Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Vacationing At The Beginning Of The World
Or
Lafayette, We Are Here
The train pulls in like a tired, wet mule; breathing slow and hard, unable to shake the same wet and heat off that any junkyard cur has the inherent gift and liberty of doing, and sitting patiently achuffing as a group of passengers get off ahuddling under yesterday’s newspapers and dime store umbrellas to take a cigarette smoke break under the lone oak that plays depot to the town that is on the verge of realizing its own potential pure yet dormant, The year is 2002 but it could be a scene from a hundred years ago, rain is falling steadily, unaffected by, and not affecting, the heat. The precipitation feels like humidity personified. (Forgive the first paragraph-I is reading Faulkner)
We pick around the mud and start walking toward what appears to be ‘town’. We share three canvas bags and no umbrella. The rain is slowing and it’s four blocks before we find someone to ask directions from. We're headed the right way, but for sure, we’re not in the French Quarter any more.
Five blocks further and we reach The Blue Moon Hostel. As described, it IS right across from the Borden’s Ice Cream Parlor. Three kids (read: any adult at least half our ages) stand, beaming at us as if we were the village idiots who had finally found their way home. Two are male and that’s as much as I notice about them except that they are apparently unarmed (there’s the New Orleans coming out in me), the third is a charming woman, worthy of every positive adjective I can think of.
Anyway, with a smile that could charm puppets, paupers, pirates, poets, pawns and Kings (that’s life!) she says “looking for a room?” she’s actually grinning and on her it’s the grin of a window being raised in a stuffy room. The very air became lighter and fresher.
“No, I think we already have one” Debbie starts, “We’re looking for…”
and in unison three of us say “…Catherine!” and share a laugh. Sounds stupid, felt great.
“Welcome and welcome howareya jahavagoodtrip and I’ll show you in and we’ll be back in twenty minutes we’re goin’ for ice cream make yourselves at home”. Yes we were really not in the French Quarter, ice cream indeed!
It’s been like going to Grammy’s house. Living room, dining room, big kitchen, bedrooms, bunk rooms, back yard, front yard. Cozy, spacious, hospitable and definitely ‘Home’ (with a capital ‘H’) and more about this later.
To make a long story longer: we dropped off our bags and went to find ‘town’. After all it was only mid day Monday and we were anxious to see the sights.
Armed with a McDonald’s map of the downtown we found Jefferson St. and walked its length, about twelve of their blocks. We passed about four people. We found some businesses. They were all closed. We found some bars. They were closed except for the one (Chips) that we had a drink at that was closing in an hour. The most action we found was at Circle K.
Naturally delighted (not), we returned to the warmth of Blue Moon, made our dinner in the communal kitchen, opened our bottle of wine (word: never travel to unexplored territory without at least two bottles of a familiar wine, corkscrew and enough snacks for a family of four per person), sat in the back yard for a spell and then went inside, cuddled up on the couch and read our respective books (never go anywhere without a book. Never. Anywhere.) Miles Davis was playing softly and the City Rats (us) finally started to chill. I think that’s when we got it.
Believe it or not, what we consider our fair city; our Big Easy, to be: laid back; can only be true when we compare ourselves to other cities much larger than ourselves, like New York or Chicago. It seems, from even my limited perspective, that even a blind person could see that we’re all running around like lunatics here. We (in New Orleans) don’t take a walk on the wild side, we go at it like we’re keepin’ score on how much we can get accomplished, and you know what? Other people don’t do that! Not even other people a hundred or so miles from here that say that they live in a city called Lafayette, Louisiana.
Listen, we were on the Amtrak, snackin’ down, curlin’ up, happy as clams, watching the world go by, and two women whom we couldn’t help but notice came through the car, jouncing around, and as they pass us one says to the other “I’m gonna go slam back some Jack, this is soooo boring!” Huh? Well, it seems like this particular train didn’t have a designated smoking area and, have you ever seen a smoker going through a nicotine jones? Of course not. A smoker here can smoke pretty much wherever and whenever they want. Same with drinkers, gamblers and any other kind of stimulus junky. We don’t have to, but the point is we can.
Heads up! What did you do on your day off? Answer: you did too much!
The next morning, we looked at Lafayette through different eyes. The place is sweet. They have an Arcadiana Fest each September, they’re building a Planetarium, have a Children’s Craft Center, buildings 150-200 years old, antique shops and was the capitol of French Louisiana. Bring your car, there’s a lot to see outside of it as well. The place is et up with culture. They give tours fer Chrissakes!
We went to Don’s Seafood Restaurant; it was like a dinner from a time capsule, circa 1965. Lost in space and time and free of the !@#$%^&*( pretensions that we seek here.
Upon reading the brochure, at the Greyhound Bus terminal (the train was running eight hours behind, but they are building a terminal for it to stop at. I’ll miss that tree), I found out that the full name of our lodgings is The Blue Moon Guest House and Saloon. They have music on the weekends, guests from around the world, the most affordable prices and co-op type atmosphere. Except for the convenience of computers (they have a website too), you would think that you just stepped back in time, and, yes; I did go out for ice cream!
Showing posts with label New Orleans dreaming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New Orleans dreaming. Show all posts
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Friday, August 1, 2008
Socks and The City of New Orleans
Po-Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Smart Cocktails With The Boys
Or
Socks In The City
Shove over Sarah Jessicas of the world, I’m not taking this insult to
my fellow fellows lying down. I’m putting to paper my own pilot
that I just KNOW HBO is gonna snap up; and yes, it’s called “Socks In
The City”! And yes, it’s about four lovable friends (guys this time) and their adventures in this big metropolis that we call ‘The Easy’. I, of course, will be the star and every episode will begin with me strolling down the uptown Frerret neighborhood past the rubble that was once public housing and I’m dressed in a cute ruffly shirt and seersucker trousers with sweet shiny saddle shoes, when BAM! a bus comes by and splashes a puddle that remains from yesterdays rain that the city has not turned the pumps on to clear, and I stare adoringly into the camera as the bus whizzes by with Emiril”s picture on it and jeering school children throw fried chicken bones at me and a sweet little ditty plays in the background by Barry Manilow because he does such sweet jingly tunes. Are you with me?
Next the tube shows me walking down a busy street (if we can find a busy street) with my three chums.
1.Miranda Pedro, my Hispanic lawyer buddy that was here under the radar until he married a stripper and moved to Metairie with his red headed step child. Miranda is his first name because his father is dyslexic and told the people at the hospital the baby’s last name first or something (we’ll get to that in a sequel episode). He’s an overachiever that adores hats from Meyer and wonders why he hasn’t had sex for the last six months and even at that, his wife is prone to faking orgasms and asking him if he’s done yet.
2. My next buddy we just refer to by his last name Carrlotte. He is a gay African American (actually half Sicilian) in a committed relationship with a sweet British bloke, Harold, with whom he has an adopted Asian child. They’ll go through some hilarious episodes as they try to get married, find a nanny, get profiled and try to find an apartment that will rent to them,
3. Then there’s Sam Hoover, a tall strapping blond fashion designer. A tall strapping oversexed fashion designer who splits his time between here and Los Angeles where he manages his cute but dumb starlet fiancée. Sam is nearing fifty and worries about ED, incontinence and going bald. His girlfriend works too hard and Sam feels neglected except when he’s around me and the guys or getting seriously laid.
Me? I’m Charlie Bradshaw. I sit around in my boxers and type one word on my computer and hope for inspiration for a column to inspire my hordes of readers who look to me to bring joy into their otherwise dull existences. I’m secretly in love with a woman that we all refer to as ‘Big’, but not to her face because she’d kick our collective asses up to our stylish collars. Ergo, I go to Paris with a ballerina and that doesn’t work out like all the other relationships that I have… do not work out (at least on the show). Big does something for a living that I clearly can’t figure out except that she’s constantly finding excuses to break dates with me. Big rarely smiles, but you can just tell that she adores me and is great in bed.
