Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Turpentine and Dandelion Wine
I had another restaurant dream last night, I usually get one when pulling double shifts or training new recruits, which I did last week. For those out there that have never had a waiter’s job, it goes like this: it’s a super un-naturally busy restaurant night, the place is packed, the kitchen is three miles away, your station is full and everybody wants something. You’re racing full tilt to get things done and nothing is what it should be, food is coming out wrong, customers are asking for strange things, have strange questions and identical faces. You can’t tell where you are except that you’re balls to the wall busy and running your ass off and nothing is getting done.
It’s really loud, by the time you make the distance to the kitchen, other waiters are rushing everywhere, you’ve forgotten what you came for and the cooks are screaming in a language unintelligible to you.
I imagine if someone was to look at me in the midst of this nightmare, I would appear like my dog Ginger does when she has her dreams: whimpering and jerking like she’s hooked up to an electrode. Perhaps dogs are reincarnated waiters. Things that make you go hmmmm.
I did not waken refreshed. Pensive and not refreshed. I went on a wonder and this I wondered:
What is this thing about waiter’s nametags or introductions? The “Hello, my name is Jeremy and I’ll be your waiter tonight” type of action. Personally, I go with the guy who doesn’t want to know a waiter’s name unless the waiter is going out with his daughter and maybe not even then. Specifically, I don’t go out to eat to make friends; that’s what I go to bars for. I go out to eat to be with good company, have someone cook me something yummy to eat and then have somebody else do the dishes. That’s what I’m in a restaurant to do, and unless the waiter (male or female) treats me like either one of us has the intelligence of a box of rocks, that’s what I’m here to tip well for. Customers should be like me.
Let’s start with this, what’s with these parties of eight, ten or more that think they can get a table with no reservation on a busy night and who are the boneheads that move heaven and earth, and the chair that my date has her purse on, to seat them? Those people are gonna get loud, they’re gonna throw the kitchen out of synch, with my food, and, they’ll never get the good service smaller parties do. AND, a word to parents; your two, four, six, eight, ten or twelve-year-old does NOT want to come fine dining on a Saturday night. They want to go to Burger King, Don’t get me started on split checks, cell phones or hot tea.
How about those people that drink bottled water? Don’t they know that every food they eat and every cocktail they drink is made with our local sludge? I want to say: “would you like local water, bottled water or a margarita? because you’re gonna pay as much for foreign water, with or without carbonation, as for some first rate tequila: get a clue .
And while we’re at it, what is it with the lemon with water? to me, it’s like kissing your sister, and what waiter has not spied a customer slipping some Sweet and Lo into it (or into their pocket, I might add).
Allergies? I don’t understand them. I once avoided going out with a stunning woman after she volunteered the fact that she was allergic to garlic! What kind of future could you have with someone like that? Diets? Listen, if you want to lose weight, eat less and exercise or be comfortable with who you are. Period. Especially when you go out to eat: Going out is either a sensual experience or a forage, and hopefully you know the difference. In either case, and above all, you should know why you’re there. Attention shoppers: it’s only dinner! Rule number one: the Chef knows what they’re doing. Chef know that smoked pork chops go with greens and mashed potatoes, and that Adkins was a culinary misanthropic sexually repressed pervert and the Pastry Chef considers Sugar Busters an abomination to nature. Deal with it, like I said: it’s only dinner!
You’ll be hard pressed to find a waiter that will sing the praises of most of their client’s cognizant reality concepts in and of real time. Mostly, it’s like they’ve been dropped from outer space into an eating establishment with no clue as to how they got there. Example: “Hello, (with a flourish of napkin) welcome to Chez Nez, I’m your waiter Anthony and I’ll be serving you tonight (and kissing your ass for money); can I get you a wine list or a cocktail before dinner?” Blank stare. You’re who? I’m what? We’re what? And do I want a huh? How do I work this?… You get this very very very often.
I’m of the school of “I don’t care who you are, I’m here with someone and I want strong drink right now!”
And here’s the big one: tipping. They (whoever they are) should pass out this information at our borders: waiters are paid less than half our minimum living wage by owners who insinuate that gratuities will make up for that inequity and are taxed by a government on that assumption. Simply put, I, as a server, depend on you, as a customer, to supplement my meager wage with money based on my knowledge and expertise of service. Tips (To Insure Promptness) is how I make my living. It’s a sick concept; but, it’s in place and a reality to me and the people that I am financially responsible to. To stay afloat, unless I’m a complete bonehead, you need to consider, as a client, that my service is worth a reasonable compensation, at least fifteen to twenty percent above your tab. That’s the reality of it. If you think that this is easy you’re welcome to try it. Me? I’m gonna go soak my feet and wonder why, if that overweight turkey with the cigar minded me looking down his trophy wife’s cleavage, he didn’t think to dress her better.
Showing posts with label cosmic debris in New Orleans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cosmic debris in New Orleans. Show all posts
Friday, June 8, 2018
Friday, August 1, 2008
Recyling in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Cardboard, Cans and Bottles
Or
The Trouble I See
News from the front: no progress has been made and the wind, my friend, is howling at your doorstep, down your chimney and up your assets like the Dire Wolf, all six hundred pounds of sin. It’s hotter than July (go figger) and the perfect storm is forming in your aura, if nowhere else. I’m at a category three myself.
I know what you’re thinking: what else can happen? Well, this: we got a bunch of yahoos wanting us to believe that their temporary agendas, with outcomes that we can or cannot predict, alter or effect are dialogue that we should consider considering. Go ahead, they seem to say, use what few brain cells that you have left to store useless information about the inhumanity (on all fronts) of our lives and conditions. But, you know what? All of our challenges will not amount to a hill of beans if we don’t take care of the hill itself. The rest is, after all, just mental masturbation, Capeesh?
Shot at and missed, shit at and hit. The war, the economy and gas prices, sure are important; but, do you really concentrate on socks and shoes if you aint got no feet? Do you lock the doors when the walls cave in? If you ain’t got a planet left to wage war on…what’s the point of having peace talks?
The big ‘E’ word. The environment. And how would you like to come see the poster child for environmental dysfunction? Well, ‘c’mon down!’ Come on down to New Orleans and The French Quarter!
As residents and workers here, we can’t help but chuckle when we see a tourist, inebriated or not, trip over what should be a smooth walking surface. The city says the sidewalk maintenance is the responsibility of the landlords, the VCC says it has a say on what goes on there and not to fool with blockage or adornment. Landlords and residents shoot the bird at any responsibility and say that if they are city streets, let the city take care of them. It’s the big ‘not my problem’ all the way around and then I trip and bust my butt.
Oh, and watch out for fallen light posts (or non existent ones). The city says to report a missing or broken light post just submit it’s identification number (?) The story of our lives here – submit a number. By the way, THE LIGHTING DEPARTMENT ONLY INSPECTS DURING THE DAY!!!
Demolition by neglect? Where would you like to start?
Add to that, the dark corners where disrespect and crime flourish and there’s no better example of environmental disaster than the vomit and blood and urine and condoms and used hypos on our streets; unless it’s the frigging trash, like the drunk passed out in your doorway or dog shit on the sidewalk.
I know what you’re thinking: “why Phil, it’s a hell of a lot cleaner now that we have a trash company looking out for us”. Nooooo, Fool… we’ve got ten times the number of cleanup elves sweeping up after us… so fast that we can’t let a hint drop without someone being there from SDT to catch it before it hits the ground. We are NOT better citizens about cleanliness, we just have more baby sitters. With your eyes open you can still see trash being tossed everywhere; cigarette butts, chewing gum, chicken bones, go cups and a zip code of spit being left on our streets to be hosed down and picked up by our bazillion dollar trash service.
Paint, kitchen grease and construction mediums being flushed down our storm drains and ultimately to the lake? Let me count the ways.
Recycling? In your dreams, Sucker. One of the other things we have not come to grips with is that you can’t just throw something away… there is no away! It has to go somewhere, and if something that can be recycled is not recycled, you wind up wasting one resource and exploiting another to replace it.
Glass, cardboard, plastic, paper and even compost are parts of reclamation in any civilized community. Simple stuff like a deposit on a bottle, money for cans and cardboard or at the least, an environmental Nazi to fine the shit out of people that don’t take the life of the planet seriously are ideas that haven’t even occurred yet.
Yes, we’ve got trouble, right here in River City. We’ve got an epidemic of complacency that IS stuck on stupid. We have people that know the difference in right speech, right thought and right action with their ears in a cell phone and their pants around their asses. We have parenting with no skills, models with no roles and lots of work with no pay.
We’ve been hung out to dry on every level and now the long slow hurricane season of the soul sets in with flash flood watches covering the southern portion of my disposition and a line of thunderstorms developing in the western region of my mental health and the northern regions of my ability to deal rationally with my precarious emotional situation. Severe weather well into the afternoon except for a lone gust of wind in my bedroom in a high pressure zone with a 103 and millibar and weak pressure ridge extending from my eyes down to my cheeks.
We know what needs to be done, what needs to happen and yet with daily life and every indiscretion that we allow to happen, another nail is driven into the coffin of the planet. It is said that an impotent person, an oppressed person, a beaten person does not make waves, and the ignorant get away with crimes against nature. Not one of us is truly enfettered and alive until we complain about the stuff that bothers us… the things around us that insult us.
Our sensibilities have left our sensitivities for dead and put vice grips on our hearts and minds. Well, my forecast for the extended period of time until we wake up and take it all back is high tonight, low tomorrow and---
precipitation--------is-------expected.
(Excerpts of this piece lifted from Tom Waits and others… but, of course, you knew that.)
By
Phil LaMancusa
Cardboard, Cans and Bottles
Or
The Trouble I See
News from the front: no progress has been made and the wind, my friend, is howling at your doorstep, down your chimney and up your assets like the Dire Wolf, all six hundred pounds of sin. It’s hotter than July (go figger) and the perfect storm is forming in your aura, if nowhere else. I’m at a category three myself.
I know what you’re thinking: what else can happen? Well, this: we got a bunch of yahoos wanting us to believe that their temporary agendas, with outcomes that we can or cannot predict, alter or effect are dialogue that we should consider considering. Go ahead, they seem to say, use what few brain cells that you have left to store useless information about the inhumanity (on all fronts) of our lives and conditions. But, you know what? All of our challenges will not amount to a hill of beans if we don’t take care of the hill itself. The rest is, after all, just mental masturbation, Capeesh?
Shot at and missed, shit at and hit. The war, the economy and gas prices, sure are important; but, do you really concentrate on socks and shoes if you aint got no feet? Do you lock the doors when the walls cave in? If you ain’t got a planet left to wage war on…what’s the point of having peace talks?
The big ‘E’ word. The environment. And how would you like to come see the poster child for environmental dysfunction? Well, ‘c’mon down!’ Come on down to New Orleans and The French Quarter!
As residents and workers here, we can’t help but chuckle when we see a tourist, inebriated or not, trip over what should be a smooth walking surface. The city says the sidewalk maintenance is the responsibility of the landlords, the VCC says it has a say on what goes on there and not to fool with blockage or adornment. Landlords and residents shoot the bird at any responsibility and say that if they are city streets, let the city take care of them. It’s the big ‘not my problem’ all the way around and then I trip and bust my butt.
Oh, and watch out for fallen light posts (or non existent ones). The city says to report a missing or broken light post just submit it’s identification number (?) The story of our lives here – submit a number. By the way, THE LIGHTING DEPARTMENT ONLY INSPECTS DURING THE DAY!!!
