitality Institute (NOCHI) every class operates a pop up café, strutting their stuff for two weeks at the school. The themes change with each pop up: French, Caribbean, Spain and even Viet Cajun have been executed with vigor and alacrity. Find out when and reserve quickly as seats go fast (www.nochi.org)

Best Bet On The Next Mayor You heard it next here: Helena Moreno. Quietly and effectively moving up over the years, from newscaster to President of the New Orleans City Council with calm assurance taking head on the tough issues from women’s rights to gun safety. If she decides to run, she’ll be hard to beat.

 

 

 

Politics and Presidents

 

PoBoy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Gone Correct

Or

Precise Absent

“It’s useless to hold a person to anything he says while he’s in love, drunk or running for office”: Shirley MacLaine

        “Whistle while you work, MacArthur is a jerk, Eisenhower has the power, Taft will never work”: was a childhood street chant from my wasted, lost and ill spent youth; and that should give you a glimpse of how long ago that politics have been invading my confused and flummoxed aura. It’s scary. In my quiet reflective moments, somehow I see a parade, a procession, a pageant (in costume) of past elected officials  dancing toward the center ring under the Big Top; complete with short statured clowns on little fire engines, elephants with shimmering turbans and tall blond ladies in pink tights.  I can site you a plethora of them; however, it’s the presidents that bring on my cold sweat goose bumpy angst.

        I was a little late for Franklin D. who muscled his way into 12 years of office; it’s rumored that he allowed Pearl Harbor so that he could spring us from isolation into a full scale world war for personal reasons. He was also responsible for forced internment of Japanese citizens; nothing new, previous presidents did it to Native Americans and African abductees.

        Followed by “Give ‘em Hell” Harry S. Truman (the ‘S’ doesn’t stand for anything) He got the tail end and took over from FDR when FDR died in the second month of his fourth term; inheriting WWII and stepping up as Vice President and went on to win a term of his own.

        Ike came back and gave us interstate roads and warned of the takeover of America by the Military Industrial Complex; incidentally, Joe MacCarthy, the Senator and ring leader of the Red Scare that blackballed suspected Commies was squeezed in there, to their discredit (he never did catch a single spy and was censured by the Senate).

        Then comes JFK; shot during the assassination period (RFK, MLK); followed by LBJ who stepped down: ‘Tricky Dick’ Nixon who quit; Gerald Ford who only served 3 years; peanut farmer Jimmy Carter (best of the bunch if you ask me); Daddy George Bush (one term); Bill Clinton, who was almost impeached because of some in-the-closet activity. George junior came next (who seems really harmless about now); Barack; Donald and now Joe. Whew.

        All these guys, in my lifetime, that stood at the fan as the feces were being distributed; some were catching and some throwing the stuff. All the while they were being subjected to the downward command chain replete with constituents and fellow elected officials vying for an ear to express their views and concerns; some telling truth which was not listened to and some telling lies that were.

        It appears to me that you’d have to be certifiably insane to want to be Commander in Chief of this nation of certifiable wing nuts that call themselves citizens and are really spoiled children guarding their corner of the sandbox being watched after and spoiled by people that swindle them out of their hard earned money and laugh all the way to the bank at their expense.

        With the president is his vice president, advisors, councilors, Chief of Staff, Press Prevaricators, his cabinet members, spouse, chef, barber, interns, personal physicians and the person who shines their shoes. The president is the most powerful politician in the free world (so they say).

        Except, the president must please 100 members of congress, 435 in the House of Representatives; and the rest of the legislative, executive and judicial branch talking heads. Just imagining that gives me a headache.

        Then consider governors, mayors, city council members, law enforcement, the IRS, court systems (from Supreme on down to Traffic), lawyers (prosecutors and defenders) and the person who can tell you ‘where you got your shoes’. And everyone wants a piece of the action.