Here we all come walking down the crowded (we’ll get a crowd somewhere) street and we’ve gotten dressed to the nines with outfits from Rubinstein’s, jewels from Adler’s and as we sidestep broken sidewalks and body fluids and trash that STD is eagerly pursuing you can clearly tell that we’re talking about where to dine and how much we can drink, gossip and complain and still be our lovable selves.
Here we are sitting around the table drinking Kamikaze-poltans which are just like those other drinks (cosmopolitans) except there’s less cranberry juice and you have to drink them a lot faster. We’re all stylishly coifed and talk about relationships and orgasms and tend to get misty at the mention of movies like It Happened One Night and An Affair To Remember. Sam has his eyes on the waitress who later corners him in the john much to the annoyance of the man in the next stall trying to quietly shoot up.
Today is full of chatter because Miranda has found out that his wife, Stephanie, is selling her body on the side (explaining her performances in her own bed). Sam is explaining the best way to get those nasty stains from the crotches of trousers, and Carrlotte is ecstatic because his child has learned to fold laundry. That’s when I drop the bomb on them: “Big has asked me to move in with her” I remark, cool as the cucumber on my chef salad (dressing on the side). To which they all shriek like schoolgirls.
What do you think? Does it have legs? Of Course it does! I mean, I LOVE Sex And The City, I ADORE Will and Grace, I DIG Desperate Housewives and I think Ugly Betty RULES! I believe that I can show that guys are sensitive caring, funny and have great taste in shoes and fashion accessories.
In the show, I’ll start to get married several times in every conceivable (named) fashion designer outfit, have steamy love scenes without taking off my clothes and at the end of each episode be able to dash off another brilliant article for Where Y’at.
Sam will sleep with dozens of women of every conceivable description while searching for a true identity and inner peace instead of screwing pieces with little or no identity.
Carrlotte will redecorate his house a half a dozen times with every conceivable matching outfit, adopt stray animals, go to art openings with his lesbian chums and wonder why his husband has premature ejaculations.
Miranda will start taking a cut of his wife’s earnings, rent an apartment for his mistress, learn to tango with every conceivable guest star and become the first man to become pregnant from a toilet seat.
And Moi? I will sit back and let the money roll in, dream of syndication and practice my acceptance speech for the Grammy’s with my three new best friends.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Smart Cocktails With The Boys
Or
Socks In The City
Shove over Sarah Jessicas of the world, I’m not taking this insult to
my fellow fellows lying down. I’m putting to paper my own pilot
that I just KNOW HBO is gonna snap up; and yes, it’s called “Socks In
The City”! And yes, it’s about four lovable friends (guys this time) and their adventures in this big metropolis that we call ‘The Easy’. I, of course, will be the star and every episode will begin with me strolling down the uptown Frerret neighborhood past the rubble that was once public housing and I’m dressed in a cute ruffly shirt and seersucker trousers with sweet shiny saddle shoes, when BAM! a bus comes by and splashes a puddle that remains from yesterdays rain that the city has not turned the pumps on to clear, and I stare adoringly into the camera as the bus whizzes by with Emiril”s picture on it and jeering school children throw fried chicken bones at me and a sweet little ditty plays in the background by Barry Manilow because he does such sweet jingly tunes. Are you with me?
Next the tube shows me walking down a busy street (if we can find a busy street) with my three chums.
1.Miranda Pedro, my Hispanic lawyer buddy that was here under the radar until he married a stripper and moved to Metairie with his red headed step child. Miranda is his first name because his father is dyslexic and told the people at the hospital the baby’s last name first or something (we’ll get to that in a sequel episode). He’s an overachiever that adores hats from Meyer and wonders why he hasn’t had sex for the last six months and even at that, his wife is prone to faking orgasms and asking him if he’s done yet.
2. My next buddy we just refer to by his last name Carrlotte. He is a gay African American (actually half Sicilian) in a committed relationship with a sweet British bloke, Harold, with whom he has an adopted Asian child. They’ll go through some hilarious episodes as they try to get married, find a nanny, get profiled and try to find an apartment that will rent to them,
3. Then there’s Sam Hoover, a tall strapping blond fashion designer. A tall strapping oversexed fashion designer who splits his time between here and Los Angeles where he manages his cute but dumb starlet fiancée. Sam is nearing fifty and worries about ED, incontinence and going bald. His girlfriend works too hard and Sam feels neglected except when he’s around me and the guys or getting seriously laid.
Me? I’m Charlie Bradshaw. I sit around in my boxers and type one word on my computer and hope for inspiration for a column to inspire my hordes of readers who look to me to bring joy into their otherwise dull existences. I’m secretly in love with a woman that we all refer to as ‘Big’, but not to her face because she’d kick our collective asses up to our stylish collars. Ergo, I go to Paris with a ballerina and that doesn’t work out like all the other relationships that I have… do not work out (at least on the show). Big does something for a living that I clearly can’t figure out except that she’s constantly finding excuses to break dates with me. Big rarely smiles, but you can just tell that she adores me and is great in bed.
Here we all come walking down the crowded (we’ll get a crowd somewhere) street and we’ve gotten dressed to the nines with outfits from Rubinstein’s, jewels from Adler’s and as we sidestep broken sidewalks and body fluids and trash that STD is eagerly pursuing you can clearly tell that we’re talking about where to dine and how much we can drink, gossip and complain and still be our lovable selves.
Here we are sitting around the table drinking Kamikaze-poltans which are just like those other drinks (cosmopolitans) except there’s less cranberry juice and you have to drink them a lot faster. We’re all stylishly coifed and talk about relationships and orgasms and tend to get misty at the mention of movies like It Happened One Night and An Affair To Remember. Sam has his eyes on the waitress who later corners him in the john much to the annoyance of the man in the next stall trying to quietly shoot up.
Today is full of chatter because Miranda has found out that his wife, Stephanie, is selling her body on the side (explaining her performances in her own bed). Sam is explaining the best way to get those nasty stains from the crotches of trousers, and Carrlotte is ecstatic because his child has learned to fold laundry. That’s when I drop the bomb on them: “Big has asked me to move in with her” I remark, cool as the cucumber on my chef salad (dressing on the side). To which they all shriek like schoolgirls.
What do you think? Does it have legs? Of Course it does! I mean, I LOVE Sex And The City, I ADORE Will and Grace, I DIG Desperate Housewives and I think Ugly Betty RULES! I believe that I can show that guys are sensitive caring, funny and have great taste in shoes and fashion accessories.
In the show, I’ll start to get married several times in every conceivable (named) fashion designer outfit, have steamy love scenes without taking off my clothes and at the end of each episode be able to dash off another brilliant article for Where Y’at.
Sam will sleep with dozens of women of every conceivable description while searching for a true identity and inner peace instead of screwing pieces with little or no identity.
Carrlotte will redecorate his house a half a dozen times with every conceivable matching outfit, adopt stray animals, go to art openings with his lesbian chums and wonder why his husband has premature ejaculations.
Miranda will start taking a cut of his wife’s earnings, rent an apartment for his mistress, learn to tango with every conceivable guest star and become the first man to become pregnant from a toilet seat.
And Moi? I will sit back and let the money roll in, dream of syndication and practice my acceptance speech for the Grammy’s with my three new best friends.
