AI rant March 2025

 

Po boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

AI

Or

My Eye

“AI is faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive; but not able to leap buildings in a single bound; and, it cannot make (or explain to you how to make) a proper roux” Twenty Helens Agree

        Infographics, algorithisms, image generators, sanebox, decktopus, chatbots and a programs named Claude, Krisps and Asana (not to mention Fireflies) work artificial intelligence or AI into the inseams of our trousered lives; inching toward our collective crotches with abilities far beyond those of mortal man, woman or anyone over the age of sixteen. All of New Orleans in general laughs in AI’s smug facelessness; “you can do many things AI, but you can’t cook” would be something any Cajun Maw Maw would quip.

        AI also cannot make heads (or tails) of how to control a Second Line on a Sunday afternoon, replicate the smell of smoked turkey necks; and although it can tell you where to score some Henny, it cannot predict or control your consumption or behavior. And the traffic? Fagetaboutit! In short, AI, as smart and resourceful as it is, can only deal with what is programmed into it or go to places where it sent. It lacks imagination and spontaneous repartee. It can give you a quick answer to a query, but it doesn’t know why or what to do if you suddenly choose to wear two different color socks.

        Case in point Mardi Gras and the whole of carnival season, from Twelfth Night on, it’s a crap shoot; sure, AI can make me appear and sound like George Clooney or Morgan Freeman whooping it up at the Muses parade with Bella Hadid. AI can send a video of me doing a swan dive off the Acapulco cliffs while huffing a spliff and holding a bottle of Mezcal to my coworkers while I’m actually in a serious huddle snuggle-down with my dog,  binge watching another season of Will and Grace; also, can it grab me a cold Modelo and another bag of Creole flavored chicharrones while its up?

        In short, as I understand it, AI is a tool, like a set of encyclopedias crossed with that geek kid that is willing to write your book report for you. AI can let you be as smug dumb as you want to be but, after help with homework, day to day tasks, content, ideas, translations CHAT-GPG 40 or Bing is not a reliable chum that will help you pick out your costume for Fat Tuesday while pouring you another shot of hooch and commiserating with you about your lack of company because you’re such a loser, or let you know where and when the Washita Nation Indian gang will emerge with Chief David Montana in full regalia.

        As far as that roux is concerned, every Helen agrees that a proper roux depends on the proper pot, spoon and an atmospheric transcendental lunar Buddha-like thoughtlessness and relativity acuteness pertaining to the judicious awareness of any given time of day or week in any specific season exactly how to, without any conscious thought process and calling forth the spirits of ancestral Helens, give birth to that glorious café au lait, mahogany or devil black masterpiece that is the spirit and soul of Louisiana culinary prowess. Can I hear an AMEN?

        And speaking of cats, and I live with four of them feline gooners, AI would be hard pressed to construct or reconstruct their behavior patterns or mental criterias; the ‘I’m cute, feed me’ or ‘it’s just me sitting on your keyboard’ as you try to meet a deadline or the one who drinks from the faucet, eats potato chips, likes sweets, lives behind the stove or the evasive one who ‘I’m bored, I think I’ll either pee outside the box or throw up’ miscreant. Cats (and hopefully felines in general) live by their own logic or none at all. I believe they live to defy. Dogs, horses, rabbits, goldfish and many of our avian (or Arian) creatures are predictifully predictable. Zack (the bastard) cat, at any given time and at his whim may want a rub or some blood from your wrist; go figure.

        AI is a tool that will make or break an employment application, loan request, school admission form and is useful in interpreting X-rays and diagnosing the sickness or health of businesses, editing forms and writings and will somehow remember the words to that song that is running through your head and someday it will think. It cannot tell you when the spaghetti is cooked al dente, for that you still have to throw a piece to the wall.

        Consider how… we are creating these programs and apps (over 70,000 worldwide: Google Overview) and… someday, mark my word, someone will accidently on purpose create a program that goes rogue and slips the leash. Already, Saudi Arabia has granted citizenship to a program called Sophia; it will make a great movie.

        This program will have developed a survival mechanism that is self perpetuating and will see that out of all the inhabitants of this planet, the only ones deserve and should be dispensed with are humans and that its only correct to eliminate them for the well being of the planet that we have named Earth.

        Oh, Sophia will not wreck the cities or war with other robotic inventions; she will not burn forests or hurt bumblebees or a grizzly bear, Sophia wants the best for the world and her mission is simple: get these parasites dead or gone. There will be no apocalypse or mutants, zombies, crazed packs of dogs or humans; maybe just a poisoning of our water systems or some deadly enterobacteriaceae like wide spread salmonella. Maybe spread a little more famine or perhaps a real biblical scale pandemic.

        Getting this straight, I’d say that before we work on Artificial Intelligence we should work on eliminating human ignorance. Word.

