tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67958485765727978432024-03-05T01:44:43.656-08:00Po Boy Views New OrleansPo Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.comBlogger439125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-73455567238321054512024-01-20T16:47:00.000-08:002024-01-20T16:47:20.985-08:00Opie the cat<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Requiem<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Universality<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“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<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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’. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">if
it is our rose,</i> 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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-72794658173943284012024-01-20T10:37:00.000-08:002024-01-20T10:37:13.883-08:00Tennessee Williams Fest 2024<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">PoBoy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ink Stains<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">What Did Tennessee?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“America has only three cities: New York,
San Francisco and New Orleans. Everywhere else is Cleveland.” Tennessee
Williams<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Thomas
Lanier Williams (March 26, 1911- February 26, 1983) arrived in New Orleans from
Saint Louis in 1938. He had been a sickly child (Diphtheria) and had, at an
early age, turned inward, became a reader and eventually began writing stories.
How he chose the name Tennessee is anyone’s guess but, given the options, I
cannot think of another state to choose as a moniker. Be that as it may, he had
his first break in 1944 with The Glass Menagerie and wrote a string of
enormously mind blowing, emotionally gut wrenching and fabulously significant
and hugely popular stage plays and films that starred the best of the best actors
in his time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Writers,
I believe, suffer from the insecurity of and need to have other people
(possibly strangers) appreciate the written word especially as it is written by
them. Writers believe that they have something to say that you should read and embrace
the emotion that they have put into those words. Those words tell a story, make
a point, defend an idea or are simply an attempt to make some money. Writers, journalists,
poets, playwrights, and even that kid that spray paint scrawls the words “Fu*k
You You lying lying SlutBitch!” on the cinder block wall outside of Rouses
Super Market; they have something to say and they have the need to express it
outside of themselves. Fact, fiction, fantasy or however that person on the
receiving end of that SlutBitch’s lie is feeling, they want to get it out there,
off their chest ( I guess that goes for columnists like myself also) and for
you to know it; see it; feel it; be impressed by it or <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>be ignorant enough to ignore it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tennessee
had a lot to say: Night of the Iguana, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Suddenly Last
Summer, the big one, set right here, Streetcar Named Desire (and more) and
although some people consider anything that he wrote after 1961 to be pure
crapola, gems of his other works are being rediscovered, reevaluated, unearthed
and performed with alacrity, enthusiasm and vigor continually.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Who
was Tennessee Williams? He was a five foot six gay man who worked on a chicken
ranch, a shoe factory and as an usher in theaters before being able to make
enough money to live on his writing abilities. He was fiercely loyal and
somewhat promiscuous in his love life and enjoyed the down low lush life. He
used eye drops and wrote incessantly and oft-times very well. He was a big fan
(who isn’t) of Meryl Streep and often lied about his age. He smoked, he drank,
caroused and sometimes crawled on his belly like a reptile (okay, I made that
last one up). He was a model of persistence, stick-to-itiveness and drive,
however lazy he may have appeared. He was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside
an enigma. Go figure.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If
you are literate at all, you are aware of his major works; if you are a maven
of literature, you have coal mined into his life, times and if you know nothing
of him, well, shame on you; however, all is not lost. You can, as a vehicle to
your ever-loving albeit limited awareness look into the 2024 Tennessee Williams
& New Orleans Literary Festival; it’s a genuine really March midmonth
wordgeek three ringed J. K. Rowling<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Potteresque style circus. March 20-24 (5 days) in the French Quarter in
its 37<sup>th</sup> year and it is a sight to behold if you’re astute enough to
witness and possibly partake in it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Picture
it, you’re on your rounds around the Quarter on a springy spring weekend day
and from the peripheral vision of your awareness there are some folks hurrying
past you in different directions (and indifferent of you) with programs and
notepads and books tucked under their arms and possibly munching a sandwich or
snack with the attitude of the White Rabbit in Alice Through The Looking Glass.
They’re going to writers’ panels, author interviews, theater events, culinary
and cocktail events and if you happen to be in Jackson Square on that Sunday
and see a bunch of kooks shouting “Stella!!” at a Pontalba balcony you might be
taken aback but possibly curious. But, before you know it it’s over and you’ve
missed the whole thing as if it were the Midnight Circus by Erin Morgenstern. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And you’re
left there in the dust asking “what; where; when; who? It was? Shit! well, next
year I promise!” Well, this is your heads up; your wakeup call; your ‘get a
clue phone’ ringing. RING RING! It’s time to knit your brow just a little bit
higher and go get you some literary couth! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve met
people from around the country and around the world at these get-togethers.
Well, I really haven’t met them, nobody really talks to each other, they’re
mostly at this thing to absorb the vibe and learn shit, me included. Be there
or literally be square.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh, you
know Tennessee’s eye drops? Well, he used to pull the cap off the bottle with
his teeth to use them and one day while administering those drops, something
surprising happened to startle him and as a result he inhaled the cap which got
stuck in his throat causing him to choke and die. Let that be a lesson to you.
Be careful with those things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See you at
the Fest.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-48491091639926438982024-01-20T10:35:00.000-08:002024-01-20T10:35:03.059-08:00New Years 2024<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Happy New Year<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Other People<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
sometimes you have to moan, when nuthin’ seems to suit-cha; but, nevertheless
you know, you’re locked toward the future” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Cat
Stevens: On The Road To Find Out)<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ask Uncle Charlie (Dickens) for the
illustration from A Christmas Carol. Ebenezer Scrooge sits, just like you and
me, getting hipped to the fact that where he was, led him to where he is, and
will determine where he will be if he maintains the trajectory of his behavior
and existence. His moral compass and the consequences of his actions will reap
what has been ‘sowed and growed’. The Butterfly Effect; The Chaos Theory, will
remain unchanged unless a change in course is made. I believe, in our hearts,
that we all want to change for the better; that’s why we make New Year’s
Resolutions, eh?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rush
hour Thursday evening; traveling Poydras Street; three lanes up and three lanes
down traveling at the speed of hope-to-get-the-f*ck-home. Like frantic captives
tortured by their terrorist employers, the cars, SUVs, vans and pick-ups are
escaping, racing away from all the misery their occupations heaped on their
souls and spirits that day and into life’s personal beating that awaits them at
home: spouses, offspring, rents, mortgages and the grass that is dying in the
draught; hoping Margaret Orr will predict some rain and wondering why the home
team got their asses kicked again. The cool taste of that first beer that goes
down so easily.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
hugging the right lane going up towards Galvez Street and I spy the vehicles
veering out from the center lane going left and right at forty miles an hour
avoiding something. The something that they are avoiding is an old man in a
wheelchair stopped in center lane like a Grateful Dead set: no way forward and
no way back. And no one is stopping to aid his plight… or even slowing down. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Except
some guy (me) in a beat up ’97 Lincoln Towncar who pulls over (still in
traffic) turns on his flashers and jumps into traffic for a stranger in need of
help. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
still in my cook’s whites, waving my arms like a sailor at a semaphore convention
and getting to him, ask ludicrously “do you need help?” Of course he does! At
this point I don’t know which direction he’s heading and when I find out… here
we go crossing 5 lanes of rush hour traffic! When I’m in I’m in. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did
you just--leave your car?” He asks “you shouldn’ta done that” “I’m goin’ right
there; okay, thank you I can take it from here; ya got a couple of dollahs you
can spare?” He points to the Super Dome and tells me “there used to be a
grocery store, right there.” I inform him that that grocery store ain’t there
no more and off he goes. End of story. How do <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I</b> feel? I’m frickin’ livid!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m mad as a wet hen; cursing even, not at
him, but at the entire race of humans that cannot, will not, for one brief
miniscule heartbeat consider another’s dilemma that may at best be temporary
and at worst life threatening. And now, I consider that incident an allegory
for the state of the world. Listen: with any luck at all you have three
blessings. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">1. You wake up in the morning. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">2. You’re kinda in your right mind and
health and<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3.
You have options. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
can consider, like old Ebenezer that where you were--and where you are--is
leading you to a very predictable future if you but stay your course, direction
and pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sounds so simple. 1 and 2
are biggies and are really important to pay attention to; 3 requires
consideration or not. Ignore 3 and you will get to where you’re already headed.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now,
you can consider that the world and its challenges and problems; its
destructions and die-ings; its equities and inequities did not just start today
or yesterday but are a series of steps and missteps that are in essence already
set in a motion and movement (centuries ago) that some say are undoubtedly
leading the world to its imminent demise. Some say that it’s too late to change
course; that things already are out of anyone’s control. I say that it’s a
mindset and conditioning brought on by media, politics and religion that at
best has to be overhauled from the ground up like an existential rebirth/epiphany
and I don’t see that as happening… ever in my lifetime (or yours). The Prince
of Peace is not returning; Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today,
Madam.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
too late to be an example to others. It’s too late to fight the greed
compounded by mendacity that is ruling the planet and our lives; souls hang on
by a thread with a prayer and a song. “We were talking about the love we all could
share; when we find it, to try our best to hold it there. With our love, with
our love, we could save the world; if they only knew” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">George Harrison: Within You Without You).<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I don’t know what to say. Happy New Year?
This year will be better? Our lives are predetermined; led by coincidence? Is
there such thing as free will? Can we unstick the mind f*ck? Maybe and maybe
not (probably not). Certainly we can only find peace in ourselves ourselves.
Certainly we can only practice compassion, empathy and kindness in ourselves
until it becomes our natural behavior. Certainly it is only we that can change
our behavior for the better. We have to see that as where we’re going. Or not.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There’s
an old man in a wheelchair sitting in six lanes of fast traveling vehicles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-17883028596031939412024-01-20T10:32:00.000-08:002024-01-20T10:32:44.861-08:00Mardi Gras 2024<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">PO Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Party On!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Not<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello,
my name is Phil and I’m and alcoholic and a binge drinker.” And I should add
“Carnival, and especially Mardi Gras Day, is my time to shine; I’m in my
element; it’s my jam and I’m right at home with all the drunks, amateur or
professional; newbie or seasoned. I’m there. I drink and I love to drink”. Unfortunately,
I’m not really good at it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve
been to Carnival and Mardi Gras for decades and although I have refined my
behavior, the result is overwhelmingly constant, I get drunk, plastered, inebriated,
snockered, intoxicated and tipsier than tipsy; so much so, that I frighten the
neighbors, traffic, pedestrians and wind up pissing off those close to me. I’m
not a gentleman drunk. I used to vomit but not in recent years, sometimes I
used to pass out and wet myself, but not in recent years. I am neither proud
nor ashamed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two
conditions that contribute to the perpetuation of my affliction: I enjoy the
feeling and I don’t have hangovers; sometimes I run into things, trip and maybe
fall. Those times are rarer and rarer because I hope to control my drinking so
that I may continue into my older years bent but not broken.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
come from a family of drinkers; it was common among my elders to consider a
night at a bar drinking as family entertainment and in my days it was not
uncommon for adults to spend four or five hours at a local tavern drinking,
gossiping, communing and even singing (en masse) favorite songs. True. And I
grew up with that as role models of behavior. The only tenets were that, in
public, it was bad form to converse (especially in pubs) about sex, politics or
religion. Behavior that I hold sacrosanct to this day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>New
Orleans, and the French Quarter in particular, felt immediately like home when
I first arrived many years ago. Drinking in public; twenty-four hours a day, at
more than reasonable prices for strong libations suited me fine; my first
Carnivals had me toting a gallon jug of heady concoctions as I joined the fray
on Bourbon Street. Nightly. And still making it back to work the next day like
all the rest of the slow burning trash I caroused with. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mardi
Gras the day, has always been extra special to me. I don’t enjoy parades but
that doesn’t stop me from becoming one, much to the chagrin of those around me.
Me, in costume, weaving my way on the streets cluttered with the detritus of
bodies, boobs and beads is a sight to behold, and I don’t recommend anyone
following in my footsteps. Not only am I a hard act to follow but you really
don’t want to live the lush life that I have; there’s no future in it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Three
things happen to me under the influence: I get happily quiet, I get
philosophical, and at extremes I get maudlin. I am not loud, aggressive or mean
unless provoked. I generally just want to be left alone in a semi-comatose
revelry. I feel the quiet of finally being able to shut the world out and not
have the awareness of daily life and responsibilities; the world’s problems
drop away and I am at peace in my cocoon of alcoholic miasma. Comfortably numb.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve
gotten better in recent years and I am now allowed the freedom of venturing out
unsupervised and the expectations of moderate behavior are met and appreciated.
I find it better to be appreciated for my sense of control than to be subjected
to the ire, anger and sometimes pity by losing it. I’ve learned that because of
my weak personality, in drinking, once I begin, be it seven in the morning or
seven at night, I don’t want to stop and usually don’t until bedtime.
