Whatever Happened To Baby Shame?
By
Debbie Lindsey and Phil LaMancusa
***************
It started as a lark; it turned into a can of worms. French Quarter waiters, lounging in front of their job site discussing the demolition by neglect of the building across the street. A once beautiful four-story brick building, windows broken, missing and even a gaping hole where a window once was. Space where balconies had fallen and the precarious evidence of one about to follow its predecessors. Pigeons arrived and departed with the frequency of planes at a busy airport; we likened the decay to Bette Davis in her last major film role.
“How could somebody let this happen?”
“Who owns that thing?”
“Can’t somebody, shouldn’t somebody, do something about it?”
“You know, there should be a way for a person to sue a property owner for possession of their building when they let it fall into such disrepair; I mean, I have a hammer, I’ve got nails, I could do something!”
“Yeah, (almost sarcastically) we could put on a high school pageant and save the building like Judy Garland and whatsisname.”
“Mickey Rooney” I replied, “No really, I don’t see why I shouldn’t be allowed ownership; they take away kids and animals if you don’t treat ‘em right, why not a building?”
“This is a ‘National Historic Monument’ of a French Quarter, isn’t it?” Debbie returned, “but I bet you a nickel you can’t.”
*******************
We’re fortunate to live in a city that is large enough to house a well staffed city government while at the same time small enough to be personal about it. It is no chore getting an answer, or answers, concerning matters that we deem important about our living conditions. Unfortuately, we are large enough to have those matters, and their solutions, come under a heading of “not our department”. Case in point: demolition by neglect in the French Quarter.
The French Quarter was deemed a National Historic Monument in 1966, and that makes us special. In a decision of The Historic American Building Survey by the Department of the Interior, Office of National Parks, Buildings and Reservations we were classified as a site that possesses ‘National Interest Concerning the History of the United States of America’. You can’t get more specific than that.
***********************
So what did we do? We held my telephone hostage for an hour or so one afternoon and tackled the job of inquiry. In the process, we received a vicarious tour of City Hall’s various agencies that protect The Big Easy from itself.
We first talked to Joyce at the main number who referred me to Environmental Affairs (EA). Cheryl, at EA had us call NORA (the New Orleans Redevelopment Authority and Ingrid (at NORA) directed us to contact Code enforcement, where we asked Ms. Turner about blighted property as defined by her department. “Unfit for human habitation” was her very succinct definition (Ingrid had told us earlier that ‘blighted’ was “not fixin’ on a property that they can”) and forwarded our call to Rene Sterncamp, her supervisor. Mr. Sterncamp, after hearing our story, told us that the matter was out of their jurisdiction because there is a business in operation on the property.
Subsequent inquiries included the City Attorney, City Planning, The Office of Blighted Housing Purchases, Environmental Affairs, Boards and Commissions, Safety and Permits, Councilman Jackie Clark’s office, Environmental Health Code Enforcement and The Historic District Landmarks Commission (whose jurisdiction, we were told, covers everything but The French Quarter!)
Two other names kept popping up: The Williams Research Center (WRC) at 410 Chartres St. and The Vieux Carre Commission (VCC) at 334 Royal St.
We visited the WRC and were shown the records of the property dating back to its builders Claude Gurlie and Joseph Guillot who helped shape New Orleans as architects, builders and developers. They were in business from 1795-1835 and left their mark, with their distinctive style, through the transition of Louisiana from colony to statehood. Some of their buildings of note are at 722 Toulouse St., the Tricou House at 711 Bourbon St., the Cottin House at 534 Royal St., the Vignie House at the corner of Royal and Orleans, Our Lady of Guadalupe church at 411 N. Rampart St., 613 Royal (home of the Court of Two Sisters) and the Gally House at 536-542 Chartres (known today as 540 Chartres). They also designed and built a convent for the Ursulines that was later demolished to make way for the industrial canal. The WRC also suggested that further information be obtained at the Office of property Management at City Hall.
Our visits to the VCC yielded further insights. Our meetings, although informal, with Marc Cooper and Hector Perera were instructive and educational.
Mr. Herrera, Chief Inspector and seventeen year employee, told us that, indeed, anyone could file a complaint against an owner of property in the French Quarter when it appeared to that person that negligence of that property was cause for concern. But, he added, Due Process often could not be completed to affect change. He cited examples at 601 Chartres, 528 N. Rampart and 540 Chartres (the Gally House). Here’s how it works, we register a complaint, the VCC sends out an inspector to verify and if just cause is found, a letter to the landlord, explaining the complaint and asking for compliance to remedies and communication, within fourteen days, to the VCC. If the citation is ignored, which he said in some cases it is, then the matter can be turned over to a court for legal action. This is where Due Process bogs down. To get a landlord to court a subpoena must be served and if that subpoena is not served then the landlord doesn’t go to court.