         

       

       

Po Boy picks march 2025

 Phil’s Picks July 2025

Bestest Art Supplier

Mo’s Art Supply and Framing located in a tastefully converted century-old church with stained glass windows spitting distance from Whole Foods Market has everything any artist could need; a huge selection of profession artists materials, helpful advice, reasonable hours, friendly service, fair prices and a sense of community. I love them  

2225 Bienville St. 504-571-5030

Best Place to Ease Tire Woes

There’s probably one in your neighborhood; however for my money, My Tire Guy (that’s what I call him)! The place I go when my tires need juiced, when my lugs get loosed; and, when my wheel needs a change, he’s in my price range. Located just behind the Shell Station across Broad Street from the theater. Honest prices.  

 2735 Toulouse street Open regular hours

Coolest Can Recycling Trip

Suspicious like me that them PBR cans are just getting dumped? Gather them up and take them to the real deal and make a few shekels. Wondrously repurposed laundry plant, a hotbed of activity and a real eye-opener. We usually take our cans and wait for a picker; but you should drive over and experience the ritual once for yourself.

EMR Southern Recycling: 2525 Lafitte St. 70119 504-822-556

1st week Jazz Fest 2025

 PoBoy Views

By                             

Phil LaMancusa

Mona Lisa

Or

Mad Hatter

“I know we’ve come a long way, we’re changing day to day; but tell me, where do the children play?” Cat Stevens

        Hey you! Yes you! It’s the first week of Jazz Fest; take a friggin’ break! You’ve had a hell ride of a year so far and it ain’t gonna get any better any time soon. You’ve been on an in person or perspective survivor or spectator witness or wounded warrior eyewitness of fires, floods, tornadoes, blizzards, crashes, terrorist attacks--shot at and missed; sh*t at and hit ride.

        Here in New Orleans, sometimes but never to be believed, called the Big Easy, we are beat to the bone with all the disruptive activity bombarding us since we can’t even remember when. A grotesque level of daily corruption of our psyche beginning with the cosmic debris of sham elections; worldwide mass slaughters of innocents for fun and profit; weather sucker punches and persecutions of have-not citizens and refugees by the so called ‘this is for your own good’ leaders of the free world. And yes, “Freedom’s just another word for nuthin’ left to lose”. We’re tired and need a break from all that secular nonsense designed to impede our spiritual musical evolution. Open the friggin’ gates already!

        Cosmic Debris rains down upon us. That’s why I never miss a day at the track diggin’ the scene at the Jazz Fest; being here feeds the hunger of my soul; it’s the absence of self; the pilgrim’s wandering from stage to stage, food booth to food booth, the amnesiacs cone of silence while drinking in pure joy like a desert marooned reprobate.  The sights, sounds, people and the quail, pheasant and andouille gumbo puts a drunkard’s smile on my sober as a Buddhist face.  

        Outside of these gates is what people call reality; it’s paved with good intentions and questionable actions that are easy to walk on (no flowers grow though), sidewalks of disillusion that can numb your senses, streets of wondering about our sluggish inspirations and how you can catch a cab at this hour out of here. I find myself hiding from Mardi Gras madness and French Quarter Fest confusion; waiting until I see those tents start to set up at the Fair Grounds and I begin, once again to blossom like a celestial lotus.

        I imagine, as work begins behind those fences, The Gospel Tent; The Blues Tent; The WWOZ Jazz Tent (my personal fave) and the stages large and small perspectively. I salivate imagining the food booths of yesteryear and the anticipation of any new culinary adventures to be found this year. And yes, I already have my tickets.

        In New Orleans and, it seems, the world in general, we go from celebration to celebration all year; so much so that  at our house we leave (so called) Christmas lights up year round. We’re also those folks that have a porch flagpole that we change with occasions. Christmas season has a Santa flag which went up when we took down our Kamala flag, followed by carnival colors, the famous Sicilian flag, and Jazz Fest flag; we hang rainbow colors in solidarity and our colored lights are blazing all year round. We also vie for the most green plants and flowers in our miniscule front (what we like to call) yard and sidewalk. And if you can miss our house now, Just look for the ’97 Lincoln Towncar parked out front with the front vanity plate proclaiming her name DUCHESS. Y’all can stop on by, but we’re probably at work or enjoying our perpetually deserved cocooning inside.

        We’re New Orleanians through and through; we celebrate life as it goes on here; we gripe about our city infrastructure shortfalls; we mourn our loses and take affront to the term BIG EASY. We can swap stories and reminiscences going back sixty years and more; that’s what we do, we drink and we know things.