Demolition by neglect? Where would you like to start?
Add to that, the dark corners where disrespect and crime flourish and there’s no better example of environmental disaster than the vomit and blood and urine and condoms and used hypos on our streets; unless it’s the frigging trash, like the drunk passed out in your doorway or dog shit on the sidewalk.
I know what you’re thinking: “why Phil, it’s a hell of a lot cleaner now that we have a trash company looking out for us”. Nooooo, Fool… we’ve got ten times the number of cleanup elves sweeping up after us… so fast that we can’t let a hint drop without someone being there from SDT to catch it before it hits the ground. We are NOT better citizens about cleanliness, we just have more baby sitters. With your eyes open you can still see trash being tossed everywhere; cigarette butts, chewing gum, chicken bones, go cups and a zip code of spit being left on our streets to be hosed down and picked up by our bazillion dollar trash service.
Paint, kitchen grease and construction mediums being flushed down our storm drains and ultimately to the lake? Let me count the ways.
Recycling? In your dreams, Sucker. One of the other things we have not come to grips with is that you can’t just throw something away… there is no away! It has to go somewhere, and if something that can be recycled is not recycled, you wind up wasting one resource and exploiting another to replace it.
Glass, cardboard, plastic, paper and even compost are parts of reclamation in any civilized community. Simple stuff like a deposit on a bottle, money for cans and cardboard or at the least, an environmental Nazi to fine the shit out of people that don’t take the life of the planet seriously are ideas that haven’t even occurred yet.
Yes, we’ve got trouble, right here in River City. We’ve got an epidemic of complacency that IS stuck on stupid. We have people that know the difference in right speech, right thought and right action with their ears in a cell phone and their pants around their asses. We have parenting with no skills, models with no roles and lots of work with no pay.
We’ve been hung out to dry on every level and now the long slow hurricane season of the soul sets in with flash flood watches covering the southern portion of my disposition and a line of thunderstorms developing in the western region of my mental health and the northern regions of my ability to deal rationally with my precarious emotional situation. Severe weather well into the afternoon except for a lone gust of wind in my bedroom in a high pressure zone with a 103 and millibar and weak pressure ridge extending from my eyes down to my cheeks.
We know what needs to be done, what needs to happen and yet with daily life and every indiscretion that we allow to happen, another nail is driven into the coffin of the planet. It is said that an impotent person, an oppressed person, a beaten person does not make waves, and the ignorant get away with crimes against nature. Not one of us is truly enfettered and alive until we complain about the stuff that bothers us… the things around us that insult us.
Our sensibilities have left our sensitivities for dead and put vice grips on our hearts and minds. Well, my forecast for the extended period of time until we wake up and take it all back is high tonight, low tomorrow and---
precipitation--------is-------expected.
(Excerpts of this piece lifted from Tom Waits and others… but, of course, you knew that.)
Hurricane anniversary in New Orleans
P0-Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
What’s For Lunch?
Or
Has It Only Been Three Years?
Well, well, well. The proverbial three holes in the ground. That would be the pot hole, the sink hole and the hole that my mind fell into three years ago when the veil of illusionary normalcy was ripped from my eyes, mind and sanity. Has anybody else around here noticed that our pity party is over. Yeah, well, fires, floods, earthquakes, tornados, suicide bombers and assassinations happen, right? Why should we keep getting all the attention?
Public figures are disgraced, the crook is up for re-election and the blame gets shifted to the innocent. As usual. No good deed goes unpunished and the floggings will continue until morale improves and for god sake: hide the homeless! With a nick knack paddy whack give my kid a gun….And blah, blah, blah frigging blah.
Yes, I was gonna do another rant, but you already know the drill. You’re tired of hearing about it, talking about it and/or thinking about it and so am I, so I’m not. Got it?
No, I’m not part of the ‘Nation of Whiners’ and I’m not in a ‘mental recession’, I’m well aware of how sucky things are and how little chance we have of doing anything about it. You don’t have to use flash cards for me to know that we’ve passed the eleventh hour or that Jesse Jackson is capable of harboring thoughts of testicular mutilation on public radio about presidential contenders.
I do know that we Americans are better off than most of the rest, if not the rest, of the planet. We’ve got the Four Freedoms. We’ve got freedom of speech which means nobody can tell us to shut the fuck up about anything we want to say anything about. We’ve got freedom of religion; which means Christians rule and the rest of you keep a low profile. We have freedom from fear as long as you mind your own business and watch your back; and we have freedom from want, unless you wind up undereducated, under-employed or under the overpass. President Franklin D, Roosevelt told us about these Four Freedoms on January sixth nineteen forty-one, so blame him, not me, if your country sells you short.
So what about gangs in our streets beating and robbing law abiding citizens? Population control. What about our levees being stuffed with newspaper to fill the cracks; we recycle different from a other folks, that’s all.
I say re-elect the crook, let’s show ‘em how stupid we really are. Also let’s all start wearing clothes pins to signify how we’ve been hung out to dry by the powers that be; and, let’s re-institute the draft to give those poser kids something to really whine about. But above all: let’s quit bitching, Prudence, open up your eyes and come out to play.
Who cares if there’s no public restrooms, mailboxes or telephones? All I care about is whether or not I’m gonna get mustard greens for lunch on Sunday. I give up. I’ve got my own stuff to think about. If I don’t hear another thing about the election, the recovery, the price of oil or the war it will suit me just fine. I’ve got my own opinions and solutions and hey, they’re not doing anyone any good, not even me.
I’m falling back on my old family approach to life: “I’m okay---you’re not!” and “everyone in the world is nuts---except me”. I, along with others in my peer group, knew twenty years ago about global warming. We learned about it from Calvin and Hobbes. The controversy on bilingualism and Social Security can take a flying leap. On immigration I say ‘let everybody in!’ and on gay marriages I’ll go along with my kid sister who speaks for us all when she says: “who gives a fuck?”
What I care about is whether or not there is a friendly familiar face on the other side of the bar handing me a frosty Pabst Blue Ribbon and not about having a doctor who tells me that if I have more than two drinks a night my bones will shrivel and I will be an alcoholic loser that doesn’t deserve a decent erection.
I care that new things that I purchase either break easier or wear out faster than they used to and the instinctual reaction, now, to such substandard goods is to throw them away and buy more; and, I’m really pissed to see that there are grocery stores that want me to buy fresh garlic that is imported from China.
I care and hate the fact that our farmer’s market has such a small following, such slim offerings and such high prices. I also don’t want to see imported crap souvenirs of New Orleans (made in foreign countries) being sold in the French Market where we should have our own home grown purveyors of fruits and vegetables installed (in stalls) on a permanent basis.
And while we’re at it: open the breweries to make beer not to be cut up and sold as condominiums. What are they thinking? I know, they’re thinking that money talks and the rest of us walks, whatever that means. Does it not seem like something that everyone should care about is that New Orleans has become a pit stop for the world and were it not for the drunks, shoppers and snoopers of the world, we would have no reason or income to justify our existence. Is it just me or are we a city with a past and no future other than what some fat cat can get by bleeding our culture a little drier.
I further care about being able to sit in my yard and not be eaten alive by mosquitoes because the landlord next door filled in the culvert to increase parking for the people that have me keeping my cats inside because they’re scraping lead paint into my walkway and NOT cleaning it up properly. Is that not caring? Is that not American?
Yes, it is, because I have the freedom to bitch. I vote.
By
Phil LaMancusa
What’s For Lunch?
Or
Has It Only Been Three Years?
Well, well, well. The proverbial three holes in the ground. That would be the pot hole, the sink hole and the hole that my mind fell into three years ago when the veil of illusionary normalcy was ripped from my eyes, mind and sanity. Has anybody else around here noticed that our pity party is over. Yeah, well, fires, floods, earthquakes, tornados, suicide bombers and assassinations happen, right? Why should we keep getting all the attention?
Public figures are disgraced, the crook is up for re-election and the blame gets shifted to the innocent. As usual. No good deed goes unpunished and the floggings will continue until morale improves and for god sake: hide the homeless! With a nick knack paddy whack give my kid a gun….And blah, blah, blah frigging blah.
Yes, I was gonna do another rant, but you already know the drill. You’re tired of hearing about it, talking about it and/or thinking about it and so am I, so I’m not. Got it?
No, I’m not part of the ‘Nation of Whiners’ and I’m not in a ‘mental recession’, I’m well aware of how sucky things are and how little chance we have of doing anything about it. You don’t have to use flash cards for me to know that we’ve passed the eleventh hour or that Jesse Jackson is capable of harboring thoughts of testicular mutilation on public radio about presidential contenders.
I do know that we Americans are better off than most of the rest, if not the rest, of the planet. We’ve got the Four Freedoms. We’ve got freedom of speech which means nobody can tell us to shut the fuck up about anything we want to say anything about. We’ve got freedom of religion; which means Christians rule and the rest of you keep a low profile. We have freedom from fear as long as you mind your own business and watch your back; and we have freedom from want, unless you wind up undereducated, under-employed or under the overpass. President Franklin D, Roosevelt told us about these Four Freedoms on January sixth nineteen forty-one, so blame him, not me, if your country sells you short.
So what about gangs in our streets beating and robbing law abiding citizens? Population control. What about our levees being stuffed with newspaper to fill the cracks; we recycle different from a other folks, that’s all.
I say re-elect the crook, let’s show ‘em how stupid we really are. Also let’s all start wearing clothes pins to signify how we’ve been hung out to dry by the powers that be; and, let’s re-institute the draft to give those poser kids something to really whine about. But above all: let’s quit bitching, Prudence, open up your eyes and come out to play.
Who cares if there’s no public restrooms, mailboxes or telephones? All I care about is whether or not I’m gonna get mustard greens for lunch on Sunday. I give up. I’ve got my own stuff to think about. If I don’t hear another thing about the election, the recovery, the price of oil or the war it will suit me just fine. I’ve got my own opinions and solutions and hey, they’re not doing anyone any good, not even me.
I’m falling back on my old family approach to life: “I’m okay---you’re not!” and “everyone in the world is nuts---except me”. I, along with others in my peer group, knew twenty years ago about global warming. We learned about it from Calvin and Hobbes. The controversy on bilingualism and Social Security can take a flying leap. On immigration I say ‘let everybody in!’ and on gay marriages I’ll go along with my kid sister who speaks for us all when she says: “who gives a fuck?”
What I care about is whether or not there is a friendly familiar face on the other side of the bar handing me a frosty Pabst Blue Ribbon and not about having a doctor who tells me that if I have more than two drinks a night my bones will shrivel and I will be an alcoholic loser that doesn’t deserve a decent erection.
I care that new things that I purchase either break easier or wear out faster than they used to and the instinctual reaction, now, to such substandard goods is to throw them away and buy more; and, I’m really pissed to see that there are grocery stores that want me to buy fresh garlic that is imported from China.
I care and hate the fact that our farmer’s market has such a small following, such slim offerings and such high prices. I also don’t want to see imported crap souvenirs of New Orleans (made in foreign countries) being sold in the French Market where we should have our own home grown purveyors of fruits and vegetables installed (in stalls) on a permanent basis.
And while we’re at it: open the breweries to make beer not to be cut up and sold as condominiums. What are they thinking? I know, they’re thinking that money talks and the rest of us walks, whatever that means. Does it not seem like something that everyone should care about is that New Orleans has become a pit stop for the world and were it not for the drunks, shoppers and snoopers of the world, we would have no reason or income to justify our existence. Is it just me or are we a city with a past and no future other than what some fat cat can get by bleeding our culture a little drier.