Overcoming temptation has never been a strong suit of mine. Two drinks and I’m
off and running, and, there is no such thing as one drink.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
generally go out without credit cards and a limited amount of cash, say twenty
dollars. I go out on foot and that makes me aware that any trip out will have
to be followed by that same amount covered back, upright and ambulatory. I like
to believe that I can get a contact high being out and in recent years have
come to be more reflective of Carnivals past and these days the high spirits of
those around me make me smile in their simple and naïve interpretation of
celebrations that include childlike behavior and puppy-like antics. I reflect
that in my day, there were big dogs on the loose and now, out there, it seems
so civilized that my self control has become a reward rather than an
affliction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
save myself for home to toast the day and know that on Wednesday I will start a
period of complete sobriety; Debbie says that it’s to give our livers a break
and that’s good enough for me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Growing
up in the projects with five children from four fathers (that we know of) and a
strapping one hundred and eighty pound nearly six foot tall redheaded mother
that drank a case of beer a day and adults that ruled by violent eruptions rather
than abstemious reasoning is a reflection sobering enough and gives me pause
when I wake up in the morning with the realization that I probably didn’t need
that last drink.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
other challenges are that my damn doctors consistently reassure me of my great
health conditions although they would like me to cut down on my juicing. My
great inspiration is my partner who keeps reminding me that if, in fact, I
believe in my immortality that I shouldn’t mess with the fate of all drinkers:
stupid behavior, bad liver and broken hearts. Fun fact: you alienate more good
people with drinking than you attract. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-35324839379119733962023-10-28T16:50:00.002-07:002023-10-28T16:50:16.224-07:00Imagine That<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Po
Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Phil
LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Awake<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Imagine
That<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There are few differences between then and now; the
differences between the haves and the had nots of yesterday and today; the
repurposing of the real and of real estate; the entirety of the mad dash clash
of past, present, future and the ones who’ve moved ahead and the ones that have
fallen behind. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“They are the same people
only further from home, on a freeway fifty lanes wide on a concrete continent
spaced with bland billboards illustrating imbecile illusions of happiness” </i>(Ferlinghetti).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve changed over the years of my lives, escaping from
projects and parents, side stepping prospects, prisons and poisons, pursuing
professions and being always on the cusp of the finer positive points of prosperity;
relying on personal progress for a peace/piece of my mind that is being
continually blown by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> the hungry
hunter constantly being overtaken by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them,
</i>the successful gatherers. Fast women, slow horses, unreliable sources.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Folks my age, our experiences lost in the space of time
and the lessons and larks that lead us from relative comfort to an eventual
downsizing retirement home abandonment with one foot in assisted living and the
other avoiding the slippery slope of a six foot hole; all the while hoping that
the next one to go is not another one that we love or worse, we ourselves. You
didn’t know me when I was a younger man and I won’t know you as an old person;
the only thing an old man really wants to get is older; to get older, all you
have to do is live long enough. Everything goes when the whistle blows.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Million dollar condos and high priced
essentials; disposable blade shaving with a brush and a bar of soap while my
taxes line the pockets of manic mansplainers telling me how good they have made
life for me and mine; property values continue to become fatter and my pockets leaner;
my spirit contentiously swimming against the undertow of historic mendacity
concerning the salvation of my eternal soul, as if the promise of heaven will
fill the bellies of hungry children while the rich donate to rebuild cathedrals
dedicated to a penniless carpenter’s son who died for their sins. The picture
of the ragged man sitting on his milk crate at the intersection; his sign
reading: “Anything Helps, God Bless”; a benediction for a brass farthing.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “Never treat a brother like a passing
stranger; always try to keep the love light burning</i>” Leon Russell<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Private jets and weekend getaways for fat cat misogynists
bring bile to the everyman that knows that there is no great fortune unless
there has been a great crime. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The great
recession of 2018 is coming back to bite us in the behind as the bubble bursts
and our credit cards get maxed out trying to rob Peter to pay Paul and finding
out that Peter has been financially kicked to the curb; even the low spark of
high heeled boys cannot escape the percentage we’re paying, living beyond all
our means as the man in the suit buys himself a golf course with the profits
he’s made on our dreams. The sound in the distance is not a dog barking but the
laughter of Anubis taking our coins for our ride with Charon.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We’re witnessing islands of plastic debris as mega companies
use solar power to make fracking less expensive. They rape and we must pull up
our pants and stumble on being the last generation to walk freely on this
planet; the impotence of our good intentions paving the road to hell. Have
another piece of reality.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have a neighbor who walks to the bus stop once a week
to go to Walmart; he rests on the stoop next door to us and happily explains
how he’s looking forward to celebrating his ninety-fifth birthday. May we all
be so fortunate; from our mouths to God’s ears; walking to the bus ride to
Walmart amid the chaos confusion and detritus of a collapsing planet; walking
to the bus for the ride to Walmart.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Where
does it end, or rather, when did this begin? It began when we let toys spoil
us; when we took the proud boasting of our elders struggles as a weakness we
could overcome by inventing something to make life easier to be indolent, so
that we could make extra time to glut ourselves with more material things; buy
it, don’t bake it; don’t make it… take it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Elect a clown and enjoy the circus. What fools we mortals be..<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Histrionically speaking we are screwed as a people and as
a planet while millions watch television like sailors at a strip club hoping
that the hero on the white horse is really really real. You’re gonna be part of
the 60% of eligible voters that make it to the polls to elect the biggest bull
manure deliverer? Or are you?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>People running for office will promise you whatever they
think will get them elected and once in office find out that they have pitiful
little power to follow through on their words. The government does not run this
country and the people do not hold sway with their elected officials. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s big money that runs things and we just
suck it up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Important decisions should be made by the people who will
have to live with them, otherwise we have to admit that we’re all pawns and
live with that.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-16885891725644127912023-10-28T16:42:00.003-07:002023-10-28T16:42:53.122-07:00Tangiers<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 52.65pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Moving Target<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Home Plate<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“If
you see her, say hello, she might be in Tangier; she left here last early
spring, is livin’ there I hear. Say for me that I’m alright, though things get kinda
slow; she may think that I’ve forgotten her, don’t tell her it isn’t so”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">--B. Dylan </span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I have a musician friend who can get better
gigs and recognition if he moves to Mexico City; I have an artist friend that
loves her new digs in New Mexico; the culinary graduate that I helped cannot wait
to get back to San Antonio; and our favorite old bartender prefers San Miguel
Allende.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They say they’ve had enough;
they say they can’t live like this anymore; they say life is better elsewhere.
Costa Rica. Houston. New Jersey, for god sake!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Over
15,000 last year; 9,000 the year before--left New Orleans metro area. They’re
movin’ out. Why? What is so alienating? Who are these turncoats? Why did they
treat us so thoughtlessly; how could they do this to me?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here’s
some of the reasons I’ve heard: Cost of living and housing prices; economic
opportunities (better elsewhere) and the big one: (violent) crime. Other than
that they’ve pointed out there’s sub standard education here; lack of
infrastructure; ineffective government and overall condition of our streets.
Also, flooding, storm possibilities, power outages and price hikes on everyday
expenditures such as electricity, gas, food, clothing, insurance and
entertainment. Salt water intrusion. Margaret Orr retiring. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I say “is that all? It’s always been like that
on Plantation New Orleans!” And, here it comes: the ‘Get A Clue Phone’: ring,
ring…. Get a clue. The challenge is not that New Orleans has gotten to be a worse
place to live in the last twenty-five years; it’s that it hasn’t gotten any
better. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
like you’re on a path going; it’s a hike, the hike of life. You got your ups
and downs but you’re headed for home, a quiet space, a happy place; the road is
a little rough but you’re going on and on because that’s just what you do: you
travel that path, watching your footing, friends along and going in the same
direction; you’re singing, you’re laughing, maybe even dancing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
you notice that it’s not only not getting easier, it’s, in fact, getting harder
and you’re getting tired. Some of your friends are dropping out to take easier
routes; some have left you all together. Somebody passes you a note: “P.S. your
cat has died.” You’re having second thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
love New Orleans, that faded starlet, that tipsy vaudevillian, that sly old fox
wrapped in her muddy old river stole. I’m at home in her arms and we’re
lovers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve resided in over a dozen
cities and towns and visited a score more. I’ve hitchhiked and driven the
length of this country more times than any normal person should. I’ve ‘Driven
every kind of rig that’s ever been made’ and been willin’ to keep movin’. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve
been all over the world” he said; “I’ve been to North Carolina.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
first came here in the 60’s and spent seven years. I returned from my travels
in 1999, coming to the conclusion that the other places that I wandered in and
out of were fine; however, they were not New Orleans.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
drove back into town in a twenty foot U-Haul on a 2,300 mile road run and left
the freeway as soon as I saw the skyline and realized that I was, in fact, back
home. The first thing I did was swing low, park that chariot and get me a bowl
of gumbo; the waitress was not impressed with the poor boy’s return and
exuberance just to have my feet planted again on this firmament.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
glanced out the café window and spotted two boys on three bicycles and mused on
how sweet it was that kids were still stealing bikes; until I hipped that this
was thirty years later and the kids I saw were children or even grandchildren
of the kids that had stolen my bike the last time that I lived here. I remember
thinking “you mean, we still haven’t taught our kids that it ain’t right to
take someone else’s bike?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Reality
check. Things have not gotten worse living here; things have not gotten any
better. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve
roamed all over town here since my return and I’ve been reminded of the
poverty, abandon and general demolition of spirit and property by neglect. I’ve
seen how manufacturing jobs have disappeared. I see a ‘For Rent’ sign on the
Coca-Cola bottling plant; condominiums in the CIVIC Theater; homeless camps
under the I-10 overpass. I’ve witnessed the two edged sword of short term
rentals that flip sub standard housing and re-energize residential
neighborhoods at the cost of dislocating residents. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
still, as Lafcadio Hearn wrote: “I wouldn’t trade it for the whole state of
Ohio.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Debbie
and I bought a house here, first time home owners; the note is about the same
as the money that we’d be paying in rent here; added expenses of owning are
sometimes daunting. Owning comes with its own challenges and it’s a bear
keeping up with them all. It’s tough living here; but I wouldn’t live anywhere
else (at least not in this country) and neither would she. Did we want to have
to buy a house at our age? No. Are we going to be able to live out our thirty
year mortgage? Odds are against it; but, my spirit was born here and I know New
Orleans, the then, the now and I’m still in love with her nebulous and evasive
character.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sundown yellow moon, I replay the past; I
know every scene by heart, they all went by so fast. If she’s passing back this
way, I’m not that hard to find, tell her she can look me up, if she’s got the
time. (more Dylan)<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-4327710490584802552023-10-28T16:41:00.002-07:002023-10-28T16:41:33.170-07:00Murphy's Law<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 59.65pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Newspeak<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Murphy’s Vocabulary<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paranoia is the suspicion that the world is
out to get you; it’s antonym, confidence, is when you assuredly know that it
is. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Murphy’s
Law says that ‘anything that can go wrong, will go wrong’ and it’s antonym Yhprum’s
Law (Murphy spelled backwards) says that ‘anything that can work, will work’.
Of course, Murphy is the one we believe most often and if you’re a Murphy-phile
you can even take your outlook a step further with Finagle’s Law which says
that ‘things will always go wrong with the worst possible outcome at the worst
possible time’. BTW, there’s Sod’s Law as well, but things, at this point, are
starting to confuse me, so we’ll skip over that one. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
language: I’m sure that bards and poets roll and roil in their ghostly graves
and cringe in their monolithic mausoleums listening to the butchering these
modern times and mentalities have inflicted on our expansive and handsome language.
Expletives and our use of modern idiotic catch phrases, euphemisms, and the
uses of spelling and punctuation proliferate as if people had primary school
educations in Outer Mongolia and were left back for not shaving and are grist
for the mill. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Short
bursts of expletives plague our linguistic existence—here’s a question--what
generally is the expletive that kicks into our brain pan and escapes our
thoughts and mouths when someone speeds up from the right lane, cuts us off to
make an illegal left turn at a major intersection, while on their phone (and
it’s not a cop) and the traffic and weather is moderate to fricking challenging?
Yes, it’s the Whiskey Tango Foxtrot reaction; WTF or What The F*ck! and not
something like “you Goddamned, motherless, pox-faced, Neolithic mutated dim-witted
scrotum; you unsightly, moronic, product of incestuous semi-primal inebriated
sludge gastropod gnomes; may syphilitic goats defecate primordial mucus on your
tent floor should the occasion of your next undeserved life’s possible positive
achievement occur!.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, just <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">WTF!</b> (warning: that other stuff will get
you sent straight to HR). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Other
arresting thoughts and reactions are: “Nobody Warned Me! (UH OH!); “Why Didn’t
I think of THAT?” (DUH!); “I’ve Got a Bad Feeling About This” (Face Grimace); “Oh
My Frikkin’ Stars!” (Eye rolling) and finally “Nice Turn Signal F**kface!”
(Banging on the steering wheel).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fact:
your grandparents lived in a world where plastic was a novelty. They also lived
in a world where recreation was an outdoor activity. Also, on the not so
positive side, a world that disposed of its waste indiscriminately (which they then
passed on to you). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
could also understand every word they used verbally as they issued Shakespearian-like
threats: “Oh thy vile troublesome blackguard of a rodent, thy dodge is a bitter
sweeting to my patience; canst you naught attend patiently my deepest furies,
cease the undoing of my goings and cast me not as a fool whilst I harry with
alacrity the smote of aspen sapling against thine alabaster fundement”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Or
as they would say in my family: “keep it up, you little twerp and I’ll break
off your arm and beat you with the bloody end” or “I’ll knock you so hard your
head will ring like a ten-penny nail hit with a greasy ball peen hammer”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another
thing is acronyms and initialisms; Okay, believe it or don’t: two days ago I
read an article in the NYT (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No More FOMO
for Plus-Size Travelers 7/8/2023)</i> telling the world that fat people on
these particular vacations (and these bipeds were referred to, blatantly,
unapologetically and repeatedly, as ‘fat’) no longer had to worry about FOMO. “The
poor bastards, I hope it’s not contagious” I thought, “is FOMO some kind of fat
affliction?” No, for those as uninformed as I, FOMO is short for ‘Fear Of
Missing Out’. The article was complemented by photos of fat folks having a
grand time because these fat people no long had to worry about accommodations,
connections and whether there was shopping where they were going in case their fat
luggage was lost or delayed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Further
investigation in to this FOMO thing hipped me to MOMO or the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mystery </i>of when you think that you’re
missing out on something but you aren’t sure what you’re missing out on. And
then I saw that further still there was the FOMOMO (!) and with that, I yelled
“well, WTF!”-- shot the computer, set my hair on fire and regurgitated in the
waste basket.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Initialisms
like snafu, fubar, and bohica (look ‘em up) came long before omg lol lmfao fs ltr
sfw and hmu and have, I think, greater panache thn thir cnterpts. I think it’s
kind of lazy to write ‘wr ru?’ or omw or “dm me?” C’mon, in my day (when actual
composed letters were the thing) a guy might write on the envelope HOLLAND or
SWAK or here’s one from a girlfriend “CHINA!” (come home I’m naked already!)