Olympic views from New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Lost And Found
or
Hey June…
Boy, the Olympic torch didn’t stand a chance this year. It was a case of ‘Send in the next frothing self-incendiary activist!’ Talk about raining on somebody’s parade! Have you followed this? Harried all the way across Europe and then, get this, flown from Paris to San Francisco, put up in a major hotel with no less than six decoy/replacements and probably sent across the Pacific in a nuclear submarine, disguised as a pregnant geisha with garlic breath. If I was the torch I would have just said “drop me off in New Orleans, I’d rather sip a PBR at Parkway and shake my booty to Kermit!”
Paraskevidkatriaphobia is something you may have to deal with this month; however, Dr. Donald Dossey reports that when you can pronounce the word you will be cured. And I always thought the term was friggatriskaidekophia. Silly me, and by the way, those words are not describing exotic Greek pastries.
Well, optimism abounds (not!) here in the Quarter where the hurricane season kicks off with dire warnings added to an unreliable economic future. The convention arena participants will see their travel insurance double, gas prices will make it financially unreasonable for short trips in and out of the city, and the merchants will be jerked around by the city’s tourist agencies that promise pie in the sky and the next wave of free spending tourists that never show up.
In the face of all that, there are still new businesses that decide to buck the odds and stake a claim as a real French Quarter Shop owner.
As a bookshop co-owner in the thick of it, I can tell you about my neighbor shops that have hung in there, a lot of times working seven days a week for months on end. The Glorias and the Gingers and the Jasons who came back knowing how hard a row it’s been, is and by looks of it, will be to gain traction on the treadmill in the small merchant financial gymnasium.
Anybody looked around the Quarter lately? Shops that didn’t make it back from the storm still shuttered, old businesses that came back leaving for the promise of a better life on Magazine Street or just folding their tents, like the Arabs of old and slipping off in the night. Two small grocery stores gone, the only hardware store considering selling, the shoemaker that never came back, galleries having liquidation sales and restaurants still on partial operating schedules.
With rents either out of control or at least, unreasonable, it’s hard to find a small start up entrepreneur willing to risk their shorts to give it (business) a go. Unless you have a landlord like we do, most of them are unreasonable, illogical and/or immovable on their attitudes and concepts of what is best for the French Quarter. And I can tell you from firsthand knowledge, some are squarely immoral in their business philosophies. But that’s another story.
As far as living in the Quarter goes: the fact is that, with two thousand buildings sharing a mere square mile, it does seems a trifle weird that we have less than four thousand residents; that is, until you look up to see how little use there is being made of properties above shops and how many living spaces have been turned over to condominiums owned by out of state part timers. It’s all fun and games until you look for a real post office, a gas station, baby wipes, auto parts or anything second hand. You go up Magazine for that stuff (or out to the ‘burbs) where the placement of a plant, flag, sign or sandwich board is not taken as much of an issue, there’s adequate street lighting and the parking Nazis aren’t nearly so militant.
Well hope springs eternal, and here comes a newbie named Jen at the freshly opened Lost And Found who has decided to cast her fate, fortune and future to Chartres Street, the kindness of strangers and faith in the uniqueness of her inventory She is joining the ranks of us gamblers of commerce that have staked our claim to the successes of our enterprises. Welcome.
I am a believer in the value of neighborhoods and the worth of likeminded and like suited human enclaves. The areas that America, both corporate and political are trying to have us abandon. I feel warm when a person on the street is someone that I can hail, wave to…and/or hug. I’m a sucker for anyone who knows me by name, face or whatever little reputation that I have left. And so, I play my part as well… I’m real picky as to where I spend my money, where I purchase my gifts, where I eat my meals and who I deal with. Just like you, right?
Face it, the little guy in this country is taking a beating. Our economy is not geared for gifted starry eyed would be up and comers, and certainly not in the French Quarter if in New Orleans at all. Hell, us crusty hard nosers are being tested every day. We applaud newcomers for having faith and the willingness to keep it.
Economically the facts are: rents are through the roof, leases are generally short term, tenants rights are nil. You cannot afford to hire staff that lives locally because the working stiff needs to be able to pay rent (not easy for a ten dollar an hour guy to pay a thousand a month for rent) and with gas prices… well?
Say I was the most talented cook in the world, made my bones in some class joints and was ready to spread my wings and my message; what’s my next move? Not New Orleans. Back in the day it was affordable; I know because I did it--- not once but twice, because I could afford to do what I wanted to and not have to prostitute (yes I said that) my food because the landlord wanted a pound of flesh every month. How many businesses can say that today?
Your assignment this month is to pronounce paraskevidekatriaphobia three times and to pray for an infusion of sanity and a safe hurricane season. There’s no place like home.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Lost And Found
or
Hey June…
Boy, the Olympic torch didn’t stand a chance this year. It was a case of ‘Send in the next frothing self-incendiary activist!’ Talk about raining on somebody’s parade! Have you followed this? Harried all the way across Europe and then, get this, flown from Paris to San Francisco, put up in a major hotel with no less than six decoy/replacements and probably sent across the Pacific in a nuclear submarine, disguised as a pregnant geisha with garlic breath. If I was the torch I would have just said “drop me off in New Orleans, I’d rather sip a PBR at Parkway and shake my booty to Kermit!”
Paraskevidkatriaphobia is something you may have to deal with this month; however, Dr. Donald Dossey reports that when you can pronounce the word you will be cured. And I always thought the term was friggatriskaidekophia. Silly me, and by the way, those words are not describing exotic Greek pastries.
Well, optimism abounds (not!) here in the Quarter where the hurricane season kicks off with dire warnings added to an unreliable economic future. The convention arena participants will see their travel insurance double, gas prices will make it financially unreasonable for short trips in and out of the city, and the merchants will be jerked around by the city’s tourist agencies that promise pie in the sky and the next wave of free spending tourists that never show up.
In the face of all that, there are still new businesses that decide to buck the odds and stake a claim as a real French Quarter Shop owner.
As a bookshop co-owner in the thick of it, I can tell you about my neighbor shops that have hung in there, a lot of times working seven days a week for months on end. The Glorias and the Gingers and the Jasons who came back knowing how hard a row it’s been, is and by looks of it, will be to gain traction on the treadmill in the small merchant financial gymnasium.
Anybody looked around the Quarter lately? Shops that didn’t make it back from the storm still shuttered, old businesses that came back leaving for the promise of a better life on Magazine Street or just folding their tents, like the Arabs of old and slipping off in the night. Two small grocery stores gone, the only hardware store considering selling, the shoemaker that never came back, galleries having liquidation sales and restaurants still on partial operating schedules.
With rents either out of control or at least, unreasonable, it’s hard to find a small start up entrepreneur willing to risk their shorts to give it (business) a go. Unless you have a landlord like we do, most of them are unreasonable, illogical and/or immovable on their attitudes and concepts of what is best for the French Quarter. And I can tell you from firsthand knowledge, some are squarely immoral in their business philosophies. But that’s another story.
As far as living in the Quarter goes: the fact is that, with two thousand buildings sharing a mere square mile, it does seems a trifle weird that we have less than four thousand residents; that is, until you look up to see how little use there is being made of properties above shops and how many living spaces have been turned over to condominiums owned by out of state part timers. It’s all fun and games until you look for a real post office, a gas station, baby wipes, auto parts or anything second hand. You go up Magazine for that stuff (or out to the ‘burbs) where the placement of a plant, flag, sign or sandwich board is not taken as much of an issue, there’s adequate street lighting and the parking Nazis aren’t nearly so militant.
Well hope springs eternal, and here comes a newbie named Jen at the freshly opened Lost And Found who has decided to cast her fate, fortune and future to Chartres Street, the kindness of strangers and faith in the uniqueness of her inventory She is joining the ranks of us gamblers of commerce that have staked our claim to the successes of our enterprises. Welcome.
