P0-Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Paperback Writer
Or
TWNOLF: It’s Me, Phil!
Okay, this is me getting bigger for my britches, and who could blame me? This is me, celebrating my tenth year with the illustrious Where Y’at Magazine, a few hundred, thousand word, essays and blogs and not being satisfied with that, I’m charging ahead with writing short stories.
As a novice, self taught, short story writer, I’ve had my share of trials and tribs; let’s face it, at a certain age; going to school or classes is naught but an interruption from the basic needs for supplying oneself with food clothing and shelter. And because at this age a certain misplaced pride sets in that says that anything that you can learn from someone else you can certainly teach yourself, you’re satisfied with that. This is categorically not true; however, name me someone has not fallen prey to this deception.
My first rejection as a writer was from The New Yorker; you cannot consider yourself a real writer until The New Yorker has rejected you. Consider it your rite of passage and once you get one, frame it. The next thing that will make you a ‘real writer’ is getting paid for something that you’ve written or in my case something that you haven’t written; I was once given a buck to get off the computer at the library, so technically I am qualified in that department.
The next requirement to being a writer is to be published and as you know by reading this you give credence to me being a published person. BUT, as Louie says at Matassa’s Grocery Store about the New York Times: “It may be all the news that’s fit to print, but is it fit to read?”
Well after ten years at Where Y’at there’s been some high points and some not so high, however, I’ve been rejected, I’ve been published and I get paid. So there. Now I’m ready to stretch my wings and go for a bigger enchilada.
My first short story rejecter told me that I had too many characters in my story, notwithstanding that it was a poignant coming of (my) age account that, yes, had a damn lot of characters: namely members of my immediate family. My next rejection came with a note saying that my format was one that had been abandoned, whatever that means. My next was a rejection with no reason, only the now used to "despite its obvious merit” crap; If you’re a writer, you get used to that so-called ‘soft landing’.
Then last year at a Tennessee Williams Festival panels on short story writing it became clearer: eighteen pages, double spaced, Times New Roman with no more than four characters, protagonists or points of reference, “unless you’re Shakespeare or the bible” (their quote, not mine). You see, if you have more than four subjects, they said, your readers will not be able to keep your story straight. I guess they think we’re not up to snuff in the reading-with- intelligence- and-retention-of- information department. Duh.
My next submission was to the Tennessee Williams Festival itself. The story of a disoriented young soldier back from WW1 to his southern small home town where he pigments his skin to get a job as a Negro cook in a whorehouse and falls in love with one of the servants who is African American. It has a kindly sheriff and a motherly Madame and it should have been a shoe in. It was called Strawberry Nest.
It’s two weeks before the Festival and I’ve received no word. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Am I a winner? Am I a loser? Who knows.
Am I deterred? Disillusioned, disheartened, distraught or dismayed? No. I’ve already started on my next short story about a cast of characters (including a hunchback) that plan abduction, robbery and doublecross at the Tennessee Williams Fest itself! I’ve named it ‘Casual Encounters’.
They all have assumed names, they all have specific qualities, they’re all smart, saucy and sexy. There is a division of sexes and an amount of dynamic tension. It involves the stealing of an electronic reading device that doesn’t exist and kidnapping a professor who is really not a professor but one of the gang and getting paid by the winning Louisiana lottery jackpot which is controlled by the Chinese (of course) and the attempted outfoxing by the CIA and the setting of a fire in the kitchen of a famous New Orleans restaurant where the festival is being held and escaping in the end with a butt load of money. Or not. There are women in tight clothing, men with powerful weapons and vice versa. There is adventure, mystery, excitement and menus supplied by the author and a Costa Rican catering company Los Tres Bastardos Grasientos (The Three Greasy Bastards). Who knows, it may just be based on a true story?
To make sure that I don’t lose any of this story, I put it piece by piece on
my blog and backed it up on a zip drive just in time for my computer to have a friggin’ coronary. Let that be a lesson to you up and coming writers. I learned that on a Sex And The City episode; Carrie Bradshaw lost her material and did not have it backed up and, Lord, was it a mess! She almost cried.
Which brings me to this question: how come, no matter how much Sex the girls were getting in The City, Carrie was the only one who never was seen with her clothes off?
Anyhoot, back on the subject of short story writing. It’s fun. It’s a chore. It’s not as easy as pounding out a thousand words at a sitting (I’m up to twenty thousand on this one), but you get to experience what it’s like to be an exhausted writer. It’s true, you don’t know what your characters are going to do once you breathe life into them. Sometimes you don’t know what they’re going to say until it’s on the page in front of you and sometimes there’s a knock at the door where a completely new character wants in. It’s like art. It’s a reason to keep going back to the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival this year March 23rd -27th. You might see the deal go down or get to listen to my acceptance speech.
Showing posts with label cosmic debris from New Orleans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cosmic debris from New Orleans. Show all posts
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Pleasant people in New Orleans
Po-Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Master Thespian
Or
According To Me
I was told today that the simplest things are the most complex to achieve. I’ve also been told that it takes a really smart person to know how stupid that they are. Compounding that, an ex-con of my acquaintance who had found solace in the prison library, laid this one on me: “read a book--- get a clue”. Or, as I find, read a newspaper and have absolutely no clue whatsoever!
So, I’m sitting here, trying to sidetrack a cold by eating a quart of Hot and Sour soup, wishing that I could be home in my jammys… coloring. Instead, I’m at the shop, waiting for and on customers and I’ve got…the newspaper. One thing for sure; there is so much hullabaloo going on outside my little world that I just want to go home, get into my jammys and …. Color. Newspapers are generally the repositories of misery, anguish, defeat and death unless you read the reports on how we are striving to overcome the inevitable hardships that as humans we are destined to live in and with; that or unbearably bear witness to and I can barely do that and maintain a normal blood pressure.
How do you like your unemployment statistics? What do you think about whose war, where and ‘we don’t really think that the killing will stop until we have reached a peace accord’ baloney; and, ‘the floggings will continue until morale improves’ philosophy?
Read the newspaper. Are we still thinking that a march on City Hall will stop us from being the murder capital of the free world? Or: ‘another un-armed man shot by police’--- whew--- at least this time it’s in California--- NIMBY to the rescue on that potential meltdown.
Really, have you read the rags lately? Gloom and doom, riots and rebellions, fear and loathing, the economy has tanked, the Dow is like a moving target and into the fray has waded “The Black Guy With The Worst Job On The Planet” doing everything but knocking heads together to get stuff done.
I doubt if I’m in shape for the Crescent City Classic and I’m finagling time off for the Tennessee Williams Festival (see next month for a feature from Deb and me) and what’s a fellow to do but find solace in faith, fellowship, fun, fantasy and food and thank heavens that I have that in abundance here, or at least where I live--- in my own little world.
No kidding, last night I dreamt that the mayor had issued an executive order that all establishments in this city serve gumbo at dinner time… no exceptions. In my dream I witnessed a man getting pulled over for speeding by the cops and pleading what had become known as the ‘Gumbo Defense’. “I’m sorry officer, but I wasn’t offered gumbo tonight….”
I’m a big believer in dreams, make believe and sleight of hand. I’m still fooled by magic tricks, mesmerized by song lyrics and a sucker for a smile from a pretty woman (especially if she’s handing me a cold beer). And I think that living in my own world is the main factor that gives my sanity any equilibrium; or as the man said: “if I wasn’t crazy, I’d probably go nuts!”
The most pleasant people I know are the ones who can let life wash over them and filter out the noise and hear mainly the celestial music of life. Their smiles are genuine, their laughter clean and their eyes clear and when they’re not feeling up to par it’s usually nobody’s bizness but they’re own.
You know people like that. The ones who very seldom resort to profanity to make a point, the ones who defer to others and still maintain their true identities, the ones who you would seek out with a problem for logic and intelligence. I want to be like that when I grow up, when they feel the sniffles coming on they stay home in their jammys and color.
If you were an ice cream flavor what would you be? Name your favorite color, cookie and curiosity. A lot of times I dis-remember the simpler things that keep me happy: how much I love my home, my job (yes, I do), my neighbors and my life. And when I remember, I swear that I’m never going to let that go and then those little and big things start to hem me in again: the news, the sniffles… money money money money.
It’s not easy to keep track of the simpler things and It is the simpler things that let us be happy and allow ourselves, as we define ourselves, to be ourselves. Having food, clothing and shelter is a biggie and once that is taken care of what on this earth more can you possibly ask for? Me? A LOT!!! And that’s where the trouble starts. Patience flies out the window and I want things… NOW! Things and stuff and there I go again forgetting what I have that is my happiness.
So, from the beginning: I was told today that the simplest things are the most complex to achieve. I’ve also been told that it takes a really smart person to know how stupid that they are. A very smart person that I know noticed that a lot of times we forget to breathe properly. Could it be as simple as that? I mean, when you get upset doesn’t someone suggest to take a breath and count to ten? That seems simple.