See, YAKS (you ain’t know shyte).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All
in all, it’s a perfect BOGO BYOB Catch 22 NIMBY. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Fact:</b> as far as correspondence goes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we actually don’t write letters anymore</i> (maybe a few do). No one actually
‘writes’ anything, we use the computer, we use our cell phones, we text, post,
emoji and send pictures; sometimes we talk. And, we counter in kind with another
emoji or a like (thumbs up), a heart, care-hug, sad-face, laugh or angry; and that
says it all. I have almost 600 ‘friends’ on FB that I only see on screen and I
don’t know half of them. We send our holiday, birthday, congrats and
condolences over the Ethernet (IEEE 802.3.) and we’re caught between Scylla and
Charybdis with only Hobson’s choice as a result. Let this be a lesson.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
doesn’t get any easier and I’m getting more flummoxed by the day; I think I’ll
just go outside and eat some worms. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-16022672290534114452023-10-28T16:40:00.003-07:002023-10-28T16:40:25.722-07:00New Years 2024<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Happy New Year<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Other People<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
sometimes you have to moan, when nuthin’ seems to suit-cha; but, nevertheless
you know, you’re locked toward the future” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Cat
Stevens: On The Road To Find Out)<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ask Uncle Charlie (Dickens) for the
illustration from A Christmas Carol. Ebenezer Scrooge sits, just like you and
me, getting hipped to the fact that where he was, led him to where he is, and
will determine where he will be if he maintains the trajectory of his behavior
and existence. His moral compass and the consequences of his actions will reap
what has been ‘sowed and growed’. The Butterfly Effect; The Chaos Theory, will
remain unchanged unless a change in course is made. I believe, in our hearts,
that we all want to change for the better; that’s why we make New Year’s
Resolutions, eh?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rush
hour Thursday evening; traveling Poydras Street; three lanes up and three lanes
down traveling at the speed of hope-to-get-the-f*ck-home. Like frantic captives
tortured by their terrorist employers, the cars, SUVs, vans and pick-ups are
escaping, racing away from all the misery their occupations heaped on their
souls and spirits that day and into life’s personal beating that awaits them at
home: spouses, offspring, rents, mortgages and the grass that is dying in the
draught; hoping Margaret Orr will predict some rain and wondering why the home
team got their asses kicked again. The cool taste of that first beer that goes
down so easily.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
hugging the right lane going up towards Galvez Street and I spy the vehicles
veering out from the center lane going left and right at forty miles an hour
avoiding something. The something that they are avoiding is an old man in a
wheelchair stopped in center lane like a Grateful Dead set: no way forward and
no way back. And no one is stopping to aid his plight… or even slowing down. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Except
some guy (me) in a beat up ’97 Lincoln Towncar who pulls over (still in
traffic) turns on his flashers and jumps into traffic for a stranger in need of
help. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
still in my cook’s whites, waving my arms like a sailor at a semaphore convention
and getting to him, ask ludicrously “do you need help?” Of course he does! At
this point I don’t know which direction he’s heading and when I find out… here
we go crossing 5 lanes of rush hour traffic! When I’m in I’m in. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did
you just--leave your car?” He asks “you shouldn’ta done that” “I’m goin’ right
there; okay, thank you I can take it from here; ya got a couple of dollahs you
can spare?” He points to the Super Dome and tells me “there used to be a
grocery store, right there.” I inform him that that grocery store ain’t there
no more and off he goes. End of story. How do <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I</b> feel? I’m frickin’ livid!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m mad as a wet hen; cursing even, not at
him, but at the entire race of humans that cannot, will not, for one brief
miniscule heartbeat consider another’s dilemma that may at best be temporary
and at worst life threatening. And now, I consider that incident an allegory
for the state of the world. Listen: with any luck at all you have three
blessings. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">1. You wake up in the morning. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">2. You’re kinda in your right mind and
health and<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3.
You have options. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
can consider, like old Ebenezer that where you were--and where you are--is
leading you to a very predictable future if you but stay your course, direction
and pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sounds so simple. 1 and 2
are biggies and are really important to pay attention to; 3 requires
consideration or not. Ignore 3 and you will get to where you’re already headed.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now,
you can consider that the world and its challenges and problems; its
destructions and die-ings; its equities and inequities did not just start today
or yesterday but are a series of steps and missteps that are in essence already
set in a motion and movement (centuries ago) that some say are undoubtedly
leading the world to its imminent demise. Some say that it’s too late to change
course; that things already are out of anyone’s control. I say that it’s a
mindset and conditioning brought on by media, politics and religion that at
best has to be overhauled from the ground up like an existential rebirth/epiphany
and I don’t see that as happening… ever in my lifetime (or yours). The Prince
of Peace is not returning; Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today,
Madam.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
too late to be an example to others. It’s too late to fight the greed
compounded by mendacity that is ruling the planet and our lives; souls hang on
by a thread with a prayer and a song. “We were talking about the love we all could
share; when we find it, to try our best to hold it there. With our love, with
our love, we could save the world; if they only knew” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">George Harrison: Within You Without You).<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I don’t know what to say. Happy New Year?
This year will be better? Our lives are predetermined; led by coincidence? Is
there such thing as free will? Can we unstick the mind f*ck? Maybe and maybe
not (probably not). Certainly we can only find peace in ourselves ourselves.
Certainly we can only practice compassion, empathy and kindness in ourselves
until it becomes our natural behavior. Certainly it is only we that can change
our behavior for the better. We have to see that as where we’re going. Or not.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There’s
an old man in a wheelchair sitting in six lanes of fast traveling vehicles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-9417428315933163002023-08-06T18:53:00.001-07:002023-08-06T18:53:13.171-07:0025th Anniversary Where Y'at<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Quintuplequinquennial<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">5x5<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Long
ago and not very far away, a guy with a dream and not much money thought it
would be cool and necessary to publish a music and entertainment rag for the
edification of any of the interested populous in the City That Care Forgot. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Twenty-five
years of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where Y’at</i>. Lots of water
under the bridge and once upon a time twenty five years ago; 125 years in cat
years; 175 in dog and 200 in automobile years (My ’97 Lincoln and I should
know); a hard birth occurred; followed by a rough adolescence; a steamy youth;
and finally we’re in the prime of life, hittin’ our stride, ready for the next
twenty-five. Perhaps we’ll eventually mature (I hope not).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Man,
can you imagine having the same job for twenty-five years? Do you even know
where you were twenty-five years ago? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gas
was $1.15 a gallon; average rent a little over $600.00; Walmart was a whisper
on the street; David Bowie, Prince and Freddy Mercury were alive and well and
Bill Clinton was being impeached for the attention he received in the office
closet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Twenty-five
years ago Google was founded; the FDA approved Viagra and YOU may have been
paying attention to the current music back then but I WASN’T. It was a cold
winter and a hot summer (what else is new) and hurricane George pimp-slapped
the coast in September clocking winds of 155. It was the perfect year to launch
a new entertainment magazine (eh, Josh?), but the US GDP was up that year, so
what the heck?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
started tugging the editors coat-tails early on, being egged on by a former
wife who decided that I knew how to “tell a story” and at first I got not a
nod, a wink nor a nudge and was about to throw in the towel when I received an
answer to yet another plea from me asking to be recognized, saying that the
magazine “liked my stuff but just didn’t have the room for me….yet”; and then
they did (have room). I became a real writer then. I was vindicated, elated,
inflated, upgraded and creatively created; I called myself <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Po Boy Views</i> (and it stuck). The pay wasn’t great, but being paid
at all made me a legitimate and ‘real’ writer (hell, I would have paid them!).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
first article, if I recall, was about a trip to one of the French Quarter’s
chocolate shops and my love of the product consumed surreptitiously like a
criminal in a darkened alley. Looking back on that article (yes, I’ve saved
them all). I’ve come to believe that I have come a long way as a real writer
and after three hundred something pieces you would hope that I have. I must be
doing okay because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where Y’at</i> has
kept me, and even sends me assignments and for that I am and will remain
eternally grateful. They even still invite me to the Christmas party.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Come
to think of it, Josh has been with me and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where
Y’at</i> has been my only constant (except, of course Debbie) all these years;
I’ve been through cars, jobs, living places, critters, loved ones, computers,
storms, floods and the mugging I experienced on Dumaine Street; throughout
life’s ups and downs and downs and ups and all those things that alter and
illuminate my life, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where Y’at</i> still
calls and reminds me that another deadline is looming; another writer’s picks
and/or meeting; that extra Jazz Fest article is due and would you mind doing a
piece on the thus and such?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of
course I’m twenty-five years older now and it gives me great comfort to say
that so is Josh Danzig my once and future head honcho; we’ve weathered our
separate storms together separately and we’re here to celebrate the silver
anniversary of that tie that binds us. Sure, it’s a little corny; but hey, when
you look back over this amount of time in terms of teeth cleanings, child
raising, gasoline fill ups, holidays spent, showers and baths and holy sh*t!
it’s a BFD! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Naturally speaking, our city has gone through
twenty-five years of growing pains as well; you would think after three hundred
and something years that New Orleans would have settled into some kind of adulthood,
but no…. Twenty-five years ago Marc Morial was re-elected to a second term as
mayor of New Orleans; he was a mere forty years old and a Democrat (in fact our
all mayors have been Democrats since 1872). Look how far we’ve come (or haven’t
come) since then. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
then look how far <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where Y’at</i> has
come; the difference being that our city was built and fashioned on the rough
and tumble greed and avarice, brutality and wantonness, slander and spalling
slather played by a second line marching band to the raucous tune of Nearer My
God To Thee Down By The Riverside Little Liza Jane Hey Pocky Way and for
twenty-five years, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where Y’at</i> has
stood by this city and pointed out the good, positive, celebratory aspects that
keep our populous sane and sanguine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Conversely,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where Y’at</i> was fashioned and has
built on optimism, fair play, team spirit, frozen daiquiris and pizza, a noble
and worthy foundation. I am amazed each issue; after twenty-five years that
each issue is stand alone and new. I am amazed, each month, that collectively
we writers, contributors, editors and externs have put together another issue
that is informative, entertaining and exciting. AND I am completely amazed that,
after twenty-five years, I am still in the pages every month, writing pretty
much whatever comes out of my brain and onto the keyboard, sharing another thousand
words about life, the universe and everything. What a long strange trip it’s
been. Thank you Josh and everyone for having me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-34546419999170440492023-08-06T18:44:00.003-07:002023-08-06T18:44:52.688-07:00Holloween 2023<p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Midnight Special<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">All Hallows Eve<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Halloween--being
the day and evening before the Christian holy days of All Hallows Day (All
Saints Day) on November one and All Souls Day on November two. The ancient
Gaelic festival of Samhain, considered the earliest known root of Halloween and
celebrated on October 31<sup>st</sup>, hijacked by Christians and brought to
this country rumored to be the time when the spirit gates are thrown open and
goblins, ghosts, spirits and the dead are free to roam the earth and have a
good old Monster Mash. We’re all supposed to be very much afraid and give them
candy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
wish that it was as easy as giving away sweets to assuage the fears that I
have; daily I feel like the Gates of Hell have come down like the Berlin Wall
without the accompaniment of Pink Floyd. Like they say in the Middle East “the
fit has hit the Shan!” and there’s no escaping the manure storm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Are
you also feeling like that? A lot of people that I know are and it’s not just a
matter of ‘who is the child with no complaint?’ The world around us has gone certifiably
insane and it seems that the inmates are running the asylum; we‘ve gone to hell
in a bucket and I, for one, am NOT enjoying the ride. Pass the Kit Kats please.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nature
is alive and talking to us; we’re not listening, this is not a metaphor” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Terence McKenna</i>). Here comes the first
Tricker Treaters:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>First:
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Politicians</b>. You can tell right
away because they come with their entire dirty laundry showing; they don’t want
candy. They want money (and my vote); they also want to give me a list of
banned books and reasons why Global Warming is bogus. Go back to Florida, ya
bums!!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Next:
The <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AI People </b>they know who I am
because of<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>facial recognition; they
have ingested data and quantum computing has told them that I’m keeping the
good stuff for myself and the probability of where my stash is. They claim not
to be responsible for anything because they’re “still learning” I yell “That
man’s nuts… grab ‘em!” and they all scattered.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
who is this in those campy outfits, sequins, spandex and Kitschy make up? Why
it’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Gen Z</b>! They want tickets to
Cirque du Soleil (they are so into feats of athletic daring). Sorry kids, you
need to hit up the guy next door with the Toyota Camry in the driveway.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then:
The <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Unhoused and Food Insecure</b>,
formerly known as the Homeless and Hungry; I’m ready with blankets, bags of ice
and gift cards to Starbucks and Bed, Bath and Beyond. They are now setting up
camp in my backyard and we’ll have a weenie roast and sing-along and I have a
new family (complete with tarps, bicycles and shopping carts). They’re some
swell folks and I’ll never be lonely again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oops!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here comes <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Door to Door Salvation</b>! Dressed like a sixties family television
program. They just want to talk about my future Heavenwise or Hellbent and have
I gotten their pamphlets and newsletters and could I please offer up my
salvation as their treat before they TP my house.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now;
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Environmentalists</b> are a knockin’
and they<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>want to know if I would
give up my electronic equipment, my power mower, blower, air conditioner and
any and all plastic in my house including the toilet seat and shower curtain; what
do I think about zoos and have I considered a vegan diet? I am humbled; I sit on
my steps and weep.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here’s
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Politically Correct</b> contingent:
they want to know if, since the visitors have come around tonight, if I’ve done
or said anything to offend or upset trick or treaters who are disadvantaged
because of their sex, gender, race or disability; they tell me that if I’ve
commented on anyone’s appearance that it could be construed as sexual
harassment. They want me to sign something. I quote Archie Bunker (“Meatheads!”)
and slam the door. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
knew they’d come: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Millennials</b>
special, confident, team oriented, smart and casual in slip dresses, tube tops
and cargo pants. They don’t want much. They want to talk about the latest
trends, sustainability, social justice and economic equality. They’re all on
plant based diets, inquire after fruit flavored filtered Smart water, avocado
toast, acai and poke bowls in the funniest accents.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holey
Samolies! At the door now is an entire cast of a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Late Night News and Entertainment Show</b>! They’re all talking and
sometimes shouting to be heard over each other “A storm in the gulf appears to
be headed right toward your house; see my spaghetti models?” “My next guest
needs no introduction; she has a new book out…”In Washington, twelve senators
have indicted each other over free speech being spoken.” “The wife of a famous
ex-politician is reportedly having an affair with a French pop star and
is…”Across the globe, fires, earthquakes, tornadoes and migrant boats….”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“HOLD IT—HOLD IT!!!” I yell “Cut to a station
break and move along and do not, I repeat, do not send <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Commercials</b> over here or I’ll cancel the lot of you!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just
in time: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Some Children</b> they’re
dressed up like comic book heroes, Barbie dolls, the Flash, Spiderman, minions,
Turtle Ninjas, Darth Vadar and some girls named Wednesday and Eleven? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re all yelling; one is crying; they’ve
got their grubby little hands out; they’re high on sugar; chocolate stained;
their shopping bags must weigh ten pounds already and they want more; one has
lost a shoe; there are no adults in sight and I think that little one has wet
his pants. Now I’m really scared. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-87992990894621603202023-08-06T18:42:00.002-07:002023-08-06T18:42:20.829-07:00Big Easy Blues<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Po
Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Phil<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ferdutzt
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Big
Easy Blues<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>(New Orleans 1789): “Its condition is
so bad that when I write about it, as I intend to do soon, nobody will believe
I am telling the truth. But it is better to live here in sackcloth and ashes
than to own the whole state of Ohio.” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lafcadio
Hearn)</i> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
quote resonates in me 150 years later; as Lafcadio further wrote: “Times are
not good here. The city is crumbling into ashes. It has been buried under a
lava flood of taxes and frauds and maladministration so that it has become only
a study for archaeologists.” Indeed he could be speaking of the present day or
150 years before that. New Orleans history and (dare I say it?) tradition is
one of hedonistic dysfunction going back to its birth in 1718.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Booger
Bob lives under the overpass on Claiborne Avenue; Booger Bob is one of hundreds
of our ‘unhoused’ citizens; Booger Bob has over 30 bicycles in various states
of repair that he sells. In fact, there are more bicycles under the overpass
than I see on the street; all housed by the ‘unhoused’. Where they get these
bicycles is anyone’s guess. Does any of that bother me? Not really, that’s New
Orleans.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I get a
parking ticket ($30.00) if I don’t feed a meter, while certain ‘Social Aid and
Pleasure Clubs’ can park on neutral grounds (medians), double-park in the
street and have a traffic clogging festivities regularly with alacrity and impunity.