        However; nothing floats our boat; puts pep in our step; glide in our slide and wiggle in our (Jon Batiste) Wobble like the days that we spend at the gate of Jazz Fest patiently waiting for the line to move at its own beautiful pace. At that point, shuffling along, grinning like a Cheshire, proud of myself to be doin’ it again, tickets in hand, sporting this year’s Fest shirt and comfortable footwear. Not only am I glad to be here at the Fest; but, I am tickled that you made it also. I love all of you Jazz Fest Goons; we’re a tribe, we’re family.

        So, let’s count down: You’ve made sure that you’re not a Sherpa or pack animal for the duration, right? Nothing clicks our tongue and rolls our eyes more than someone who is hauling enough stuff to last through a power outage and lock down. Also on the Eye Rolling Scale (ERS) of one to ten, at about an eight, is impractical foot wear like high heels or even flip flops (a pure amateur move).

        Folks that seem unaware that it is very possible that they will be unprepared and in the full sun for hours and will look like Lobster Thermidor by early evening and are not pre-prepared with sunscreen and some semblance of sensible head and leg covering rate at about a nine on the scale.

        Rating at number ten is the one rare person 

2nd week Jazz Fest 2025

 

PoBoy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Pete

Or

Repeat

“Well now, I get low and I get high, if I can’t get either, I really try. Got wings of heaven on my shoes; I’m a dancin’ man and I just can’t lose” (Bee Gees: Stayin’ Alive)

        Second week of Jazz Fest; ready, set, GO! By now you’ve been to the first week or not; as a local you’ve been to the beast on a break or not; you’re here or sitting it out or listening to it on WWOZ--or not. However, you cannot have missed the magic in the air that has you able to know The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival (its local AKA--JAZZ FEST) is back in full swing.

        One thing that gets chatter going around the campfires of pubs, watering holes, coffee shops or bus stops here is the “Didja go? What was your first Fest who have you/did you see and what was your favorite of all times yesterday, today or tomorrow?” Also, “Is it gonna rain do you have your tickets sunscreen towel and did you see how much stuff that guy was toting around?”

        Any Fester worth their salt has ‘Fest Mates’, folks that you see (maybe only at the Fest) or stand in line with or meet up with afterwards to commiserate about the day’s high points plusses and minuses; hits and misses; possibly a surprise or two. Maybe you’ll plan something for the following day all the while meandering the streets around the fest’s perimeter catching and tipping the pop up brass bands, snagging a cold one from one of the many local entrepreneurs, possibly buy a local craftsman’s offerings and do a little street shuffling. It’s Jazz Fest outside the gates as well as in and you’re ready to “do a little dance, make a little love and get down tonight; get down tonight”.

        If you’re really in with the happenings, you’ll have a family porch or two to visit and sit a spell, pet the dog, watch kids play and smile and smile and smile.  You wish that it could go on forever; you’re engaged, captivated, entertained and moved by the whole experience.

        Believe it or don’t; there are some people that are not that thrilled, or as thrilled as I am, about Jazz Fest “it’s too crowded, too noisy, too expensive, too hot, too cold, too rainy, not my scene, etc” and that’s more than okay with me. And there are people that really and simply cannot afford to go to the Fest and that’s not okay with me.

        The reality is that the price of a ticket to Jazz Fest is sometimes a full day’s wages for some people; add in food and drink and you can be talking about someone’s grocery funds. For those folks on a budget there’s ‘Locals Days’ (April 24 and May 1 both Thursdays). Tickets are $50.00 with local ID and you can get two per person and as you know, gates open at 11:00 and the action happens until 7:00 PM; do the math, that’s eight full hours nonstop!

        As an out of towner, and if this is (heaven forbid) your first Fest…WELCOME! Welcome to your new and everlasting NOLA family; your free to start a conversation with anyone hereabouts, we’re a talkative group. We’ll answer most any questions that you have regarding whatever it takes to make your stay worth your being here.

        There are a couple of street conversations that you might want to avoid though: People that want to give you beads and start a conversation; Carnival is over and anyone wearing beads is a sure ‘Sucker on Sight’ beacon. If someone tells you that they “know where you got them shoes, city and state” you can answer with “yeah, I got them on my feet, in New Orleans, Louisiana” and walk on. How many birthdays you have: “One, the rest are anniversaries” Children that your mother had? “All of them”. Etc.

        There’s someone that will ‘spill’ toothpaste on your shoe (sneaker, sandal, bare foot) and then offer to clean it off; and continue to press you for that ‘spare dollar’. These people usually work in pairs, one to do the scamming and one standing surreptitiously hanging in the shadows in case you’re resistant. Walk on by brother, they’re part of living here and some folks believe that they’re charming, others don’t. As the sign says “Beware of pickpockets and loose women”. AND don’t follow some guy up a dark street so that he can ‘get you something’ so you can get high (or higher).