And dreaming.
And reminding yourself how good your life is.
And letting that special person know how very happy that they let you be, just by the way that they treat you. Let them know that you love them and care.
And believe that you will get … everything that you deserve.
And love. And I can’t recommend this enough: and love.
And live. If not you…who? If not now…when?
And laugh. You have power above anything that you can laugh at.
Now go color.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Master Thespian
Or
According To Me
I was told today that the simplest things are the most complex to achieve. I’ve also been told that it takes a really smart person to know how stupid that they are. Compounding that, an ex-con of my acquaintance who had found solace in the prison library, laid this one on me: “read a book--- get a clue”. Or, as I find, read a newspaper and have absolutely no clue whatsoever!
So, I’m sitting here, trying to sidetrack a cold by eating a quart of Hot and Sour soup, wishing that I could be home in my jammys… coloring. Instead, I’m at the shop, waiting for and on customers and I’ve got…the newspaper. One thing for sure; there is so much hullabaloo going on outside my little world that I just want to go home, get into my jammys and …. Color. Newspapers are generally the repositories of misery, anguish, defeat and death unless you read the reports on how we are striving to overcome the inevitable hardships that as humans we are destined to live in and with; that or unbearably bear witness to and I can barely do that and maintain a normal blood pressure.
How do you like your unemployment statistics? What do you think about whose war, where and ‘we don’t really think that the killing will stop until we have reached a peace accord’ baloney; and, ‘the floggings will continue until morale improves’ philosophy?
Read the newspaper. Are we still thinking that a march on City Hall will stop us from being the murder capital of the free world? Or: ‘another un-armed man shot by police’--- whew--- at least this time it’s in California--- NIMBY to the rescue on that potential meltdown.
Really, have you read the rags lately? Gloom and doom, riots and rebellions, fear and loathing, the economy has tanked, the Dow is like a moving target and into the fray has waded “The Black Guy With The Worst Job On The Planet” doing everything but knocking heads together to get stuff done.
I doubt if I’m in shape for the Crescent City Classic and I’m finagling time off for the Tennessee Williams Festival (see next month for a feature from Deb and me) and what’s a fellow to do but find solace in faith, fellowship, fun, fantasy and food and thank heavens that I have that in abundance here, or at least where I live--- in my own little world.
No kidding, last night I dreamt that the mayor had issued an executive order that all establishments in this city serve gumbo at dinner time… no exceptions. In my dream I witnessed a man getting pulled over for speeding by the cops and pleading what had become known as the ‘Gumbo Defense’. “I’m sorry officer, but I wasn’t offered gumbo tonight….”
I’m a big believer in dreams, make believe and sleight of hand. I’m still fooled by magic tricks, mesmerized by song lyrics and a sucker for a smile from a pretty woman (especially if she’s handing me a cold beer). And I think that living in my own world is the main factor that gives my sanity any equilibrium; or as the man said: “if I wasn’t crazy, I’d probably go nuts!”
The most pleasant people I know are the ones who can let life wash over them and filter out the noise and hear mainly the celestial music of life. Their smiles are genuine, their laughter clean and their eyes clear and when they’re not feeling up to par it’s usually nobody’s bizness but they’re own.
You know people like that. The ones who very seldom resort to profanity to make a point, the ones who defer to others and still maintain their true identities, the ones who you would seek out with a problem for logic and intelligence. I want to be like that when I grow up, when they feel the sniffles coming on they stay home in their jammys and color.
If you were an ice cream flavor what would you be? Name your favorite color, cookie and curiosity. A lot of times I dis-remember the simpler things that keep me happy: how much I love my home, my job (yes, I do), my neighbors and my life. And when I remember, I swear that I’m never going to let that go and then those little and big things start to hem me in again: the news, the sniffles… money money money money.
It’s not easy to keep track of the simpler things and It is the simpler things that let us be happy and allow ourselves, as we define ourselves, to be ourselves. Having food, clothing and shelter is a biggie and once that is taken care of what on this earth more can you possibly ask for? Me? A LOT!!! And that’s where the trouble starts. Patience flies out the window and I want things… NOW! Things and stuff and there I go again forgetting what I have that is my happiness.
So, from the beginning: I was told today that the simplest things are the most complex to achieve. I’ve also been told that it takes a really smart person to know how stupid that they are. A very smart person that I know noticed that a lot of times we forget to breathe properly. Could it be as simple as that? I mean, when you get upset doesn’t someone suggest to take a breath and count to ten? That seems simple.
And dreaming.
And reminding yourself how good your life is.
And letting that special person know how very happy that they let you be, just by the way that they treat you. Let them know that you love them and care.
And believe that you will get … everything that you deserve.
And love. And I can’t recommend this enough: and love.
And live. If not you…who? If not now…when?
And laugh. You have power above anything that you can laugh at.
Now go color.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Valentine's in New Orleans
Valentine’s Day
Or
I’ll Get You For This!
Okay, I’m channeling Carrie Bradshaw here; but, is it not true that when you tell someone that big old “L” word that, in essence, you are committing to a technicolor, gossamer lined, cotton candy, hold ’em close and never let them go, love you to death debt of honor; and, at the same time subjecting yourself to a like indenture? In other words, when you say I love you…do you really mean “you owe me”? Do I hear the shackling of the handcuffs to the heart?
Now, don’t take this personal; these are just questions, and perhaps a waste of space except that February is ripe for such inquiries, what with Valentine’s and all…plus, there is my never ending tendency to challenge your thought processes.
At this point let me clarify that, yes, I do have a lover in my life and not only does my lover act, show and treat me as if I am worthy of love; my lover tells me that she loves me and I appreciate each and every time that I hear it from her lips. Yet, I remain amazed at the plethora of connotations that are implied with the use of the word ‘love’.
“I love you”. Did your Mama an ‘em lay that one on you (“I love you, Little Booger”) when you were young; and, did you not know that any mischief, mayhem or mis-step that you made would be a breach of faith to that love? That, that love, that was given so freely and then held over your head like a fragile bird (that you could destroy with a slip in your behavior), was cemented with those words? What do we actually mean by those three little words? AND, do we accept or place burdens on ourselves and others, perhaps naively, by their use? Is it as well an award and a reward? Is the word ‘love’ slung around like a garnish of whipped cream? Does it curdle with misuse or neglect; and, (like whipped cream) does it’s use in sex seem a little weird sometimes? A re-enforcement, a goose bumpy, puppy face-licking phrase of sub-serviance?
First though: Asking about what we mean by love itself can fill this newspaper and plenty of others and so, we’re not going to get into all that here. Better to save that discussion (what is love?) for a dark and stormy night, by a warm fire with a couple of brandies under our belts. I’m wondering about the many ways that we use the word. Disparities abound in a myriad of circumstances with the uses, the oft overlooked conundrum: what do we really mean when we say “I love you”? Can it possibly be as simple as that; the epitome of human felling can be condensed into three words? Let’s see.
Now, sometimes the ‘L’ word is used as a benediction as in when you’re leaving someone in a hospital bed, kissing a child good night or ringing off on a phone conversation. At times, guns drawn and ready to break down the perp’s door and my partner and I take a deep breath and I say “ready?” and she nods assent, I say softly “I love you” and we bust in guns blazing!
Newspaper cartoon of a girl child waking up her father and he says: “huh, wha?” and she says “Dad, I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful father you are and that I love you”. The dad smiles and the child adds “and I just spilled a gallon of fruit punch in the refrigerator”.
But wait! There’s more: Is it a natural or conditioned response that when someone says ‘I love you” to say “I love you, too”? Try responding: “Why, what did you do?” or “Yes but, I love you more” or (here’s the best one) “Okay. Grab me a beer, will ya?”
Okay, show of hands… how many of us take our critters close and say those words? I do, and I’m not too shy to admit to kissing my cat and nuzzling my dog; or, nuzzling my cat and kissing my dog. Either circumstance has me saying those three little words. Incidentally when a dog licks you is that an ‘I love you’ or a ‘don’t kick me’? Who can swear?
Does Jesus really love me? Did God love me so much that he sent Jesus to save me? I don’t know, I haven’t met either one of them. Which brings up love in religion and the faithful. Is it love or fear? Does Buddha love me? Muhammad? Does eternal love require eternally saying it? What is expected in return? No, you can’t have my beer.
Can you love a government the way that you love someone’s sweater, earrings or lipstick? And don’t tell me that I don’t know the difference between love and lust; although, I have been known to use ‘the word’ interchangeably for both types of attraction.
And I’m here to tell you that I am a great fan of the spoken word, especially when it’s to express love; however, this Valentine’s I’m making a resolution to mix it up: learning to say ‘I love you’ in foreign languages, wagging my tail or purring are also things that I’m up for trying. But also, there are other ways to keep love’s attention: treat, act and show are good places to start for the non-verbal communication of our feelings.