I further care about being able to sit in my yard and not be eaten alive by mosquitoes because the landlord next door filled in the culvert to increase parking for the people that have me keeping my cats inside because they’re scraping lead paint into my walkway and NOT cleaning it up properly. Is that not caring? Is that not American?
Yes, it is, because I have the freedom to bitch. I vote.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Waitering in New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Turpentine and Dandelion Wine
I had another restaurant dream last night, I usually get one when pulling double shifts or training new recruits, which I did last week. For those out there that have never had a waiter’s job, it goes like this: it’s a super un-naturally busy restaurant night, the place is packed, the kitchen is three miles away, your station is full and everybody wants something. You’re racing full tilt to get things done and nothing is what it should be, food is coming out wrong, customers are asking for strange things, have strange questions and identical faces. You can’t tell where you are except that you’re balls to the wall busy and running your ass off and nothing is getting done.
It’s really loud, by the time you make the distance to the kitchen, other waiters are rushing everywhere, you’ve forgotten what you came for and the cooks are screaming in a language unintelligible to you.
I imagine if someone was to look at me in the midst of this nightmare, I would appear like my dog Ginger does when she has her dreams: whimpering and jerking like she’s hooked up to an electrode. Perhaps dogs are reincarnated waiters. Things that make you go hmmmm.
I did not waken refreshed. Pensive and not refreshed. I went on a wonder and this I wondered:
What is this thing about waiter’s nametags or introductions? The “Hello, my name is Jeremy and I’ll be your waiter tonight” type of action. Personally, I go with the guy who doesn’t want to know a waiter’s name unless the waiter is going out with his daughter and maybe not even then. Specifically, I don’t go out to eat to make friends; that’s what I go to bars for. I go out to eat to be with good company, have someone cook me something yummy to eat and then have somebody else do the dishes. That’s what I’m in a restaurant to do, and unless the waiter (male or female) treats me like either one of us has the intelligence of a box of rocks, that’s what I’m here to tip well for. Customers should be like me.
Let’s start with this, what’s with these parties of eight, ten or more that think they can get a table with no reservation on a busy night and who are the boneheads that move heaven and earth, and the chair that my date has her purse on, to seat them? Those people are gonna get loud, they’re gonna throw the kitchen out of synch, with my food, and, they’ll never get the good service smaller parties do. AND, a word to parents; your two, four, six, eight, ten or twelve-year-old does NOT want to come fine dining on a Saturday night. They want to go to Burger King, Don’t get me started on split checks, cell phones or hot tea.
How about those people that drink bottled water? Don’t they know that every food they eat and every cocktail they drink is made with our local sludge? I want to say: “would you like local water, bottled water or a margarita? because you’re gonna pay as much for foreign water, with or without carbonation, as for some first rate tequila: get a clue .
And while we’re at it, what is it with the lemon with water? to me, it’s like kissing your sister, and what waiter has not spied a customer slipping some Sweet and Lo into it (or into their pocket, I might add).
Allergies? I don’t understand them. I once avoided going out with a stunning woman after she volunteered the fact that she was allergic to garlic! What kind of future could you have with someone like that? Diets? Listen, if you want to lose weight, eat less and exercise or be comfortable with who you are. Period. Especially when you go out to eat: Going out is either a sensual experience or a forage, and hopefully you know the difference. In either case, and above all, you should know why you’re there. Attention shoppers: it’s only dinner! Rule number one: the Chef knows what they’re doing. Chef know that smoked pork chops go with greens and mashed potatoes, and that Adkins was a culinary misanthropic sexually repressed pervert and the Pastry Chef considers Sugar Busters an abomination to nature. Deal with it, like I said: it’s only dinner!
You’ll be hard pressed to find a waiter that will sing the praises of most of their client’s cognizant reality concepts in and of real time. Mostly, it’s like they’ve been dropped from outer space into an eating establishment with no clue as to how they got there. Example: “Hello, (with a flourish of napkin) welcome to Chez Nez, I’m your waiter Anthony and I’ll be serving you tonight (and kissing your ass for money); can I get you a wine list or a cocktail before dinner?” Blank stare. You’re who? I’m what? We’re what? And do I want a huh? How do I work this?… You get this very very very often.
I’m of the school of “I don’t care who you are, I’m here with someone and I want strong drink right now!”
And here’s the big one: tipping. They (whoever they are) should pass out this information at our borders: waiters are paid less than half our minimum living wage by owners who insinuate that gratuities will make up for that inequity and are taxed by a government on that assumption. Simply put, I, as a server, depend on you, as a customer, to supplement my meager wage with money based on my knowledge and expertise of service. Tips (To Insure Promptness) is how I make my living. It’s a sick concept; but, it’s in place and a reality to me and the people that I am financially responsible to. To stay afloat, unless I’m a complete bonehead, you need to consider, as a client, that my service is worth a reasonable compensation, at least fifteen to twenty percent above your tab. That’s the reality of it. If you think that this is easy you’re welcome to try it. Me? I’m gonna go soak my feet and wonder why, if that overweight turkey with the cigar minded me looking down his trophy wife’s cleavage, he didn’t think to dress her better.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Turpentine and Dandelion Wine
I had another restaurant dream last night, I usually get one when pulling double shifts or training new recruits, which I did last week. For those out there that have never had a waiter’s job, it goes like this: it’s a super un-naturally busy restaurant night, the place is packed, the kitchen is three miles away, your station is full and everybody wants something. You’re racing full tilt to get things done and nothing is what it should be, food is coming out wrong, customers are asking for strange things, have strange questions and identical faces. You can’t tell where you are except that you’re balls to the wall busy and running your ass off and nothing is getting done.
It’s really loud, by the time you make the distance to the kitchen, other waiters are rushing everywhere, you’ve forgotten what you came for and the cooks are screaming in a language unintelligible to you.
I imagine if someone was to look at me in the midst of this nightmare, I would appear like my dog Ginger does when she has her dreams: whimpering and jerking like she’s hooked up to an electrode. Perhaps dogs are reincarnated waiters. Things that make you go hmmmm.
I did not waken refreshed. Pensive and not refreshed. I went on a wonder and this I wondered:
What is this thing about waiter’s nametags or introductions? The “Hello, my name is Jeremy and I’ll be your waiter tonight” type of action. Personally, I go with the guy who doesn’t want to know a waiter’s name unless the waiter is going out with his daughter and maybe not even then. Specifically, I don’t go out to eat to make friends; that’s what I go to bars for. I go out to eat to be with good company, have someone cook me something yummy to eat and then have somebody else do the dishes. That’s what I’m in a restaurant to do, and unless the waiter (male or female) treats me like either one of us has the intelligence of a box of rocks, that’s what I’m here to tip well for. Customers should be like me.
Let’s start with this, what’s with these parties of eight, ten or more that think they can get a table with no reservation on a busy night and who are the boneheads that move heaven and earth, and the chair that my date has her purse on, to seat them? Those people are gonna get loud, they’re gonna throw the kitchen out of synch, with my food, and, they’ll never get the good service smaller parties do. AND, a word to parents; your two, four, six, eight, ten or twelve-year-old does NOT want to come fine dining on a Saturday night. They want to go to Burger King, Don’t get me started on split checks, cell phones or hot tea.
How about those people that drink bottled water? Don’t they know that every food they eat and every cocktail they drink is made with our local sludge? I want to say: “would you like local water, bottled water or a margarita? because you’re gonna pay as much for foreign water, with or without carbonation, as for some first rate tequila: get a clue .
And while we’re at it, what is it with the lemon with water? to me, it’s like kissing your sister, and what waiter has not spied a customer slipping some Sweet and Lo into it (or into their pocket, I might add).
Allergies? I don’t understand them. I once avoided going out with a stunning woman after she volunteered the fact that she was allergic to garlic! What kind of future could you have with someone like that? Diets? Listen, if you want to lose weight, eat less and exercise or be comfortable with who you are. Period. Especially when you go out to eat: Going out is either a sensual experience or a forage, and hopefully you know the difference. In either case, and above all, you should know why you’re there. Attention shoppers: it’s only dinner! Rule number one: the Chef knows what they’re doing. Chef know that smoked pork chops go with greens and mashed potatoes, and that Adkins was a culinary misanthropic sexually repressed pervert and the Pastry Chef considers Sugar Busters an abomination to nature. Deal with it, like I said: it’s only dinner!
You’ll be hard pressed to find a waiter that will sing the praises of most of their client’s cognizant reality concepts in and of real time. Mostly, it’s like they’ve been dropped from outer space into an eating establishment with no clue as to how they got there. Example: “Hello, (with a flourish of napkin) welcome to Chez Nez, I’m your waiter Anthony and I’ll be serving you tonight (and kissing your ass for money); can I get you a wine list or a cocktail before dinner?” Blank stare. You’re who? I’m what? We’re what? And do I want a huh? How do I work this?… You get this very very very often.
I’m of the school of “I don’t care who you are, I’m here with someone and I want strong drink right now!”
And here’s the big one: tipping. They (whoever they are) should pass out this information at our borders: waiters are paid less than half our minimum living wage by owners who insinuate that gratuities will make up for that inequity and are taxed by a government on that assumption. Simply put, I, as a server, depend on you, as a customer, to supplement my meager wage with money based on my knowledge and expertise of service. Tips (To Insure Promptness) is how I make my living. It’s a sick concept; but, it’s in place and a reality to me and the people that I am financially responsible to. To stay afloat, unless I’m a complete bonehead, you need to consider, as a client, that my service is worth a reasonable compensation, at least fifteen to twenty percent above your tab. That’s the reality of it. If you think that this is easy you’re welcome to try it. Me? I’m gonna go soak my feet and wonder why, if that overweight turkey with the cigar minded me looking down his trophy wife’s cleavage, he didn’t think to dress her better.
Love in the French Quarter
Po-boy Views
By Phil LaMancusa
It’s Valentine’s Day
Or
God Help Me, I’m in Love Again
*********************
Well, I was gonna do the story about how our dear friend Marrinette completely wore out her welcome in Saquine, Texas (where she had gone for the funeral) by running over (and killing) her dead brother’s deaf dog (from the dog’s point of view). But, no…
Then I thought about doing a piece on where to find the best gumbo in the French Quarter. Maybe next month.
Or, what about the time, while out walking, I saw my life flash in front of my face in the form of a blonde, on a bicycle, headed in the opposite direction and hopefully into my past? Alas and alack it’s just not to be. Why? Because it’s February; you know… February, Valentine’s Day…..Love and stuff. And so, I am compelled by greater forces than I care to admit to, to compose a Po-boy view of love; you know, that four letter word that we feel as adrenaline when we’re young and nausea as we get older.
Don’t get me wrong; I believe that true love can be found, and God knows, I’ve found it hundreds of times; and forgive me if I sound jaded; but, I haven’t found any future in it?
Yes Lord, it’s the ‘Love makes the world go ‘round’, ‘Love is a many splendid thing’, ‘Love is like an itching in my heart’ and ‘Who wrote the book of love?’ (and where can I get a copy?) time of the year.
Well, it’s happened to me again; and I don’t know whether to sing show tunes or to run screaming.
The last woman to run through my emotional house was carrying scissors and left me with a bad liver and a broken heart (it’s my pate and I’ll cry if I want to), but that’s another story; suffice to say (as Tom Waits said) “I lost my equilibrium, my car keys and my pride”.
That said, and just in time for the big V.D. (Valentines Day), I’m going to dispense some wisdom, wit and a sick mind’s road map on how to tell when love is coming, going or just passing through.