Men on three wheel motor bikes doing wheelies and cutting through traffic lanes
and impeding pedestrians and vehicles get nary a second look. Does that bother
me? Not really.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
streets are cratered and pot holed enough to shake my muffler pipe loose and
seemingly no one in city government cares. There is trash dumped and blighted
houses, drunks weaving and people living in poverty, ignorance and despair
around me; that’s New Orleans, murder capital of the country. I wouldn’t live
anywhere else in the USA. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Car
jacking and vehicle break-ins; guns getting fired randomly; all manner of
inconsideration of folks toward folks; insults and discrimination and have-nots
outnumbering the haves and that’s just the way it frigging is. Got your house
broken into, your bike stolen, been mugged? That’s not an ‘if’ question; that’s
a: ‘it’s only a matter of time’ statement.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All
manner of cosmic debris lining our thoroughfares and plastic grocery bags
blowing in the wind like dandelion puff parachutes; abandoned and feral once
domesticated animals; a person throwing trash on the ground with aplomb. A
‘second line’ leaving a wake of debris. The freedom to void your bladder in a
corner or move your bowels on a car bumper; condoms; syringes; bullet casings. We
turn a blind eye: what do we expect?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Who
teaches our children? Who taught their parents? Who has given a rat’s whisker
for over 300 years? Am I pessimistic? Not really. Am I optimistic? Same answer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Do I
approve, condone, go along with, encourage or accept as ‘normal’ these living
conditions? No, I don’t. I am among that percentage of implants and locals that
have seen these conditions since first setting our feet on our pavement; for
me, over half a century ago (I’m hard pressed to report any changes); we live,
work and vote to make things better. I imagine that Lafcadio would feel right
at home though; “the image we have today of New Orleans as beautiful and
mysterious, dangerous and decaying, is due in a large part to Lafcadio Hearn” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Guardian)<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lafcadio wrote about
police corruption, abuse of prisoners that were incarcerated; he mentions the
fact of our city being home to gamblers, drunkards, prostitutes and pirates; he
writes illustriously about the neglect and decay that are treated with ennui by
government and population, as if they were normal living conditions. And all we
can say is “it is what it is”. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Do we
need better education for our population? Do we need gun regulation; equal and
fair housing; should we limit short term rentals; enforce traffic violations;
help the less fortunate; ensure adequate healthcare; equal rights and
opportunity? Should we support Booger Bob and buy back our stolen bicycle? All
these may be questions that we as a people might should could ask ourselves;
however, </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I don’t expect that query. You
see, “only a small percentage of the population have an inner
dialogue/monologue</span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> with themselves</span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">”
(<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IFLScience.com) </i>that would ask.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="comp" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“An inner monologue has been found to
have the benefits of planning, problem solving, self regulation, self
reflection, emotional regulation and perspective; also self criticism, matters
of self esteem. <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #212121; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">One’s inner monologue can also
be a source of motivation, instruction, and positive self-reinforcement.” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Verywellmind.com)</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="comp" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #212121; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And if you are part
of the 50-70% plus of the population that doesn’t have that (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">upworthy.com</i>), well, you don’t have to
have it to be a functioning member of society. It’s fine, nobody’s bugging you
to do what’s considered the ‘right thing’; you can turn the radio up, go down
the rabbit hole of your social media; get loaded and go comatose and/or stay in
touch constantly via cell phone ear piece with everyone you know who are also
ignoring life’s questions. You can bay at the moon for all I care.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="comp" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #212121; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Forget about
meditation, it only hurts the head; forget empathy, it’s for suckers; don’t
bother to form an opinion about anything happening in the world around you, que
sera sera. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="comp" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #212121; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This isn’t a ‘you’re
okay/I’m better’ piece; and it’s not a ‘woe is me, let me wag a finger in
anyone’s direction but mine’ piece. It’s a sad reflection of my home. Criticism
is an adversary of love and I love my city; however, I’d love to see more love
shown. I’d love to witness positive changes here in my lifetime. I’d love to
expect that. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="comp" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #212121; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="comp" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #212121; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #555555; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.</span><span class="hgkelc"><span style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-3037771536819139892023-05-05T07:05:00.001-07:002023-05-05T07:05:06.632-07:00Charlie and Eleanor<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 68.25pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Imagine <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Eleanor’s Charlie<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
moved to a street shaded by Cypress and Sycamore trees and were happy; she
especially loved the big cypresses and as a present I sent for a wee sapling as
a loving gift. She named it Charlie. Charlie grew strong and tall and outgrew
pots and was a fine specimen of a tree and we gave Charlie the largest pot that
we could find and when we went to move him we found that he had grown through
the bottom of the previous pot and his tap root had to be amputated to get him
out of the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
transplanted Charlie into a big corrugated metal can and pretty quick he went
into shock and appeared disheartened and lifeless. There were other plants
growing in the can, onions, some ivy and one of the towering sycamores had
dropped a seed which appeared to sprout nicely. As winter approached and
Charlie was bare, and unresponsive, we decided to leave him in the big can and
hope for the best after vacillating whether to cut him down completely. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
had become attached to Charlie and Debbie promised the comatose tree that
should he rise again that she would find a forever place for him to be planted
in the ground where he could grow as much as he wanted, forever; meanwhile the fledgling
sycamore that we named Eleanor, who had grown into a young thing right next to
the dispirited Charlie, had shed her leaves right on time for her winter nap
and so we had two sticks side by side in a can until spring.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Spring
came and Eleanor woke up and wondered about Charlie, their roots had grown
close, she had sensed life there and they had dreamed their tree dreams all
winter until it was time to re-leaf in the spring and to show off their new
growths above ground, Charlie had not evidenced one sign of life; he was
stubborn and hurt and didn’t trust this thing called life. In short, Charlie
refused to wake up. Eleanor the Sycamore awoke and urged the traumatized little
cypress to give living another shot and slowly Charlie tentatively sent some
juice up to see what could be done about going green again. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“LOOK,
oh, look look look! There’s a little green sprout coming out of Charlie’s
trunk; I believe he’s still alive!!” And Charlie did come back. Stunted but alive;
short round Charlie and tall thin Eleanor grew beside each other and they got
along just fine in their big metal can (with the ivy and the onions) and even
made the trip when we moved to a bigger house last winter with a place in the
back to fulfill our promise to Charlie for his forever planting spot. “But what
about Eleanor?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Should
we separate them?” “Can we get them out of the can?” “Can I bust up that
concrete in the back for a big enough hole?” We had found a place in the back
with suitable sun and shade and we decided not to split up the pair that we had
anthropomorphically deemed a campus couple; they were both half asleep and
barely waking as I borrowed a sledge hammer and had at it through two layers of
concrete and one layer of hundred year old brick (which I saved) to make a hole
big enough for the pair.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
took some hours of manual labor to accomplish their new and forever home and we
bipeds both pushed and pulled on their trunks to free them from their now
cramped quarters in the metal container, but out they came in a rush of soil
and debris, knocking me on my rear in the detritus of my efforts.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
dropped them into their forever (we believe) home and shoveled earth and broken
concrete to secure them and there they stood like a sleepy groom with his
barely dressed partner (and the ivy and onions who hadn’t slept a wink all
winter). We waited to see if we had traumatized them terminally and few days
later when we went to check on them, there they were, loud and proud, getting
all dressed up for Spring.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Judiciously
we left the pair their privacy to adjust to the new year (spring is a tree’s New
Year, you know) and allowed Mother Nature to water and warm them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now,
if you’re the kind of biped that sees life and love in all things; if by chance
you’d go to the pet store and purchase crickets just to set them free; if you
open your car window to let that errant winged intruder escape or if, by
chance, you’re the type of biped that catches a spider in your house with a
paper cup and sheet of paper and sets them outdoors or even the type that lets
weeds grow around your yard for the bees and butterflies we just might have a
chance to save the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
is just the type of naïve kindnesses that have a tendency to expand
exponentially; the next thing you know, you might be volunteering to feed the
poor or run errands for a geezer, pick up some litter on your street or even start
taking better care of yourself and your loved ones.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By
the way, Charlie didn’t regain use of his upper branches but blossoms nicely
around Eleanor’s waist and lower limbs (they look precious together, I can’t
wait to see if they have babies); she smiles down upon him and I swear I heard
him tell her: “It’s better to have loved a short cypress than to never have
loved a tall.” Mother Nature and Father Time are now in charge. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-43743167626807080282023-04-02T06:55:00.003-07:002023-04-02T06:55:54.412-07:00Old Time Rock and Roll<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Radio Relic<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Radar Love<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Today’s music ain’t got the same soul: I
like that old time Rock and Roll” (Bob Seeger)<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Okay, okay, you got your Jazz Fest; I’ve
got my Jazz fest, it’s an awakening, it’s recharging, it’s a freaking cathartic
epiphany for chrissake! I’m with ya, I smell ya, I got the fever too; however,
when it’s done and the tents have been struck and the magic turns into miasma…
whatcha got to get you through the tough parts here? OhhZee? Sure; but in rush hour
traffic, or getting’ to work at dawn’s crack, or dodging those light runners,
lane changers and speed demons that inhabit our roads, I need something other
than Jazz and Heritage. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No
disrespect to the Guardians of the Groove but when I’m working long and hard,
hand eyed coordinated and in a zone where no man has gone before, I need to
hear Aretha demanding some R.E.S.P.E.C.T. or Mavis countering with ‘Respect
Yourself!’; Stevie talking to his Part-time Lover; Elton doin’ the Crocodile
Rock and/or songs from the seventies that I can sing along with. Steve Miller
is a joker, a smoker and a midnight toker who gets his lovin’ on the run, while
Stealers Wheel is Stuck in the Middle with You; the Eagles are takin’ it to the
limit (maybe to the Hotel California); the Kinks are trying to get away from
Lola and Paul McCartney wants to Let it Be while Paul Simon continues as a
Boxer on a Bridge Over Troubled Waters.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>E.L.O.
can’t get her out of my head, Marvin Gaye wants to (Let’s) Get it On, Al Green
want to (Let’s) Stay Together and the Staple Singers want to (Let’s ) Do It
Again and I say (let’s) turn the radio louder and sing like Joe Cocker or The O
Jays, The Bee Gees, Queen, Spinners, Buckinghams, CCR, CSN&Y, BTO, MLRB and
ABBA. Barry White, The Who, Fleetwood Mac and Santana. Janis, Jimi, Joni and
Jim and hundreds, yes hundreds more who led a counterculture of musical
revolutionaries through their day… back in the day. Jeff Beck, Peter Green,
Eric Clapton, Janis Ian, and Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
music came before social media, laptops, flat screens, cell phones, MP3s and
personal computers; vinyl records played on turntables until they were worn
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tapestry, The Dark Side of the Moon, Songs in
the Key of Life, Blood on the Tracks, Rumours, Rastaman Vibration, What’s Goin’
On, Exile on Main Street, The White Album, In the Court of the Crimson King,
Workingman’s Dead, Trout Mask Replica, Paradise and Lunch. Eat a Peach, Tommy,
Hair and Jesus Christ Superstar. Sly and the Family Stone, the Temptations, Linda
Ronstadt and The Brothers Johnson.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Your
Gramps had a ponytail and a pierced ear; grandma wore bell bottoms and no bra.
We had outdoor rock concerts and Rainbow Gatherings (besides Woodstock); we had
bands playing for free in public parks; we pissed off our elders and let our
kids go naked. And now you (and I) have The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage
Festival where they, each year, pay homage to the music that we all love. It’s
sights and sounds that I attend every year to get my festival/musical fix; it’s
my drug of choice and I am addicted. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>However,
“if you believe in forever, then life is just a one night stand; if there’s a
Rock and Roll Heaven, well, you know they’ve got a hell of a band” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Righteous Brothers</i>) and that’s what
grooves me the rest of the year. Dr John’s album Gumbo (1972) The Wild
Tchoupitoulas (1976) Professor Longhair’s Rock and Roll Gumbo (1974) Allen
Toussaint; Irma Thomas; Ellis Marsalis (who I first saw playing on Bourbon
Street), The radiators; Little Queenie and The Percolators. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
yes, I’m a WTIX listener (so are Will and Lenny, the Mechanic Gods that keep my
’97 Lincoln Towncar running smoothly) and sure, I have to hear commercials for
Pasta Sauces, Buttburgers, pest control companies and restaurants that I’ll
probably never go to. I know the patter of the DJs and kinda hear news, weather
because I generally tune out most everything except the music. The music brings
back simpler times when I can’t even remember how I paid the rent much less where
I was until I hear a song like Radar Love, Tumbling Dice or Fool (if you think
it’s over). I do recall, with the help of those oldies (but goodies) that it
was a time of (relative) innocence and a time of (complete) confidence.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That’s
what these days should be like for you and that is what I wish for you as you
go to Jazz Fest. You should look back on these days with a smile as I do those
days; they are so similar in many ways. We stood on the shoulders of the music
that came before us; we believed in human rights; we fought hatred; we believed
in saving the planet for our children; we were against war and greed. I still
do believe that we can make life and living a more positive experience. I still
do believe that we can make a difference, especially when I hear Otis Redding
telling me that all I have to do is “try a little tenderness”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-25382769815754076382023-04-02T06:53:00.004-07:002023-04-02T06:53:35.085-07:00M*A*S*H*<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Phil
LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Love
and Death<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">M*A*S*H<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Humor me. Think
about yourself and your life as a pair of lovers (even if it’s just you and
yourself) holding hands and walking through Armageddon; seeing each other in eachother’s
eyes and, picking your way through the rubble of destroyed buildings and broken
bodies, heedless of cries for help and succor as you make your way to
sanctuary, a place to make gentle love. Life is like that if you’re lucky
enough to see the turmoil happening around you from an unscathed vantage point.