Face it, we show our loved ones that we love them by our actions and how we treat them; ‘the do’s: politeness, respect, space considerations and compliments as well as understanding, patience, forgiveness that go with the practicing of the Golden Rule. Add to that the ‘nots’: not being a pain in the ass to be around, not acting the fool, not overstressing your opinions and not knowing when to shut the fuck up.
Another thing that you can do is to read this article to your loved one. Just make sure that you stress after the reading that; “Honey, I’m sure that he’s not talking about us!”. Happy V.D. (Valentine’s Day) P.S. I love you.
plamancusa@aol.com
Or
I’ll Get You For This!
Okay, I’m channeling Carrie Bradshaw here; but, is it not true that when you tell someone that big old “L” word that, in essence, you are committing to a technicolor, gossamer lined, cotton candy, hold ’em close and never let them go, love you to death debt of honor; and, at the same time subjecting yourself to a like indenture? In other words, when you say I love you…do you really mean “you owe me”? Do I hear the shackling of the handcuffs to the heart?
Now, don’t take this personal; these are just questions, and perhaps a waste of space except that February is ripe for such inquiries, what with Valentine’s and all…plus, there is my never ending tendency to challenge your thought processes.
At this point let me clarify that, yes, I do have a lover in my life and not only does my lover act, show and treat me as if I am worthy of love; my lover tells me that she loves me and I appreciate each and every time that I hear it from her lips. Yet, I remain amazed at the plethora of connotations that are implied with the use of the word ‘love’.
“I love you”. Did your Mama an ‘em lay that one on you (“I love you, Little Booger”) when you were young; and, did you not know that any mischief, mayhem or mis-step that you made would be a breach of faith to that love? That, that love, that was given so freely and then held over your head like a fragile bird (that you could destroy with a slip in your behavior), was cemented with those words? What do we actually mean by those three little words? AND, do we accept or place burdens on ourselves and others, perhaps naively, by their use? Is it as well an award and a reward? Is the word ‘love’ slung around like a garnish of whipped cream? Does it curdle with misuse or neglect; and, (like whipped cream) does it’s use in sex seem a little weird sometimes? A re-enforcement, a goose bumpy, puppy face-licking phrase of sub-serviance?
First though: Asking about what we mean by love itself can fill this newspaper and plenty of others and so, we’re not going to get into all that here. Better to save that discussion (what is love?) for a dark and stormy night, by a warm fire with a couple of brandies under our belts. I’m wondering about the many ways that we use the word. Disparities abound in a myriad of circumstances with the uses, the oft overlooked conundrum: what do we really mean when we say “I love you”? Can it possibly be as simple as that; the epitome of human felling can be condensed into three words? Let’s see.
Now, sometimes the ‘L’ word is used as a benediction as in when you’re leaving someone in a hospital bed, kissing a child good night or ringing off on a phone conversation. At times, guns drawn and ready to break down the perp’s door and my partner and I take a deep breath and I say “ready?” and she nods assent, I say softly “I love you” and we bust in guns blazing!
Newspaper cartoon of a girl child waking up her father and he says: “huh, wha?” and she says “Dad, I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful father you are and that I love you”. The dad smiles and the child adds “and I just spilled a gallon of fruit punch in the refrigerator”.
But wait! There’s more: Is it a natural or conditioned response that when someone says ‘I love you” to say “I love you, too”? Try responding: “Why, what did you do?” or “Yes but, I love you more” or (here’s the best one) “Okay. Grab me a beer, will ya?”
Okay, show of hands… how many of us take our critters close and say those words? I do, and I’m not too shy to admit to kissing my cat and nuzzling my dog; or, nuzzling my cat and kissing my dog. Either circumstance has me saying those three little words. Incidentally when a dog licks you is that an ‘I love you’ or a ‘don’t kick me’? Who can swear?
Does Jesus really love me? Did God love me so much that he sent Jesus to save me? I don’t know, I haven’t met either one of them. Which brings up love in religion and the faithful. Is it love or fear? Does Buddha love me? Muhammad? Does eternal love require eternally saying it? What is expected in return? No, you can’t have my beer.
Can you love a government the way that you love someone’s sweater, earrings or lipstick? And don’t tell me that I don’t know the difference between love and lust; although, I have been known to use ‘the word’ interchangeably for both types of attraction.
And I’m here to tell you that I am a great fan of the spoken word, especially when it’s to express love; however, this Valentine’s I’m making a resolution to mix it up: learning to say ‘I love you’ in foreign languages, wagging my tail or purring are also things that I’m up for trying. But also, there are other ways to keep love’s attention: treat, act and show are good places to start for the non-verbal communication of our feelings.
Face it, we show our loved ones that we love them by our actions and how we treat them; ‘the do’s: politeness, respect, space considerations and compliments as well as understanding, patience, forgiveness that go with the practicing of the Golden Rule. Add to that the ‘nots’: not being a pain in the ass to be around, not acting the fool, not overstressing your opinions and not knowing when to shut the fuck up.
Another thing that you can do is to read this article to your loved one. Just make sure that you stress after the reading that; “Honey, I’m sure that he’s not talking about us!”. Happy V.D. (Valentine’s Day) P.S. I love you.
plamancusa@aol.com
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Getting Away From New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Family Reunion
Or
No Blood, No Foul
And so it was that my daughter delivered unto me a grand child. Naturally a girl of amazing beauty, grace and intelligence; at least as much as we can tell at four weeks of age, of this we have faith.
I did not go north for the birth; however, I did make it up to The Big Apple for that strangest of rituals: the baptism. Well, I think that it’s strange, oh me of little face, while others believe that Christening puts you on the inside track to the Pearly Gates. Go figger.
I flew in under the radar, as usual, on a Friday morning. I scooted out early evening on Monday. There was a lot of beer under the bridges in between. I was the shining example to New !@#$#%$^%&^ York of what a true New !@#$%$%^% Orleanian is. Complete with seersucker suit, bow tie (hand tied, of course) and snappy ‘penurious brim’ from Meyer (The Hatter).
As you know, I spent formative years in public housing on the government dole in lower Manhattan, one of five children of a first generation American woman through her course of three marriages (read: projects, welfare, broken home). Alas, never achieving the reflexes necessary to thrive in such an urban environment (read: skinny, shy, sensitive) I fled early on for warmer climes (read: I got the Qwert out as fast as I could). The rest of the family remains, sophisticated urbanites all (read: somebody might read this).
Although the rumors of the gentrification of my old hood are abundant, I found the same milieu in the still squalid zip code of my youth (read: the only slum left in New York!).
I took the shuttle in from the airport and on arriving at Penn. Station immediately sought out a Sabrett’s hot dog and a Nedick’s orange drink. I was able to navigate to my kid sister’s house in a place called Flushing to begin my sojourn, fluctuating my time between there and a place called New Rochelle for ceremonies and festivities. No one seems to know why it’s called Flushing and oddly enough there is no Old Rochelle that I’ve heard of. That doesn’t surprise me since the nurse at my last doctor’s visit couldn’t tell me what ’X ray’ was short for and/or if there was a W, Y or Z ray. There are things that are beyond the ken of mere mortals.
I spent some time getting reacquainted with my baby sister (now in her fifties) and her children, real and imagined. We spoke on diverse subjects; from the death of our mother (“I told the doctor to give her something for the pain”) to gay marriages (“who gives a fuck!”). We dished family member’s vices and virtues with gusto, relish and warmed over pizza.
My sister owns a house that is a block away from the cemetery where Louis Armstrong is buried. It seems that old ‘Satchel Mouf’ did not want his bones reposing in his birth city. A city that wouldn’t let him stay in a ‘whites only’ hotel or play with white musicians. Imagine that. I said hello for you, to Louie that is. He didn’t say anything back. I didn’t expect him to.
On Saturday, at my daughter’s, we prepared food for the apres ritual fete. Mother, daughter, grand daughter and doting husband dicing, slicing, marinating. Of course the baby was the center of attention, perfect as she is in every way.
At one point my ex had me hold the little darlin’ and made me repeat out loud those damning words “Grandfather…Grandfather…Grandfather”. What’s up with that? I don’t want to know.
Ah, New York. Where the women are strong, the men have all their own teeth and the children are above average in intelligence. Except in my old neighborhood.
Did I tell you that my brother drives a subway train? Here’s a story for you. My brother’s train was going under the Twin Towers on 9/11 and his supervisor radioed him to bypass the station. My brother not knowing what was going on happily complied and went speeding under the disaster. The next train, however, who’s driver had had contact with the outside world, did not. Going on the intercom and telling the passengers to stay aboard, he picked up the people on the station and made it out before the collapse.
Okay, that’s enough chatter for one column.
But, then, what is my choice but idle chatter? Shall I write about New Orleans yet again? Do you think that this is still The Big Easy? If you live here you know that, like a bad marriage (not my term), we endure day after day of putting on our game face while the walls of our hearts melt, and we chew our Cheerios with mendacious smiles and unquiet minds.