        “Politics is very much like taxes—everybody is against them, or everybody is for them as long as they don’t apply to them”-- Fiorello LaGuardia who was mayor of New York City from 1934-1946

        Now we come to how laws are made and how any of those elected yayhoos are influenced: money. Period. Yes, I’m here to tell you that from city inspectors to bill collectors and all the way to the highest offices, somebody gets/wants greased. Oh, it may be a plum appointment, a campaign contribution, trip to the Bahamas, a betrayal or retribution. If you want to know how things are getting done… follow the money.

        However, that’s not completely true. Some people go into politics for honest altruistic reasons. “Because of one plain simple rule. Love thy neighbor, and in this world today of great hatred a man that knows that rule has a great trust.”-- Mr. Smith Goes to Washington 1939

        I have empathy and compassion for those selfless individuals, the ones who brave the tide of mendacity, corruption and deceit; the ones who won’t take a bribe or a dive. They’re the real contenders for an honest, open and caring society. The ones who take a beating for not bowing down, the ones who stand up for the little guy and that advocate for social justice and equality. They’re the ones that want the best for you even though you might not behave like you’re worth it.

        Those are the people to vote for. The softies not the bullies and it’s all about that; it really is. Mean people suck and I personally don’t want any having the power over you or me. There’s enough “hate goin’ round tryin’ to break our hearts; we’ve got to, I’ve got to stop it before it goes too far”, Stevie Wonder—“Love’s in Need of Love Today”

       

 

         

 

Breaking News

 

PoBoy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Breaking News

Or

Millions Like Me

        “The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, they taste your guts and they spit ‘em out; they use your bones for telephones and call you up when you’re not at home…” The Hearse Song

        I consider myself a healthy guy, that is until I watch the evening news in the television and subjected to the commercials telling me to be suspicious about how sick I might be.

        Oh, it starts off easy (if you’re like me); you watch the news, paying kinda attention to the sixty second sound bites of info that are fired at you, hoping to soak up empathy, outrage, understanding, sagacity and possibly some sense in Olympian time about what is going on in your city, state and country and like a sponge watch with wonder and horror as the world goes to hell in a hand basket, down the creek without a paddle in a leaky old boat. You basically tune out the commercials to catch your breath and maybe digest what you just heard/saw. Letting it all kinda sink in.

        However, and you may have noticed, commercials are at different decibels from the news, a little louder, the voices more insistent, the wording more forceful and the themes more dramatic. Buy a car, truck, SUV, go to the casino for a big payoff and you better get that auto glass company to come out right away!

        In a half hour of local, and the same for national, news there can be between 12 and 20 commercials (Quora.com); each advert is from 15-30 seconds and typically this can take up 7-8 minutes of a half hour program (mocktheagency.com). Doing the math myself, this subjects my un/semi/complete consciousness to up to 32 commercials in an hour’s time just trying to stay abreast of what’s happening in the world around me.

        Wayfair, healthcare, vitamins and ZZZQuil; financial planners, asbestos lawsuits, Freshpet dog food and Cox mobile. Stop smoking to avoid disfiguring amputations; take Prevogin so you can remember stuff; get vaccinated and a Pod for you to get out of town efficiently. Prudential wants to insure you; shingles doesn’t care (Shingrix); get stronger enamel for your teeth and Charity Hospital is here for you. Vapofreeze for back pain, body wash for your silky skin and some deo for your b.o. Better get a bathroom update, some shutters while you’re at it; windows, a new roof and a boost for your antidepressant with side effects that include “suicidal thoughts and actions”.

        Dry eyes; dry mouth; Visit Mississippi and join a Credit Union. Metamucil will keep you regular, Tums will keep you settled; replace that old air conditioner; now back to the news.

        Murder, mayhem, a woman who had a baby had another one; a silver mine in Rio is tarnishing; a defrocked Mother Superior is on the lam; the war has moved again and we’re sending lawyers guns and money because the shit has hit the fan. Protesters have taken over the Mall because of our policies in the Middle East, Sudan, Ukraine, China, Korea and Afghanistan.