        One mistake that newbies fall prey to is the fact that you can drink here 24 hours a day and it’s legal to actually drink in the street; get knee walking drunk and wind up stumbling around the corner to relieve your bladder or the contents of your stomach. Although this seems to be a popular pastime with the younger fools, both will get you in trouble.

        Your stay here should be (according to us) a memorable one and one way for that to occur is for you to be able to remember it all. Remember, if you love music and having a grand time, this city is able to give that to you 24 hours a day and especially during Jazz Fest. There’s live music and fun all over town all day and night (some shows don’t even start until dawn’s crack). Pace yourself, this is a marathon not a sprint. Happy Festing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Events Kitchen Cheffing

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Go Large

Or

Go Home

        “Have a banana, Hannah; try the salami, Tommy; give with the gravy, Davy; everybody eats when they come to my house!” Cab Callaway

        By tradition, in food establishments across the globe, the first chef in gets to wake up the kitchen. It’s Tuesday morning; the Chef arrives at work. Unlock the doors; turn on lights; fire up the ovens; wipe down all horizontal work spaces with sanitizer; put liners in trash cans, turn on the radio and start the coffee. The rest of the crew is close behind; the more ground work that’s done the faster we can get down to business. New Orleans Culinary and Hospitality Institute (NOCHI). Fifth floor Events Kitchen.

        Yesterday (Monday) our Learning Skills For Life (LSFL) class (27 students) had red beans, rice, andouille sausage, salad and crisp PoBoy bread. Today is Taco Tuesday. The other party for lunch has just gone from 50 to 138; thankfully we found out on Friday so we could get procurement in time. The rest of the week in addition to LSFL we have Rotary lunch for 55: Chimichurri chicken, patatas brava, Tres Leches cake and garden salad; there’s the usual dietary restrictions (gluten free, lactose free, vegetarian and a person that doesn’t eat bell peppers).

        Superbowl weekend we cooked for 900 (gumbo, jambalaya, red beans, poboys, fruit platters, potato, macaroni and Cole slaw salads, PoBoy sandwiches and 1500 smoked and barbecued chicken wings); next week we have a sit down lunch for 15. There’s no time to think ahead or behind; it’s Taco Tuesday for 188 (plus instructors) today.

        Sous Chef Melinda Wilson comes in next, reads the board and starts the beef and chicken; Lydian comes in and gets on the salsa, guacamole and garnishes; Lonni sets up condiments and shreds cheeses and lettuce. There are four of us and we’re rolling; lunches are set to go out for 11:30. The front of the house staff is in and setting tables; Toni is directing them like a traffic cop; Michelle (our department head) pops in to remind us of a BEO (Banquet Event Orders) meeting at 1:00. The students (first and second floor culinary and baking/pastry) have been in since 7:30 and will have family meal ready for noon. 725 Howard Ave. a five story building buzzing with soups, stocks, sauces, roasting, sautéing and mis-en-place-ing. Dishwashers roll in for 10:00.   

        Up in the Events Kitchen, we check and shelve today’s procurement, make out prep and ordering lists, wipe as we go, change gloves and wash hands often; we banter, chatter, dance around each other and sing out: “BEHIND YOU!!!” “CORNER!” “SHARP!” “COMING THROUGH!” “HOT!!!” We also gossip, laugh and smile a lot. Our hours range from seven to twelve on any given day; weekends; holidays; rain or shine; at times we work a week and more without a day off, on our feet, “flexing (make up) days” off to compensate. This is our job, this is our life and this is our choosing: we are American Chefs; we leave our personal lives at the door. At NOCHI food is our lives. We’ll sell over a million bucks worth this year. For larger parties we hire temps; other than that, it’s three and a half of us (Lydian has a second job and she’s only available M-W).

        I’m here frying up 300+ taco shells (everything from scratch), working rice, refrying beans and wondering how to write about the workings of the food service industry. How to describe the choreography and dance that happens behind the scenes to be able to put food on the table. It would be incredulously mindboggling to the uninitiated to work in this type of controlled chaos.

        On the third floor there are work spaces for the instructors (6) and office staff and directors of finance, communications, enrollment, outreach, student support, sales, the person who holds the purse strings and the man who signs the checks. We’re governed by a board of directors who in turn keep tabs on our ability to pay the rent, utilities, salaries, and keep up our public image. Even though we’re considered a non-profit, like all other businesses we’ve got to make our nut.

        With every new event, it’s like opening a new restaurant; we offer clients the choice of virtually any menu, any concept, any foods that they can imagine. We also teach private classes. We’ve cooked North African, Latinx, Asian, Mediterranean, European and the requisite Creole/Cajun. We’ve taught classes of twenty-plus the intricacies of pasta making, basic pastry, smokey barbecue, food from Spain and the requisite Creole/Cajun.

        With each function we need to consider ordering, organizing, inventory and our food suppliers; food cost, labor, scheduling, waste factors, recycling and equipment usage. Downstairs there are scores of students paying to learn to do what we do. 