I am a believer in the value of neighborhoods and the worth of likeminded and like suited human enclaves. The areas that America, both corporate and political are trying to have us abandon. I feel warm when a person on the street is someone that I can hail, wave to…and/or hug. I’m a sucker for anyone who knows me by name, face or whatever little reputation that I have left. And so, I play my part as well… I’m real picky as to where I spend my money, where I purchase my gifts, where I eat my meals and who I deal with. Just like you, right?
Face it, the little guy in this country is taking a beating. Our economy is not geared for gifted starry eyed would be up and comers, and certainly not in the French Quarter if in New Orleans at all. Hell, us crusty hard nosers are being tested every day. We applaud newcomers for having faith and the willingness to keep it.
Economically the facts are: rents are through the roof, leases are generally short term, tenants rights are nil. You cannot afford to hire staff that lives locally because the working stiff needs to be able to pay rent (not easy for a ten dollar an hour guy to pay a thousand a month for rent) and with gas prices… well?
Say I was the most talented cook in the world, made my bones in some class joints and was ready to spread my wings and my message; what’s my next move? Not New Orleans. Back in the day it was affordable; I know because I did it--- not once but twice, because I could afford to do what I wanted to and not have to prostitute (yes I said that) my food because the landlord wanted a pound of flesh every month. How many businesses can say that today?
Your assignment this month is to pronounce paraskevidekatriaphobia three times and to pray for an infusion of sanity and a safe hurricane season. There’s no place like home.
April Fool in New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
April Fool
Or
P.S. Your Cat Is Dead
People that want money from me come at me from all different directions and are all on different schedules. My bills arrive in my mailbox all on different days. Also, they are all due on different days, which has me at my checkbook three or four times a week, at the post box three or four times a week and at my mail box every day. I’m thinking ‘some kind of conspiracy’. I’m thinking that they’re trying to drive me nuts…well, it’s too late.
Do you know what happens if you check your mail, say, once a week? When you look at how much the postman has managed to cram in there you just know that there’s a late fee lurking. And forget about waiting until the last possible day to post a bill. Of course, that’s the very day that you get the next bill from the very same people. You just cannot catch a break.
The fact of the matter is, that, if all my bills came at once, my life would be easier but my brain would probably go into the ‘deer in the headlight’ zone. I shudder to think of how much money I put out every month, I really don’t want to know, not all at once at least. I do know that it is all the money I make and then some.
Talk about not catching a break; I saw a mouse that had gotten that snap across the neck in one of those ‘look! Here’s some plastic cheese!’ affairs. His little hand was still outstretched wanting and wishing for that piece of orange plastic. The perfect picture of the April Fool.
You, or rather we, April Fools know who we are. We’re the ones waiting to inhale and exhale; waiting for our agent to call; the winning daily double; our lucky day; Hell to freeze over. We’re already aware that the concepts of winning or losing are nebulous at best and we’re pretty much happy if we can cop a draw.
Are you looking for an even playing field? Do you really believe that the check is in the mail? Good times are just around the corner? There is no recession? This year will be better than last year? That there is really a Department Of Happy Endings? April Fool.
Okay, the April Fool is a little naive, the April Fool still believes in love no matter how many times they have gotten their heart broken. The April Fool believes that there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and every cloud does have a silver lining. That’s why we set aside the first day of April to celebrate them (us, you, me).
All Fools Day is celebrated (if you can call it celebrating) around the world. In France they’re called Poisson d’Avril, in Scotland they’re referred to as April-gowks (cuckoos). At one time, the last week in March into the first couple of days of April was when the New Year was celebrated, the time of the vernal equinox. A lot of people were slow at hearing about the change (1582, go figure), so, those in the know decided to play tricks on them, pretending it was the New Year and generally pulling wool over they’re eyes and confusing them and stuff like that; until the day has generally degenerated into what we have now: a day dedicated to embarrassing the gullible. That’s me…the gullible.
Let’s see, who else could be called an April Fool? Let’s go down a list: do you, or have you ever, believed in organized government, The Road Home, the Army Corps of Engineers, FEMA, or the ability of someone up for election who will take the stars from the sky and put them back into your eyes?
‘See a pin and pick it up…that means all day you’ll have good luck’. “I’m looking over a four-leaf clover that I overlooked before”. “I’m siiiiiiiiiiiingin’ in the rain!!!!!!!!!!!” Etc. etc. etc. Sound familiar?
How many times have you played that game where you’ve bought your lottery ticket and before the numbers are even drawn, you have already decided where you will spend your winnings?
Hollywood has made a lot of money on movies for and about April Fools. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, girl finds out something and they break up.
The boy goes into the Army and is shipped off to fight in an unjust war. The girl stays at home and cries. The boy gets a bullet, which stays lodged in some obscure part of his body. The girl is in an automobile crash (not her fault). The little dog gets stolen by terrorists and is being set up to be a suicide bomber. The father (did we mention the father…a retired firefighter, blind since birth) and the mother (who makes the best gol-durn tuna casserole in the world!) are worried sick and the mortgage is overdue.
The girl is forced to work on the first floor of a honky tonk saloon (she just can’t make it up the stairs) and the boy’s buddies check him out of the hospital where the male nurse has a crush on him (and him and him and him).
The boys go to the honky tonk saloon and the boy sees the girl and naturally thinks the worst and flees. The girl sees this and rushes after him (not easy with her crutches, but he’s in a wheelchair--- and here comes Fido!!!) Meanwhile….you see where this is going? Not a dry eye in the house.
Well I say that the April Fool is being maligned and castigated unjustly. Think of it this way; were it not for us there would be no other holidays! Who else would celebrate Valentines Day, Mother’s Day, Christmas…. Easter?
So, here’s your assignment: think of some cool (non aggressive) tricks for All Fool’s Day, like asking someone if they knew that the word ‘gullible’ was being taken out of dictionaries, and get ready to be fooled yourself. When a prank is pulled on you, even when you know it, fall for it and laugh like you don’t have a lick of sense. Did you know that it’s April Fool’s Day today?
Comments, questions, gossip? phil@whereyat.com
By
Phil LaMancusa
April Fool
Or
P.S. Your Cat Is Dead
People that want money from me come at me from all different directions and are all on different schedules. My bills arrive in my mailbox all on different days. Also, they are all due on different days, which has me at my checkbook three or four times a week, at the post box three or four times a week and at my mail box every day. I’m thinking ‘some kind of conspiracy’. I’m thinking that they’re trying to drive me nuts…well, it’s too late.
Do you know what happens if you check your mail, say, once a week? When you look at how much the postman has managed to cram in there you just know that there’s a late fee lurking. And forget about waiting until the last possible day to post a bill. Of course, that’s the very day that you get the next bill from the very same people. You just cannot catch a break.
The fact of the matter is, that, if all my bills came at once, my life would be easier but my brain would probably go into the ‘deer in the headlight’ zone. I shudder to think of how much money I put out every month, I really don’t want to know, not all at once at least. I do know that it is all the money I make and then some.
Talk about not catching a break; I saw a mouse that had gotten that snap across the neck in one of those ‘look! Here’s some plastic cheese!’ affairs. His little hand was still outstretched wanting and wishing for that piece of orange plastic. The perfect picture of the April Fool.
You, or rather we, April Fools know who we are. We’re the ones waiting to inhale and exhale; waiting for our agent to call; the winning daily double; our lucky day; Hell to freeze over. We’re already aware that the concepts of winning or losing are nebulous at best and we’re pretty much happy if we can cop a draw.
Are you looking for an even playing field? Do you really believe that the check is in the mail? Good times are just around the corner? There is no recession? This year will be better than last year? That there is really a Department Of Happy Endings? April Fool.
Okay, the April Fool is a little naive, the April Fool still believes in love no matter how many times they have gotten their heart broken. The April Fool believes that there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and every cloud does have a silver lining. That’s why we set aside the first day of April to celebrate them (us, you, me).