Here’s one for you. I watched a documentary on Public Television about how the military can erect and have fully functional in thirty six hours a hospital complete with operating rooms, convalescing wards and X ray facilities! Ask yourself…what’s up with New Orleans? Where’s our hospitals?
Naw, I’ll leave all that stuff to Chris Rose, his new book will be out any day now.
Of course you know that our columns are written with a six-week lead-time to publication; and, coming up on the two year anniversary of the ‘Thing’, here’s hoping. Here’s hoping that we make it through another storm season, that more of our neighbors are back, that we’re getting the help we need and that Paris Hilton is not too scarred from her time in the slammer.
Here’s hoping that we’re still in love, our powder’s dry, our streets are as safe as they are clean and we can rest easy.
New Orleans is an addiction. I hope I can always get my fix. My fix of gumbo. My fix of that first cold beer after a stroll through hot humid air. My fix of our oneness with each other.
And remember: it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Family Reunion
Or
No Blood, No Foul
And so it was that my daughter delivered unto me a grand child. Naturally a girl of amazing beauty, grace and intelligence; at least as much as we can tell at four weeks of age, of this we have faith.
I did not go north for the birth; however, I did make it up to The Big Apple for that strangest of rituals: the baptism. Well, I think that it’s strange, oh me of little face, while others believe that Christening puts you on the inside track to the Pearly Gates. Go figger.
I flew in under the radar, as usual, on a Friday morning. I scooted out early evening on Monday. There was a lot of beer under the bridges in between. I was the shining example to New !@#$#%$^%&^ York of what a true New !@#$%$%^% Orleanian is. Complete with seersucker suit, bow tie (hand tied, of course) and snappy ‘penurious brim’ from Meyer (The Hatter).
As you know, I spent formative years in public housing on the government dole in lower Manhattan, one of five children of a first generation American woman through her course of three marriages (read: projects, welfare, broken home). Alas, never achieving the reflexes necessary to thrive in such an urban environment (read: skinny, shy, sensitive) I fled early on for warmer climes (read: I got the Qwert out as fast as I could). The rest of the family remains, sophisticated urbanites all (read: somebody might read this).
Although the rumors of the gentrification of my old hood are abundant, I found the same milieu in the still squalid zip code of my youth (read: the only slum left in New York!).
I took the shuttle in from the airport and on arriving at Penn. Station immediately sought out a Sabrett’s hot dog and a Nedick’s orange drink. I was able to navigate to my kid sister’s house in a place called Flushing to begin my sojourn, fluctuating my time between there and a place called New Rochelle for ceremonies and festivities. No one seems to know why it’s called Flushing and oddly enough there is no Old Rochelle that I’ve heard of. That doesn’t surprise me since the nurse at my last doctor’s visit couldn’t tell me what ’X ray’ was short for and/or if there was a W, Y or Z ray. There are things that are beyond the ken of mere mortals.
I spent some time getting reacquainted with my baby sister (now in her fifties) and her children, real and imagined. We spoke on diverse subjects; from the death of our mother (“I told the doctor to give her something for the pain”) to gay marriages (“who gives a fuck!”). We dished family member’s vices and virtues with gusto, relish and warmed over pizza.
My sister owns a house that is a block away from the cemetery where Louis Armstrong is buried. It seems that old ‘Satchel Mouf’ did not want his bones reposing in his birth city. A city that wouldn’t let him stay in a ‘whites only’ hotel or play with white musicians. Imagine that. I said hello for you, to Louie that is. He didn’t say anything back. I didn’t expect him to.
On Saturday, at my daughter’s, we prepared food for the apres ritual fete. Mother, daughter, grand daughter and doting husband dicing, slicing, marinating. Of course the baby was the center of attention, perfect as she is in every way.
At one point my ex had me hold the little darlin’ and made me repeat out loud those damning words “Grandfather…Grandfather…Grandfather”. What’s up with that? I don’t want to know.
Ah, New York. Where the women are strong, the men have all their own teeth and the children are above average in intelligence. Except in my old neighborhood.
Did I tell you that my brother drives a subway train? Here’s a story for you. My brother’s train was going under the Twin Towers on 9/11 and his supervisor radioed him to bypass the station. My brother not knowing what was going on happily complied and went speeding under the disaster. The next train, however, who’s driver had had contact with the outside world, did not. Going on the intercom and telling the passengers to stay aboard, he picked up the people on the station and made it out before the collapse.
Okay, that’s enough chatter for one column.
But, then, what is my choice but idle chatter? Shall I write about New Orleans yet again? Do you think that this is still The Big Easy? If you live here you know that, like a bad marriage (not my term), we endure day after day of putting on our game face while the walls of our hearts melt, and we chew our Cheerios with mendacious smiles and unquiet minds.
Here’s one for you. I watched a documentary on Public Television about how the military can erect and have fully functional in thirty six hours a hospital complete with operating rooms, convalescing wards and X ray facilities! Ask yourself…what’s up with New Orleans? Where’s our hospitals?
Naw, I’ll leave all that stuff to Chris Rose, his new book will be out any day now.
Of course you know that our columns are written with a six-week lead-time to publication; and, coming up on the two year anniversary of the ‘Thing’, here’s hoping. Here’s hoping that we make it through another storm season, that more of our neighbors are back, that we’re getting the help we need and that Paris Hilton is not too scarred from her time in the slammer.
Here’s hoping that we’re still in love, our powder’s dry, our streets are as safe as they are clean and we can rest easy.
New Orleans is an addiction. I hope I can always get my fix. My fix of gumbo. My fix of that first cold beer after a stroll through hot humid air. My fix of our oneness with each other.
And remember: it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.
Monday, August 11, 2008
New Years in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
New Year’s Ablutions
Or
Tangled Up In Blue
Years have gone by since I’ve given a thought to changing my evil ways, especially as part of a ‘New Year’ ritual. Mainly my resolutions were to enact no resolutions whatsoever, “and far be it from me to change that now”, I would add. Although; I admit, recently I have been giving some thought to making a behavior modification or two. My thought was ‘exactly what forms would I take to better myself and my world around me?’ Usually my first reaction is…”hit the lottery!” But, as my ‘punish my enemies and reward my friends’ goal by way of the big payoff just doesn’t seem to be happening, I thought that maybe I should, like Fagin, review my situation.
Ah, a New Year is beginning. This old Earth has traveled 584,000,000 miles in the last 525,960 minutes. A time of reflection, contemplation …changes? Nah.
If you’re anything like me, (and believe me, we have more in common than you think) you’re already up to your butt in alligators. This is no time to try to drain the swamp (pun intended).
You and me/us (Yamus) either have or soon will realize that life is a series of events that challenge us not on a daily basis. We would be fortunate if, indeed, it was only on a daily basis. I’m here to tell you, brothers and sisters, the kibble hits the fan a lot more often than that, and Yamus usually get it full in the face.
Because there’s not enough hours in the day to get everything I need to do done, and I’ve divided my days in to three parts. One part scrambles to get my errands and obligations tended to. The second part is set aside to field all the weird stuff that comes up, and the third part is spent trying to forget everything that has happened that day, all the while avoiding that kibble and the ‘other shoes’ that keep falling.
I don’t know about you; but, I’ve been drinking a lot more now, since the hurricane recovery hasn’t begun. And my drinking (although I don’t approve) has taken on a savage quality. I purposely drink to get hammered as fast as I can so that I can go to bed and sleep. This, as I see it, is bad form.
Don’t get me confused with some kind of hardened sot; I’m more of a lightweight dipsomaniac. I don’t start drinking until my day of getting my ass kicked by life is over, but then, I go to it with a passion, nay, a vengeance. The pity of it all is that I don’t want to give up drinking; however, I do realize the need to alter my actions in this area or prepare for my liver to be sold as pate.
A gallon of beer a night is also not good for the waistline and neither are fried oyster po-boys, cheese and mini meatballs at happy hour or that baked potato and giant burger at Port Of Call late at night. Needless to say with gut bombs like these, consumed on an open pyloric valve, my reticence for frequent visits to the gym is understandable (yes, that would be me with a Lucky Dog light snack). Twelve-ounce curls does not biceps make.
The only excuse that I can come up with is that personal improvement motivation rings hollow compared with the political, environmental, socio-psycho-economic, ‘P.S. your cat is dead’ emotional quagmire that I find my impotent butt held hostage in.
I saw a tee shirt once (another “I saw a tee shirt” story). It said:
“Eat Right.
Exercise.
Die Anyway”.
There was a comic strip character named Joe Btfsplk (take that spellchecker!) who went around with a dark cloud above his head, no matter what the weather. He was, what is called, jinxed. I feel, a lot of times, a lot like that. Incidentally, do you know how to pronounce Joe’s last name? Hint: stick your tongue out of your closed mouth and blow (A.K.A. Bronx cheer, raspberry).