        Repatha; Solanpas; Keytruda; Ozempic; Quilipta; Prezervision; LDLC; Arezvy; Ingrezza, Fasenra, Breztri and Syfovre all want me to ask my doctor if they are right for me. Advil for fast pain relief. Do I have TD, RFT, ED, ADAD, EYLEA-HD or a GED? Is it TED.com? Well, all these are good for coughs, colds, sore holes and will put hair in anything but a cue ball and I better get crackin’!

        There are at least four injury lawyer companies that grab at my attention in case I’m ever rear ended, t-boned or slammed into by an 18 wheeler, company car or mule and wagon and I need to “make that call!” “They got me 200, 300, 750, 800 thousand dollars!” here’s the number; write it down, memorize it, tattoo it to your eyelids; it’s gonna happen to you and you should be ready to do like thousands of other people have done; don’t delay, operators are standing by 24 hours AND weekends! “We’ll fight to get you all the money you deserve!”

        Does your mom need elder care; maybe a protein supplement, a trip to the Fairgrounds, something to subdue her or maybe I should look up my ancestry for my DNA to see if we really are related. Now back to the weather, news, traffic, politics, wildfires, earthquakes, tornadoes, floods and storms that are affecting my area.

        Why I bother to sit down in the afternoon, just about every afternoon, with coffee, cookies, Debbie and the dog to watch this assault on my psyche, I wonder. Is this worth it? Is this the price I have to pay for wanting to know what the heck is going on? I mean, I was not exposed to asbestos in 1982; I have never used hair straighteners that can cause uterine cancer; hell, I don’t even have a uterine! I promise that my doctors have no suspicion of COPD or other things that will affect my longevity and immortality and I’m still not bad on the dance floor.

        So what do I do? I’ll tell you. I subscribe to media in print, hard copy that I can read at my leisure; decipher according to me; believe what I want; stay up to date with whatever the press is willing to assume that I will take at face value and if I want to know the weather, I’ll stick my head out of the window. I may even get a Mr. Rogers sweater, a rocking chair and a porch to sit on (my own preferably). I may even start smoking a Meerschaum pipe with something worth lighting up and practice my Italian. Buona giornata gente mia.

 

Football Season

 

PoBoy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Hail Mary

Or

Uncomfortably Numb

“Perseverance. Adversity. Triumph. Defeat. We see it all left on the field, as football season is officially upon us” Mandy Antoniacci

        YAY! Football Season. Yay; and what I don’t know about the sport could fill a stadium. My original perspective on the game was curiosity as to why the ‘teams’ were fighting over one ball when they could have easily gotten two and separated to their perspective sidelines, slapped each other’s asses, maybe drank a few cold ones and fired up the Webber.

        But no, they (mostly refrigerator sized gladiators) gotta get out on a field marked with lines and throw, fight, pass, tackle and protect their mates to get that pigs bladder (do they really use pig skin?) shaped lead balloon over to an imaginary goal line. And then they jump up and down over the fallen bodies of their opponents, slapping asses and high fiving each other while thousands of screaming ‘fans’ yell: “KILL THEM!” That doesn’t seem odd to you? “Football is a game of controlled anger. It’s a game of retribution. It’s about will”-Brian Dawkins

        It’s not like baseball where the teams (as it was explained to me) “hit the ball with a stick and run in a circle”; while the “fans sit in the sun, talk and drink beer.” That I can understand, as long as they don’t choose me to be on a ‘team’ (I prefer to play a position called ‘Left Out’).

        Tennis I get: two players with ‘racquets’ try to kill each other with a yellow striped fuzzy ball while sweating and showing off their legs. If you miss bad enough, the other person gets a point and the most points win so that the loser can jump over the net to congratulate the opposing would-be assassin. There’s a lot of sweat.