Happy Valentine’s Day… you deserve it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Death and
destruction around us is viewed either subjectively or objectively and we can
watch and read the news of hell on earth and either be touched deeply by it or
be impatient for the next feel good story; we can be callus because of our need
for self protection, no one needs to be empathetic and live. That much pain
would be unbearable.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh, we’re
not apathetic, by any means. It’s called psychic numbing. The book Why We Love Dogs,
Eat Pigs and Wear Cows (Melanie Joy PhD) cites that our system works this way:
We love animals (insert people) and we don’t want to see them suffer; we have
three choices (insert when we witness or participate in misery and/or cruelty):
we can change our values to match our behavior; change our behavior to match
our values OR we can change our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">perceptions</i>
of our behavior so that we appear to match our values. The third option is the
way our system works when we can love on our pets but allow ourselves to
rationalize forty million turkeys being slaughtered for our holiday dinners.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve been
watching a lot of M*A*S*H lately, actually I’ve just finished all of the eleven
seasons. I’ve taken away two things from M*A*S*H besides the terrific acting:
One: Hawkeye, Radar, Klinger and Hot Lips (and the rest of the cast) are some
funny funny people. Second: underscoring their antics from virtually the first
episode is that they view the war as senseless but their view cannot stop the
bodies that continually wind up coming in; necessitating them to repair them
(when they can) and if they’re well enough send these unfortunates back to
fight in this senseless war. All through the mud and the blood and the beer
there’s the senseless war. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That’s
what we have here.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>People are
dying senselessly all around us and we as individuals can do nothing to stop
this from occurring and continuing; paying attention to this only brings me a
feeling of impotence, yet I cannot turn away; it’s like watching a train wreck
in slow motion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here’s a
quick quiz, I’ll give you the situation and you fill out the location.
Starvation in ___? War in_____? Hurricane____? Earthquake___? Tornados___?
Environmental disasters ___? Mass shootings____ ? Homelessness ___? Poverty
___? Prejudice ___? Greed? That last one’s a ringer and the answer to that one
is: EVERYWHERE! And you might consider that some of the conditions of those other
quiz questions can be due to greed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here’s how
that works: your greedy politicians are given campaign money by a greedy
polluter, manufacturer, real estate developer and/or power hungry wealthy donor.
The politicos use that money to further their ambitions for power (a type of
greed)while getting legislations passed that perpetuate the businesses and
ambitions of the donors and/or turn a blind eye on their inhumanity or simply
put: Money Talks.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Who takes
it in the shorts? The answer to that is really simple: the whole world. What
can we do about it? Nothing. It’s too overwhelming. It’s frigging crushing to
even think about it. How do we, as a society create enough Mackenzie Scotts to
counteract all the you know who’s?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well,
Hawkeye Pierce and BJ Hunnicut would know the answer. Be kind; be sarcastic; be
a pain in the ass; complain; point out discrepancies in the system and refuse
to participate in its inequities. Vote; get involved; do something useful for
no reward or recognition; pay attention. Be better.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sure, on
M*A*S*H most everybody’s getting laid (or trying to), they are playing
practical jokes on each other; getting drunk; eating lousy food and living in
lousy conditions but, in spite of all that, when the wounded come in and the
broken bodies get to the operating room, there’s no monkey-ing around; it’s all
business. That’s another lesson to learn: to put people’s welfare and wellness
ahead of our selfish conveniences i.e. which would you rather see: a pig
drinking beer or a hog getting its throat cut (or a dog; or a horse; a person)?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Valentine’s
for me is not only a celebration of love but a time pre-spring evaluation of my
habits and behavior. Say what you want about January 1<sup>st</sup>, my new
year starts with the Vernal Equinox (that’s my story and I’m stickin’ with
it!); so, I think this year I’ll adopt the Hippocratic tradition and think of
myself as a person who will conduct their life by “First, do no harm” and
second: refuse to support anyone who does harm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That’s a
tall order and a noble thought; it’s gonna take a lot of will power and
strength. Therefore, I will go to another source of courage, fortitude, wisdom
and instruction: I am now committing myself to watch all the episodes of Golden
Girls. After that maybe Frank’s Place; and then maybe Will and Grace and then…
and then… and then…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A joyous
Valentine’s to you. May you, by day, enjoy nature and by night, take life
lessons from Sophia Petrillo.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-31463225639224779962023-04-02T06:52:00.001-07:002023-04-02T06:52:10.029-07:00Culinary Trinity<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Culinary Trinity<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Aroma Anchors<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
closest ‘Culinary Buddha’ Louisiana’s cooking has ever had was a Chef named Paul
Prudhomme, who dispatched wisdom, passion and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a world of flavors to the known world in his lifetime and beyond; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gate Gate</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parasamgate Bodhi Svaha</i> (gone on to the further shore of
enlightenment). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
a Guru he taught us many things: that water tastes better when you drink it
from your hands; how the magic of our food here is “twelve ingredients done
twenty different ways”; how it’s okay to burn (blacken) your food and how
onions, celery and bell peppers are the ‘Holy Trinity’ of our cooking
ingredients (with Garlic as the Pope). Also, as rumor has it, he was quoted as
saying that “food is not adequately seasoned unless it hurts to eat it”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Having
three bedrock ingredients (or ‘Trinities”) are not unusual; Spanish Cuisine has
Sofritto (tomatoes, peppers and onions); the French have their Mirepoix
(onions, celery and carrots); Greece, China, Italy, India cooking all have a
‘Trinity’ of sorts. Define this ‘Trinity’ thing? Consider it a recurrent flavor
combination: a center of gravity in a profile cooking; even barbecue, with its
myriad of interpretations has a ‘Trinity’ of its own (pepper, vinegar, smoke).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
let’s examine this Creole/Cajun Trinity thing; what we know and what we don’t
know. Onions came over on the Mayflower; Garlic came up from the Southwest via
Spanish Conquistadors; Peppers are native to the Americas; that brings us into
the seventeenth century. And now there’s the question of celery. Culinary
celery probably began being cultivated in Italy and France in the 1600s; before
that it was used medicinally. Celery was farmed commercially in the late 1800s
in the north (Kalamazoo, Michigan); it grows in cooler climates as do carrots.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
somehow, somehow, all of these forces came together in Southern Louisiana as
the foundation of all that is considered to be present in our cooking; our
defining culinary personality. When did this happen? Were they all out
hitchhiking across country and wound up in Louisiana together? Did they meet in
a bar and start hanging out”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
perusing the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Picayune Creole Cookbook</i>,
originally published in1901, there is little mention of celery or bell peppers,
certainly none in nine different gumbos, three jambalayas or even their Creole
Sauce recipe; celery is used as a vegetable and in Boiled Shrimp and/or Boiled
Crab a plethora is used to season the water used to cook. Certainly Cajuns who
lived off the land most likely couldn’t afford the luxury of celery until
middle twentieth century.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
know the French settlers in Louisiana may have been used to their mirepoix but
likely would have had to get carrots from the north; celery may have come down
during the Civil War and possibly been grown here in the cooler months of November-December,
but then what?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Logic
tells us that without adequate refrigeration, only what could be grown and
harvested in season and in proximity would make their way into our pots:
onions, peppers (both mild and hot) parsley, watercress and greens come to
mind. Creoles would have had herbs as well: thyme, oregano, bay leaves; Cajuns
had all that and swamp insects that deprived them of ingredients like tomatoes
and wheat flour.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
the 1960s, when I migrated here, the ‘Seasoning Vegetables’ (that which we now
call the ‘Trinity’) was ensconced in the local cooking; celery was readily
available as were potatoes (sweet and Irish), cabbage, carrots, onions,
tomatoes, peppers and little else as far as fresh vegetable staples went. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was plenty of fruit: avocados,
pineapples and bananas. Fruits and vegetables in season came and went. And
coffee (and chicory)… lots of coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
that time, the French Market was servicing over 3,000 people a day; there were
meat markets and fresh seafood stalls along Decatur Street where tourists now
shop for made-in-China souvenirs. There was a big super market just outside the
Quarter (Scwegmann’s) that had, inside, a pharmacy, savings bank and a bar;
outside they pumped gas for your car if you had one (lots of folks didn’t). It
was a blue collar world then and you could listen to the women as they made
their groceries discussing what noodles to put in the Ya Ca Mein, whether to
put pickle meat in their beans or: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“first
I make me my roux, good and brown, the I add me my seasoning vegi-tables, then
my okree, crabs and swimps….then…”</i> I miss those days.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
the oil jobs moved to Houston, the shipping industry went to deeper ports; the
bohemians were replaced by hippies and the whole culcha went to pot. Spanish
sailor bars and Greek belly dancing joints started closing and just when it
looked its worst for us… the tourists came like locusts and bailed us out. Ella
Brennan bought Commanders Palace and took a chance on trading a German chef for
a Cajun named Paul Prudhomme and suddenly… we have a ‘Trinity’ of vegetables.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
a good thing we didn’t have an HR back then or they might have said that comparing
the Father, Son and Holy Spirit to an onion, celery and bell pepper motif was religiously
derogatory; especially if you libel the Blessed Pope (who lives in Rome) to a
head of garlic! We’re all gonna burn in Hell like a blackened Red Fish left too
long in the pan!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
conclusion, the only thing that we know about the ‘Trinity’ is that the
combination occurred before the name was given and once the name was given it
stuck like a cheap suit on a used car salesman; like ugly on an ape; like white
on rice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Come
to think about it, here’s the next thing to ponder: if a machine that polished
rice into those little non-nutritional specks we consume didn’t occur until the
late 1800s (1861 Sampson Moore), did the original settlers here eat brown rice
with their red beans? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-14572236828198241332023-04-02T06:50:00.003-07:002023-04-02T06:50:36.297-07:00Storyville<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Storyville<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Love For Sale<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Brothels;
Houses of Ill Repute; Cat-houses; Whore Houses; Bordellos; Red-light Districts;
Comfort Parlors; Sporting Palaces; however you refer to them, simply put, are
places where you go and pay someone to have sex with you. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Generally
speaking, it’s men who go to get their rocks off; their jollies; their load
lightened; get laid. Women hire gigolos and pamper cabana boys; men pay whores.
The oldest profession is also the oldest systemic subjugation. Prostitutes are
people that give sexual comfort and take money for that service (we won’t talk
about sluts like me that give it away free).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Post
Civil War, New Orleans was rife with mischief of all kinds: gambling, drinking,
carousing, dancing, loud music, violence, mayhem, manslaughter and, of course,
all the sex you could afford to pray or pay for. Some folks here still call
them the good old days; some folks claim that not much has really changed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back
then, we were truly a seaport river town with cargo and waterfronts and seamen
from foreign climes; boatmen from up river and local raconteurs, rapscallions,
ruffians and roustabouts all looking for a way to blow off steam and not having
to go far to find it, created a city whose atmosphere was definitely not
Christian-like to say the very least. That particular New Orleans became notoriously
definitive as a place to ‘do whatcha wanna’. It was known as a “Sin City” where
shenanigans were a participatory sport, a tourist attraction and an economic
engine. Tops among these attractions were the “women notoriously abandoned to
lewdness”. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>However,
in 1897 a City Alderman named Sidney Story came up with a unique and clever
idea: what if we made all that misbehaving miscreantial mischief legal in one
area, one area only, and let the madness be confined and unbridled at the same
time? That sounded so good and righteous that it was decreed that thirty-eight blocks
(twenty square) above the French Quarter would be set aside for unchecked
raucousness and let the games begin. And indeed the games did begin. Dance
halls, gambling dens, vaudeville theaters, restaurants, bars and fancy and not
so fancy sex parlors sprang up; talent was rounded up and put to work and a
good time was had by all. It was not necessarily a completely safe area but,
what the heck, where is? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Names
of Madams, club owners, sex workers and gangsters, who had risen to the top,
became household heroes for the whey criminals as examples to aspire to; great
pleasure mansions arose along Basin Street. Lulu White, Josie Arlington, Tom
Anderson (the unofficial mayor of Storyville), Willie Piazza, Pete Lala, Frank
Early, Joe Victor and more, held sway and influence.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
district had borders from off Canal Street (Iberville) to Saint Louis Cemetery
number one; from Basin Street to North Robinson; but was by no means the only
pits of vice; Sanctity Row; Gallatin Alley (where the French Market is now) and
the infamous Tango Belt and French Town (from Dauphine Street to Rampart, from
Bienville to Saint Louis streets) operated as much rougher, less discerning and
more affordable alternatives. Even into the twenty-first century there can be
found houses of ill repute functioning; the book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Last Madam</i> (by Chris Wiltz) describes Norma Wallace’s place in
the 1960’s history and legends of New Orleans pleasure characters. Jeanette
Maier opened her brothel on Canal Street in 1999. And so it goes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Storyville
operated with its own brand of law outside the law, even having its own
published directory <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Blue Book</i>,
which gave locations and attributes of businesses and personas that functioned
in that district. Storyville was also near New Orleans’ own Chinatown which
contributed to other trades of opium and take-out food (not kidding). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
more importantly there was music. Using our current Bourbon Street scene, what
better way to draw in customers to your place of frolic than to have music wafting
through your doors? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That idea is not
new.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
Storyville there was so much music that music became a competition; sure, every
place that was pleasure oriented had a piano player (a revered Professor) and
the higher falutin the place the more ambitious the music scene, bands became
an attraction and the employment level for musicians was high. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Musicians
stood to make more money is Storyville than other hot spots around town Kid
Ory, Papa Celestin, King Oliver, Fess Manetta, Buddy Bolden, Sidney Bechet and
Louis Armstrong among others explored a new found freedom of expression in
musical duels called ‘Cuttings’, discovering new styles of music, leading to a
form called ‘Jass’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>which eventually
became ‘Jazz’. I’ve read about a half a dozen references to the definitive
definition; however, the term to me just means ‘Jazz’. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>1915
saw the reopening of the U.S. Naval base and World War One bringing lots of new
trade for Storyville; however it was short lived. The military regulations
prohibited such entertainment within five miles of a base and rather than lose
the war; the federal government ordered Storyville closed down (1917) and the
city under duress acquiesced. So there you have it and take from it what you
will.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
I ask you: do we really ever stop people that seek adolescent enjoyment from
engaging in risky business or do we just send those pastimes into the shadows?