I guess that it’s a case of sunken heart, or a total eclipse, or like the title implies a tangling of the blues. Girlfriend likens it to the feeling you have when you wake up after being fired from your job, your lover dumping you and being evicted rolled into one…btfsplk.
I started reading The Murder of Christ by Wilhelm Reich, you know, the guy who had his books burned in the 1950’s by the FDA? It’s incredibly depressing. I’m reading newspapers---I watch the news, television---same. I’m ready for something upbeat. A new regimen of diet, exercise and abstinence is not appealing in the face of more Wallabys dropping; I’d probably rupture something. I swear, Thom McCann is up there, and he’s not very happy with me.
Here comes the good part: Bridge House Thrift Store is up and running. Other good news is that, as of January one New Orleans will be down to no homicides for the year, there will be no smoking in restaurants, my cat is very much alive and the other party comes into power. We will see how long any of that lasts.
Another thing that I find Yamus have in common is that, invariably, we’re all glad that the last year is gone and we usually swear that the next year is going to be, has to be better. Eventually Yamus will resort to remembering ‘the good old days’. We had this discussion the other day trying to remember when stuff wasn’t so damn complicated and I wasn’t flummoxed for most of the time. I, for one, couldn’t remember that far back. Today, being above ground is blessing enough; and, being well rested, well fed and well loved is something to cherish and try to hold on to. Although hitting the Powerball wouldn’t hurt, I reckon I’m doing okay.
Some other parting 2006 thoughts: Dreamers live forever, hope springs eternal and if you get hit with a bucket of…kibble…don’t forget to close your eyes. Happy New Year to Yamus!
By
Phil LaMancusa
New Year’s Ablutions
Or
Tangled Up In Blue
Years have gone by since I’ve given a thought to changing my evil ways, especially as part of a ‘New Year’ ritual. Mainly my resolutions were to enact no resolutions whatsoever, “and far be it from me to change that now”, I would add. Although; I admit, recently I have been giving some thought to making a behavior modification or two. My thought was ‘exactly what forms would I take to better myself and my world around me?’ Usually my first reaction is…”hit the lottery!” But, as my ‘punish my enemies and reward my friends’ goal by way of the big payoff just doesn’t seem to be happening, I thought that maybe I should, like Fagin, review my situation.
Ah, a New Year is beginning. This old Earth has traveled 584,000,000 miles in the last 525,960 minutes. A time of reflection, contemplation …changes? Nah.
If you’re anything like me, (and believe me, we have more in common than you think) you’re already up to your butt in alligators. This is no time to try to drain the swamp (pun intended).
You and me/us (Yamus) either have or soon will realize that life is a series of events that challenge us not on a daily basis. We would be fortunate if, indeed, it was only on a daily basis. I’m here to tell you, brothers and sisters, the kibble hits the fan a lot more often than that, and Yamus usually get it full in the face.
Because there’s not enough hours in the day to get everything I need to do done, and I’ve divided my days in to three parts. One part scrambles to get my errands and obligations tended to. The second part is set aside to field all the weird stuff that comes up, and the third part is spent trying to forget everything that has happened that day, all the while avoiding that kibble and the ‘other shoes’ that keep falling.
I don’t know about you; but, I’ve been drinking a lot more now, since the hurricane recovery hasn’t begun. And my drinking (although I don’t approve) has taken on a savage quality. I purposely drink to get hammered as fast as I can so that I can go to bed and sleep. This, as I see it, is bad form.
Don’t get me confused with some kind of hardened sot; I’m more of a lightweight dipsomaniac. I don’t start drinking until my day of getting my ass kicked by life is over, but then, I go to it with a passion, nay, a vengeance. The pity of it all is that I don’t want to give up drinking; however, I do realize the need to alter my actions in this area or prepare for my liver to be sold as pate.
A gallon of beer a night is also not good for the waistline and neither are fried oyster po-boys, cheese and mini meatballs at happy hour or that baked potato and giant burger at Port Of Call late at night. Needless to say with gut bombs like these, consumed on an open pyloric valve, my reticence for frequent visits to the gym is understandable (yes, that would be me with a Lucky Dog light snack). Twelve-ounce curls does not biceps make.
The only excuse that I can come up with is that personal improvement motivation rings hollow compared with the political, environmental, socio-psycho-economic, ‘P.S. your cat is dead’ emotional quagmire that I find my impotent butt held hostage in.
I saw a tee shirt once (another “I saw a tee shirt” story). It said:
“Eat Right.
Exercise.
Die Anyway”.
There was a comic strip character named Joe Btfsplk (take that spellchecker!) who went around with a dark cloud above his head, no matter what the weather. He was, what is called, jinxed. I feel, a lot of times, a lot like that. Incidentally, do you know how to pronounce Joe’s last name? Hint: stick your tongue out of your closed mouth and blow (A.K.A. Bronx cheer, raspberry).
I guess that it’s a case of sunken heart, or a total eclipse, or like the title implies a tangling of the blues. Girlfriend likens it to the feeling you have when you wake up after being fired from your job, your lover dumping you and being evicted rolled into one…btfsplk.
I started reading The Murder of Christ by Wilhelm Reich, you know, the guy who had his books burned in the 1950’s by the FDA? It’s incredibly depressing. I’m reading newspapers---I watch the news, television---same. I’m ready for something upbeat. A new regimen of diet, exercise and abstinence is not appealing in the face of more Wallabys dropping; I’d probably rupture something. I swear, Thom McCann is up there, and he’s not very happy with me.
Here comes the good part: Bridge House Thrift Store is up and running. Other good news is that, as of January one New Orleans will be down to no homicides for the year, there will be no smoking in restaurants, my cat is very much alive and the other party comes into power. We will see how long any of that lasts.
Another thing that I find Yamus have in common is that, invariably, we’re all glad that the last year is gone and we usually swear that the next year is going to be, has to be better. Eventually Yamus will resort to remembering ‘the good old days’. We had this discussion the other day trying to remember when stuff wasn’t so damn complicated and I wasn’t flummoxed for most of the time. I, for one, couldn’t remember that far back. Today, being above ground is blessing enough; and, being well rested, well fed and well loved is something to cherish and try to hold on to. Although hitting the Powerball wouldn’t hurt, I reckon I’m doing okay.
Some other parting 2006 thoughts: Dreamers live forever, hope springs eternal and if you get hit with a bucket of…kibble…don’t forget to close your eyes. Happy New Year to Yamus!
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Food facts from New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
What else you don’t know
Or
Where was Moses when the lights went out? (In the dark!)
**********************
“Hollywood created an era where prostitutes were made national heroines simply because they bedded well with some studio owners. Marriage was treated as a farce and divorce became a ticket for a whore to move from one house to another.”
Don’t take my word for it, that quote is taken verbatim from a book by a man (and his wife) named George Leonard Herter of Waseca, Minnesota.
The book; Bull Cook and Authentic Historical Recipes and Practices was first published in 1960 and had a number of successful reprints.
Other truisms that Mr. Herter propounds in his book are that menstruating women cannot and should not make mayonnaise (for it simply will not work).
Charemagne, who died in A. D. 814, invented sauerbraten.
Catherine De Medici who married Henry, King of France, “had three sons, two of whom were not all there mentally”. And furthermore, “Her face was not very good looking but she had beautiful legs(!!!). She invented women’s panties so that she could ride a horse with her skirts up high showing off her legs. Up until this time women wore no panties of any kind.”
Chow Mien and Chop Suey were “invented in San Francisco by a Greek named John Metaxa.”
‘Caesar Salad was invented by an Italian in Chicago, not a Mexican in Tijuana’.
You see? That’s how rumors get started!
At this point you will probably be asking yourself, ‘why is he telling me all this?’ (I know I would be). At which point I would answer you: ‘As a vehicle to your awareness, mon frere; you see, Mr. Herter, in his ground breaking tome, waxes profound on our fair city.’ And, as I know, Essence Festival is coming up (July 5-7) and there are going to be a lot of guests in town that you will be able to astonish and amaze with your inside information about our fair NOLA.
Be that as it may; before we explore new untohitherfore information about our city, let’s go back to the well for more examples of things Mr. Herter knew and we didn’t. This is straight up skinny, so, read on and learn.
*”In case of an atomic attack it would be important to know how to make jerky…”
*”Bat (Masterson) created a wiener sandwich…Everyone called it a Prairie Dog.” (think about it.)
*”If a human eats raw carp flesh for a week he will also die.”
*”Bull fighting is actually one of the safest ways to make a living in the world if you can stay sober.”
*…original onion soup contains no onions at all.”
*”The Indians of Mexico and Central America were the first to make spaghetti and tomato sauce.”
*All of the ones (gunfighters) of any note had blue eyes.”