First the words of wisdom: To the men: if you think that you will ever learn any more about women than the fact that they use more toilet paper than you do; forget it (!) you won’t.
To the women: if you think that (a) ‘still water runs deep’, (b) he’s smarter than he looks, or (3) he can guess what you’re thinking: it just ain’t so, and will never be. Likewise, if you think that you can change his unenlightened attitude toward everything that you hold dear: get real, girl; it won’t happen in a lifetime of toilet paper.
Now for the bad news.
How To Tell When Love Is Beginning
The phases of ‘Love Beginning’ are when: you are least expecting it, aren’t looking for it, could care less about it, and possibly would prefer to avoid it. Usually it’s when you happen to glance up and think to yourself “I wonder if fries come with that shake?” Then comes the eye contact, the mutual smiles and hidden dialog in your first bits of conversation. I.e. (a)“What do you think about sex, drugs and Rock and Roll? (b) Had your blood tested lately? (c) Is that a gun in your pocket? Or (4) Do fries come with that shake? These and other subtle bits of repartee usually get answers like (a) Beat it, loser! (b) I think I hear my Mother calling me. (3) I’m sorry, you obviously have mistaken me for a complete imbecile; now go away. (d) What part of NO don’t you understand? Or (e) Let’s keep this pleasant and I’ll be real if you will.
With any luck at all it will be the last one and you start to ‘accidentally’ run into each other, which leads you to have a date or a few, then you find that you actually like each other (although you fail to understand why), share a drink, a laugh, a song, and then a kiss (another four letter word). Now you’re getting in to deep water and you recall that the last time you saw a light at the end of the Tunnel Of Love it was on the front of an oncoming train that became known as The Heartbreak Express. So you bolt.
But you come back; why? Duh! You’ve been bitten by the Love Bug! It’s like an itching in your heart. It’s about Love and Happiness, and all of that R&B stuff. How do you know?
How To Tell When Love Is Moving In
Well, now that you’ve chewed on each others faces, maybe even shaken a few covers together; you’ve discovered that you have more in common than you thought. You call each other for no apparent reason, adopt each other’s friends, like each others cats/dogs/small farm animals, have a favorite eating place, steal kisses even though they’re freely given, and started holding hands in public. You’ve considered using the ‘L’ word. So, naturally you have a meltdown. You get the ‘Lover’s Bends’.
It’s kind of a cross between The Long Dark Teatime Of The Soul and a Tractor Beam from the Starship Enterprise; those of us who have “been there-done that” know immediately what I mean. The rest of you just haven’t thought about it that way or are in for one friggin’ growth experience. To make a long story short, you’re reeling in your heart on the chance that it won’t get it’s ass kicked and your heart, quite naturally, is resisting because, eight to five, it will.
The conversations that you have with yourself, your friends, your analyst/bartender, panhandlers go like: “I can do this….I don’t want to do this…I’m no good at this…I’ve done this..can I do this(?)…what will/do you/I/they think of me doing this? And finally: ‘to hell with every body, I’m gonna do this! (should I be doing this?)
Chances are you survive the emotional mugging. You take the plunge. It’s forever after again; the whole enchilada, the brass ring….Ready, set, go! SH_T!
You write notes, you send flowers, you pick out towels. You tell your family, your previous lovers (the ones who are talking to you again), the people at work. In short, you cut off all your exits. It’s barefoot in the park time. Right?
Wrong. Do the words “I need more space” sound familiar?
By Phil LaMancusa
It’s Valentine’s Day
Or
God Help Me, I’m in Love Again
*********************
Well, I was gonna do the story about how our dear friend Marrinette completely wore out her welcome in Saquine, Texas (where she had gone for the funeral) by running over (and killing) her dead brother’s deaf dog (from the dog’s point of view). But, no…
Then I thought about doing a piece on where to find the best gumbo in the French Quarter. Maybe next month.
Or, what about the time, while out walking, I saw my life flash in front of my face in the form of a blonde, on a bicycle, headed in the opposite direction and hopefully into my past? Alas and alack it’s just not to be. Why? Because it’s February; you know… February, Valentine’s Day…..Love and stuff. And so, I am compelled by greater forces than I care to admit to, to compose a Po-boy view of love; you know, that four letter word that we feel as adrenaline when we’re young and nausea as we get older.
Don’t get me wrong; I believe that true love can be found, and God knows, I’ve found it hundreds of times; and forgive me if I sound jaded; but, I haven’t found any future in it?
Yes Lord, it’s the ‘Love makes the world go ‘round’, ‘Love is a many splendid thing’, ‘Love is like an itching in my heart’ and ‘Who wrote the book of love?’ (and where can I get a copy?) time of the year.
Well, it’s happened to me again; and I don’t know whether to sing show tunes or to run screaming.
The last woman to run through my emotional house was carrying scissors and left me with a bad liver and a broken heart (it’s my pate and I’ll cry if I want to), but that’s another story; suffice to say (as Tom Waits said) “I lost my equilibrium, my car keys and my pride”.
That said, and just in time for the big V.D. (Valentines Day), I’m going to dispense some wisdom, wit and a sick mind’s road map on how to tell when love is coming, going or just passing through.
First the words of wisdom: To the men: if you think that you will ever learn any more about women than the fact that they use more toilet paper than you do; forget it (!) you won’t.
To the women: if you think that (a) ‘still water runs deep’, (b) he’s smarter than he looks, or (3) he can guess what you’re thinking: it just ain’t so, and will never be. Likewise, if you think that you can change his unenlightened attitude toward everything that you hold dear: get real, girl; it won’t happen in a lifetime of toilet paper.
Now for the bad news.
How To Tell When Love Is Beginning
The phases of ‘Love Beginning’ are when: you are least expecting it, aren’t looking for it, could care less about it, and possibly would prefer to avoid it. Usually it’s when you happen to glance up and think to yourself “I wonder if fries come with that shake?” Then comes the eye contact, the mutual smiles and hidden dialog in your first bits of conversation. I.e. (a)“What do you think about sex, drugs and Rock and Roll? (b) Had your blood tested lately? (c) Is that a gun in your pocket? Or (4) Do fries come with that shake? These and other subtle bits of repartee usually get answers like (a) Beat it, loser! (b) I think I hear my Mother calling me. (3) I’m sorry, you obviously have mistaken me for a complete imbecile; now go away. (d) What part of NO don’t you understand? Or (e) Let’s keep this pleasant and I’ll be real if you will.
With any luck at all it will be the last one and you start to ‘accidentally’ run into each other, which leads you to have a date or a few, then you find that you actually like each other (although you fail to understand why), share a drink, a laugh, a song, and then a kiss (another four letter word). Now you’re getting in to deep water and you recall that the last time you saw a light at the end of the Tunnel Of Love it was on the front of an oncoming train that became known as The Heartbreak Express. So you bolt.
But you come back; why? Duh! You’ve been bitten by the Love Bug! It’s like an itching in your heart. It’s about Love and Happiness, and all of that R&B stuff. How do you know?
How To Tell When Love Is Moving In
Well, now that you’ve chewed on each others faces, maybe even shaken a few covers together; you’ve discovered that you have more in common than you thought. You call each other for no apparent reason, adopt each other’s friends, like each others cats/dogs/small farm animals, have a favorite eating place, steal kisses even though they’re freely given, and started holding hands in public. You’ve considered using the ‘L’ word. So, naturally you have a meltdown. You get the ‘Lover’s Bends’.
It’s kind of a cross between The Long Dark Teatime Of The Soul and a Tractor Beam from the Starship Enterprise; those of us who have “been there-done that” know immediately what I mean. The rest of you just haven’t thought about it that way or are in for one friggin’ growth experience. To make a long story short, you’re reeling in your heart on the chance that it won’t get it’s ass kicked and your heart, quite naturally, is resisting because, eight to five, it will.
The conversations that you have with yourself, your friends, your analyst/bartender, panhandlers go like: “I can do this….I don’t want to do this…I’m no good at this…I’ve done this..can I do this(?)…what will/do you/I/they think of me doing this? And finally: ‘to hell with every body, I’m gonna do this! (should I be doing this?)
Chances are you survive the emotional mugging. You take the plunge. It’s forever after again; the whole enchilada, the brass ring….Ready, set, go! SH_T!
You write notes, you send flowers, you pick out towels. You tell your family, your previous lovers (the ones who are talking to you again), the people at work. In short, you cut off all your exits. It’s barefoot in the park time. Right?
Wrong. Do the words “I need more space” sound familiar?
Southern Comfort in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Supercalafragalisticexpealadocious
Or
Lip Service in Our Time
The other night, The Weezel and I were snug as bugs between the cool sheets, half-dozing and idly chitting about the merits of sending Aunt Ethel flowers on the event of her one hundred and Third birthday. Weezel said that it might be a waste of money because of Ethel’s poor eyesight. We chatted about definitions of the words pragmatic, thrifty and cheap. I was just dozing off thinking that if Ethel had had her corneas rebuilt instead of that ‘female’ surgery last year…when I heard; “it’s not as if we didn’t have plenty when we was growin’ up; Cousin Bubba had a nursery and…”
“What?’
“Yeah we had plenty of flow…”
“No, not that: You actually have a cousin named Bubba?”
“Well yes, but he doesn’t like to be called that any more, fact is; I don’t even know how he even got that name, his name’s Andrew”.
I started to drift off again thinking about the nicknames around me in my youth and otherwise. I unearthed enough theory to write a thesis and it’s kept me up nights.
Nom de nique is from the Greek nicken, to nod or wink, and its present form is from the Old English: neke-name for eke-name. I believe it to be the bastard child of slang.
Slang is all around us and we hear and witness it every day in every culture; of course most of us wouldn’t recognize slang in many foreign languages, (I’m not gonna go there) but I’m sure it’s there. Slang is a shortcut through language. Who of us upon hearing thoughts like: ‘Drove it like he stole it’, ‘Hotter than a snake’s ass in a wagon rut’, ‘Dumber than a box of rocks’, or ‘Pretty as a speckled pup on a red rug’ does not immediately pass go and collect two hundred dollars worth of visual? How about “All that meat and no potatoes?” “Think I can get fries with that shake?”
Indigenous Americans had slang and used it to name every thing around them, like Winnamucca, Minnesota, and ‘Tall Brave Who Eat Mushroom And Talk To Tree’. C’mon, where do you think Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse got their names? Fortune cookies?
Anyway, back to nicknames. In my definition nicknames are not forms of shortened names, such as Lori for Delores, Shelly for Michelle, Jim or Jimmy for James, or Stu for Stupid (add a descriptor word to them, like Jimmy Valentine, Flatfoot Jim, or Stupid Jerk-off and you’ve got something else going). I knew an Irish kid named Whitey; a Cuban named Blackey and a few Reds in my time. These are nicknames derived from physical attributes i.e. Lefty, PeeWee, Slow Eyed or Knobby. Again: Slim, Stubby, Twitch, Shorty, Gimp, and Thunder Thighs; these are all names that I can see and understand. My sister Alberta has always been called Bonnie, my sister Mary Joanne, Mickey, and kid sister Panagiota, Penny. Go figure.
I’ve seen nicknames in the media and music all my life: Scarface, Skinny Minnie, Flatfoot Floozy, Short Fat Fannie, Baby Face, Long Tall Sally, OO Poo Pa Do, and if you add descriptors you have Little Stevie Wonder, Dolly Parton, Blind Lemon Johnson, Pretty Boy Floyd and Willie the dog faced boy.