All Fools Day is celebrated (if you can call it celebrating) around the world. In France they’re called Poisson d’Avril, in Scotland they’re referred to as April-gowks (cuckoos). At one time, the last week in March into the first couple of days of April was when the New Year was celebrated, the time of the vernal equinox. A lot of people were slow at hearing about the change (1582, go figure), so, those in the know decided to play tricks on them, pretending it was the New Year and generally pulling wool over they’re eyes and confusing them and stuff like that; until the day has generally degenerated into what we have now: a day dedicated to embarrassing the gullible. That’s me…the gullible.
Let’s see, who else could be called an April Fool? Let’s go down a list: do you, or have you ever, believed in organized government, The Road Home, the Army Corps of Engineers, FEMA, or the ability of someone up for election who will take the stars from the sky and put them back into your eyes?
‘See a pin and pick it up…that means all day you’ll have good luck’. “I’m looking over a four-leaf clover that I overlooked before”. “I’m siiiiiiiiiiiingin’ in the rain!!!!!!!!!!!” Etc. etc. etc. Sound familiar?
How many times have you played that game where you’ve bought your lottery ticket and before the numbers are even drawn, you have already decided where you will spend your winnings?
Hollywood has made a lot of money on movies for and about April Fools. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, girl finds out something and they break up.
The boy goes into the Army and is shipped off to fight in an unjust war. The girl stays at home and cries. The boy gets a bullet, which stays lodged in some obscure part of his body. The girl is in an automobile crash (not her fault). The little dog gets stolen by terrorists and is being set up to be a suicide bomber. The father (did we mention the father…a retired firefighter, blind since birth) and the mother (who makes the best gol-durn tuna casserole in the world!) are worried sick and the mortgage is overdue.
The girl is forced to work on the first floor of a honky tonk saloon (she just can’t make it up the stairs) and the boy’s buddies check him out of the hospital where the male nurse has a crush on him (and him and him and him).
The boys go to the honky tonk saloon and the boy sees the girl and naturally thinks the worst and flees. The girl sees this and rushes after him (not easy with her crutches, but he’s in a wheelchair--- and here comes Fido!!!) Meanwhile….you see where this is going? Not a dry eye in the house.
Well I say that the April Fool is being maligned and castigated unjustly. Think of it this way; were it not for us there would be no other holidays! Who else would celebrate Valentines Day, Mother’s Day, Christmas…. Easter?
So, here’s your assignment: think of some cool (non aggressive) tricks for All Fool’s Day, like asking someone if they knew that the word ‘gullible’ was being taken out of dictionaries, and get ready to be fooled yourself. When a prank is pulled on you, even when you know it, fall for it and laugh like you don’t have a lick of sense. Did you know that it’s April Fool’s Day today?
Comments, questions, gossip? phil@whereyat.com
Sunday, July 27, 2008
more lottery dreams in New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
One For The Road
Or
Wish Us Luck!
You know, it takes a great man to realize when the time is ripe and right to change the fundamental principles of his life.
I’m not talking about things like explaining my extensive ‘bald spot’ as a solar panel to my sexuality or my claim to women that I am actually a lesbian trapped in a man’s body. I’m talking, you know, fundamental principles like swearing allegiance to your after shave (Old Spice), hair tonic (Vitalis) and whether you want your toilet paper with the sheets rolling over or under (under, definitely UNDER)! Or even the big one, (thanks to Buddy Nordan) the drive to know the difference between good and evil and how to break into show business. I am speaking of what exactly I will do when I hit the Lottery.
True Lottery players never think in terms of ‘if’ they will hit the big one, only ‘when’. Hithertofore (I love that word) I was intrigued by thoughts lewd and lascivious, loud or lament-full, ludicrous or lucrative. I promised the Gods that I would be thankful and true, that I would help mankind and only use the dough for good. It hasn’t worked so far. I finally settled on a great umbrella outcome of my windfall: I would reward my friends and punish my enemies. This fundamental principle has been the guiding light of my eventual economical freedom. This too has not panned out… thus far.
Well, I’ve got a new one. I am going to open up one hundred bars; you know palaces of pleasure, institutions for imbibing, homes of hangovers (contracted and cured), altars dedicated to alcohol. But now, I am not thinking locally… I am dreaming globally. I am not thinking generic… I am dreaming specific. I want to give Pabst Blue Ribbon to the world!
Recently I was given a book by one of my students, the book is One Hundred Great Wonders Of The World. I thought that, as a goal, I should visit each and every one of these wonders, and, that I could do, easily, when I hit the Lottery (Powerball—whatever). Can do, will do; but, what in the name of God’s Balls (or as the English say “Od’s Bodkin) would I drink when I got there?
Okay, what I need is to be able to have my favorite drink (Pabst Blue Ribbon) available at each stop. Okay, suppose that I am a Gazillionaire or a Bazillionaire? Okay, I could have brewskis delivered where I wanted them. What about the rest of you?
Well hey, I got the bucks, why not open stands where you can tip back a cold one too (happy hour five to seven)?
So, Eiffel Tower is easy, likewise Yosemite, Grand Canyon and the Golden Gate Bridge. But how about The Great Fjords? How about The Nile River? How about Versailles? Mount Fuji? Angor Wat? You can bet your sweet Bippy that there no frosty mug at Stonehenge, Volcanic Iceland or Carargue! Forget about the Matterhorn and there’s no PBR on the Danube! And it’s no joke that you can die of thirst on the Sahara.
Listen to this: “Madagascar is an island of staggering biological diversity. When the island ripped away from Africa 165 million years ago, animals and plants continued to evolve without interference from outside” Consider visiting an island that is able to get away from a continent. Consider the people that you know that would chew their arm off to get free of that one night stand that they stupidly went home with…the coyote (much worse than an ordinary dog). Consider doing that, or visiting there without a cold one in a frosty mug. To me it’s plainly unthinkable.
Here’s other places that you’d not think of visiting without a beer handy: Giant’s Causeway, Edinburgh Castle, Versailles, The Grand Canal, Peter’s Basilica, Neuschwanstein, or Pamukkale. They scream for a great beer as a chaser. How about The Great Wall, The leaning Tower of Pisa, The Colosseseum or The Parthenon. Unimaginable without an icey cold PBR!
The mind reels with names such as: The Kremlin, Alhambra, The Temple Of Karnak, Mount Kilimanjaro, The Okavango Delta and Teotihuacan. My spellcheck has just had a meltdown.
Anyway, what I would do is fly in my private plane and view these wonders, have a cool one while my jets are cooling and, after dining locally, plan my next destination. I could do this until the whole hundred were seen. All the while I would be mapping out the list of a hundred more ‘Not Quite Ready For The Top One Hundred Wonder’ locations. Places like Dogpatch, Gasoline Alley, Abe’s Barbecue, The Shrine Of Donald Freeman’s Favorite Tweezers or the location of the world’s biggest crouton.
I’d like to visit an escargot ranch at roundup time, the place where they put them tiny stickers on tomatoes and a Survivor Island (where I would kick everybody off).
How about going to The North Pole to see if Santa is really there, tracking down The Easter Bunny (does he really live on Easter Island?) or going to the place where God’s final message to mankind is:
(“SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE”)?
Oh, the places we could see! The things that we could find out: what makes an elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist or the musty must, what makes a muskrat guard his musk, what makes a king out of a slave, what makes a flag to wave, what makes a Hottentot so hot and who put the ape in apricot? And: what do they got that we ain’t got? It certainly won’t be the good old dough ray me!
Who is we? Why it’s all my friends that will be along for the ride, laughin’ and a scratchin’ and a drinkin’ some beer!