        Games and contests of adversity and brutality go back thousands of years; some interesting twists occur when the losing Mayan team gets literally executed. Also, in ancient Rome the games may have had scores like: “Lions three, Christians nothing.” 

        The Spanish like to go one on one with a bull that is systematically made to suffer a hundred cuts and worn down until it is exhausted and finished off by some guy in tight pants who receives the dead animal’s testicles or ears, I can’t remember which. Interesting enough, the crowd constantly yells “Ole”, which I think means something of a sexual nature. At times, these wild and crazy Spaniards let the bulls chase them in the streets, somewhere called Pamplona I believe; go figure.

        Now, golf is anybody’s guess. Folks even watch this on television. Everybody’s got to be quiet while players, who have commandeered huge swatches of real estate (that I could have had a picnic on with my dog), hit this teeniest hail sized ball with long sticks called “irons” hundreds of yards to go into a teacup that has a flag sticking out of it. They play this game for hours and there are people that actually watch it. As usual, the winner gets a trophy, a green jacket and choice of the next annual dinner’s menu… or something.

        Now, an American football team has 53 players, not counting coaches, but only 22 of them get to be on the field at any one time (and only 11 in the altercation itself). There’s also kids with towels and drinks (‘energy’ drinks I suppose) and ‘referees’ that throw yellow rags if one or more players misbehaves. The part that I hate (aside from not knowing what the heck is going on) is that they have magnificent ‘Half Time’ shows that they never show on TV (exception being Super Bowl), which is the only place I ever get to be subjected to this melee; that, and, they have these animated, long legged, sparsely dressed women, known as ‘cheerleaders’ that go through synchronized acrobatics, that I suppose is to goad the players into exerting more masculine energy into their physical prowess, mental toughness and myopic focus in order to vigorously annihilate the challenging group of eleven that have their own aerobic cheerleaders charged with the same task; and THAT I never get to see either!

        Sports like badminton, croquet and even volleyball are a ‘no care who wins--it’s all about the form and fashion’-- type activities that I can relate to. Throwing darts and axes seems too dangerous to be done indoors, while archery seems like a ‘something could seriously go wrong’ thing. Bowling I suck at. Chess appears a bit too cerebral while checkers is best on a porch with a “straw hat, a suit of overalls and a worn out pair of shoes” (Shirley Temple); while ‘basketball’ is just that: tall guys in short sweats faking each other out to pitch a ball into a basket (there’s an awful lot of running back and forth). Horseshoes I understand.  

        In football, as I vaguely understand, you draw lines ten yards apart and you get three or four tries to move the ball across that line and if you do, you get three or four more tries to do it again (and again); or you can throw, pass or hand off the ball and if anyone gets in your way, you can knock them down or you can ass whup anyone/everyone on the other team that tries to move that ONE BALL away from you. It’s kind of like West Side Story without the weapons and catchy singing.

        All in all, competitive sports are not high enough on the testosterone level for my lionhearted masculinity; I go for the real thing: the stuff that makes your blood boil; the stuff that continues to amaze you with its brutality, shiftiness, viciousness and sadistic no-holds-barred ferocity: The Evening News.

               

 

 

Opie

 

Po Boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Requiem

Or

Universality

        “It’s only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. All grownups were once children… but only few of them remember it.” The Little Prince

        “Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived on a planet hardly any bigger than he was, and who needed a friend”. The Little Prince by Antoine De Saint-Exupery is called a wise and enchanting fable; if the book doesn’t inspire you, then I believe that there is no hope for you.

        The book starts with a pilot that has crash-landed in the desert with little or no help available and out of seemingly nowhere comes a small visitor (picture David Bowie at eleven years of age). The boy is called a little prince, but as he is the only inhabitant of his planet (which is no bigger than a house) he has no competition. Little Prince is only what he is called by the pilot and the book, and that’s good enough for me (and should be for you).