There are also nicknames for temperaments: Shifty, Easy, Mellow, Hot, Feisty, Cuddly, Smooth and Asshole. And there are blanket nicknames that we give the world around us: Juicy, Betty, Case, Sweetie, Darlin’, Dude, Badass, Sly Fox, Bones, Elvis, Sugar Foot, Face, various canine terms and sometimes just plain ‘Sup baaaaby?’. There are also private nicknames that we use with loved ones like Sweet Cheeks, Sweet Darlin’, Sugar Tits and Honey Dripper.
There’s name names and there’s name games. Name games are like Sioux City Sue, Jake the Snake, Loose Lucy, Motorcycle Michael, Slammin’ Sammy Snead, Louie the Lump, Machine Gun Kelly, Billy the Kid, Easy Eddie, Broadway Phil, Sugar Ray, Dizzy, Duke and a boy named Sue.
Name names are when a person’s name is almost interchangeable with their nickname. The King, The Killer, The Songstress, The Iceman, The Chairman of the Board, the Godfather and the Queen of Soul. At work we have code names for management: The Preacher, Your Uncle, The Bulldog and Sparky (with all due respect) as well as for working areas: The Farm, Deuce Alley, The Gris Gris Room. I work with three Jennifers and names like Jen or Jenny are passe, instead they’re known as Jennifer/their last name or just ‘hot lips’.
Notice that very few if any movie stars use nicknames. They do use shortened names like Tom, Brad, Mel, Ben, Andy, Joe, Johnny but I think that’s to instill our confidence in them as people and mostly an affectation of male actors.
Also it almost seems obligatory to give a nickname in our TP obituary column (look for yourself, I ain’t getting sued).
We give names to our pets, for in essence, we can’t really know what their real names are; except, all dogs will go by the name of ‘Rover’, male cats can always be called ‘Tom’ and females will always answer to ‘Minnou’. ‘Old Nick was a term reserved for mules and who knows where they get the names for racehorses.
Point being, the Oxford English Dictionary took over seventy years to complete. It defines over a half a million words, and it is a work that can never be completed as long as any person speaking this language holds breath in their body. It was put together largely by the efforts of a professor and a convicted madman/murderer from the confines of an asylum. As long as you can take or make a word to describe your reality our definition of our language continues its evolution. Listen, learn. Your ‘Round’: that’s someone that lives near you. ‘Bounce’: getting out fast. ‘Betty’: a desirable good looking woman. ‘Cool’: a word with an attitude connotation, you either have it or you don’t; something that you cannot learn.
Here I am, drifting off to sleep, when the Weezel’s voice breaks through my reverie miasma. “Don’t you want to know what Bubba’s Daddy’s name was?
“Snurphhhh?
“Sump”. She says, “That’s short for Sumpter…… G’night Polecat.” And Goodnight to us all.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Supercalafragalisticexpealadocious
Or
Lip Service in Our Time
The other night, The Weezel and I were snug as bugs between the cool sheets, half-dozing and idly chitting about the merits of sending Aunt Ethel flowers on the event of her one hundred and Third birthday. Weezel said that it might be a waste of money because of Ethel’s poor eyesight. We chatted about definitions of the words pragmatic, thrifty and cheap. I was just dozing off thinking that if Ethel had had her corneas rebuilt instead of that ‘female’ surgery last year…when I heard; “it’s not as if we didn’t have plenty when we was growin’ up; Cousin Bubba had a nursery and…”
“What?’
“Yeah we had plenty of flow…”
“No, not that: You actually have a cousin named Bubba?”
“Well yes, but he doesn’t like to be called that any more, fact is; I don’t even know how he even got that name, his name’s Andrew”.
I started to drift off again thinking about the nicknames around me in my youth and otherwise. I unearthed enough theory to write a thesis and it’s kept me up nights.
Nom de nique is from the Greek nicken, to nod or wink, and its present form is from the Old English: neke-name for eke-name. I believe it to be the bastard child of slang.
Slang is all around us and we hear and witness it every day in every culture; of course most of us wouldn’t recognize slang in many foreign languages, (I’m not gonna go there) but I’m sure it’s there. Slang is a shortcut through language. Who of us upon hearing thoughts like: ‘Drove it like he stole it’, ‘Hotter than a snake’s ass in a wagon rut’, ‘Dumber than a box of rocks’, or ‘Pretty as a speckled pup on a red rug’ does not immediately pass go and collect two hundred dollars worth of visual? How about “All that meat and no potatoes?” “Think I can get fries with that shake?”
Indigenous Americans had slang and used it to name every thing around them, like Winnamucca, Minnesota, and ‘Tall Brave Who Eat Mushroom And Talk To Tree’. C’mon, where do you think Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse got their names? Fortune cookies?
Anyway, back to nicknames. In my definition nicknames are not forms of shortened names, such as Lori for Delores, Shelly for Michelle, Jim or Jimmy for James, or Stu for Stupid (add a descriptor word to them, like Jimmy Valentine, Flatfoot Jim, or Stupid Jerk-off and you’ve got something else going). I knew an Irish kid named Whitey; a Cuban named Blackey and a few Reds in my time. These are nicknames derived from physical attributes i.e. Lefty, PeeWee, Slow Eyed or Knobby. Again: Slim, Stubby, Twitch, Shorty, Gimp, and Thunder Thighs; these are all names that I can see and understand. My sister Alberta has always been called Bonnie, my sister Mary Joanne, Mickey, and kid sister Panagiota, Penny. Go figure.
I’ve seen nicknames in the media and music all my life: Scarface, Skinny Minnie, Flatfoot Floozy, Short Fat Fannie, Baby Face, Long Tall Sally, OO Poo Pa Do, and if you add descriptors you have Little Stevie Wonder, Dolly Parton, Blind Lemon Johnson, Pretty Boy Floyd and Willie the dog faced boy.
There are also nicknames for temperaments: Shifty, Easy, Mellow, Hot, Feisty, Cuddly, Smooth and Asshole. And there are blanket nicknames that we give the world around us: Juicy, Betty, Case, Sweetie, Darlin’, Dude, Badass, Sly Fox, Bones, Elvis, Sugar Foot, Face, various canine terms and sometimes just plain ‘Sup baaaaby?’. There are also private nicknames that we use with loved ones like Sweet Cheeks, Sweet Darlin’, Sugar Tits and Honey Dripper.
There’s name names and there’s name games. Name games are like Sioux City Sue, Jake the Snake, Loose Lucy, Motorcycle Michael, Slammin’ Sammy Snead, Louie the Lump, Machine Gun Kelly, Billy the Kid, Easy Eddie, Broadway Phil, Sugar Ray, Dizzy, Duke and a boy named Sue.
Name names are when a person’s name is almost interchangeable with their nickname. The King, The Killer, The Songstress, The Iceman, The Chairman of the Board, the Godfather and the Queen of Soul. At work we have code names for management: The Preacher, Your Uncle, The Bulldog and Sparky (with all due respect) as well as for working areas: The Farm, Deuce Alley, The Gris Gris Room. I work with three Jennifers and names like Jen or Jenny are passe, instead they’re known as Jennifer/their last name or just ‘hot lips’.
Notice that very few if any movie stars use nicknames. They do use shortened names like Tom, Brad, Mel, Ben, Andy, Joe, Johnny but I think that’s to instill our confidence in them as people and mostly an affectation of male actors.
Also it almost seems obligatory to give a nickname in our TP obituary column (look for yourself, I ain’t getting sued).
We give names to our pets, for in essence, we can’t really know what their real names are; except, all dogs will go by the name of ‘Rover’, male cats can always be called ‘Tom’ and females will always answer to ‘Minnou’. ‘Old Nick was a term reserved for mules and who knows where they get the names for racehorses.
Point being, the Oxford English Dictionary took over seventy years to complete. It defines over a half a million words, and it is a work that can never be completed as long as any person speaking this language holds breath in their body. It was put together largely by the efforts of a professor and a convicted madman/murderer from the confines of an asylum. As long as you can take or make a word to describe your reality our definition of our language continues its evolution. Listen, learn. Your ‘Round’: that’s someone that lives near you. ‘Bounce’: getting out fast. ‘Betty’: a desirable good looking woman. ‘Cool’: a word with an attitude connotation, you either have it or you don’t; something that you cannot learn.
Here I am, drifting off to sleep, when the Weezel’s voice breaks through my reverie miasma. “Don’t you want to know what Bubba’s Daddy’s name was?
“Snurphhhh?
“Sump”. She says, “That’s short for Sumpter…… G’night Polecat.” And Goodnight to us all.
Reborn in New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Death Of Don Flagrante Delicto
In my youth I was told that I could grow up to be President and furthermore, that I could petition the Lord with prayer. Thus far, all evidence that those are true statements are to the contrary.
On a 1975 album by the Tubes, a tune called ‘What do you want from life?’ promised me that as an American citizen I was entitled to, among other things, a heated kidney shaped pool, a Gucci shoe tree, Bob Dylan’s new unlisted phone number, Rosemary’s baby, a foolproof plan, an airtight alibi and a statue of a baby’s arm holding an apple.
According to recent emails, I also deserve lower body fat, higher energy levels, wrinkle reduction, sexual potency, better memory, muscle strength and lower mortgage interest rates. Also, at my request, I can have human growth hormones, relaxers, sedatives, university degrees, viagra, lower credit interest rates, and the ability to investigate any of my friends.
Add to that, I can get Heather’s (and her pre-pubescent friends) web cam shots, the websites of young Russian and Japanese women that are just frothing at the mouth to wed me, Paris Hilton’s xxxx video (with sound), breast enhancement, a gargantuan penis and staying power; and honey, I CAN BE COMPLETE!!!
What went wrong?
Me. I must have missed something growing up. This could be equated to our politics. I know that if I lived in a Democratic society I would have leaders that would do what I tell them is best for me. And, if I happened to vote Republican, I would get leaders that I could count on to do the best for me and that no one would tell me lies. This is simply not true. For leaders and example setters, I have charlatans.
Also, I’m told, as an American, I should be able to count on the media to tell me that there are limitations specific to my economic, physical and intelligence station, and not to jerk me off. This has also not been the case in my recent memory.
Is the media Republican or Democrat? Good question. By the above criteria the media is neither. The media is a Dictator. A dictator and, in essence, a vanity manipulator.
Don’t get me wrong; I have paid my buck at the kissing booths of life:
“Hate that gray? Wash it away!”, “Lose 20 lbs. in two weeks!”, “learn the love secrets of the stars’, “A cleaner closer shave”, “Good for coughs, colds, sore holes, puts hair on anything but a cue ball!, etc. etc. etc.”
Like a lot of Americans, I play the lottery, have lost my paycheck at black jack tables, bet my life on someone to love me for the rest of my life and read books on invisibility, physical immortality, gotten drunk on the elixir of patriotism and taken the Course in Miracles. So?
So, should I not be content with the words that my parents praised my birth with? “He’s got five fingers on each hand, he’s got ten toes and, thank God, he ain’t a moron!” I should be so flattered, I should think that. I don’t
It seems to me that it’s become more important who it is that wins than what it is that’s right. I am suspicious that, as they say, ‘something is rotten in Denmark’, I smell it, I feel it, I know it. The world I live in demands that I should BE SOMEBODY, but it never tells me how to be that somebody; or whom that somebody is. I did not come with an owners manual; so, like a blind man in an unfamiliar space, I’ve been trying to feel my way through life.
I think that there are a lot of us lost Americans, the ones who didn’t become President, the ones whose prayers have not been answered, that may wonder these same things.