What about my enimies? Why… we’ll send them postcards! Who knows what evil lives in the hearts of man? The Shadow do…Hahahahahahahah!
By
Phil LaMancusa
One For The Road
Or
Wish Us Luck!
You know, it takes a great man to realize when the time is ripe and right to change the fundamental principles of his life.
I’m not talking about things like explaining my extensive ‘bald spot’ as a solar panel to my sexuality or my claim to women that I am actually a lesbian trapped in a man’s body. I’m talking, you know, fundamental principles like swearing allegiance to your after shave (Old Spice), hair tonic (Vitalis) and whether you want your toilet paper with the sheets rolling over or under (under, definitely UNDER)! Or even the big one, (thanks to Buddy Nordan) the drive to know the difference between good and evil and how to break into show business. I am speaking of what exactly I will do when I hit the Lottery.
True Lottery players never think in terms of ‘if’ they will hit the big one, only ‘when’. Hithertofore (I love that word) I was intrigued by thoughts lewd and lascivious, loud or lament-full, ludicrous or lucrative. I promised the Gods that I would be thankful and true, that I would help mankind and only use the dough for good. It hasn’t worked so far. I finally settled on a great umbrella outcome of my windfall: I would reward my friends and punish my enemies. This fundamental principle has been the guiding light of my eventual economical freedom. This too has not panned out… thus far.
Well, I’ve got a new one. I am going to open up one hundred bars; you know palaces of pleasure, institutions for imbibing, homes of hangovers (contracted and cured), altars dedicated to alcohol. But now, I am not thinking locally… I am dreaming globally. I am not thinking generic… I am dreaming specific. I want to give Pabst Blue Ribbon to the world!
Recently I was given a book by one of my students, the book is One Hundred Great Wonders Of The World. I thought that, as a goal, I should visit each and every one of these wonders, and, that I could do, easily, when I hit the Lottery (Powerball—whatever). Can do, will do; but, what in the name of God’s Balls (or as the English say “Od’s Bodkin) would I drink when I got there?
Okay, what I need is to be able to have my favorite drink (Pabst Blue Ribbon) available at each stop. Okay, suppose that I am a Gazillionaire or a Bazillionaire? Okay, I could have brewskis delivered where I wanted them. What about the rest of you?
Well hey, I got the bucks, why not open stands where you can tip back a cold one too (happy hour five to seven)?
So, Eiffel Tower is easy, likewise Yosemite, Grand Canyon and the Golden Gate Bridge. But how about The Great Fjords? How about The Nile River? How about Versailles? Mount Fuji? Angor Wat? You can bet your sweet Bippy that there no frosty mug at Stonehenge, Volcanic Iceland or Carargue! Forget about the Matterhorn and there’s no PBR on the Danube! And it’s no joke that you can die of thirst on the Sahara.
Listen to this: “Madagascar is an island of staggering biological diversity. When the island ripped away from Africa 165 million years ago, animals and plants continued to evolve without interference from outside” Consider visiting an island that is able to get away from a continent. Consider the people that you know that would chew their arm off to get free of that one night stand that they stupidly went home with…the coyote (much worse than an ordinary dog). Consider doing that, or visiting there without a cold one in a frosty mug. To me it’s plainly unthinkable.
Here’s other places that you’d not think of visiting without a beer handy: Giant’s Causeway, Edinburgh Castle, Versailles, The Grand Canal, Peter’s Basilica, Neuschwanstein, or Pamukkale. They scream for a great beer as a chaser. How about The Great Wall, The leaning Tower of Pisa, The Colosseseum or The Parthenon. Unimaginable without an icey cold PBR!
The mind reels with names such as: The Kremlin, Alhambra, The Temple Of Karnak, Mount Kilimanjaro, The Okavango Delta and Teotihuacan. My spellcheck has just had a meltdown.
Anyway, what I would do is fly in my private plane and view these wonders, have a cool one while my jets are cooling and, after dining locally, plan my next destination. I could do this until the whole hundred were seen. All the while I would be mapping out the list of a hundred more ‘Not Quite Ready For The Top One Hundred Wonder’ locations. Places like Dogpatch, Gasoline Alley, Abe’s Barbecue, The Shrine Of Donald Freeman’s Favorite Tweezers or the location of the world’s biggest crouton.
I’d like to visit an escargot ranch at roundup time, the place where they put them tiny stickers on tomatoes and a Survivor Island (where I would kick everybody off).
How about going to The North Pole to see if Santa is really there, tracking down The Easter Bunny (does he really live on Easter Island?) or going to the place where God’s final message to mankind is:
(“SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE”)?
Oh, the places we could see! The things that we could find out: what makes an elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist or the musty must, what makes a muskrat guard his musk, what makes a king out of a slave, what makes a flag to wave, what makes a Hottentot so hot and who put the ape in apricot? And: what do they got that we ain’t got? It certainly won’t be the good old dough ray me!
Who is we? Why it’s all my friends that will be along for the ride, laughin’ and a scratchin’ and a drinkin’ some beer!
What about my enimies? Why… we’ll send them postcards! Who knows what evil lives in the hearts of man? The Shadow do…Hahahahahahahah!
Public transportation in New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Saint Charles Folly
Or
There’s Nuthin’ Happening Here
To all my friends that haven’t seen me in a while: I’ve taken employment uptown. I know, I must be nuts, but it’s a good job and only has two drawbacks. 1. It takes me away from my beloved French Quarter many hours a day and (b) having given up private transportation; I must rely on public.
Rely probably isn’t the operative word here. One cannot rely on something as nebulous as a trolley schedule and, at the end of the day (and the beginning and middle), those rumbling sardine cans rarely keep a schedule that logic and reason can fathom. Also, I seem to posses the unique talent for getting to the corner just in time to see the darn thing leave without me. Perfect.
Waiting for the next car (that’s what they call trolleys) can be maddening, especially in inclement weather and after dark when there’s no light to read by. It’s an especial challenge when I see from three to eight of the beasts going in the opposite direction before one comes going my way. Sometimes the fifteen minutes between cars, that the company promises, turns into forty-five or more.
Try waiting thirty minutes, watching one uptown car after another go by, it’s raining, there’s no shelter, your not dressed properly for the sudden chill and the car that stops for you explains that he’s only going to Lee Circle. And another twenty minutes passes before you can catch one going your way and finally get out of the wet and the cold. It borders on cruel and unusual punishment.
It seems to me, in my pea-brained intelligence, that, if we can time the movement of heaven, earth and the very stars themselves, then running a Municipal Railway shouldn’t be rocket surgery. Needless to say, I have a lot of time to think as I undertake my daily odysseys.
I was thinking about how, in the old days, you could stick out your thumb and easily catch a ride; and how, that ride would be more often than not with a longhair like you. Not so today.
Well, what happened to those happy hippies in their flying Volkswagens, with peace and ecology stickers, playing loud Rock and Roll heralding the coming revolution and vows to save the world with nothing more than the love in our hearts? I’ll tell you. At least fifty-one percent of them went over to the dark side.
Think about it and humor an old fart. In the sixties and seventies we didn’t just disapprove of war, ecological suicide and greed: we marched against it! We didn’t just sit back and let the status quo get off with easy victories at the polls we protested!
Our music told us that we had “questions about hate and death and war”, and that the Times They Were A Changin’ because we knew that we were on the Eve Of Destruction and that “it’s been a long time comin’ but I know a change is gonna come”. Each group was musically subversive.
A lot of us sat in at lunch counters, refused to sit in the back of the bus, sang songs and carried signs. A lot of us got our asses kicked and some lost their lives; where are all those children now? I’ll tell you.