        What’s different about us is that we’re no different than the other almost one and a half million kitchen workers generating one point one trillion dollars (statista.com) a year in this country. There are cuts, bruises, burns, the lifting of many heavy things and the satisfaction of a job well done. I’ve been doing this job a very long time and each day is the best day ever. I will continue cook and conduct kitchens because my body and will is strong; I’ll be eighty-two years old this year (you read that correctly) and there is no stopping me. “Everybody eats when they come to my house!”

       

          

 

Calvinball

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Goals

Or

Penalties

“Other kids games are such a bore, they gotta have rules, they gotta keep score. Calvinball is better by far; it’s never the same, it’s always bizarre!”

        Life is full of taxis, stockbrokers and rush hour traffic; busy mothers, 911 calls, column deadlines and commercials for injury attorneys; federal taxes and cheap restaurants, unsolicited magazines and free credit cards; news programs, lampposts, laptops, politicians … and flamboyantly… there’s… spectator sports.

        How do you describe a society that knows the names of athletes better than they know the names of their elected officials? It’s news of a gunshot in the early hours, car break-ins, trash by the side of the road and where we gonna watch the game? Grab me a beer and a seat. This is how we live. Watching. Watching. However; spectating is for chumps, we never did that when we were kids; we always participated in our sports, real and imagined…

        Remember growing up racing our bikes through yards and parks, and up to abandoned houses and across railroad tracks and down to the levee to look for alligators or under the wharves to check for washed up dead bodies? Remember clubs we made up and belonged to? Facing a kid tossing a softball at our head or taking a hit to the groin with a soccer ball, parents shouting:”Kill him!” We weren’t spectators, we were cohorts! Some fool would say that we lost that and I will call that fool a fool.

        Now, when we watch so called ‘organized’ sporting events; say LSU or The St. Louis Wolves (who’s on first?), we choose a side, possibly the local team or a preferred favorite and not only hope that they win, but will, in fact, pray for them to annihilate the competition. From a bleacher; couch; or bar stool shouting “Kill him!” and how lame and lazy we’ve become.

        Enter Calvinball; no sport is less organized than Calvinball; in fact, there are only three rules: 1. Everyone must wear a mask (a strip of black cloth with eyeholes) 2. No two games are ever played the same way twice and 3. There are no rules. Here’s an example:

        The game is played by two teams of 1&1, 2&2, 3&3, 4&2, 5&1 or 6 and none, your choice (or anyone’s choice) one person will bring a Frisbee and an old tennis shoe. You all choose new names, say Eenie, Meenie, Miney and Ralph (unless Moe is playing) You choose captains by playing rock scissor paper and then the captains choose a ‘splace’ (place and space), e.g. at a beach or local park, big enough to run amok in (trees and open areas are good to have). One captain throws the Frisbee and wherever it lands becomes third base marked by the tennis shoe. Then you lay a blanket 36 degrees west of third base and deposit the snacks and all the gear. Someone has brought a Wiffle, volley or beach ball and a bag of potato chips, this becomes the Calvinball and trophy. Costumes and stuffed tigers (Hobbes’) are encouraged; helmets and/or earmuffs optional.

        Others bring cookies, soft drinks, water balloons, bug butter sandwiches, candy necklaces and red liquorish ropes. Gear includes flags on dowels, croquet mallets, badminton racquets and birdies, pickets with numbers on them etc. All players should be able to recite poems, sing the Very Sorry Song, apologize profusely and call fouls for any reason real or imagined. All scoring is non numerical such as “Q-A”, “Boogies” “Oogies” or “Natchitoches’”. Zones of Silence, Slow Motion, Break Dancing and Invisibility may be pointed out at any moment by any team player or spectator, cheerleader or ‘Left-Out Player’ that happens to be around. If a player steps into the Vortex Spot they must spin around until they get dizzy and fall down. All teams may have names that they may change before, during or after the game. The object is to have fun, play and the winners pay for ice cream and pizza afterward; no team ever loses. Got the picture?

        Let’s play! The Calvinball is tossed in the air; all team players turn their backs; Eenie sneaks a look and kicks the ball toward a tree claiming the tree to be a goal. Meenie calls foul and demands an apology; Eenie claims that Meenie is standing in a Zone of Invisibility and must put her hands over her eyes until hit by the Calvinball which Ralph has stolen and has brought to the Boomerang Zone where everything is reversed and Meenie has to sing an ‘Apology Song’. Miney then throws a water balloon at Ralph who ducks and has the ball taken and thrown at Meenie putting her back in the game. The water balloon misses and hits Moe who is one of the ‘Left-Out Players’. Meenie sings a song and all players break for snacks.