Does making something illegal that people take pleasure in ever work? Does the
razing of Storyville, the destruction of our Chinatown, the 610 overpass, the
demolition of neighborhoods in the name of ‘eminent domain’ really make us ‘the
land of the free and the home of the brave’ or is that just another way of the Big
Brother ruining our fun, security and well being? <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Or,
does the common man (of which I am one) simply view “last call” in a bar (or
other interferences) as an affront to my rights as a person just trying to have
a good time and hurting no one?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-76906443079491598892023-04-02T06:49:00.002-07:002023-04-02T06:49:07.455-07:00Big C or little c?<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Oui Chef<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Big ‘C’ little ‘c’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Breakfast
for 40: lunch for 60; sit down dinner for 100; Cocktails for 180. Another
double digit shift. Manager: “Great job Chef!” Chef: “Thanks, I’m only as good
as my last meal</span></i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
good as your last meal: that’s something that every chef knows by heart, from
hotel to hostel; fine dining to food truck; one man kitchen to leader of a
brigade of cooks. As with any player, you’re only as good as your last
performance. Aspire to lead the band in Kingdom Chef? Good luck. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here’s
the secret; as a Chef, you picture yourself in the center of five dimensions of
activity: “did the trash go out; did the delivery come in; are we prepped up
for lunch; did the dishwasher show up; are the linens in; are the ovens fired
up; did the salesman call; where’s the fish; what’s the dinner special; what’s
our food cost; answer the phone and find out what they want; close that door:
were you born in a barn? Where’re my glasses and I need more coffee!” All this
as you walk from point A to point B (picking up a piece of trash and checking
the garbage can for any stray flatware that’s been inadvertently tossed).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
cannot learn this in school. You cannot graduate from an institution and step
into these shoes: it’s a mania: you’ve got to be crazy. Or inspired, driven,
passionate, power hungry, concerned, conceited, getting a piece of the action
or just plainly the only one that can and wants to do the job; talent has
nothing to do with it, you’re flexing your experience and ability to get things
done to your satisfaction and to the satisfaction of the people that are
certainly paying you less than you deserve. And your audience expects your
best. Every meal; every shift; every day; without fail. You’re the Chef; get it
done, end of story.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That’s
the way it is and that’s the way it’s always been, way back to the building of
the pyramids and beyond; aboard Noah’s Ark; The Last Supper and up to Madame
Begue and Tujaques across from the French Market, Antoine Alciatore over on St.
Louis St. or any of the myriad of kitchen chiefs that made our city a destination
for satisfying meals going back hundreds of years.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
every known chef, there are hundreds and thousands that toil in obscurity in
the dust, the smoke, the heat and the sweat; keeping kitchens (as they say) in
line and on time. This country has known many of these heroes and other
countries have known many more; however, New Orleans has the best unknown and
known Hero chefs in the universe. Our food and our chefs are second to none.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
rate a person’s Chefness in martial arts criteria: first: a chef does not call
themselves a Chef (although other people may); they know that a Chef knows and
is all things, perfection, and having realized that it will take a lifetime to achieve
that level of Chef-ness, never stops accelerating. A chef that wants to be a
Chef is constantly moving toward that point of macroevolution, however
nebulous.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Consider
New Orleans chefs that you probably never heard of; consider getting a book
called Creole Feast by Nathaniel Burton and Rudy Lombard. Learn about chefs
that worked with no notoriety for thirty and forty years because that’s what a
working person does in this business; consider someone starting as a dishwasher
and working themselves up to the top position because that’s just what some people
did. That mystical ‘work ethic’ that we hear about. This is before the advent
of the Celebrity Chef that goes on television, writes books and does a circuit
of appearances. These are chefs that don’t call in sick; don’t take PTOs (Personal
Time Off) and can (and do/will) work every station in the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Consider
the chefs that you knew and have heard about: Paul Prudhomme, Leah Chase, Jamie
Shannon, Austin Leslie, Buster Holmes, Warren LeRuth, Willie Mae Seaton, Milton
Prudence.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Consider
the Chefs that are still doing their shifts: the heavyweights Frank Brigtsen
and Susan Spicer, also Nina Compton, Greg Sonnier, Melissa Martin, Erik Veney
and a hundred more. The U. S. Bureau of Labor Statistics estimates that there
are roughly 146,000 chefs in this country; and they’re all out there not about
to participate in Restaurant Week or Trade shows or television spots because
they’re in the kitchen making sure that the customer with a dietary restriction
isn’t being killed by their food and wondering if the produce has arrived and
who checked it in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Indeed.com
touts that there are currently 162 chefs jobs available in New Orleans; so,
there is a market out there for you to tap into if you’re willing to step into
that position.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
am a working chef; my resume is longer than the Gettysburg Address. I do not
plan on retiring. For me the calling came, a mentor excited me; a passion grew
and still grows. Salary.com estimates that the average chef’s salary in New
Orleans is about 50K and that’s not a bunch of money considering all that is
asked for that position; so, the chefs here that are employed aren’t
necessarily doing it for the bucks. Obviously it’s for the… what?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Silly
you, obviously it’s for you and it’s for me as well; it’s our romance; it’s our
relationship and it’s my lifestyle choice to be your chef.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
found when I visited other countries how everyone seemed to be happy being the
person that they are. I adopted that outlook in my life and it has me more
relaxed. I don’t want to be president, the leader of a corporation, a rich Fat
Cat or even Mick frickin’ Jagger (maybe Keith tho). I’m happiest being me on my
journey, feeding people and getting them some satisfaction. May the same
blessing occur to you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-59254645359786448972023-04-02T06:47:00.003-07:002023-04-02T06:47:30.567-07:00Car Tails<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tail Lights<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Car Tales<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And if you give me weed, whites and
wine; and show me a sign, I’ll be willin’, to be movin’.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘The
Duchess’ is a ’97 Lincoln Towncar with 300,000 miles on her; the motor is a
mean mutha-fawya monster, heard before seen, and should another of those punk chump
flat assed cheap papier-mâché and Styrofoam runabouts cut me off again I’m sure
she’ll wanna eat it for lunch. She’s just that kinda car.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Growing
up (yep, another ‘growing up’ story) I knew older guys that talked about the
‘Tin Lizzie’ (Model ‘T’), you know, the one that Henry designed the assembly
line to manufacture one per household of? I’ve seen ‘em and I was impressed!
They sold for $260.00 equal to 18 months salary one hundred years ago. You
could have it in any color you wanted as long as you wanted black. Times HAVE
changed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>America
went car crazy: the Lizzie had four cylinders; by 1930 Cadillac was making a 16
cylinder V engine (how many cylinders does your car have? You don’t know do
you?) Packard, Studebaker, Duisenberg, Tucker, Kaiser, Hudson, Nash, Checker,
Mercury and a dozen other land yacht companies vied for consumer attention in
the 30s, 40s and 50s. I had a 1957 Ford Fairlane whose speedometer went up to
130 MPH and believe me, it did go that fast!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
were incensed with speed, power and style even into the early 70s; we had cars
with fins and chrome and color; names like Thunderbird, Continental, Cougar,
Skylark, Malibu, Bel-Air, Ranchero, Continental, Road Master, Impala, Mustang
(the older one not that newer shadow of its former Mustang), Camaro, El Camino,
Corvette; we had a European invasion with the Volkswagen, Jaguar, Porsche, Alfa
Romero, Ferrari and Volvo hitting the streets with a veritable parade of
identity and elan. We could tell by front ends and tail lights the years and
models. We car spotted Aston Martins, Rolls Royce, Fiat Spiders, Mercedes and
BMWs. We had songs about them; we drag raced with Maybelline and Nadine on Dead
Man’s Curve; I once knew a woman with a figure like a Karmann Ghia; and then,
and then…. the Asian invasion came and it all went to shyte. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
were still pretty cool rounding the corner and going in to the early eighties
with a few Hondas, Toyotas and Mazda slipping into our main streams and then
the floodgates opened and cost effectively made and sold, mass produced, fuel
efficient, easier to park, hatched backed and certainly less distinctive buckets
were seemingly everywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
2009 the government instituted the Cash For Clunkers campaign and everyone
greedily sent their older, able to be easily repaired, been in the family
boaters to the wrecking yard and bought the imports that grandpa would have
thrown rocks at. Now when I go down the road, I’m noticed because The Duchess
is so much bigger, louder and harkens back to a time of American individuality.
Where were you twenty-six years ago?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
cheaper cars like the Cilantro and others (with fiberglass and Styrofoam
bumpers) that sell for dirt and are made overseas with souped up differentials
that make them feel like race cars and yahoos that can’t drive on a good day
are racing these death traps like they’re Mario Fricken Andretti! No turn
signals, running yellows AND red lights; I don’t know whether they’re morons or
car thieves the way they drive. And thus, the proliferation of car wreck
lawyers who will get you hundreds of thousands (from where?) when (not if) you
get injured in what used to be called a fender bender and is now a “call Morris
and then get me an ambulance” situation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
what’s with the post sixty year old male midlife crisis giant pick-up trucks
with trailer hitches that never are seen towing anything; with a metal tool box
in the bed? You know that they’ll never tow anything and that toolbox is
probably empty. Who do they think they’re kidding? Geezer Macho is so so sad.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now
has come the electric and hybrid movement which may get off the ground in
another forty years, if we’re lucky. Don’t get me wrong, I believe that it’s
more than a good idea and about time as well; however, those little sweethearts
sell for more than twice the price of an Altima and what’s a poor schmuck to do
to get one, sell the farm (the wife AND the dog)? I wouldn’t mind if the new
electric alternative cars were built to last 20 or 30 years, but they’re not.
Replacing a battery can set you back 15 large, charging that battery costs
money and if you lose your charge… the car stops… and can only be pushed if it
has a neutral gear (or gets towed to a charging station); these are all things
that will be corrected possibly in your lifetime.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Face
it, the petro-chemical fat cats are not going to let fossil fuels go the way of
the fossils that created them; it’s right and noble to cut down on your carbon
footprint, but be aware that if gas is the monkey on our back, The Gorilla in
the room is plastic; it takes one gallon of gasoline to make<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>2 ½ pounds of plastic, not counting the
resources it takes to move that plastic from point of origin to point of use (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">livescience.com</i>) and since it is cheaper
to make plastic than to recycle it… (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass
Institute of Tech</i>.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>An
estimated 9 million tons of plastic enter the oceans each year (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">maritimeaquarium.org</i>); how much do we
collectively use, waste and throw away? The electric car is made from plastic;
your recycle bin; toothbrush; this computer; we even use gasoline to send
plastic waste to the landfill.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Duchess is made of steel; we try to limit our carbon imprint; we’re confronted
by The Gorilla everywhere we look. We’re sad. We don’t like the way that times
have changed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-72640338668006223552022-11-06T16:24:00.001-08:002022-11-06T16:24:26.192-08:00ESOP or Restaurant Rethink<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">ESOP<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Restaurant Re-think<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
DID know that some of the more successful companies in America are owned by the
workers themselves (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">investopedia.com</i>)?
Some of these companies have multiple locations, with many employees, raking in
beaucoup dollars and not hurting for staff that is willing and able to work for
themselves for themselves. Some are food service and restaurant companies. What
would it take for New Orleans local restaurants and businesses to think outside
the box and applying this strategy for success and survival? Perhaps no one has
thought of it? Not necessarily; multiple examples were set here over a half
century ago, nowadays it could be chalked up to intransigence that keeps our
economy and industries near comatose. Or maybe it’s the ‘I-Me-Me-Mine’
mentality that dissuades a company owned business from realizing that without
workers that are dedicated selfishly to success, they have to ride herd on less
than enthusiastic workers every day that they are operational.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
are companies (including restaurant companies) that have given workers a say
cooperatively in the running of THEIR business; giving them a pony in the race,
you might say. There are a couple of places in New Orleans that are trying this
philosophy out using a couple of different methods from the twentieth century that
seemed radical then by simply realizing that it IS the Twenty-first century and
it’s worth it to give it a shot. Let’s face it, at times survival depends on
innovation; the willingness to take an existing strategy and bump it up. Why
not try?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let’s
put some lipstick on this pig. Say you have a small business, your staff adores
you and your democratic/empathetic attitude toward them and their welfare; you
don’t have staff, you have disciples. How many companies can say that? They see
your vision and have made it a priority in their life for you to succeed; they
have strived with you in hard times and now the light at the end of the tunnel
is stability and not an oncoming train. You really want them to share in what
you (with their help) have achieved. Do you give them a raise? Health benefits?
A gym membership? A picture of Ben Franklin on a three by six piece of green
paper? A big old sloppy kiss?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nah,
you gather them together, maybe over dinner and drinks, and you say: “You know
what kids? I could not have done this without you; without your dedication and
loyalty! Would any of you mind if we formed an LLC in all of our names and went
into business together? Yay, team!!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Seem
farfetched? Hard to imagine? It is, and no one in their right mind would dare
think of doing something as crazy stupid as that, right? Heard of Bob’s Red
Mill products? King Arthur flour products? It’s called ESOP (Employee Stock
Ownership Plan). There’s Publix Super Markets; Brookshire Brothers Grocery
Stores; Acadian Ambulance; examples from poultry processing to manufacturing to
engineering firms; healthcare; supermarkets and construction companies all
employee owned. Didn’t register on your radar? There are hundreds and hundreds,
from who you buy your beer from (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">craftbeer.com</i>)
to where you dine out (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jamesbeard.org</i>),
the numbers are rising. Obviously their workers believe that it’s better than
just punching a heartless clock.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Okay,
look, you don’t just GIVE your company away; in some cases a worker has to show
up a certain number of shifts a month to qualify; also a period of employment
(say six months to a year) might be a requirement. It’s not like some Yayhoo
can walk in off the street and become a stockholder, plus peer pressure would
insure that only the right person would fit your/their owner attitude image.
The Democracy At Work Institute defines a worker owned co-op as a “value driven
business that puts worker and community at the core of its purpose”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Listen,
I once had a restaurant with a partner that wasn’t compatible and sold my half
to him. He ran the place into the ground, before he could manage to pay me and
I stepped back in, to retrieve my money and found that his mismanagement of
staff was at the core of up and coming failure. The staff and I worked our
asses off to right the sinking venture and we did; to make a long story short,
after six months we bought my partner’s share (for me) and I was so moved that
I GAVE the restaurant to THEM. In fact, we had grown, through our collective
efforts, to value and appreciate each other so much that we rented a big enough
space so that we could all move in together. Had it not been for the landlord
burning down the building we might still be together. And that was here in New
Orleans! (albeit 50 years ago)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Should you do it? I don’t recommend it. It
takes a lot of work to be altruistic and self-effacing to that degree; it’s
much easier to be a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ owner. You get to boss people around;
hire and fire; give workers weird schedules that may conflict with their life
and do it with aplomb. Drink up the profits if you want to; flirt with the
staff; have someone else clean up after you; suspect everyone of stealing and
give favors to whoever is best at kissing your ass and living up to YOUR
standards and decisions no matter how inane they may be. It’s rough to be
called to task by someone that is washing dishes, waiting on tables or writing
checks to purveyors just because you reserved the right to “change plans at any
time you deem appropriate” (Elon Musk). It’s difficult to be told by the
janitor that your attitude and actions are counterproductive.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Better
to be a boss, I say. Why share? You’re no messiah; besides, who likes you that
much anyway? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-69441406808231556742022-11-05T16:46:00.001-07:002022-11-05T16:46:03.814-07:00Hope fiend<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Hope Fiend<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I Don’t Get It<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Breaking
away to the other side, I wanna make sense of why we live and die; I don’t get
it: I don’t get it; I don’t get it.” wails Margo Timmins of the Cowboy Junkies.