They work for special interest groups that rape and rip off our planet and people. They’ve formed religious coalitions that espouse an expeditious hastening to their heavenly home that can come only after the destruction of our planet and all of it’s resources. And some, having lost all the fight in them, sit by bathed in ennui and complacency and allow it to happen without using their hard won vote and voice to change things. They never dare speak a word aloud about any insanity.
How many of you know that this administration refuses to accept and comply with other governments that are concerned with global warning? How many know about human slavery still existing, both economically and physically?
How many of you read about genocide, hunger, ignorance, poverty, violence and hatred and sit by, not raising a voice? How many of you know that we are destroying the only planet we have in the name of ‘economic stability’?
We murder animals and eat them. We buy gas-guzzlers for the tax incentives while the government reaps huge profits on the tariffs that they impose on gasoline sales. We roll finely shredded vegetable matter in thin paper, place it in our mouths, light it on fire and die of cancer. CEOs reap millions while children go to sleep hungry…in America!
Another example: if you own a car (at least in my neighborhood) you pay out the wazoo for gas, insurance and upkeep. Furthermore, you run the risk of being given tickets by parking Nazis that don’t even work for your city. Towing, stealing, breaking and entering, keying, antenna damage and that jerk from out of state that uses it for a urinal or worse, some homeless or street person using your bumper for a latrine are also considerations. For what? So you can go to work and work and work; without health benefits, equal pay for equal work, a threat on your Social Security and the possibility of your kid coming home maimed or wounded as a reward for fighting in a war that we started? In my day, ‘Supporting The Troops’ meant ‘Bring Them Home!’
Chase the American Dream like a dog chases its tail and hope only that you live long enough to see your kids through college and your house paid for and, I’ll tell you what. You have violated everything that we fought for forty years and more ago: the responsibility of changing the world for the better.
I have no pension, no benefits, no 401K and I’ll probably pay rent for the rest of my life. Yet I still listen to the old music; and yes, I’m the guy waiting for the trolley in the rain. What’s more; if I ain’t got nuthin’ nice say… I’ll say it anyway!
By
Phil LaMancusa
Saint Charles Folly
Or
There’s Nuthin’ Happening Here
To all my friends that haven’t seen me in a while: I’ve taken employment uptown. I know, I must be nuts, but it’s a good job and only has two drawbacks. 1. It takes me away from my beloved French Quarter many hours a day and (b) having given up private transportation; I must rely on public.
Rely probably isn’t the operative word here. One cannot rely on something as nebulous as a trolley schedule and, at the end of the day (and the beginning and middle), those rumbling sardine cans rarely keep a schedule that logic and reason can fathom. Also, I seem to posses the unique talent for getting to the corner just in time to see the darn thing leave without me. Perfect.
Waiting for the next car (that’s what they call trolleys) can be maddening, especially in inclement weather and after dark when there’s no light to read by. It’s an especial challenge when I see from three to eight of the beasts going in the opposite direction before one comes going my way. Sometimes the fifteen minutes between cars, that the company promises, turns into forty-five or more.
Try waiting thirty minutes, watching one uptown car after another go by, it’s raining, there’s no shelter, your not dressed properly for the sudden chill and the car that stops for you explains that he’s only going to Lee Circle. And another twenty minutes passes before you can catch one going your way and finally get out of the wet and the cold. It borders on cruel and unusual punishment.
It seems to me, in my pea-brained intelligence, that, if we can time the movement of heaven, earth and the very stars themselves, then running a Municipal Railway shouldn’t be rocket surgery. Needless to say, I have a lot of time to think as I undertake my daily odysseys.
I was thinking about how, in the old days, you could stick out your thumb and easily catch a ride; and how, that ride would be more often than not with a longhair like you. Not so today.
Well, what happened to those happy hippies in their flying Volkswagens, with peace and ecology stickers, playing loud Rock and Roll heralding the coming revolution and vows to save the world with nothing more than the love in our hearts? I’ll tell you. At least fifty-one percent of them went over to the dark side.
Think about it and humor an old fart. In the sixties and seventies we didn’t just disapprove of war, ecological suicide and greed: we marched against it! We didn’t just sit back and let the status quo get off with easy victories at the polls we protested!
Our music told us that we had “questions about hate and death and war”, and that the Times They Were A Changin’ because we knew that we were on the Eve Of Destruction and that “it’s been a long time comin’ but I know a change is gonna come”. Each group was musically subversive.
A lot of us sat in at lunch counters, refused to sit in the back of the bus, sang songs and carried signs. A lot of us got our asses kicked and some lost their lives; where are all those children now? I’ll tell you.
They work for special interest groups that rape and rip off our planet and people. They’ve formed religious coalitions that espouse an expeditious hastening to their heavenly home that can come only after the destruction of our planet and all of it’s resources. And some, having lost all the fight in them, sit by bathed in ennui and complacency and allow it to happen without using their hard won vote and voice to change things. They never dare speak a word aloud about any insanity.
How many of you know that this administration refuses to accept and comply with other governments that are concerned with global warning? How many know about human slavery still existing, both economically and physically?
How many of you read about genocide, hunger, ignorance, poverty, violence and hatred and sit by, not raising a voice? How many of you know that we are destroying the only planet we have in the name of ‘economic stability’?
We murder animals and eat them. We buy gas-guzzlers for the tax incentives while the government reaps huge profits on the tariffs that they impose on gasoline sales. We roll finely shredded vegetable matter in thin paper, place it in our mouths, light it on fire and die of cancer. CEOs reap millions while children go to sleep hungry…in America!
Another example: if you own a car (at least in my neighborhood) you pay out the wazoo for gas, insurance and upkeep. Furthermore, you run the risk of being given tickets by parking Nazis that don’t even work for your city. Towing, stealing, breaking and entering, keying, antenna damage and that jerk from out of state that uses it for a urinal or worse, some homeless or street person using your bumper for a latrine are also considerations. For what? So you can go to work and work and work; without health benefits, equal pay for equal work, a threat on your Social Security and the possibility of your kid coming home maimed or wounded as a reward for fighting in a war that we started? In my day, ‘Supporting The Troops’ meant ‘Bring Them Home!’
Chase the American Dream like a dog chases its tail and hope only that you live long enough to see your kids through college and your house paid for and, I’ll tell you what. You have violated everything that we fought for forty years and more ago: the responsibility of changing the world for the better.
I have no pension, no benefits, no 401K and I’ll probably pay rent for the rest of my life. Yet I still listen to the old music; and yes, I’m the guy waiting for the trolley in the rain. What’s more; if I ain’t got nuthin’ nice say… I’ll say it anyway!
Lottery dreams in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Good Living
Or
Land Of A Thousand Dances
I returned from vacation with a deadline looming, no beer in the fridge, the bank’s ATM broken (“sorry for the inconvenience”) and a report that while I was gone my dog had eaten twenty-five pounds of kibble in one sitting. I would have had more money except for the ransom for the alcoholic beverages we had to pay in the airport and on the plane.
We went to America on our holiday, California specifically and amazingly, aside from us all having bad teeth and none of us speaking correct English here, we’re much the same people. And though they don’t say hello on the street to strangers, they’re a lot more polite when you get to know them. They don’t seem to mind paying four seventy-five for a Guinness draft or three seventy-five for a Corona in a bar, but, what the hey, the wine deals more than make up for it. Go figure.
One of the first purchases I made upon returning (after beer, of course) was a Lotto ticket, and a Powerball. Weezel has convinced me that it only takes one ticket to win and I think I procrastinate checking my numbers so that I can make believe that I’m a ga-zillionaire just for a little bit.
I’ve been playing the numbers game for decades. I find it better than insurance. With insurance, you’re betting against yourself and hoping that you’ll lose; with the lottery, at least you’re betting for yourself and hoping that you win. Does that make as much sense to you as it does to me?