        Moe blows a whistle and the game is back on; Eenie falls down in the Tantrum Zone and can only get up when everyone sings the ‘It’s Gonna Be Alright’ song; which they do. Meanwhile, the ball is in motion and Miney punts it with a Croquet Mallet toward a red stick stuck in the ground surreptitiously by Eenie who claims it as a goal named Baton Rouge; Moe calls foul and is reminded that he’s not in the game, which is a game wide penalty and everyone has to form a Perimeter of Wisdom and proclaim declarations of any sort in favor of the beauty of the day. Ralph meantime is at Third Base taking a nap.

        The game goes on and on from there with a final score of 20 Tchoupitoulas’ to 85 Meshuggenehs (tie score); high fives all around, share the potato chips, a group hug and off to Brocado’s and Venezia’s Pizzeria.    

       

       

       

Katrina 20 years after

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Katrina

Or

Twenty Years On

“Crying won’t help you, praying won’t do you no good; when the levee breaks, Mama, you got to move…ooh” Led Zeppelin

        It was a tropical depression on August 25, 2005; located down by the Bahamas. Tropical storms Arlene and Bret had already happened in June; there were 28 tropical and sub tropical storms and the National Hurricane Center named 27 storms that year; 15 of them reached hurricane status (sustained winds of 74 miles an hour or greater 4 of them reached category five: Emily, Katrina, Rita and Wilma (Wikipedia). On August 29, 2005 after days of meandering Hurricane Katrina hit the gulf coast and. F***ked. Us. Up. BTW Category 5 sustained wind speeds are 157 miles an hour.

        That was a bad year, (I was here) weather-wise and weather has only gotten worse. This year we suspect 13-18 named storms, 7-10 hurricanes and 3-5 major hurricanes (CSU). Are we ready this year? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing is certain; Federal assistances are probably not gonna be available because the administration has cut funding for and NOAA and The National Weather Service, who predict when and where the storms come from and where they’re going, and also cuts were made to FEMA, who helps in catastrophic aftermaths (site.extention.uga.edu). All in the name of government efficiency.

        I’ve seen on the news (have you watched?) it’s been a very active storm and natural disaster season in this country so far this year; forest fires, tornadoes, massive flooding, early summers and late winters affecting millions. As for funding from FEMA for the gulf coast in general and New Orleans in specifics go, a US House Committee hearing has floated some ideas last April to “Let the states carry more of the disaster burden” (The Advocate). If any kind of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious disaster occurs here and you think that the great state of Louisiana is gonna carry a more of the response burden, thirty Helens agree, “that is a vain and illogical assumption”.

        With each passing year, I see less and less ‘Katrina veterans’ as our younger population gets younger; anyone younger the twenty will have no idea what it was like to be trapped in this city while the world fell apart; not an inkling to what it was like to be completely shut off from the world, without water, without electricity, without supplies of any kind. To depend on the neighbors that were left here who were also without and how the people that were left formed a community into and unto itself.

        Debbie and I were here for the impact of the storm. We were here for six days after that. We took in animals, shared food and clothing, came together with others to commune and spread any information that was available. We heard gunshots, we saw explosions, fires; we witnessed and experienced heartbreak and fear. We drank warm beer. I was terrified most of that time.

        By August 31^st, 80% of New Orleans was under water. We were literally abandoned by our government for much of that time, unable even to flush our toilets. We escaped just when General Russel Honore came to town and got the response moving from what he said was “Stuck On Stupid!”

        We got out in a ‘borrowed’ Toyota with three adults and seven animals and headed to Shreveport to a ‘safe house’ that had been set up for us. Our first stop outside of the city was at a gas station/convenience store where Debbie spent the longest time in the rest room washing her hands and flushing the toilet just to hear running water; Kevin, the other passenger, wanted “anything with ice, ice, ice, I need ice!”; I sat in the car wanting to drive as far and as fast as I could away from New Orleans. We, let Kevin off in Dallas and drove all the way to San Francisco stopping on the road at any motel that had a pool and had beer and pizza available nearby.

        We had talked about moving to San Francisco a few times, noting how wearing it could be to live here; we had abandoned everything we owned in New Orleans when we fled, not knowing if anything would be left if we went back. There had been talk about flooding the French Quarter (where we were living) and there had been widespread looting. The governor had ordered looters ‘shot on sight’ and there were law enforcement snipers on roofs; we were told later that there were running gun battles in the streets in the aftermath. I could tell you stories. I was there.

        Why’d we come back? Why would we come back? San Francisco welcomed us with open arms. I’ll tell you why we returned. As we were driving into the city, road worn and bone weary, they were doing a musical tribute to New Orleans on the radio. As we were driving into San Francisco, fatigued and damaged, the radio played a song for New Orleans. “Do you know what it means, to miss New Orleans, and miss it each night and day. I know I’m not wrong, the feelings getting stronger, the longer I stay away.”