        The boy has travelled far and wide and has had experiences on other small planets with a series of archetypical adult figures that when taken objectively; resemble many adults (grown-ups) around you now. The little guy asks the pilot to draw him a particular picture and the adventures, lessons, and wisdom begins. It is a classic example of ‘from the mouths of babes’.

        In other words, it’s life in its simplest form, and when life is seen in its simplest form, happiness is within reach; but also is heartbreak. Life is usually seen in its simplest form when someone has nothing left to lose.

        My veterinarian, ten years ago, found a newborn kitten on a rainy Moss Street roadway, nursed it to life and we got the pleasure of it sharing our lives with it. Debbie named him Opie because he looked like Ron Howard. His colors were what are called butterscotch. He grew with an appetite and a gentle lovingness unsurpassed. Before his illness he weighed about twenty pounds.

        The Little Prince teaches us that, if we look with our hearts, loving a person, place or thing makes it ours. Although there may be many persons, places and things seemingly alike to others, that cannot take away that that is not the one that WE love. WE, in loving the ones WE love, makes that ONE special and ours alone; one rose out of a thousand, if it is our rose, is, in its uniqueness, the only rose we truly can love with all of our being. All roses are beautiful; but, OUR rose will outshine them all. So too it is with a star that we choose, a piece of music, work of art, lover and/or a cat.  

        When we experience this sensibility, we become like children who love with all their hearts and all that they love, without reason or regret; without condition, becomes significant and personal.

        Opie was diagnosed with an incurable cancer and instead of subjecting him to the discomfort of debilitating procedures and medicines we had chosen to bring him home and spoil him and love on him until it was time for him to, as they say, cross that Rainbow Bridge. His tumor had grown too large for him to function normally now, growing to a twenty-six inch stomach circumference and he was fading. We took him back to the clinic today to begin his next life’s journey; his time here is at an end, and the quality of life we promised for him had become no longer an option.

        We feel that it is only fitting for our Vet who brought him into this world to be the person that takes him out. I would say that we are heartbroken, but heartbroken is too mild a term for how we feel; once again the Bureau of Happy Endings is not answering our calls or wishes.  

        You know the drill; every day there is an inhumanity against loved ones, yours or someone else’s. You put your faith in a higher being to guide and assist you and to offer succor and support. As it turns out, this higher being has plans of its own and you may say that this higher being is “moving in mysterious ways”. I differ to agree. I don’t think the mother f*cker cares a whit.

        I’ve had friends, lovers, family and critters that I’ve loved cross that frickin’ ‘Rainbow Bridge’ without knowledge or consent for this “Mysterious Way”. And I call foul.  I believe in the teaching that all religions that tell us to treat others as we would be treated; I take exception to the teachings that have the caveat that it means everyone except those that are not like us.

        Opie rallied today (of all days) and we took him in praying for a reprieve that did not come. I watched the light fade from his bright eyes and heard Dr. Nicole Larroque tell me that his heart had stopped.

        The Doc told us that the first shot took Opie’s spirit out of his body and the second shot (once his body had relaxed) took his body away from him. That means, to me, that Opie’s spirit is still out there and will find itself back to us.

        Call me what you will; but, if you should one day spy a little butterscotch asking for directions… please send him home. He’s my good friend and I miss him so very very much.                                      

 

School Daze

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Let It Roll

Or

Hey Nineteen

        Blow up your TV, throw away your paper, go to the country, build yourself a home; plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches; try to find Jesus on your own (Spanish Pipedream—John Prine) 

        LSU, Tulane, Loyola, Dillard, Delgado etc etc; blah blah blah: you’re heading off/back to school and nobody can talk you out of it, eh? In it for a good time or do you really wanna graduate; party or purpose? Which school? Statistics vary school to school from 11% acceptance and 86% graduation to 87% accept and 17% grad (Google.com), choose wisely Grasshopper, it’s goin’ on your resume.