Invariably I play the ‘what I’m gonna do with the money’ game while I wait to check the results. The first thing I think of is rewarding my friends and punishing my enemies, that idea always makes me feel good. There was a study done recently indicating that people actually feel good when they do things like that. To me, it doesn’t take a study.
I’ve often toyed with the idea of using my windfall to get all the love that money can buy; but I concluded that, once rich, I’d be electric!! Especially after my bodywork was completed, you know: hair, teeth eyebrows and buns and abs of steel. Nah, I’d probably buy a new bike instead.
Then I think of traveling. You know, the world is full of places that I haven’t seen…and want to. I could have money shipped to different locations around the globe and travel for the rest of my natural life. Hell, I’d be so filthy, stinking rich: I could afford to keep traveling after I bit the big one. Nepal, Venice, Rome (Italy not Georgia), Japan, Nova Scotia, where ever! There he goes!
And speaking of the long walk, the Big Chill, and the buying of the farm: I could afford, while I’m here, to have the best health care in the world almost into immortality! Think about it! Diet, exercise (read personal trainer here) and meditation on the infinite donut that we call our inner and outer universe. I could afford the best dentist. I’d be pretty and witty and bright. One thing that I do know; I’d never work another day in my life!
Or would I? I could take part of my dough and really trick out some business that I could sink my teeth into, like a bakery, a book store, a swanky bistro, a theater, my own museum or even a monthly literary publication! I could produce films, beauty pageants or music talent. I could fire Donald! I could have my own hotel/motel/bed and breakfast chain. A drive-in theater. Or not.
I could use my money to do good in the world, sobering thought that. Think of all the underprivileged, disenfranchised, down trodden and disadvantaged peoples, families and cultures that could use my resources for schools, hospitals or roads. It brings a tear to my eye to think that even in this great country of ours children go to bed hungry while we send eighty-seven billion dollars to help rebuild a country that we were instrumental in destroying, but that’s another story.
I think maybe that I could head up a gigantic law firm, prosecute bad guys, track down deadbeats, deal out justice. Suppose some guy has been mistreating his family, his wife and kids, late on child support? Supposing I just send somebody out to just kick his ass and some sense into his head? Suppose I take somebody that abuses animals, stages dogfights, cockfights, buggy driving? Suppose I send them over to Palestine and the only job that they can get is to be an ambulance driver? Hmmm?
Then again, I could just retire; buy some small South American country and set myself up as King, Emperor, and Protector. I could abolish despair, injustice and neglect. It’s not rocket surgery, you know. Lift them up by their bootstraps, train them all to be hairdressers or phone sanitizers. Maybe receptionists or dental hygienists. The possibilities are endless.
But that’s not what I wanted to talk about and in thinking about it, it’s worth doing my next column about (and just in time too). Are you sure that you are qualified to vote in the presidential election? Think about it. You’re either too young, too old or too dumb to be taking part in the making of a decision that’s going to affect my life for the next four years. I’m going to talk in length about it next month, just under the wire before election. Even though only about half of the adults that are qualified to vote do, I don’t want some uninformed, ABB or ‘with us or for terrorism’ schmuck taking me where no man has gone before. We’re in bad enough shape as it is.
That is unless I win the lottery before then. Have I told you my theory of rewarding my friends and punishing my enemies? Want to be my friend?
By
Phil LaMancusa
Good Living
Or
Land Of A Thousand Dances
I returned from vacation with a deadline looming, no beer in the fridge, the bank’s ATM broken (“sorry for the inconvenience”) and a report that while I was gone my dog had eaten twenty-five pounds of kibble in one sitting. I would have had more money except for the ransom for the alcoholic beverages we had to pay in the airport and on the plane.
We went to America on our holiday, California specifically and amazingly, aside from us all having bad teeth and none of us speaking correct English here, we’re much the same people. And though they don’t say hello on the street to strangers, they’re a lot more polite when you get to know them. They don’t seem to mind paying four seventy-five for a Guinness draft or three seventy-five for a Corona in a bar, but, what the hey, the wine deals more than make up for it. Go figure.
One of the first purchases I made upon returning (after beer, of course) was a Lotto ticket, and a Powerball. Weezel has convinced me that it only takes one ticket to win and I think I procrastinate checking my numbers so that I can make believe that I’m a ga-zillionaire just for a little bit.
I’ve been playing the numbers game for decades. I find it better than insurance. With insurance, you’re betting against yourself and hoping that you’ll lose; with the lottery, at least you’re betting for yourself and hoping that you win. Does that make as much sense to you as it does to me?
Invariably I play the ‘what I’m gonna do with the money’ game while I wait to check the results. The first thing I think of is rewarding my friends and punishing my enemies, that idea always makes me feel good. There was a study done recently indicating that people actually feel good when they do things like that. To me, it doesn’t take a study.
I’ve often toyed with the idea of using my windfall to get all the love that money can buy; but I concluded that, once rich, I’d be electric!! Especially after my bodywork was completed, you know: hair, teeth eyebrows and buns and abs of steel. Nah, I’d probably buy a new bike instead.
Then I think of traveling. You know, the world is full of places that I haven’t seen…and want to. I could have money shipped to different locations around the globe and travel for the rest of my natural life. Hell, I’d be so filthy, stinking rich: I could afford to keep traveling after I bit the big one. Nepal, Venice, Rome (Italy not Georgia), Japan, Nova Scotia, where ever! There he goes!
And speaking of the long walk, the Big Chill, and the buying of the farm: I could afford, while I’m here, to have the best health care in the world almost into immortality! Think about it! Diet, exercise (read personal trainer here) and meditation on the infinite donut that we call our inner and outer universe. I could afford the best dentist. I’d be pretty and witty and bright. One thing that I do know; I’d never work another day in my life!
Or would I? I could take part of my dough and really trick out some business that I could sink my teeth into, like a bakery, a book store, a swanky bistro, a theater, my own museum or even a monthly literary publication! I could produce films, beauty pageants or music talent. I could fire Donald! I could have my own hotel/motel/bed and breakfast chain. A drive-in theater. Or not.
I could use my money to do good in the world, sobering thought that. Think of all the underprivileged, disenfranchised, down trodden and disadvantaged peoples, families and cultures that could use my resources for schools, hospitals or roads. It brings a tear to my eye to think that even in this great country of ours children go to bed hungry while we send eighty-seven billion dollars to help rebuild a country that we were instrumental in destroying, but that’s another story.
I think maybe that I could head up a gigantic law firm, prosecute bad guys, track down deadbeats, deal out justice. Suppose some guy has been mistreating his family, his wife and kids, late on child support? Supposing I just send somebody out to just kick his ass and some sense into his head? Suppose I take somebody that abuses animals, stages dogfights, cockfights, buggy driving? Suppose I send them over to Palestine and the only job that they can get is to be an ambulance driver? Hmmm?
Then again, I could just retire; buy some small South American country and set myself up as King, Emperor, and Protector. I could abolish despair, injustice and neglect. It’s not rocket surgery, you know. Lift them up by their bootstraps, train them all to be hairdressers or phone sanitizers. Maybe receptionists or dental hygienists. The possibilities are endless.
But that’s not what I wanted to talk about and in thinking about it, it’s worth doing my next column about (and just in time too). Are you sure that you are qualified to vote in the presidential election? Think about it. You’re either too young, too old or too dumb to be taking part in the making of a decision that’s going to affect my life for the next four years. I’m going to talk in length about it next month, just under the wire before election. Even though only about half of the adults that are qualified to vote do, I don’t want some uninformed, ABB or ‘with us or for terrorism’ schmuck taking me where no man has gone before. We’re in bad enough shape as it is.
That is unless I win the lottery before then. Have I told you my theory of rewarding my friends and punishing my enemies? Want to be my friend?
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