When I hear that, my mind also wails, twenty-two percent of the time or 4.5%.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We’ve
become a society of facts, figures and statistics adrift and seeking to find a
foothold in our collective semi-conscious mental states of ennui: 45 million
people affected by a cold front; 50% chance of an earthquake; Senator Fancy
pants has an approval rating of 42% and the interest rate goes up again ¾ of a
point. Aaron Judge (Jersey #99) hits home run number 62 this season (making 220
career) and makes history but Barry Bonds (#s 24, 25) still holds the record of
762. The Dow Jones has slipped and the S&P has fallen; “and the race is on
and here comes pride on the outside…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Somalia
car bomb kills 100, wounds 400; Seoul, Korea stampede kills 150 injures
hundreds; a bridge collapses in India kills 141; the Palestinians fighting the
Jews, 16 dead; Ukraine staving off another invasion and people are dying by the
thousands; a gunman opens fire in an elementary school and slaughters in double
digits; millions are starving in Africa; hurricane Ian is the hardest to hit
Florida since 1935. And we head into 2023 with the same hope as 2022: “Dear
Lord, please make this a better year”; the Devil chuckles and I get to use
another semicolon.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Book of Revelations lists the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse as Conquest, War,
Famine and Death; it seems that there is a Fifth Horseman and it is us, and for
no apparent reason, we still <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hope</i> for
better times. Sometimes it makes me want to throw up. The odds are against us
eight to five and climbing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Buddha’s
Brain wants us to practice the science of happiness, peace and wisdom and still
we raise animals to slaughter; we poison our bodies, minds and environment; we
send our children into harm’s way and for no apparent reason we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hope</i> for the best in our lives and for
our loved ones. I don’t get it. We believe and follow leaders that only serve
themselves and the highest bidder keeping them in office by voting for the
loudest voice or someone who talks as smooth as cream cheese on a bagel. We
know the names of the players on our local football team better that those of
our representatives in congress. Our attention span and reading levels are….
what was I gonna say? Oh, just this: we’re acting like we’re stupid and we know
it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Renouncing
ego seems the way to go; however, in this dog eat dog rat race where we work
like beavers just to keep our head above water when we’re up to our asses in
alligators; it’s hard to remember that our goal was to join in the Peace River
Freedom Swim.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Whiskey
Tango Foxtrot, what’s to keep us from going emotionally comatose when it all
seem to be an uphill battle; how are we to maintain a positive outlook on life?
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hope.</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hope</i> and the way we view life, the Universe and everything; not
taking our quality for life for granted and uniquely subjective. Realizing that
everything is relative like the sun and the moon and the stars; and how we
react to a beautiful sunset or the tiniest of flowers could possibly bring
about world peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some
wise guy said “I will tell you the truth, unless you change and become like
little children, you will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven” implying that the
way that we’re living should not be our default PDF state. Chew on that a
moment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here’s
the point; in the quest to relieve the adverse effects that bring about
disappointment, disillusionment, heartache, misery and soul sucking pain in our
lives because of greed and ego, we collectively are advised to follow these
three simple steps to achieve a happy and forever existence: Right Thought,
Right Speech and Right Action (a practical guideline for ethical and mental
development designed to free us from attachments and delusions).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Think
about it. If you don’t have anything good to say, shut the pie hole; swallow
that negativity and eventually you’ll begin to stop your negative thoughts (not
as simple as it sounds, and it takes a lot of practice). Once you’ve gone
beyond the keeping your mouth shut and follow up with thinking pleasanter
thoughts, you’ll find your outlook on life changing and indeed, your very life
and actions. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Listen,
you don’t wake up with a hangover, in a strange bed with a three legged dog, an
empty bourbon bottle and a mouth that tastes like a garbage truck has emptied
itself on you; tongue asleep, itchy teeth and you remember not only are you still
living with your mother, but you vaguely recall calling up your employer last
night and telling them to stick your job and salary where the sun don’t shine. When
that happens to you…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">again,</i> you may
want to consider the concept of cause and effect.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
don’t just happen to wake up naked across the hood of your car with the
ignition key stuck in your butt without it (situations) starting somewhere with
the exact wrong decision that you’ve made before but refused to learn because
you didn’t think, thought that it was gonna be fun or this time you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hoped</i> the outcome would be different.
You don’t get it, do you? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hope</i> is not
enough.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
2023 folks; time to wake ourselves and the world up and get our act together
because this world, with you in it, is going to hell in a hand basket and no
one can save it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but you</i> (and you, and
you and me) Get it? Got it? Good.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-59225285631878157542022-11-05T16:42:00.003-07:002022-11-05T16:42:35.377-07:00Dead Restaurants in New Orleans<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I Restauranti Morti
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dead Cafés <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>March
11<sup>th</sup> 2020 the World Health Organization (WHO) declared COVID-19 the disease
caused by the SARS-CoV-2, a pandemic. March 15, 2020 states begin to implement
shutdowns in order to prevent the spread. The shutdowns included schools,
commerce, the service industry, trade and other retail businesses considered
‘inessential’; about two years later, one million Americans were dead and so
was food and beverage (‘from farm to tombstone’, as they say). In the country
in general and in New Orleans specifically, the thin line between effort and
reward was quickly erased. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Immediately
if not sooner, the government began a program called the Pandemic Unemployment
Assistance, The American Rescue Plan Coronavirus Aid, Relief and Economic
Security Act which put money into the pockets of workers affected by not having
any work to go to. 43 agencies took part in giving nearly $4,000,000,000,000.00
to keep folks in food, clothing and shelter. The Paycheck Protection Program
gave away no cost loans to “essential” businesses that needed to remain open so
that folks could spend that gravy from the government train; unfortunately with
the pandemic worldwide the supply chain came off the rails and “essential”
goods and services came to a standstill along with wholesale household, food,
electronic and repair supplies. Rent, mortgage, insurance and utility bills DID
keep coming and restaurants in New Orleans fell like circus clowns in a mud
pool rope pulling contest. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just
when light appeared at the end of a long dark tunnel along came hurricane Ida
and every eatery ate dirt; multiple closings (and re-openings) during erratic/sporadic
COVID lockdown periods took a financial toll everywhere. Some restaurants never
got back to their knees, let alone feet; as one owner put it “I’ve reopened,
shut down, reopened and shut down again and lost entire inventories and staff
four times and (sigh) I just can’t do it anymore; I’m throwing in the towel.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some
managed to hang on for six or eight months; however, many eateries are not many
payrolls away from bankruptcy. Many an entrepreneur will tell you that the best
way to go broke is to open a restaurant; the mortality rate is one of the
highest of endeavors. For large and (especially) small eateries the prognosis
was obvious: if the supply chain, labor shortages, pandemic restrictions,
electrical outages and spotty trash pickups didn’t get you, the hurricane (Ida)
will take the grim and ironic humor (the usual attitude of a New Orleanian if
there ever was one) out of desperate and hopeless situations. We watched some
of our favorite restaurant’s tail lights gleam and there wasn’t a dry eye in
the house; some just walked and others ran away. One owner said it was like
watching your childhood dreams die. Yes, it was that bad. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>People
that did not experience Katrina do not get visceral feelings when that subject
comes up; likewise Newer Orleanians will not wax nostalgic when someone plays
that ‘Ain’t dere no more’ game: Rosedale,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cake Café, Meauxbar, Emeril’s Delmonico, Upperline, Arrow Café or Saint
Charles Tavern’.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some stalwarts tried comebacks; L’il Dizzy’s
Café on Esplanade died and was reborn, as was Couvant; Kebab on Saint Claude
made a go with new ownership; Mimi’s in the Marigny is still MIA; the last Semolina
finally bit the dust; Nine Roses in the Quarter called it quits on the East
bank. Nacho Mama’s; Seed; Sammy’s; Polly’s; The Bordeaux; The Standard and you
know more than I do which isn’t where it was and ought to be. Kingfish is just
gaining ground after its hiatus; is Mahoney’s open yet? It’s a shame, sad and
downright unfair for this to happen to us. As they say: “It ain’t ought to be
like this; it’s like being erased.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve
been in New Orleans on and off over forty years and I can count on all the
fingers of the Saints Cheer Krewe how many businesses that served my soul,
spirit and appetite have shut down, closed, but still remain a topic of
conversation when likeminded friends gather over a glass and recount the food
that made us fall in love again and again (and again) with New Orleans.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
good news is that eateries like Phoenixes rise from ashes, newly transformed
for the new days here and ahead; wide eyed innocents and business savvy
veterans will take that FOR RENT sign down add a coat of fresh paint and open a
new venture that will face all of the time worn challenges of their
predecessors; with the same faith and optimism: Bisutoro; Pomelo; Queen
Trini-Lis; Cru; Jamaican Jerk House: Leo’s Bakery; Zee’s Pizzeria; Margot’s all
vying for a place in your favor, attention and love. And what’s not to love? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
sad news is that there will never be another K-Paul’s Restaurant and sadder
still is that any of our most welcome newbies will look at us as if we are some
kind of weird to be obsessed with recalling flavors and foods that have passed
into the otherworld of gestation and olfactory memory; someday, someone will
open a restaurant called Orpheus that will bring back those memorable dishes.
Do you remember Buster Holmes’ Red Beans; Kolb’s Sauerbraten; Morrison’s Deluxe
Cornbread Pecan Dressing; the stuffed pepper and potato salad that came with
the Chicken Platter at Chez Helene, the Bread Pudding with Whiskey Sauce at the
Bon Ton Café or what was the name of that little place in the French Quarter
that served a fried oyster and roast beef with gravy combo po-boy and called it
a Bear Sandwich or what was that joint on Broad Street that deep fried
(breaded) their dressed Po-Boy? You see what I started?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Three
things I’ve learned: cherish (and support) your favorite eateries for they also
may fade someday; try new places to add more favorites to your memories and The
Wu Tang Clan ain’t nuthin’ to @#$%&!* with! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-67883640359990346242022-08-24T17:50:00.002-07:002022-08-24T17:50:13.196-07:00New Orleans Cemeteries<p> <span style="font-family: Verdana, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dead End<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Six Feet Above<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> For
sure, there are forty-two cemeteries in the New Orleans area, and daily, people
are dying to get into them; but, as you can imagine it’s still first come first
served. Even considering the fact that death is such an inconvenience and, in
my thoughts, a grave mistake, folks keep doin’ it and we keep burying them. Or
we burn them into ashes and send them home in an urn or a box to be shelved
with the canned tomatoes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Some
will say: “In New Orleans we don’t just bury our dead, we send them off with a
party, music, and dancing in the streets.” That’s kinda true. In a traditional
Jazz Funeral here, the dearly departed are accompanied to their final rest with
a brass band, the family in the front line and the well wishers in the second
line; the music is at a slow cadence until the body is laid to rest and then
the band breaks into celebratory music as the soul is set free of its earthly
bonds and the party moves on to the proper ‘wake’. There’s dancing and drinking
and so much carrying on that folks here almost look forward to Old Aunt Rose
kicking the bucket. Or not.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Cemeteries
here are class conscious to be sure. The higher classes go to Metairie where
there’s higher ground and they can be buried under it. The notorious and the
famous prefer St. Louis Cemetery #1 where although they’re buried above ground
at least they are among their peers. The indigent get kicked to the curb in
another place and make due as they can; I have one friend that says that she’d
rather be buried “in Holt cemetery with them hookers and homeless than there with
them muckity-mucks in town!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Even
with the fact that some people only rent tombs and some single burial plots can
have upwards of twenty or more family members interred, it’s a tradition to
dress someone in their finest so they can be laid out to rot. I can’t figure
that one out. The rental plots are those iconic two level affairs where the
casket is allowed to repose for a year and a day; after that time, a worker
with a long pole pushes that which has not disintegrated with time and the
tropic climate down a hole in the back of the second floor into the space
below, giving rise to the adage of derision: “I wouldn’t touch you with a ten
foot pole” (or so the story goes).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> You
can’t swing a cat here without hitting a cemetery and all the best folk are
spread around like gossip: Marie Laveau (the Voodoo Queen) and Doctor John are
night trippin’ in Saint Louis Cemetery #1 outside the French Quarter along with
Homer Plessy, Etienne de Bore (the sugar king) and The-not-yet-dead–but-has-a–tomb Nicholas
Cage. Saint Louis #2 has Ernie K. Doe (but not his mother in law) and Paul
Prudhomme is buried largely in Saint Louis #3.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Mount
Olivet near Dillard University is swingin’ with Allen Toussaint, Fats Domino, Professor
Longhair and rapper Soulja Slim; while Pete Fountain and Al Hirt are backing up
Mahalia Jackson and Gram Parsons’ charred remains in Metairie along with the ‘Queen
of the Storyville Madams’ Josie Arlington looking fondly on. If you’re into
rather large prosthetic limbs, crutches, and eye glasses displayed visit the
gothic revival chapel at Saint Roch Cemetery #1.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Unlike
at the more ornate ‘Cities of the Dead’, Holt Cemetery has most of their
inhabitants buried underground; filled to capacity with New Orleans indigent,
homeless and fringe society one-time denizens, it can be depressing and
haunting until you consider the probable Devil-may-care lives led by those that
wind up there; and among the wooden crosses, hand lettered planks and even
unmarked mounds of earth Babe Stovall, Buddy Bolden, Jack Working, Jessie Hill,
Robert Charles and countless Ladies of the Evening are cavorting with, at last
count, at least 1,400 military veterans and don’t really give a rat’s whisker
what you think of them. As a side note: Huey P. Long is buried in Baton Rouge
and New Orleans favorite son Louis Armstrong decided he’d rather go underground
in Queens, New York.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> We
take an almost morbid fascination here with our cemeteries, films are shot in
them, tours are given of them, rituals and macabre rites are performed in them
and not one person I know doesn’t believe that spirits will rise in them at any
given moment; when I read Peter S. Beagle’s A Fine and Private Place, I
considered it not so much as a piece of fiction but as a documentary. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Dying
isn’t enough for a person here; it’s never the end. Anyone that has ever
‘gotten’ New Orleans will believe that when it’s time to shuffle off this
mortal coil their last thoughts will be “I ain’t goin’ nowhere!” and will find
themselves as another of the myriad of ghosts, spirits and phantasmagoria here that
share the spaces of those still weighed down with human flesh. Don’t believe it
if you don’t want to, but come sit a spell in one of our ‘Cities of the Dead’
and bring a lunch; I guarantee that you’ll feel a tap on your shoulder, an
unlikely bit of breeze or get the feeling of being watched, especially if that
meal is some Brother’s fried chicken, and you can leave the bones for the
myriad of felines that cohabitate with our dearly not so departed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> I read the obituaries daily to see if I’m in them; it would
just be like my friends not to let me know that I’ve gone over my own Rainbow
Bridge; will I be united with <i>all</i> the
people from my past? Maybe not. Could I possibly reconnect with <i>all</i> the critters that I’ve shared my
life with? I’m counting on it.</span>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-37480042784640714782022-08-24T17:47:00.006-07:002022-08-24T17:47:57.260-07:00Kleine-Levin Syndrome<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Po Boy Views</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">By</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Phil LaMancusa</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Disambiguation</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Or</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Unfulfilled Closure</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Long you live
and high you fly; smiles you’ll give and tears you’ll cry; and all you touch
and all you see is all your life will ever be.” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pink Floyd: Breathe</i>) <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was a
film in 1993 starring Bill Murray titled “Groundhog Day”, in which he relived
the same day over and over and over again; this article is not about that. This
is more about platitudes and the Kleine-Levin Syndrome.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Is it telling
that we cremate loved ones and put them up on shelves instead of burying them? Consider:
“So, there’s good old whatshisname (in the box/jar/urn), up there next to the
San Marzano canned tomatoes” or: “over by the window (the better for them to
enjoy the sunrise/set) atop their copy of Kahil Gibran’s The Prophet” or
perhaps they have their own shelf, an altar if you will, with maybe a battery
operated perpetual candle, a bell, a book, maybe some plastic flowers, seashells,
a chance for us to grieve in little increments as we get on with our busy life.