*”A great many words used to describe recipes in French cooking mean nothing at all.”
*”The Virgin Mary, Mother of Christ was very fond of spinach.”
*”…I am sure that I am the first man who ever made a hamburger in Africa.”
*”One morning Oliver was eating a dish if cooked vegetables and fish. His pet cat had been drinking heavily. It jumped up on the table, lost its balance and knocked over a bottle of oil and vinegar, spilling both on Oliver’s plate. Oliver put the cat outside to sober up.” (On the birth of a dish called ‘Anti-Pasto”)
There’s plenty more but I need to get to ‘The New Orleans’ parts before I run out of room. Ready? Here we go!
**************************************
*”You have to go a long ways to find Italian food like they serve in New Orleans. It is the worst I’ve ever eaten…”
*”Drunkenness is not a crime in New Orleans unless you get disorderly.”
*”If the Bourbon St. crowd, go into a bar and look up from their drinks and do not see, among other things, a couple of well formed breasts flopping around, the drink doesn’t taste just right and they move to another bar.”
*”…but his jailers released (Pierre Lafitte) him and he walked out into the alley… This alley has ever since been called Pirates Alley.”
*”… the word Nouvelle (used in Nouvelle Orleans) is a feminine word and …made him (the Duke) out as a complete fairy.”
*”One of the first and best foods Bienville taught the colonists to make was oyster loafs.”
*John McDonogh (whose $ built N.O. public schools) invented ‘Shut Your Mouth’ sandwich.
*”Probably the two most important things that were invented in New Orleans are the poor boy sandwich and the expression O.K.”
* J.E.B. STUART (General of Confederate Army) invented ‘Dirty rice’
*“In New Orleans a drink is served today called Café Brulot. It is of fairly recent origin and is simply a drink dreamed up to look fancy and clip the tourist for a fancy price.”
*”Dominique You (top lieutenant for Jean Lafitte)… is probably better known for the phrase he coined…’Les bonbons acceuillis, produisent leur effet, mais la liqueur travaille plus vita cet effet’ …(Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker).”
I could go on and on, but now it’s time for some real info to pass on to our Essence Festers..
*The City of New Orleans makes a lot of money ticketing and towing cars, there are also residents that make money breaking into them. Watch where you park.
*Everyone in New Orleans is working a hustle. A ‘hustle’ is here defined as a way to make money to support a habit, and habits can range from eating regularly to anything else imaginable. Peep the hustle before you cop to it.
*The City of New Orleans wants you here and wants you safe, so don’t do anything stupid like walk down dark streets to visit Armstrong Park after dark, wearing Mardi Gras beads and carrying your camera with your new best friend that you just met on Bourbon Street.
*The annual Essence Festival zeroes in on African-American-oriented forms of music while also providing highly attended “empowerment Seminars” that help educate and inform the African-American community. It’s something we all could use a dose of on a regular basis. Pass it on.
*Check out local attractions and buy local products from local purveyors, including local restaurants, bookshops, grocery stores and galleries.
*Have fun and we’ll see you at the Dome!!!
By
Phil LaMancusa
What else you don’t know
Or
Where was Moses when the lights went out? (In the dark!)
**********************
“Hollywood created an era where prostitutes were made national heroines simply because they bedded well with some studio owners. Marriage was treated as a farce and divorce became a ticket for a whore to move from one house to another.”
Don’t take my word for it, that quote is taken verbatim from a book by a man (and his wife) named George Leonard Herter of Waseca, Minnesota.
The book; Bull Cook and Authentic Historical Recipes and Practices was first published in 1960 and had a number of successful reprints.
Other truisms that Mr. Herter propounds in his book are that menstruating women cannot and should not make mayonnaise (for it simply will not work).
Charemagne, who died in A. D. 814, invented sauerbraten.
Catherine De Medici who married Henry, King of France, “had three sons, two of whom were not all there mentally”. And furthermore, “Her face was not very good looking but she had beautiful legs(!!!). She invented women’s panties so that she could ride a horse with her skirts up high showing off her legs. Up until this time women wore no panties of any kind.”
Chow Mien and Chop Suey were “invented in San Francisco by a Greek named John Metaxa.”
‘Caesar Salad was invented by an Italian in Chicago, not a Mexican in Tijuana’.
You see? That’s how rumors get started!
At this point you will probably be asking yourself, ‘why is he telling me all this?’ (I know I would be). At which point I would answer you: ‘As a vehicle to your awareness, mon frere; you see, Mr. Herter, in his ground breaking tome, waxes profound on our fair city.’ And, as I know, Essence Festival is coming up (July 5-7) and there are going to be a lot of guests in town that you will be able to astonish and amaze with your inside information about our fair NOLA.
Be that as it may; before we explore new untohitherfore information about our city, let’s go back to the well for more examples of things Mr. Herter knew and we didn’t. This is straight up skinny, so, read on and learn.
*”In case of an atomic attack it would be important to know how to make jerky…”
*”Bat (Masterson) created a wiener sandwich…Everyone called it a Prairie Dog.” (think about it.)
*”If a human eats raw carp flesh for a week he will also die.”
*”Bull fighting is actually one of the safest ways to make a living in the world if you can stay sober.”
*…original onion soup contains no onions at all.”
*”The Indians of Mexico and Central America were the first to make spaghetti and tomato sauce.”
*All of the ones (gunfighters) of any note had blue eyes.”
*”A great many words used to describe recipes in French cooking mean nothing at all.”
*”The Virgin Mary, Mother of Christ was very fond of spinach.”
*”…I am sure that I am the first man who ever made a hamburger in Africa.”
*”One morning Oliver was eating a dish if cooked vegetables and fish. His pet cat had been drinking heavily. It jumped up on the table, lost its balance and knocked over a bottle of oil and vinegar, spilling both on Oliver’s plate. Oliver put the cat outside to sober up.” (On the birth of a dish called ‘Anti-Pasto”)
There’s plenty more but I need to get to ‘The New Orleans’ parts before I run out of room. Ready? Here we go!
**************************************
*”You have to go a long ways to find Italian food like they serve in New Orleans. It is the worst I’ve ever eaten…”
*”Drunkenness is not a crime in New Orleans unless you get disorderly.”
*”If the Bourbon St. crowd, go into a bar and look up from their drinks and do not see, among other things, a couple of well formed breasts flopping around, the drink doesn’t taste just right and they move to another bar.”
*”…but his jailers released (Pierre Lafitte) him and he walked out into the alley… This alley has ever since been called Pirates Alley.”
*”… the word Nouvelle (used in Nouvelle Orleans) is a feminine word and …made him (the Duke) out as a complete fairy.”
*”One of the first and best foods Bienville taught the colonists to make was oyster loafs.”
*John McDonogh (whose $ built N.O. public schools) invented ‘Shut Your Mouth’ sandwich.
*”Probably the two most important things that were invented in New Orleans are the poor boy sandwich and the expression O.K.”
* J.E.B. STUART (General of Confederate Army) invented ‘Dirty rice’
*“In New Orleans a drink is served today called Café Brulot. It is of fairly recent origin and is simply a drink dreamed up to look fancy and clip the tourist for a fancy price.”
*”Dominique You (top lieutenant for Jean Lafitte)… is probably better known for the phrase he coined…’Les bonbons acceuillis, produisent leur effet, mais la liqueur travaille plus vita cet effet’ …(Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker).”
I could go on and on, but now it’s time for some real info to pass on to our Essence Festers..
*The City of New Orleans makes a lot of money ticketing and towing cars, there are also residents that make money breaking into them. Watch where you park.
*Everyone in New Orleans is working a hustle. A ‘hustle’ is here defined as a way to make money to support a habit, and habits can range from eating regularly to anything else imaginable. Peep the hustle before you cop to it.
*The City of New Orleans wants you here and wants you safe, so don’t do anything stupid like walk down dark streets to visit Armstrong Park after dark, wearing Mardi Gras beads and carrying your camera with your new best friend that you just met on Bourbon Street.
*The annual Essence Festival zeroes in on African-American-oriented forms of music while also providing highly attended “empowerment Seminars” that help educate and inform the African-American community. It’s something we all could use a dose of on a regular basis. Pass it on.
*Check out local attractions and buy local products from local purveyors, including local restaurants, bookshops, grocery stores and galleries.
*Have fun and we’ll see you at the Dome!!!
Friday, August 1, 2008
Short story contest in New Orleans
P0-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Desserts Spelled Backwards
Or
What Do You expect?
Well, I just put a hundred dollars in my gas tank. things have gotten ugly, real ugly. So far I’ve not heard of anyone getting as much of a raise in salary as the gas prices, food prices and indeed all prices have warranted. And as I gaze out over the fen at daybreak, I am reminded of that little voice in my head that whispers… ‘what do you expect?’