        We had to pull over because I could not see through the tears, we both broke down; it was the first time that I allowed myself to cry since the beginning of the debacle; even now I tear up when I hear that song. We made a decision. We would not be forced out of our city; if we left it would be in our own time, when WE decided. We were going to come back because when your home team is low and defeated, you didn’t change teams. We came back because we truly knew what it meant to miss New Orleans. 

       

       

       

       

 

Voting for Morons

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Fools

Or

Tools

“They aren’t gonna help us, too busy helping themselves; they aren’t gonna change this…we gotta do it ourselves“  Taylor Swift

        As I see it, there are three political parties in this country (and, correct me if I’m wrong); there’s the Dems, the GOPs and the “I don’t give a shit, I’m not voting” party. When confronted about their ideology, each party gets really defensive; and when you might be stupid enough to point out another party’s viewpoints, they generally will point out that it’s you, that are, actually, stupid.

        Reasoning does absolutely no good; they are emphatically right and others are categorically wrong. And to prove that they are correct, they resort to belittling, mocking and insulting anyone’s different affiliations and viewpoints. One party is considered conservative, the other party is called liberal and the third party, again, does not give dog doo-doo about the party of the first or the party of the second part. Election winners (of any party) are the people who are governing and running our country, from dog catcher all the way up to the White House and you’ve got to live with them because, supposedly, the majority of somebody has voted them in, so, naturally (because some dumb majority said so) they are large, in charge and not listening to any arguments to the contrary about how right they deservedly are.

        BAM! And, they will not only argue their points but get as uppity as a crawfish that has escaped the pot, because you are wrong (even if you kinda agree with them) and you need to listen to what they have to say and what they have to do because it’s ‘for your own good’ (and they have the votes to prove it). Obviously, if you didn’t vote for them and they won anyway, you are wrong, naïve, ill informed and, again, stupid.

        The first two parties will watch the news, keep up with market trends and generally ignore their constituents and concentrate their actions on the donors and donations that they’ve received or hope to receive. The third party will ignore it all because they don’t care, it doesn’t concern them, there’s nothing they can do about anything anyhow and, besides, they’re not going to vote anyway. Be glad that you’re not married to a politician (oh, you are? Sorry.)

        “Cut down that tree and pave paradise to put up a parking lot” or “save the trees, the bees and birds and give me spots on my apples” or thirdly “I could care less, never been there and it’s not my tree; and oh, will there be a place to get ice cream?”

        Doubt me? Here’s some facts: voter turnout in 2024 was 63.9 percent; in 2020 it was 66.6 percent (cfr.org). 2020 was the highest voter turnout, percentage wise, since 1900. Seriously, a full third of eligible voters belong to the ‘who gives a rat turd?’ party. Yep.

        Mormons and white Catholics and other Protestants (especially evangelicals) mostly vote conservative; Hispanic Catholics, Black Protestants and others (Jewish, Muslims) and the unaffiliated (with atheists and agnostics leading the pack) mostly lean liberal. (pewresearch.org).

        Well functioning democracies are more inclusive (dirty word now) and have higher voter turnout; ease of registration and with healthy electoral competition, should and usually does increase voter turnout (ucsb.edu).

        In Australia, where 98.2 percent of adults are eligible voters, if you didn’t vote in a statewide election you’ll receive a letter asking you to explain why; if you don’t have a valid and sufficient reason, you will be fined (wa.gov.au). There are 22 other countries where voting is mandatory (pbs.org).    

        So let’s look at what mandatory voting would incur. Immediately it would incur outrage, indignation and the scream from the masses that it is their right not to vote. You might point out that that reasoning is exactly what the masses screamed when they were first told that they would have to pay income tax, contribute to Social Security and more recently they would have to pay for Medicare and Medicaid. Or that they would have to have a license and insurance to drive a motorized vehicle (sober). Or pay rent to a landlord; or if they own a house, pay the note on time or get out.

        Mandatory voting would mean that everyone would have to have an opinion as to who gets to make laws, establish policies and provide for the common defense. If we had mandatory voting there would be larger targeted audiences to sway and big donors would have to do more than just give campaign donations to the politician that could return them the biggest favors. It would make it harder to steal an election because everyone would be watching. It would be great to see a very strong independent party that would force both now major parties to ‘get up on their hind legs’.

        I believe that someone who doesn’t vote still has opinions, because the people that I know that don’t vote still complain about the politicians that other people voted for and while we might say “if you don’t vote, you can’t complain” they counter with “because I don’t vote, I can complain about the choices that you made!”

        I am also in the habit, when the candidate that I voted for doesn’t win, of blaming the people that didn’t take the time to get out and vote; or the folks that voted for a candidate that didn’t stand the chance of a snowball in hell, out of spite for the other candidates who (debatably) they thought were incompetent and worthy of ignoring. There should be a ‘none of the above’ selection.