It’s as elusive as a fire fly, but as pervasive as planters warts. The rich get richer, the poor have children, the criminals take what they want, the mighty are felled to rise again and the downtrodden are snatched from the brink once again to be given one final flogging. Is this goodness being rewarded? Does God move in mysterious ways? Give me a break!
By all the evidence collected thus far, it’s not a reach to say that: some people get more than their fair share; not because they deserve it, but, by the fact that they’re willing to stick it to some smaller guy, the average Joe. Period. And there are more of us smaller guys than there are them, so go figure. Greed talks and the rest of us walks.
This is not a rant or a rave, but more of ‘I’m weary of folks telling us how fortunate we are instead of letting us in on the screwing that we’re taking. Dry, hard and up against a tree.
And I know that I should be grateful, yes downright grateful, and I remind myself constantly so, that it is a miracle that I am alive, six feet above ground and warm to the touch… BUT. I see people eating from garbage cans, I read about death in the daily papers, I know people who work abnormally hard just to stay financially afloat. I know people who will never get adequate health care, whose children will never be adequately educated and whose future (if not stopped by a bullet) will be to step into their parents miserable places unless we can find a way to break that cycle. Remember, these are also people that were told that they could be President, and not told that they would never be able to afford to visit the dentist regularly.
What do I want from life? I want what a lot of us Americans want: change for the better. The truth would be a start. And yes, I’m not as tall as I appear on film.
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Death Of Don Flagrante Delicto
In my youth I was told that I could grow up to be President and furthermore, that I could petition the Lord with prayer. Thus far, all evidence that those are true statements are to the contrary.
On a 1975 album by the Tubes, a tune called ‘What do you want from life?’ promised me that as an American citizen I was entitled to, among other things, a heated kidney shaped pool, a Gucci shoe tree, Bob Dylan’s new unlisted phone number, Rosemary’s baby, a foolproof plan, an airtight alibi and a statue of a baby’s arm holding an apple.
According to recent emails, I also deserve lower body fat, higher energy levels, wrinkle reduction, sexual potency, better memory, muscle strength and lower mortgage interest rates. Also, at my request, I can have human growth hormones, relaxers, sedatives, university degrees, viagra, lower credit interest rates, and the ability to investigate any of my friends.
Add to that, I can get Heather’s (and her pre-pubescent friends) web cam shots, the websites of young Russian and Japanese women that are just frothing at the mouth to wed me, Paris Hilton’s xxxx video (with sound), breast enhancement, a gargantuan penis and staying power; and honey, I CAN BE COMPLETE!!!
What went wrong?
Me. I must have missed something growing up. This could be equated to our politics. I know that if I lived in a Democratic society I would have leaders that would do what I tell them is best for me. And, if I happened to vote Republican, I would get leaders that I could count on to do the best for me and that no one would tell me lies. This is simply not true. For leaders and example setters, I have charlatans.
Also, I’m told, as an American, I should be able to count on the media to tell me that there are limitations specific to my economic, physical and intelligence station, and not to jerk me off. This has also not been the case in my recent memory.
Is the media Republican or Democrat? Good question. By the above criteria the media is neither. The media is a Dictator. A dictator and, in essence, a vanity manipulator.
Don’t get me wrong; I have paid my buck at the kissing booths of life:
“Hate that gray? Wash it away!”, “Lose 20 lbs. in two weeks!”, “learn the love secrets of the stars’, “A cleaner closer shave”, “Good for coughs, colds, sore holes, puts hair on anything but a cue ball!, etc. etc. etc.”
Like a lot of Americans, I play the lottery, have lost my paycheck at black jack tables, bet my life on someone to love me for the rest of my life and read books on invisibility, physical immortality, gotten drunk on the elixir of patriotism and taken the Course in Miracles. So?
So, should I not be content with the words that my parents praised my birth with? “He’s got five fingers on each hand, he’s got ten toes and, thank God, he ain’t a moron!” I should be so flattered, I should think that. I don’t
It seems to me that it’s become more important who it is that wins than what it is that’s right. I am suspicious that, as they say, ‘something is rotten in Denmark’, I smell it, I feel it, I know it. The world I live in demands that I should BE SOMEBODY, but it never tells me how to be that somebody; or whom that somebody is. I did not come with an owners manual; so, like a blind man in an unfamiliar space, I’ve been trying to feel my way through life.
I think that there are a lot of us lost Americans, the ones who didn’t become President, the ones whose prayers have not been answered, that may wonder these same things.
It’s as elusive as a fire fly, but as pervasive as planters warts. The rich get richer, the poor have children, the criminals take what they want, the mighty are felled to rise again and the downtrodden are snatched from the brink once again to be given one final flogging. Is this goodness being rewarded? Does God move in mysterious ways? Give me a break!
By all the evidence collected thus far, it’s not a reach to say that: some people get more than their fair share; not because they deserve it, but, by the fact that they’re willing to stick it to some smaller guy, the average Joe. Period. And there are more of us smaller guys than there are them, so go figure. Greed talks and the rest of us walks.
This is not a rant or a rave, but more of ‘I’m weary of folks telling us how fortunate we are instead of letting us in on the screwing that we’re taking. Dry, hard and up against a tree.
And I know that I should be grateful, yes downright grateful, and I remind myself constantly so, that it is a miracle that I am alive, six feet above ground and warm to the touch… BUT. I see people eating from garbage cans, I read about death in the daily papers, I know people who work abnormally hard just to stay financially afloat. I know people who will never get adequate health care, whose children will never be adequately educated and whose future (if not stopped by a bullet) will be to step into their parents miserable places unless we can find a way to break that cycle. Remember, these are also people that were told that they could be President, and not told that they would never be able to afford to visit the dentist regularly.
What do I want from life? I want what a lot of us Americans want: change for the better. The truth would be a start. And yes, I’m not as tall as I appear on film.
Holloween in New Orleans in New Orleans
Po-Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
The odds are against us
Or
It isn’t Halloween that’s scary; it’s everyday life
Thirty Helens agree: “there’s no disgrace like home”. In a nutshell, that about sums it up for me. No, rats are not gnawing at my brain; I’ve come down with a case of Mathematic Statistic Constipation (MSC) compounded by Sensory Media Overload (SMO).
Oh, I know that you think that I have it made with my girlfriend that drinks beer out of the can, a dog that plays pool for money and a monkey that cheats at cards; and you’re thinking “Plus, he continually gets paid to write drivel in a great urban publication, what are the odds of that?” I’ll tell you. About a hundred thousand to one.
You might add that I’m one of 4,300 people who has found space to rent in one of the 2,000 buildings in the french Quarter, that I’m not one of the 1,000 cases a day that need to be seen at Charity Hospital, or one of the ‘one a day average’ killings that take place in this city (counting those by law enforcers). What are the odds?
I’m not one of the half of the population that’s unemployed or the quarter of the population that live in poverty. I am not one of the more than 3,000,000 people that have lost their jobs since the current administration took office. I’m not one of the 46% of children born in Louisiana into single parent homes. The 60% that live in poverty and 17% that are reared in households with an income of less than $7,500.00 a year”. I’m not one out of every seven women in Louisiana that have been or are being stalked (up 20% over national average).
Statistically speaking, I am not one of the 30% of the adult population that cannot read above a fifth grade level. I’m also not part of either the 39% population stuck in illiteracy level one, or the 75% of the population (and this is all in New Orleans) stuck in illiteracy level two”. I am stuck up to my kiester in statistics!
I am part of the 56% of eligible voters that has registered and part of the roughly half of the registered voters that actually do vote.
Does any of that do me any good? No. 99% of the ideas that I have to save humanity are largely overlooked by 100% of the people who could implement those policies.
Where I work, there is a notice, posted by The Louisiana Restaurant Association about crime in the workplace. It says that there is one robbery every 46 seconds, one assault every 29 seconds, one rape every 5 minutes, and one murder every 21 minutes. Is this America?
I decided, hey, I can come up with statistics on my own. I funded a private study, retained an independent research team of expert (me), and came up with these startling, if not facts, at least, plausible statistics. This is only a small %
Life
87% of the public wish Ben and Jen would just go away.
Of the 59 parts of my body that a glamour magazine says “I want ‘her’ to know about” I can only think of 2%.
Only 12% of cars (including cabs and cops) use turn signals.
Nobody likes rap music. It’s just that 85% of young people don’t know how to sing.
Like most screaming heterosexual men, I spend 57% of my time thinking about women and glasses of beer. What do I do with the other 43%? Sleep mostly.
The Universe
98% of people think that if indeed money can’t buy happiness at least it can purchase acceptable substitutes; of those 98%, 100% think that money can buy anything.
Only one person in Flushing, Queens, New York knows all the words to “The Tattooed Lady”. What are the odds?
94% of the population know what a ‘kit’ is; these same people do not know what a ‘caboodle’ is.
There is an editorialist that can use the term ‘87 Billion Dollars’ no less than ten times in a single article.
99% of dead people do not look like they’re ‘only sleeping’.
We’re all overweight.
Every government, at all levels, lies 78% of the time about matters concerning their credibility, capability, culpability or any other ability questioned.
There is a bookstore in Austin that has 1,000 different magazines, 0% are soft or hard pornography.
100% of all the money that I should have been saving for my retirement has been spent on sex, drugs and Rock and Roll.
There are only three degrees of separation between you and someone who’s been mugged. 100% true.
Everything Else
There’s no such thing as consumer confidence to 87% of people with incomes of less than $50,000.00 a year.
It costs a family of three roughly 50% less income than it takes a single parent with two children.
99.9% of everyone you know has had a bicycle stolen or knows someone who has.
‘Canoodle’ is not in the dictionary; but tell someone that you did a little of it last night and 66% will smile knowingly.
Winking with both eyes at the same time will only upset 2% of the population.
96% of people that are alarmed by American jobs that are lost to foreign markets buy goods from other countries without checking the origin on the label.
Public littering is a way of life to 81% of the population in New Orleans. Spitting percentages are higher.
New Orleans, as a city, does not have the highest % of murders in the
U.S.A. The fact is that New Orleans is 15,000 people shy of being called a city (We’ll have to be satisfied with having the highest homicide rate per capita in the country). Question: what happened to those 15,000 people?
Probably, you’re as scared as I am about answering your door on any night, including Halloween. Incidentally, the term ‘probably’ is defined as a 40-70% chance that what you expect will or will not happen. Think about it.
By
Phil LaMancusa
The odds are against us
Or
It isn’t Halloween that’s scary; it’s everyday life
Thirty Helens agree: “there’s no disgrace like home”. In a nutshell, that about sums it up for me. No, rats are not gnawing at my brain; I’ve come down with a case of Mathematic Statistic Constipation (MSC) compounded by Sensory Media Overload (SMO).
Oh, I know that you think that I have it made with my girlfriend that drinks beer out of the can, a dog that plays pool for money and a monkey that cheats at cards; and you’re thinking “Plus, he continually gets paid to write drivel in a great urban publication, what are the odds of that?” I’ll tell you. About a hundred thousand to one.
You might add that I’m one of 4,300 people who has found space to rent in one of the 2,000 buildings in the french Quarter, that I’m not one of the 1,000 cases a day that need to be seen at Charity Hospital, or one of the ‘one a day average’ killings that take place in this city (counting those by law enforcers). What are the odds?
I’m not one of the half of the population that’s unemployed or the quarter of the population that live in poverty. I am not one of the more than 3,000,000 people that have lost their jobs since the current administration took office. I’m not one of the 46% of children born in Louisiana into single parent homes. The 60% that live in poverty and 17% that are reared in households with an income of less than $7,500.00 a year”. I’m not one out of every seven women in Louisiana that have been or are being stalked (up 20% over national average).