Did I expect that government on all levels is not staffed by people that can’t make a living doing anything else, not that there’s that much else to do around here while we wait for the next big one to tear us a new one. Okay, we do have three options other than politics: 1. Work selling things that come from China. 2. Wait on tables that mostly consist of foreigners that are celebrating their currency exchange that is kicking our butts. 3. Gaze out over the fen and ask ourselves: “what do I expect?”
It all started with the CEOs of the gas company gloating about how much profit that they make at my expense. And then the article that Abita Beer has to spend triple the money to make a beer, and even the fact that PBR has gone up in price. Yeah, the squeeze is on and I for one do not feel like putting my hands together about it.
But what do I expect (and what does Hillary want?) question mark, question mark. I want to feel like I do when I eat chocolate, when I’m having ice cream, and that’s just not happening in this climate, at this time.
Consequently, I’ve entertained the thought of entering a short story contest. Top prize: two thousand bucks. That would feel like chocolate. Actually, I had to ask my kid sister to explain to me exactly what constitutes a ‘short story’. The only thing that I remember about what she told me (and there was a great deal) is “beginning, middle and end” and, “make it short”. I guess I’ll have to do it third person and other criteria like that that I picked up at the Tennessee Williams Conference and the William Faulkner Festival. I’ve learned a lot at those conferences, mostly through osmosis. I think that what I’m supposed to do is work up some inner demon, an inner subconscious demon and let it fly with as much attention to detail (not to mention alacrity) toward a release that aims at catharsis and self-actualization at the very least. Hence, the ‘gazing out over the fen’. Let me try it out on you.
Okay, here I am in third person gazing, gazing. Perhaps smoking a pipe. It is daybreak with all the riotous colors that accompany a red sky in the morning (sailors take warning!). The first birds of the day are taking flight, chasing the first insects that are on a diet of other insects including the damn mosquitoes that are carrying about a pint of my blood from last night, rich in single barrel bourbon.
I’m gazing for signs of the mailman or the recycling truck or perhaps my lover (that no count that has made a fool of me). The radio plays in the background a forgotten song (Ques: what was that forgotten song? Ans: Brenda Lee, ‘Comin’ on strong’). That old football injury (where I got hit by an old football) is acting up and the medication is just starting to kick in.
‘When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed…. No, no Nannette, I can’t use that line. Okay, off in the distance I hear something. Jingle bells? Clydesdales? Martini glasses? It’s a belly dancer! That’s it, a belly dancer delivering a dancing telegram. What does it say?
Work with me here, two grand aint nothing to sneeze at unless your nose is full of Peruvian marching powder. Okay, we can’t describe a dancing telegram; so, what do we have? I’m gazing over the fence (in third person), at the tor by the fen in deep anticipation and with an attitude both withdrawn and recalcitrant… clearly a made man.
Naw… I’m in a wheelchair, see? A torpedo from Toledo got me with his gat when my guard was down. I think his name was Louie or Lefty or something like that and hanging was too good for him, if you ask me. But he got what was comin’ to him and I even kicked him while he was down… yeah … and then I went out shopping for towels with his moll.
You know, scumbag is not a word that you hear, let alone read, very often and I think that I should include it in the story. Do you think it too harsh? I think it brings up a good visual. Like, just picture those people in your life that you relate to as scumbags; that’s the kind of guy Louie or Lefty was, and I did him in but good…the scumbag! He won’t be pullin’ no roscoe on nobody any time too soon.
Too much drama? Okay, how about a guy who quits his job at Sprawl-mart selling stuff made in China because his other job got outsourced and he’s waiting on tables because it’s the only place to make enough money to buy gas, pay excessive rent and utilities and his girlfriend thinks he doesn’t work out enough or spend enough time with her and he forgot to file taxes this year and he thinks that all politicians are thieving scumbags and the election is coming up and a hurricane is coming and cigarettes just went up to ten bucks a pack. He’s just gotten another ticket on his car, this one for a hundred and twenty bucks, he hasn’t been to a movie in two years and the day he decides to go, he gets hit by a Ben and Jerry’s delivery truck driven by Louie or Lefty or somebody like that, who gets out and tosses a melted Chunky Monkey in his face and tells him that he was better off by the fence with the tor and the fen and who does he think he is calling him names and going off to buy towels? Too much reality? Well, what do you expect, I’ve had a tough day…where’s my chocolate?
By
Phil LaMancusa
Desserts Spelled Backwards
Or
What Do You expect?
Well, I just put a hundred dollars in my gas tank. things have gotten ugly, real ugly. So far I’ve not heard of anyone getting as much of a raise in salary as the gas prices, food prices and indeed all prices have warranted. And as I gaze out over the fen at daybreak, I am reminded of that little voice in my head that whispers… ‘what do you expect?’
Did I expect that government on all levels is not staffed by people that can’t make a living doing anything else, not that there’s that much else to do around here while we wait for the next big one to tear us a new one. Okay, we do have three options other than politics: 1. Work selling things that come from China. 2. Wait on tables that mostly consist of foreigners that are celebrating their currency exchange that is kicking our butts. 3. Gaze out over the fen and ask ourselves: “what do I expect?”
It all started with the CEOs of the gas company gloating about how much profit that they make at my expense. And then the article that Abita Beer has to spend triple the money to make a beer, and even the fact that PBR has gone up in price. Yeah, the squeeze is on and I for one do not feel like putting my hands together about it.
But what do I expect (and what does Hillary want?) question mark, question mark. I want to feel like I do when I eat chocolate, when I’m having ice cream, and that’s just not happening in this climate, at this time.
Consequently, I’ve entertained the thought of entering a short story contest. Top prize: two thousand bucks. That would feel like chocolate. Actually, I had to ask my kid sister to explain to me exactly what constitutes a ‘short story’. The only thing that I remember about what she told me (and there was a great deal) is “beginning, middle and end” and, “make it short”. I guess I’ll have to do it third person and other criteria like that that I picked up at the Tennessee Williams Conference and the William Faulkner Festival. I’ve learned a lot at those conferences, mostly through osmosis. I think that what I’m supposed to do is work up some inner demon, an inner subconscious demon and let it fly with as much attention to detail (not to mention alacrity) toward a release that aims at catharsis and self-actualization at the very least. Hence, the ‘gazing out over the fen’. Let me try it out on you.
Okay, here I am in third person gazing, gazing. Perhaps smoking a pipe. It is daybreak with all the riotous colors that accompany a red sky in the morning (sailors take warning!). The first birds of the day are taking flight, chasing the first insects that are on a diet of other insects including the damn mosquitoes that are carrying about a pint of my blood from last night, rich in single barrel bourbon.
I’m gazing for signs of the mailman or the recycling truck or perhaps my lover (that no count that has made a fool of me). The radio plays in the background a forgotten song (Ques: what was that forgotten song? Ans: Brenda Lee, ‘Comin’ on strong’). That old football injury (where I got hit by an old football) is acting up and the medication is just starting to kick in.
‘When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed…. No, no Nannette, I can’t use that line. Okay, off in the distance I hear something. Jingle bells? Clydesdales? Martini glasses? It’s a belly dancer! That’s it, a belly dancer delivering a dancing telegram. What does it say?
Work with me here, two grand aint nothing to sneeze at unless your nose is full of Peruvian marching powder. Okay, we can’t describe a dancing telegram; so, what do we have? I’m gazing over the fence (in third person), at the tor by the fen in deep anticipation and with an attitude both withdrawn and recalcitrant… clearly a made man.
Naw… I’m in a wheelchair, see? A torpedo from Toledo got me with his gat when my guard was down. I think his name was Louie or Lefty or something like that and hanging was too good for him, if you ask me. But he got what was comin’ to him and I even kicked him while he was down… yeah … and then I went out shopping for towels with his moll.
You know, scumbag is not a word that you hear, let alone read, very often and I think that I should include it in the story. Do you think it too harsh? I think it brings up a good visual. Like, just picture those people in your life that you relate to as scumbags; that’s the kind of guy Louie or Lefty was, and I did him in but good…the scumbag! He won’t be pullin’ no roscoe on nobody any time too soon.
Too much drama? Okay, how about a guy who quits his job at Sprawl-mart selling stuff made in China because his other job got outsourced and he’s waiting on tables because it’s the only place to make enough money to buy gas, pay excessive rent and utilities and his girlfriend thinks he doesn’t work out enough or spend enough time with her and he forgot to file taxes this year and he thinks that all politicians are thieving scumbags and the election is coming up and a hurricane is coming and cigarettes just went up to ten bucks a pack. He’s just gotten another ticket on his car, this one for a hundred and twenty bucks, he hasn’t been to a movie in two years and the day he decides to go, he gets hit by a Ben and Jerry’s delivery truck driven by Louie or Lefty or somebody like that, who gets out and tosses a melted Chunky Monkey in his face and tells him that he was better off by the fence with the tor and the fen and who does he think he is calling him names and going off to buy towels? Too much reality? Well, what do you expect, I’ve had a tough day…where’s my chocolate?