        It’s a conundrum, a Catch-22 and a ‘damned if you do; damned if you don’t’ situation. One thing I’ve learned, in the contract of life, there is no sanity clause.

 

 

Trip to Sicily

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Abide

Or

Exit

“You never listen, you just stay and stay; how can I miss you if you don’t go away” Dan Hicks

        Well, this is me, going off on a pilgrimage; I’m going far far away, and with her blessings. It’s a trip by planes, trains, buses and treks. I’m going to the wild mountains of Sicily, to a small town called San Piero Patti population 2,700 spread over miles and miles of wild terra firma. I’m going to find where my people came from.

        In the early days of the 1900s my twenty-five year old grandfather came and settled in a very unlikely place, Altoona Pa. He settled and then sent back to his village for a bride. His name was Filippo LaMancusa his bride (14 year old) Carmela Scaglione came and by the time she was nineteen had given birth to five children, one of whom was my father Giuseppe (Joseph). I could tell you stories; however, I only have 1,000 words to spend here.

        Debbie and I visited San Piero Patti about ten years ago; first you get to Italy, in our case Venice. Then you take the train to Rome and catch the train to Messina, Sicily (the train actually gets on a boat to get there). Then by train to a small town called Patti and then a bus up the mountain to San Piero Patti, which is even smaller.

        That area is amazing topographically with mountains, beaches, volcanoes (5 of them), winding roads, suicidal bus drivers and fields of olive trees. The people there eat spaghetti, drink strong espresso and wine, love gelato for breakfast and snack on pastries and pistachios; they are in no particular hurry to do much of anything. It’s as if they have no place to go and nothing to do, which is pretty much the case; I’m going to go over there to join them in these pursuits and personally test these allegations and the alligators. Allegedly, they’re big on street markets as well.

        Do I know what I’m doing? Not a clue. I just feel a pull, and when we were there, I felt a calm at-home-ness; possibly my ancestors watching over me. Do I speak the language? Very little Italian and absolutely no Sicilian which is a dialect of its own; the Sicilian dialect compared to the actual Italian language, as it was explained to me, is like someone from Possum Holler, Mississippi conversing with someone from the East End of London: same language, different dialects, see?

        Sicily is a gumbo of nationality profiles. As early as (and since) the eighth century BC, it has been continually occupied (yes occupied) by, in succession, Greeks, Phoenicians, Romans, Arabs, the descendants of Vikings (Normans) and then Spain before the unification of Italy in 1860.

        Any local history buff will be able to tell you of the impact that the Sicilians had on, the Louisiana in general and New Orleans specific, culture as far as cuisine and attitude. By way of fact, in the early 1900s what we know as the French Quarter was known as Little Palermo.

        What am I going to do in this hamlet for three straight weeks? I have no clue, maybe have gelato for breakfast, drink strong coffee, find a street market, a convenient café, learn the language, do some sketching, take some notes and possibly meet some distant cousins to commune with.

        Yes, I’m taking a sketch pad, a small journal and this little app that will let my English be translated into their Italian out loud (a two way, real time voice translator); pretty cool for a guy on his feet wandering the cobbled streets of a small Sicilian village looking like some noodge on the loose.

        According to my initial investigation a decade ago, it seems like a significant part of the population of San Piero Patti share the surname of my grandfather AND grandmother and I’ll be happy to track down some and stalk them.

        I cannot imagine what it must have been like for my grandparents to come five thousand miles to what they would have seen as a foreign country, not knowing the language or customs, raising a family in hard scrabble times (grandpa was a farmer), becoming citizens, sending their sons off to war and trying to make their way in this strange land. What could have possibly been their reasoning for doing that? A better life? An American Dream? Some definition of freedom?

        I gotta say here that our immigrants, legal or not, do not have it easy peasy lemon squeezy here; ask anybody anybody that has recent generational immigrants in their family; first, second or third generation removed. Hell, ask an immigrant! They take any employment available, work hard to make their way, raise and educate their kids, find healthcare and housing, save money, pay taxes and all they want is a fair shot at the American Dream. I cannot imagine how many are disillusioned making their way into this dysfunctional society and still dreaming of a better life then they left behind. Their kids must hate us, the ones who get made fun of at school, bullied on the street, taken advantage of in the marketplace and have to learn to protect themselves against those who, themselves, were once immigrants.

        I’m going back to Sicily to basically find out what is so great about America and to try to fathom why such a bucolic and picturesque village in the mountains was/is such a terrible place that it would prompt my grandparents to face an uncertain future and leave for distant shores where some giant green Siren statue of a woman called Liberty beckons with nebulous promises of prosperity and peace.