Statistically speaking, I am not one of the 30% of the adult population that cannot read above a fifth grade level. I’m also not part of either the 39% population stuck in illiteracy level one, or the 75% of the population (and this is all in New Orleans) stuck in illiteracy level two”. I am stuck up to my kiester in statistics!
I am part of the 56% of eligible voters that has registered and part of the roughly half of the registered voters that actually do vote.
Does any of that do me any good? No. 99% of the ideas that I have to save humanity are largely overlooked by 100% of the people who could implement those policies.
Where I work, there is a notice, posted by The Louisiana Restaurant Association about crime in the workplace. It says that there is one robbery every 46 seconds, one assault every 29 seconds, one rape every 5 minutes, and one murder every 21 minutes. Is this America?
I decided, hey, I can come up with statistics on my own. I funded a private study, retained an independent research team of expert (me), and came up with these startling, if not facts, at least, plausible statistics. This is only a small %
Life
87% of the public wish Ben and Jen would just go away.
Of the 59 parts of my body that a glamour magazine says “I want ‘her’ to know about” I can only think of 2%.
Only 12% of cars (including cabs and cops) use turn signals.
Nobody likes rap music. It’s just that 85% of young people don’t know how to sing.
Like most screaming heterosexual men, I spend 57% of my time thinking about women and glasses of beer. What do I do with the other 43%? Sleep mostly.
The Universe
98% of people think that if indeed money can’t buy happiness at least it can purchase acceptable substitutes; of those 98%, 100% think that money can buy anything.
Only one person in Flushing, Queens, New York knows all the words to “The Tattooed Lady”. What are the odds?
94% of the population know what a ‘kit’ is; these same people do not know what a ‘caboodle’ is.
There is an editorialist that can use the term ‘87 Billion Dollars’ no less than ten times in a single article.
99% of dead people do not look like they’re ‘only sleeping’.
We’re all overweight.
Every government, at all levels, lies 78% of the time about matters concerning their credibility, capability, culpability or any other ability questioned.
There is a bookstore in Austin that has 1,000 different magazines, 0% are soft or hard pornography.
100% of all the money that I should have been saving for my retirement has been spent on sex, drugs and Rock and Roll.
There are only three degrees of separation between you and someone who’s been mugged. 100% true.
Everything Else
There’s no such thing as consumer confidence to 87% of people with incomes of less than $50,000.00 a year.
It costs a family of three roughly 50% less income than it takes a single parent with two children.
99.9% of everyone you know has had a bicycle stolen or knows someone who has.
‘Canoodle’ is not in the dictionary; but tell someone that you did a little of it last night and 66% will smile knowingly.
Winking with both eyes at the same time will only upset 2% of the population.
96% of people that are alarmed by American jobs that are lost to foreign markets buy goods from other countries without checking the origin on the label.
Public littering is a way of life to 81% of the population in New Orleans. Spitting percentages are higher.
New Orleans, as a city, does not have the highest % of murders in the
U.S.A. The fact is that New Orleans is 15,000 people shy of being called a city (We’ll have to be satisfied with having the highest homicide rate per capita in the country). Question: what happened to those 15,000 people?
Probably, you’re as scared as I am about answering your door on any night, including Halloween. Incidentally, the term ‘probably’ is defined as a 40-70% chance that what you expect will or will not happen. Think about it.
New Years in New Orleans
Poor Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
And So It Is New Years, And What Have You Done?
Or
Waltzing Mathilda
Good evening and welcome, yes welcome once again to the annual New Years Predictions of the next latest top stories, coming to you from the Dicken’s Prediction Agency, Polling Grounds, Gossip Central, Rumor Control and from contributions to your local W’YAT station from readers like you. Thank you. I’m your host Phil LaMancusa.
For you readers that are new to the show, let me explain. The Dicken’s Prediction Agency works on the theory that the news of the past, seen through the eyes of the news of the present leads to the news from the future. For example: in our top story tonight (or today at coffee; or whatever the case may be), the cathedral will be adding video poker machines to their vestibule to increase revenues, it will be called “Gambling for God”. A spokesperson for the church is quoted as saying, “four Marys will not beat out four Blessed Saviors, but a full house of Archangels will pay triple”.
In other news, the city has approved Harrah’s construction of a theme water park taking up the entire two hundred block of Chartres St. Using the same architect and construction crew that has worked on the restoration of the court house the park will open in 2020. Meanwhile The Largest Corporation In The World is suing the city, saying that they were promised the sale of the entire French Quarter to build a MacCola DisWalSoft World theme park, tearing down all buildings and replacing them with more durable heavy plastic replicas, a process that they said would take about forty eight hours and not interrupt business in the least.
Speaking of business, a plan has been unveiled at city hall for all plastic cups, beads etc distributed this year at Mardi Gras to be coated with a substance that smells like corn. Herds of swine would then be left to roam the streets literally eating all the trash. The plan hit a snag when Lionel Travis, a six year old, asked: “What are we gonna do with all that pig poop?”
Other breaking stories concern four juvenile robbery suspects who were captured after leading police on a 15-minute chase from uptown to mid-city.
The young males, three 10-year olds and one 8-year old were captured by the city’s elite “Under 12 Crime Unit” when they stopped in their stolen golf cart to celebrate at a sno-ball stand. A spokesperson for the unit identified detective Wenzel Denzel as the 11-year old ‘cop that got the drop’.
Iraq has opened it’s first suicide bomber speedway where loaded cars can compete using empty building as their targets. In the third day of fierce competition prizes were still unclaimed.
Elsewhere in Iraq the fighting seems to be over. The New Orleans Brigade, brought over as a last resort explained how this was accomplished.
They sighted a more streetwise approach using rap music, gang warfare, hip-hop fashion and posters of music stars to frighten Al-Quaida operatives into giving up. As PFC Freddie “Pooh Bear” Minorca, 14, put it “Sh_t….. dem guys don’t know a Mother F—kin’ thing about killin’. We can do more damage on a Saturday night in the ‘hood’ then they do here in a week!”
Back at home the local daily newspaper, promising to only show sports news and sensationalistic murder trials on the front page, has celebrated it’s first daily edition in which there are no murders reported. Said an Editorial aide based in the New York headquarters: “Good thing for us we sent all those guys to Iraq”.
Speaking of Iraq, congress has been asked to appropriate an additional Gazillion Samollians for the rebuilding effort; pointing out that schools, roads, and hospitals aren’t enough to lift the morale of these oppressed people, a White House aide pointed out that we need to build “Shopping facilities, multi-plex theaters, fast food outlets, and amusement parks as well”. The Largest Corporation In The World, that controls both houses, assured Americans that this was a good thing for the economy and lowered interest rates another half a percent.
On the health scene a final touch has been put on the Medicare bill. Seniors will now be charged for services whether they receive them or not. The money will go directly to drug companies and vacationing doctors. A spokesperson for Pharmaceuticals-R-Us, a subsidiary of The Largest Corporation In The World, announced that a ‘Get Tough Or Die’ policy has been implemented and needed “no ‘splaining”. Senior Presley went on to point out that this was a principle that the country was built on and introduced legislature of a bill call ‘No Work, No Food’, aimed at taking care of the nation’s problematic five million Americans that are out of work.
In sports the local teams have agreed to lose all games before they are played to cut down on fan disappointment. “We’re getting back to the original idea of guys getting together to drink beer, paint themselves funny colors and yell stuff, you know?” said Andy Randy of the ninth ward. Not to worry though; public floggings, executions and half time shows will keep the crowds amused. Way to go fellas.
After a word about the weather, rotten, anchorperson Mrs. Aurelia M. Lampo will return with the progress report on the oil drilling scheduled to begin Monday in the courtyard of Commander’s Palace. But first here’s a twenty minute commercial from our sponsor The Largest Corporation In The World.
Thank you and have a pleasant evening.
By
Phil LaMancusa
And So It Is New Years, And What Have You Done?
Or
Waltzing Mathilda
Good evening and welcome, yes welcome once again to the annual New Years Predictions of the next latest top stories, coming to you from the Dicken’s Prediction Agency, Polling Grounds, Gossip Central, Rumor Control and from contributions to your local W’YAT station from readers like you. Thank you. I’m your host Phil LaMancusa.
For you readers that are new to the show, let me explain. The Dicken’s Prediction Agency works on the theory that the news of the past, seen through the eyes of the news of the present leads to the news from the future. For example: in our top story tonight (or today at coffee; or whatever the case may be), the cathedral will be adding video poker machines to their vestibule to increase revenues, it will be called “Gambling for God”. A spokesperson for the church is quoted as saying, “four Marys will not beat out four Blessed Saviors, but a full house of Archangels will pay triple”.
In other news, the city has approved Harrah’s construction of a theme water park taking up the entire two hundred block of Chartres St. Using the same architect and construction crew that has worked on the restoration of the court house the park will open in 2020. Meanwhile The Largest Corporation In The World is suing the city, saying that they were promised the sale of the entire French Quarter to build a MacCola DisWalSoft World theme park, tearing down all buildings and replacing them with more durable heavy plastic replicas, a process that they said would take about forty eight hours and not interrupt business in the least.
Speaking of business, a plan has been unveiled at city hall for all plastic cups, beads etc distributed this year at Mardi Gras to be coated with a substance that smells like corn. Herds of swine would then be left to roam the streets literally eating all the trash. The plan hit a snag when Lionel Travis, a six year old, asked: “What are we gonna do with all that pig poop?”
Other breaking stories concern four juvenile robbery suspects who were captured after leading police on a 15-minute chase from uptown to mid-city.
The young males, three 10-year olds and one 8-year old were captured by the city’s elite “Under 12 Crime Unit” when they stopped in their stolen golf cart to celebrate at a sno-ball stand. A spokesperson for the unit identified detective Wenzel Denzel as the 11-year old ‘cop that got the drop’.
Iraq has opened it’s first suicide bomber speedway where loaded cars can compete using empty building as their targets. In the third day of fierce competition prizes were still unclaimed.
Elsewhere in Iraq the fighting seems to be over. The New Orleans Brigade, brought over as a last resort explained how this was accomplished.
They sighted a more streetwise approach using rap music, gang warfare, hip-hop fashion and posters of music stars to frighten Al-Quaida operatives into giving up. As PFC Freddie “Pooh Bear” Minorca, 14, put it “Sh_t….. dem guys don’t know a Mother F—kin’ thing about killin’. We can do more damage on a Saturday night in the ‘hood’ then they do here in a week!”
Back at home the local daily newspaper, promising to only show sports news and sensationalistic murder trials on the front page, has celebrated it’s first daily edition in which there are no murders reported. Said an Editorial aide based in the New York headquarters: “Good thing for us we sent all those guys to Iraq”.
Speaking of Iraq, congress has been asked to appropriate an additional Gazillion Samollians for the rebuilding effort; pointing out that schools, roads, and hospitals aren’t enough to lift the morale of these oppressed people, a White House aide pointed out that we need to build “Shopping facilities, multi-plex theaters, fast food outlets, and amusement parks as well”. The Largest Corporation In The World, that controls both houses, assured Americans that this was a good thing for the economy and lowered interest rates another half a percent.