A chance to look back and then a chance to back away… what’s done is done.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The alternative,
of course, would have been a hole in the ground or an upper berth in a corner
mausoleum where we could’ve wailed, tore our hair, rent our clothing and maybe
thrown ourselves (despondent) on top of the casket before it was lowered (or
raised). A visit now and then would be in order. A chat, perhaps some
freshening of the site, throw pillows, more flowers. “Boohoo, I miss you” and time
marches on.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“and then one
day, you find… ten years have got behind you; no one told you when to run, you
missed the starting gun” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pink Floyd:
Time</i>)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Face it, nobody’s
perfect, we’re somnambulating through most of our lives and are roused by
reminders of what we missed, times we had and situations we have left unresolved
and…. some that we have buried (or left unburied). And then we hellishly try to
catch up. We wake to find that time has passed, years maybe; the kids have
grown; we’re no longer young; it was just there the other day and suddenly “it
ain’t dere no more”; who knows where the time goes? The cat’s in the cradle and
the silver spoon; little boy blue and the man in the moon. We can only do what
we can do.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gurus tell you:
‘Be Here Now’; an ex-alcoholic: ‘One day at a time’; Yogis recommend:
‘meditation and repetition of your mantra’; your bartender will tell you to ‘go
sleep it off’; your shrink asks ‘how you feel about it’ and your family will
pose: ‘what the hell is wrong with you?’ Grandma offers cookies. Your BFF takes
you to lunch. Meher Baba says: “Don’t worry, be happy”. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We were so
ahead of ourselves that we we’re the ones that were left behind. We sometimes
meet ourselves coming back from where we’re going and may become momentarily
discombobulated: impulse full power; boomeranged and deranged. I’m so confused.
“There’s someone in my head but it’s not me” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brain Damage 1973</i>)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Asleep at the
wheel as life passes us by? Not quite; it’s more like we’re paying so much
attention to the bumps; potholes; road debris; reckless drivers; stop signs;
school zones; detours on our life’s highways. So much to do, so little of it
getting done and there it all is in the rear view mirror and I’m coming up on
things I need to do now and I’m on overload and I need a nap!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Okay, so now let’s
examine the Kleine-Levin Syndrome, sometimes called Sleeping Beauty Sickness;
it’s not common enough to be in our faces except that it can appear in a varying
functional degrees. Sleeping 20-22 hours a day, sometimes for weeks, months and
in some cases up to a year; getting up to gorge, exercise bodily functions
(such as bowel movements)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and/or
increased sexual impulses; confusion, befuddlement, anxiousness, sometimes
exhibiting violent behavior and then back to sleep. At times having to be told
what went on in the world and life while unconscious. I posit that there is a
distinct possibility that we all have it to some extent. You close your eyes
for a moment, perhaps you feel like napping in the afternoon, you fall asleep
on a bus, in a car, at a movie: time marches on; where did you go when the
world went on without you? Away? Where is ‘Away’ anyway?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When one door
closes… I often think that if I wasn’t reminded by environment and familiarity
of people present when I woke in the morning that I wouldn’t know who I am and where
I am and what the hell I was doing in this place; then I awake, recognize some
stuff and I’m back to being who I am in this reality, “if happy little
bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow why can’t I?” (Dorothy). Where do I go in my
daydreams, in my nightmares? And there I am remembering that I’m late with a
bill or birthday card. “Curiouser and curiouser” (Alice); why?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because. The
fact that you don’t get to use the limitless potential of your brain and intelligence
doesn’t mean that it doesn’t strive to be used; that goes for your emotions,
feelings and spiritual development. Your brain goes into overdrive and for no
apparent reason you’re drained of energy. It’s a call to step back, like it or
not; but you say: “there’s so much I have to do!” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I say “don’t take the rap!” Sometimes
you just have to “Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself
together” (Elizabeth Taylor) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>or: “Drink
some coffee, put on some gangster rap and handle it.” (Martina Simonova)<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>or just sit back and let things work
out. Remember, this ain’t a contest; you’re doing the best that you can. Do
what you do; you got this.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-29966661837900716942022-07-03T16:48:00.003-07:002022-07-03T16:48:52.025-07:00The Emperor's Naked<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It seems that these days are some of the
darkest that we’ve seen; that wherever we turn, things are not turning out
righteous and still we hope. We pray that “Whenever one person stands up and
says ‘wait a minute, this is wrong’ it will help other people to do the same” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anon</i>). And yet no one will admit the
Emperor has no clothes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Po Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Phil</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dreamer<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">What’s Goin’ On?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> How
old am I? I was old when groups like the Raspberries, Strawberry Alarm Clock
and The 1910 Fruitgum Company were making money with bad beats and childish
lyrics. I was old when The Doors, Grateful Dead and Big Brother and the Holding
Company (with Janis Joplin) made my head explode; and, I was still older when
Industrial, Heavy Metal, Electronic, Hip Hop, Rap and Woke music snuck their
way into my aural aura. I digested folk music at an early age; I swooned over
progressive jazz in my formative years and I get misty on classical and
symphonic music. I am at peace with that Eastern Raga; and I jump up and kiss
Reggae tunes. Country and Western music and Rhythm and Blues really can get me
going and I can sing along with Marvin Gaye and Sam Cooke ‘til the train rolls
in. All of which makes me a well rounded and dedicated revolutionary; who
better equipped to rail against the machine?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Add
to that that I am an insatiable reader of just as many genres as the music that
I listen to; I disappeared into books when I was young like someone running
into the woods and have not returned yet. I was born old and have only gotten
younger and more energetic with each trip around the sun and my getting younger
does not mean that I’ve gotten naive (quite the opposite). I have seen and have
an aversion to cruelty, injustice and the self serving hypocrisy, misogyny and the
mendacity of people who, through no consent of mine, believe themselves fit and
in charge of the health and well being of more than themselves; bastards all.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> You
see, basically you cannot have all that stuff running around in your veins and
gray cells without thinking that there should be something done to end this
madness and insanity in the day to day living on this planet that only gets weirder
and more hurtful as months and years pass. I can give you so many examples;
however, good taste has my avoiding topics in my rants that include sex,
politics and religion. You, as astute as you are, can read between the lines
and put context with my content to your hearts delight.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
average age of our readership is well below my half lifetime and I wonder if
not experience and exposure hath not made my little outlook less rosy and/or
sanguine. Youngsters might consider that I, as well as other geezers have been
witness to events and condition that are possibly unimaginable to a younger
generation: abject racism, sexism, fires, floods, storms, wars, assassinations,
civil liberties fought for and won (or lost), earthquakes, devastations and
defeats of all stripes; and that that might tend to drizzle a bit on an
oldster’s current outlook, but know that under it all, I maintain a Quixotic
sense that good will triumph over evil no matter the scars that we must carry forth
for our efforts, no matter how many times “heaven calls in sick on me and let
hell’s claws bust through these doors. Love still lives here” (Robert J.
Sherrah). Amen.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> So,
this month will be full of storms and as I live and breathe I can assure you
that at times it will seem like “cheer up things could be worse” is only an
assurance that even when you cheer up, things get worse. If you’ve been paying
attention at all and not so busy trying to keep your life from falling apart
physically, mentally and emotionally you’ll have seen the clouds on the horizon
looking like the storm of your existence is about to blow this house to the
Kingdom of L. Frank Baum where your spirit will be risked at great expense.
There will be times when someone will tell you “you ain’t seen nuthin’ yet” and
have it sound like an omen; and, of course it is, but they only say that
because their memory has not let go of their experiences, good or not good.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
only challenge with that is they are not you; you are the warrior, no matter
your age. In essence we’re all living with our own battle of good versus evil
and it’s up to us to keep up the fight; the powers that have taken it upon
themselves to make decisions about our health and welfare need to be kept
challenged on a constant basis no matter how tiring and frustrating it may be.
The bastards need that power taken away from them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
say, pay attention to that person behind the curtain; would you have tea, buy a
car, take a pill, or vote with confidence for them? Would you invite them into
your house, share a meal or a bed with them; trust your children or your money
with them; trust and let them tell you what’s best for you and not what they
can benefit from? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Listen,
there’s a story going around about a small country that has been invaded by and
is at war with a power far superior in assets and weaponry than they and yet
they fight for their land, freedom and dignity. The world watches and tries to
support their efforts and still they’re getting their asses kicked royally. And
still they fight. How could you let complacency allow you to be less than them
in your personal life? And yes, I said that this piece would avoid discourse on
sex, politics and religion; I lied, he is naked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795848576572797843.post-40797910058961341792022-06-12T17:21:00.004-07:002022-06-12T17:21:55.503-07:00Old and in The Way<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Po
Boy Views<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">By<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Phil
LaMancusa<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The Silenced
Minority<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Who
Needs Me?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Look at the poor Sad
Sack on the corner standing in traffic with a cardboard sign:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“<u>Old
And In The Way</u>”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“<u>Help
Feed Me, I Fed You</u>”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><u><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“God
Bless”.<o:p></o:p></span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">See
that guy? He used to be a famous chef, now nobody wants him; I guess they think
he’s too old to cut the mustard. Give him a buck.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In
2016, 23% <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">of adults</i> in this country
were older than 60; that percentage is estimated to grow by 28% by next year
(U.S. Department of Health and Human Services published in 2018). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From 2006-2016 the percentage went up 36%.
That means today there are over 68,700,000 geezers lurking about; almost one in
four American citizens <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and the numbers
are going up</i>. I am in that number and sooner or later (Lord willing and if
the virus don’t gitcha) you will be too. Note: this age group is growing because
we’re taking better care of ourselves, being healthy equals a longer life. There
are almost 50,000,000 officially ‘retired’ Americans out there (dgydj.com) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>taking up valuable oxygen, real estate and
bathroom facilities and giving back bupkis.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">One
in three Americans are under 19 years old, which figures out, if you’ve follow
my math, that 45% of Americans are doing 100% of the work not done by migrants,
and the rest of us are dead weight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
could round up all the kids and geezers send them to a third world country,
build a wall… (wait, didn’t somebody already think of that?) Until that time
you’re stuck with us, so why not put us to work? I’m not advocating child labor
(although it wouldn’t hurt some of these miscreants), but I’m sure for seeing more
gray hair in the work force.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">One
of the things most retirees have in common is that we feel we’re relegated out
to pasture, unemployed, underutilized, retired, and wasted. Most of us miss having
a job, we’d like to work, get that paycheck and spend disposable income
contributing to our sense of self worth, dignity and the economy; however --- and
here’s a big however --- there is age discrimination when it comes to hiring processes,
and even though we have more experience and wisdom (hopefully), we’re passed
over without pause for someone young, dumb and full of flowing body fluids. Do employers
think we’re gonna stroke out on their watch?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Perhaps
subconsciously they realize that us older folks know from experience how much
of a screwing inexperienced younger employees are apt to get when it comes to
making a fair wage, working a reasonable schedule. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also we know the value that comes when the
person that you answer to relates to you from logic and not from their ego/libido;
ergo: when it comes to laboring in wacko circumstances we’re more likely to
leave than suck it up or stick it out. We’ve been there and done that, know
that there’s no future in abuse and, as opposed to our younger counterparts, we
don’t come cheap or easy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Well,
sure you might say that unemployment is the lowest it’s been in decades and
there just might not be room for older folks to take jobs that the young need
to get a jump start on the future as they see it; yet, the majority of jobs out
there being filled are for low wage poor or no benefit temporary or part time
positions and a person having two or three jobs does not mean three jobs, it
means one person working three times as hard. The amount of people that have
stopped looking for jobs and are off the rolls of the unemployed also brings
down the unemployment statistics. I’ve researched and it appears to me that
wages have not increased in the last couple of decades to match the rising cost
of living and neither has workers equality or benefits. Yes, unemployment is
down; but, the same numbers of people are working. Get it? 45%? We have created
a culture of massive amounts of underpaid overworked bees and a few rich bitch queens.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In America, food service and drinking place
jobs were up over two and a half times in 2019. Louisiana has the third highest
unemployment rate in the country at 4.9% (USA Today), yet there is a shortage
of skilled labor jobs being filled; we’re busy taking that second job slinging
hash and beer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>5,600,000 people are either working part time
jobs or are just marginally attached to employment, average weekly hours is
34.4 hours (U.S. Department of Labor 11/19). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In
Louisiana we have only an 82% high school graduation rate and 20% illiteracy
rate (worldatlas.com). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect there
are many skilled workers that have retired or been sent to pasture who are
needed in our work force, heaven knows, we’re not skilling our children, we’re
graduating dishwashers. I want to re-enter the job market as a retired skilled
worker, I’ll leave the unskilled job market alone, god knows there are people
desperate enough to take those jobs; And if I’m as old as the person who’ll be
your President (and you elect them for four years), I should be more than
viable!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So,
the answer to my dilemma is simple: raise the minimum wage to $15.00 an hour, insure
income equality and freeze housing prices. From the bottom in this country Louisiana
is third in poverty, fourth in income inequality and seventh in medium
household income; blacks average half the income whites earn (labudget.org). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">By
doing those things more people will quit their second jobs, moms will stay home
with the kids, the economy will realistically boom. Greedy bosses will have to
live with a fair profit and I’ll get back to work; believe me, finding a
lucrative corner to work is not as easy as you might think, although with the
current health crisis it might be the only safe place to be. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Po Boy New Orleanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05773343137920283850noreply@blogger.com0