        It’s every parents dream to have their kid graduate from college, get a degree (or many), become a doctor, CPA, lawyer, or rise in the ranks of the military and you owe them, right? To heck with being a plumber, electrician, chef or Rock n’ Roll star; it’s their money and your debt. With luck they gave you a year off after High School to travel and ‘find yourself’ (rich kids: Europe; poor kids: Gulf Shores). One thing for certain: student debt (no matter what the president says) can hound your heels for the rest of your life, so you’d better pick a major that will bring income; I’ve met many a Political Science major who are now tending bar or slinging hash.

        One thing that schools cannot teach you: becoming a person of worth and value; a person who acts with kindness and sincerity; someone with concern about others and their environment. This can only be done with personal practice. Face it, in those hallowed halls there’s not academia labeled ‘Harmlessness’.

        In motion pictures there are teachers and students that challenge each other’s humanity, humility, self worth and at the end of the film there are epiphanies where all is made clear and the world becomes a better place. That happens in motion pictures, television programs and the final segment of any news program; in ‘real life’ that’s more exception than the rule and it’s all your fault.

        In real life, teachers are generally underpaid, overworked and underappreciated, OR, like some ‘professionals’, just want to get through the day putting up with ‘students’ that don’t care about any subject that they might be ‘teaching’ and only want to get the answers to any tests that might be given, answer any questions that the teacher might pose and get the hell out of the class and back to a life that they believe is the real thing. Sometimes the teacher might get even with that gang of ingrates and impose homework and reading assignments that belie comprehension and time management.

        Do you really want to go to school and learn the tools of a profession that you will be forced to practice for the rest of your life; it certainly is what your parents want. “Find a girl, settle down, if you want you can marry; look at me, I am old, but I’m happy” Cat Stevens.

        As you age you progress through stages: at 17 you’re ready for a radical departure from your, up to this point, life. At 21 you’re more confused than ever and are going through hard times finding yourself. At 25 you’re golden, indestructible and at ease; by 28 you’ve had your ass kicked by life real bad and finally start to get a clue (note: astrologically it is where your moon comes back to the exact spot as the moment of your birth). At 30, you’re catching on and there’s a glimmer of a reflection of the person that you want to become; physically, mentally, emotionally and professionally. It goes on, ad nauseum (40’s, 50’s, 60’s). At each of these junctures there is a birth or rebirth of you the person. Society is not willing to accept this.

        “I was once like you are now and I know that it’s not easy to be calm when you’ve found something going on; but, take your time, think a lot, think of everything you’ve got now; you will still be here tomorrow but your dreams may not.”  Cat Stevens

        Society as a whole is controlled by people that knew what they wanted to be from an early age, and on becoming that person never changed until they reached their zenith and are unwilling to accept new (for them) ideas and concepts of themselves. The people who ultimately control your life never wanted to run away with the circus (your Mama don’t dance and your Daddy don’t Rock n’ Roll; Loggins, Messina).

        School can educate you on many subjects; school cannot teach you to think. And if you think that going to school is the right thing for you to do; to become a doctor and heal the unwilling; play football until your brain implodes; learn to take other people’s money until you have a bunch of your own--for the rest of your life--then, have at it by all means.

        Or perhaps you just want to enjoy a few more years of freedom until you join your Daddy’s firm, practice or dealership; I say: Go For It!

        However (and here’s the big HOWEVER); maybe you like working on cars, perfecting soufflés, busking on Royal Street, painting sunsets, writing poetry, selling balloons or performing with squirrels at a sideshow. Why the f**k not? It’s your life.    

        Find something that you really like doing that gives you enough money and time off to enjoy what’s left of your life. Listen: there are 393,800 millionaires in this country who are under 30 years of age (millenialmoney.com) 14 are billionaires (Kiplinger.com). Conversely, 3.4% of Americans will not reach age 40 (Quora) out of our population of 341,772,225 (worldometer).

         “The future’s uncertain and the end is always near” Roadhouse Blues: Jim Morrison