On the health scene a final touch has been put on the Medicare bill. Seniors will now be charged for services whether they receive them or not. The money will go directly to drug companies and vacationing doctors. A spokesperson for Pharmaceuticals-R-Us, a subsidiary of The Largest Corporation In The World, announced that a ‘Get Tough Or Die’ policy has been implemented and needed “no ‘splaining”. Senior Presley went on to point out that this was a principle that the country was built on and introduced legislature of a bill call ‘No Work, No Food’, aimed at taking care of the nation’s problematic five million Americans that are out of work.
In sports the local teams have agreed to lose all games before they are played to cut down on fan disappointment. “We’re getting back to the original idea of guys getting together to drink beer, paint themselves funny colors and yell stuff, you know?” said Andy Randy of the ninth ward. Not to worry though; public floggings, executions and half time shows will keep the crowds amused. Way to go fellas.
After a word about the weather, rotten, anchorperson Mrs. Aurelia M. Lampo will return with the progress report on the oil drilling scheduled to begin Monday in the courtyard of Commander’s Palace. But first here’s a twenty minute commercial from our sponsor The Largest Corporation In The World.
Thank you and have a pleasant evening.
Cosmic debris in New Orleans
‘Wasted and wounded; it ain’t what the moon did, and God what’m I payin’ for now?’
I resisted the temptation of having a beer for breakfast. Well, almost. Then again, what was I supposed to do, leave it by itself in the fridge and me on the verge of a hangover…..question mark, question mark, question mark. Oh, the choices we have to make when we’re on our own, especially when we have the whole day off.
Speaking of choices, is it just me, or is anyone else out there feeling older by the nanosecond? I mean, I hear folks talk about computers that will do everything but wipe your behind and my response is to go out and buy my landlady flowers to help her overlook the fact that I sit out late on the porch smoking Luckys, drinking PBR and listening to Buddy Holly on my turntable singin, “ that’ll be the day-hey-hey, when I die.”
I read in the paper that because Chinese people have to learn how to write all those squiggly kinds of handwriting (whatever it’s called) that they suffer from a lack of creativity. Who knew? Yet it figures, ten thousand years of civilization and the best that they can come up with is Moo Goo Gai Pan? C’mon my yellow brothers, we, on the other hand, know how to butcher people in the street as well as in other countries, and we’ll go you one better…. our children can do it as well, even in their schools!! Just think, maybe because our kids are dumber than dirt, they can concoct ways of smuggling AKA 47s into the gym without being caught… way to go guys.
In the same newspaper, I learned that if we stopped spitting and urinating in public, our crime rate would go down. Well, I tell ya, this American did his part only as recent as last night. That’s right, I could’ve whipped that bad boy out and let’er rip on the fence post, but did I? Not on your tintype! I held it!!! And I just know, that the world is a better place for it.
AND, just yesterday while listening to the plan to rescue a three-legged dog (anybody want one?) I heard about a State Trooper who apprehends an alligator, lassoes it, drags it behind his pick up to a ditch and puts a bullet through its head. Let’s see, what reading level would you put that role model at? Is it just me?
It seems to me that I come from a simpler, more gentle time; a time when singers were harmonizing “could it be I’m falling in love?” as opposed to grunting “gotta find me a Project Girl uh, uh!”
I’ll tell you how it was when I was growing up as opposed to how I see things now.
1. Then: I believed that by dressing smartly, learning to converse intelligently (on a variety of subjects), having skills on the dance floor, speaking politely to everyone but my peer group and, later on, knowing how to handle my alcohol intake would gain me the respect I thought that I deserved.
2. Then: I considered crossing at the corner, saving a candy wrapper for the next litter can, and finding a reason to compliment the next person I spoke with.
3. Then: I considered asking questions instead of demanding answers, meaning “excuse me” instead of “get out of my way” and never to taking a kindness as a weakness.
4. Then: I put romance before finance and even politeness before truth. I had never heard the phrase “talk shit, take none” and wouldn’t have believed it if I had. I practiced patience. Go figure.
5. Then: I didn’t trust anyone over thirty or younger than seventy, weighed my words before I spoke them and knew that this was ‘all about me’ but tried not to let anyone else see it. I believed in miracles.
6. Now: I don’t know. It seems that not only am I out of step and time, but that the drummer that I’m marching to got shot in a cosmic drive by long ago by weapons of mass distraction. I wonder if that last beer had a buddy in the box?
7. Now: good guys do finish last, bad guys won’t get what’s coming to them and being meek does not insure me of any inheritance what so ever.
8. Now: the phrase “have a nice day” means nothing. No one is having a nice day. What are you looking at? You know that it’s true! Do the terms ‘two weeks to live’, ‘ got mugged on the corner’ and ‘there is no cure’ sound foreign to you?
9. Now: I look a someone riding a bike to see if it’s mine that was stolen, make sure that I lock the door behind me and look over my shoulder when I walk home at night.
10. Now: I just don’t know.
Here’s what’s in today’s paper, and I’m not making this up.
1. In the 1990s New Orleans lost 9,000 jobs, mandatory helmet bill killed in House, Panel OKs easing video poker rules, they’re clearing out Tallulah Prison, SARS fatality rate higher than thought, Malvo’s confession can be used and a man is arrested after a ten hour stand off.
2. In the main section there are ads for one-day sales, no interest or payments till June 2004, you won’t believe our low prices, sex for life and it’s the laser procedure you’ve been waiting for.
3. In other news: man shot, killed after visiting friend, New Orleans man admits to 1976 rape and killing, man, 81, booked on obscenity charge and 4 are accused of beating deputy in a parking lot. There’s a woman arrested in a shooting, a man sought in a slaying, and, a girl, 16 sent to jail after shooting her boyfriend claiming that they were in bed and she was merely ‘playing’ with the gun. Oh, and a seventeen year old student died Thursday of blows to his head. Do you wonder why I drink?
4. Here’s one on the front page of the sport section: “ The 1-2 punch of Hurricane Lili and Tropical Storm Isadore last year accelerated the ecological nightmare known as coastal erosion.
On the lighter side: Jade Jagger designs jewelry for the stars, plasma screens are so sleek, they hold a sophisticated, almost artlike allure, Ben and J. Lo have found a Georgia retreat and there’s a new computer that will wipe your butt (alright, I made that one up)
Oh, and if you needed to know: my horoscope advises me to write in a journal, Snoopy is starting on a book entitled ‘The Dog’, the answer to 27 down is not ‘Rosebud’ and today is Jimmy Ruffin’s birthday.
Excuse me while I fetch a beverage.
I resisted the temptation of having a beer for breakfast. Well, almost. Then again, what was I supposed to do, leave it by itself in the fridge and me on the verge of a hangover…..question mark, question mark, question mark. Oh, the choices we have to make when we’re on our own, especially when we have the whole day off.
Speaking of choices, is it just me, or is anyone else out there feeling older by the nanosecond? I mean, I hear folks talk about computers that will do everything but wipe your behind and my response is to go out and buy my landlady flowers to help her overlook the fact that I sit out late on the porch smoking Luckys, drinking PBR and listening to Buddy Holly on my turntable singin, “ that’ll be the day-hey-hey, when I die.”
I read in the paper that because Chinese people have to learn how to write all those squiggly kinds of handwriting (whatever it’s called) that they suffer from a lack of creativity. Who knew? Yet it figures, ten thousand years of civilization and the best that they can come up with is Moo Goo Gai Pan? C’mon my yellow brothers, we, on the other hand, know how to butcher people in the street as well as in other countries, and we’ll go you one better…. our children can do it as well, even in their schools!! Just think, maybe because our kids are dumber than dirt, they can concoct ways of smuggling AKA 47s into the gym without being caught… way to go guys.
In the same newspaper, I learned that if we stopped spitting and urinating in public, our crime rate would go down. Well, I tell ya, this American did his part only as recent as last night. That’s right, I could’ve whipped that bad boy out and let’er rip on the fence post, but did I? Not on your tintype! I held it!!! And I just know, that the world is a better place for it.
AND, just yesterday while listening to the plan to rescue a three-legged dog (anybody want one?) I heard about a State Trooper who apprehends an alligator, lassoes it, drags it behind his pick up to a ditch and puts a bullet through its head. Let’s see, what reading level would you put that role model at? Is it just me?
It seems to me that I come from a simpler, more gentle time; a time when singers were harmonizing “could it be I’m falling in love?” as opposed to grunting “gotta find me a Project Girl uh, uh!”
I’ll tell you how it was when I was growing up as opposed to how I see things now.
1. Then: I believed that by dressing smartly, learning to converse intelligently (on a variety of subjects), having skills on the dance floor, speaking politely to everyone but my peer group and, later on, knowing how to handle my alcohol intake would gain me the respect I thought that I deserved.
2. Then: I considered crossing at the corner, saving a candy wrapper for the next litter can, and finding a reason to compliment the next person I spoke with.
3. Then: I considered asking questions instead of demanding answers, meaning “excuse me” instead of “get out of my way” and never to taking a kindness as a weakness.
4. Then: I put romance before finance and even politeness before truth. I had never heard the phrase “talk shit, take none” and wouldn’t have believed it if I had. I practiced patience. Go figure.
5. Then: I didn’t trust anyone over thirty or younger than seventy, weighed my words before I spoke them and knew that this was ‘all about me’ but tried not to let anyone else see it. I believed in miracles.
6. Now: I don’t know. It seems that not only am I out of step and time, but that the drummer that I’m marching to got shot in a cosmic drive by long ago by weapons of mass distraction. I wonder if that last beer had a buddy in the box?
7. Now: good guys do finish last, bad guys won’t get what’s coming to them and being meek does not insure me of any inheritance what so ever.
8. Now: the phrase “have a nice day” means nothing. No one is having a nice day. What are you looking at? You know that it’s true! Do the terms ‘two weeks to live’, ‘ got mugged on the corner’ and ‘there is no cure’ sound foreign to you?
9. Now: I look a someone riding a bike to see if it’s mine that was stolen, make sure that I lock the door behind me and look over my shoulder when I walk home at night.
10. Now: I just don’t know.
Here’s what’s in today’s paper, and I’m not making this up.
1. In the 1990s New Orleans lost 9,000 jobs, mandatory helmet bill killed in House, Panel OKs easing video poker rules, they’re clearing out Tallulah Prison, SARS fatality rate higher than thought, Malvo’s confession can be used and a man is arrested after a ten hour stand off.
2. In the main section there are ads for one-day sales, no interest or payments till June 2004, you won’t believe our low prices, sex for life and it’s the laser procedure you’ve been waiting for.
3. In other news: man shot, killed after visiting friend, New Orleans man admits to 1976 rape and killing, man, 81, booked on obscenity charge and 4 are accused of beating deputy in a parking lot. There’s a woman arrested in a shooting, a man sought in a slaying, and, a girl, 16 sent to jail after shooting her boyfriend claiming that they were in bed and she was merely ‘playing’ with the gun. Oh, and a seventeen year old student died Thursday of blows to his head. Do you wonder why I drink?
4. Here’s one on the front page of the sport section: “ The 1-2 punch of Hurricane Lili and Tropical Storm Isadore last year accelerated the ecological nightmare known as coastal erosion.
On the lighter side: Jade Jagger designs jewelry for the stars, plasma screens are so sleek, they hold a sophisticated, almost artlike allure, Ben and J. Lo have found a Georgia retreat and there’s a new computer that will wipe your butt (alright, I made that one up)
Oh, and if you needed to know: my horoscope advises me to write in a journal, Snoopy is starting on a book entitled ‘The Dog’, the answer to 27 down is not ‘Rosebud’ and today is Jimmy Ruffin’s birthday.
Excuse me while I fetch a beverage.
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