Sunday, July 27, 2008
More Essence in New Orleans
Po boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Blame My Mama
Or
The Essence Primer
Welcome to Essence! Boy, do we have a time in for you, and yes, you may make it back to wherever you come from in one piece. I hope so.
Some have been here before. Many have not. This column is to try to school you on the ways of the Big Easy and how to avoid growth experiences that you may wish to postpone, possibly for some future incarnation.
Fact one: everyone in New Orleans is running a hustle of one kind or another, it’s how we make a living. You see, out of town visitors are basically our only source of income. From experience I can swear that our folks will accept your last nickel whether you are willing to part with it or not. Don’t feel special, we do the same to each other and we smart locals have perfected the art of simultaneously holding on to our wallets, watching our backs and not believing everything we’re told by strangers. But, being the homicide capitol of the country indicates to me that not all of us are quick studies.
I’m told that it is refreshing to find such a major city steeped in black culture and as you see us going about our daily business you may want to consider that with our quaint third world attitude, a certain plantation mentality can sometimes be seen slipping through the façade. But face it, you probably can’t offer better where you come from, hey? But, we are special; we rock twenty four seven, you can drink in public, gamble your hard earned away and go to church, oftentimes on the same street. They say that shame and pride are two sides of the same coin; you’ll be hard pressed to find that coin in any of our pockets.
Oh, there are optimists here…somewhere, and if you see trash on the street, people spitting, car music blaring and the occasional sound of gunfire or sirens; please be assured that we don’t like it any more than you do, but we weren’t taught any better manners. Blame it on the lead-based paint.
You may think that we can’t find correct fitting trousers for our young men. Not true. Wearing pants six sizes too large, holding them up by the crotch and walking as if you have diaper rash is a ‘style’. Why? Got me! There is an elected official that has proposed a law against it and we don’t know which is the more ridiculous.
As far as national averages are concerned we rank just above an andouille sausage in intelligence here; although, I would not live anywhere else even if you could find me a job. And yes, unemployment is an issue here, so we’re building more hotels and expanding the convention center to put more unskilled locals to work, of which there are more than a few.
Speaking of personal safety, take a lesson from the natives: don’t wear beads, walk on unlit streets, get drunk in pubic or consider that friendly stranger your new best friend. Don’t take money out in an uncontrolled environment; I keep different denominations of bills in different pockets to be ready for different purchasing situations: I don’t pull out a wad of twenties for a cup of coffee or a pack of smokes. ‘Nuf said.
Drinking alcohol here is expected, encouraged and invited at every turn you take and with that comes an element of our population ready to take full advantage of your lack of experience and vulnerability. And I know that it would be really cool to follow your new friend up the street for ‘a little something extra’… don’t. I’ve found more than a few discarded wallets on the street on Sunday morning, not surprisingly with out of town driver’s licenses and no money.
Speaking of driving, you may also may want to know that this city makes an awful lot of money on parking tickets and the towing of illegally parked vehicles. Read posted signs and under no circumstances park within twenty feet from any street corner. Period.
Also, on our streets you’ll see and smell urine, blood, vomit, syringes, condoms and glass from car break-ins; it’s something us residents have gotten used to, would like to change and don’t often boast about. When you have tourism, poverty and ignorance in the same mix, it’s bound to happen. Consider us a dysfunctional Disneyworld.
You really have the opportunity of having a wonderfully great time here, there’s music everywhere, gaiety and laughter; just don’t get stupid on us; you can get yourself hurt and somebody can land in jail.
Now here’s my disclaimer. I write this column monthly and I am fortunate to have editors that allow me to air my views about this city and related subjects. More than once I have pissed someone off and I’ll apologize in advance if this be the case with you. Once again I hope that the powers that be will read me and ask me for suggestions, so far as I know they haven’t and I’ve given up expecting them to. I love this city, but as I tell people, living here is like taking a warm bubble bath with a martini and a snake.
Everyone that I know or have talked to can relate an experience with someone unlawfully or inconsiderately interfering with their peacefully inclined lifestyle. It’s a fact of life here. For a glowing example I suggest that while you’re here, pick up our daily newspaper and read the Metro section. You will see our daily reports of crime and in the obituaries see another one of our citizens felled by violence. Multiply that by three hundred sixty five and you have the Big Easy quality of life.
So go and enjoy the Essence Festival. Attend a motivational seminar, it’s the only time of year that we have them on that scale. Then go home where often as not you may not have to lock your house, your car, your bike or your heart. Just for God’s sake be careful out there.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Blame My Mama
Or
The Essence Primer
Welcome to Essence! Boy, do we have a time in for you, and yes, you may make it back to wherever you come from in one piece. I hope so.
Some have been here before. Many have not. This column is to try to school you on the ways of the Big Easy and how to avoid growth experiences that you may wish to postpone, possibly for some future incarnation.
Fact one: everyone in New Orleans is running a hustle of one kind or another, it’s how we make a living. You see, out of town visitors are basically our only source of income. From experience I can swear that our folks will accept your last nickel whether you are willing to part with it or not. Don’t feel special, we do the same to each other and we smart locals have perfected the art of simultaneously holding on to our wallets, watching our backs and not believing everything we’re told by strangers. But, being the homicide capitol of the country indicates to me that not all of us are quick studies.
I’m told that it is refreshing to find such a major city steeped in black culture and as you see us going about our daily business you may want to consider that with our quaint third world attitude, a certain plantation mentality can sometimes be seen slipping through the façade. But face it, you probably can’t offer better where you come from, hey? But, we are special; we rock twenty four seven, you can drink in public, gamble your hard earned away and go to church, oftentimes on the same street. They say that shame and pride are two sides of the same coin; you’ll be hard pressed to find that coin in any of our pockets.
Oh, there are optimists here…somewhere, and if you see trash on the street, people spitting, car music blaring and the occasional sound of gunfire or sirens; please be assured that we don’t like it any more than you do, but we weren’t taught any better manners. Blame it on the lead-based paint.
You may think that we can’t find correct fitting trousers for our young men. Not true. Wearing pants six sizes too large, holding them up by the crotch and walking as if you have diaper rash is a ‘style’. Why? Got me! There is an elected official that has proposed a law against it and we don’t know which is the more ridiculous.
As far as national averages are concerned we rank just above an andouille sausage in intelligence here; although, I would not live anywhere else even if you could find me a job. And yes, unemployment is an issue here, so we’re building more hotels and expanding the convention center to put more unskilled locals to work, of which there are more than a few.
Speaking of personal safety, take a lesson from the natives: don’t wear beads, walk on unlit streets, get drunk in pubic or consider that friendly stranger your new best friend. Don’t take money out in an uncontrolled environment; I keep different denominations of bills in different pockets to be ready for different purchasing situations: I don’t pull out a wad of twenties for a cup of coffee or a pack of smokes. ‘Nuf said.
Drinking alcohol here is expected, encouraged and invited at every turn you take and with that comes an element of our population ready to take full advantage of your lack of experience and vulnerability. And I know that it would be really cool to follow your new friend up the street for ‘a little something extra’… don’t. I’ve found more than a few discarded wallets on the street on Sunday morning, not surprisingly with out of town driver’s licenses and no money.
Speaking of driving, you may also may want to know that this city makes an awful lot of money on parking tickets and the towing of illegally parked vehicles. Read posted signs and under no circumstances park within twenty feet from any street corner. Period.
Also, on our streets you’ll see and smell urine, blood, vomit, syringes, condoms and glass from car break-ins; it’s something us residents have gotten used to, would like to change and don’t often boast about. When you have tourism, poverty and ignorance in the same mix, it’s bound to happen. Consider us a dysfunctional Disneyworld.
You really have the opportunity of having a wonderfully great time here, there’s music everywhere, gaiety and laughter; just don’t get stupid on us; you can get yourself hurt and somebody can land in jail.
Now here’s my disclaimer. I write this column monthly and I am fortunate to have editors that allow me to air my views about this city and related subjects. More than once I have pissed someone off and I’ll apologize in advance if this be the case with you. Once again I hope that the powers that be will read me and ask me for suggestions, so far as I know they haven’t and I’ve given up expecting them to. I love this city, but as I tell people, living here is like taking a warm bubble bath with a martini and a snake.
Everyone that I know or have talked to can relate an experience with someone unlawfully or inconsiderately interfering with their peacefully inclined lifestyle. It’s a fact of life here. For a glowing example I suggest that while you’re here, pick up our daily newspaper and read the Metro section. You will see our daily reports of crime and in the obituaries see another one of our citizens felled by violence. Multiply that by three hundred sixty five and you have the Big Easy quality of life.
So go and enjoy the Essence Festival. Attend a motivational seminar, it’s the only time of year that we have them on that scale. Then go home where often as not you may not have to lock your house, your car, your bike or your heart. Just for God’s sake be careful out there.
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