Mr. Herera explained that the people serving subpoenas, in most cases, had a hand full of them and if, for example, the landlord was ‘out of the office’, the paper was deemed a bad serve. You see, he said, the paper had to be served to the landlord or to the landlord’s home address. In a lot of cases it was either nearly impossible to find the landlord’s address, or the landlord couldn’t be served, for example, by Orleans Parish if they lived in another parish. Unless, he added, you could get ‘a favor’ by the authorities in that parish to deliver the subpoena.
Mr. Cooper (Director and sixth generation native) confirmed that a significant number of buildings were seriously neglected and that bringing a landlord to court was a challenge, but the VCC has only so much authority.
He allowed us to see the file on 540 Chartres and explained with the help of a map the significance of that particular building. We saw that a complaint had been filed on February 19th and it had been addressed to K&L Investments c/o NOLA Restaurant. We also saw at least twenty work permits that were for work that the tenant had taken responsibility for completing, mostly for safety and cosmetic issues. Mr. Cooper went on to say that the binding test of neglect was based basically on if, in fact, unwanted water was being allowed to enter the property. Water, he said was the root of all damage; with water came rot, insects, deterioration. I explained that it was common to see water dripping through the ceiling of the first floor business when it rained and he answered…”I know”. We found the people at the VCC not only helpful, but serious, passionate and dedicated to the work that they are trying to do, we also found that, if you scratched their surface, you could see a lot of frustration too.
While the files were informative they do not appear to reflect the extent of complaints and concern leveled at the VCC. For example: “I have heard you are investigating blighted housing in the French Quarter, especially the building at 540 Chartres. I have lived next door to this building at 534 Chartres since 1995. The building was in terrible shape then with broken windows and frames, collapsed stairs in the rear slave quarters. Since 1995 the condition of the building has rapidly deteriorated. I am acquainted with Marc Cooper and brought this matter to his attention several times. Not only is this a historic disgrace, I believe it is a health hazard and a public danger. I hope you will prevail in your investigation and attempt to remedy this long neglected situation. Sincerely, Robert Vehon.
At City Hall, where the records of all properties in Orleans is available to the public free of charge, it only took minutes to find the names on the document of conveyance -- the names of the landlords.
*************************
Architecture drew me to New Orleans. It wasn’t the food, it wasn’t the partying, it wasn’t the fun. Old buildings, any kind of old buildings are my passion. They can range from the mansions of St. Charles to humble shotgun houses; the stately structures of commerce or the funky corner groceries with their Bargs root beer signs. For someone in love with history as it appears in wood, brick and stucco I was weak-in-the-knees for the French Quarter. So, with one more nod to the overwhelming array of architecture throughout the city I will contain my homage to the Vieux Carrie and the one building that for me exemplifies all that once flourished and is now decaying.
There are roughly 2,000 buildings within the Quarter with the majority being of architectural and historic significance, with some more outstanding than others. At various times in history, this neighborhood and her buildings have come under threat of demolition. The building of our focus, our ‘poster child’ if you will, is among these 2,000 buildings; and, it has been for too long in grave danger. During our research into this building’s decline we have found reports of correspondence with the responsible (or irresponsible) party involved (or uninvolved) yet still the place remains in disrepair and decline.
The bottom line is: I have watched for too long this building falling to ruin, with second, third and fourth floors serving as a pidgeon coop. And the current owners, since 1994, seem to my eye, slow to act. Three months ago the second floor balcony fell off (fortunately in the rear of building and not onto a busy sidewalk). Perhaps this didn’t shock the owners into repairs since a similar situation had already occurred when the third floor balcony collapsed two years earlier.
In addition to housing pigeons, rain, rot and termites, this old home is used for ground level leasing. In direct contrast to the vagrancy of disrepair suffered elsewhere throughout this property there is a vibrant neighborhood bar on the first floor. It seems to be the only source of life in this neglected building. There is a common misconception that a building is owned by the business (restaurant, bookstore, bar, etc.) operating within. Public perception has often placed blame, incorrectly, upon tenants rather than the behind-the-scene owner. Ironically the tenants often care more and spend more on maintenance and repair than those bearing the holding title. Judging from the records, this appears to be the case with 540 Chartres. I get the feeling this blighted corner would be truly worse for wear without the occupation of the ground floor tenants. Empty buildings just seem to give up on themselves.
If this were the New Orleans Museum of Art and someone were to rip apart a canvas or smash a Rodin, immediate action would be taken. Why is there no yellow crime scene tape around this building?
******************************************************
This is not a who-done-it or guess-where. This is simply a matter of public record and anyone walking past the building can see for themselves history and art still in residence at 540 Chartres despite deterioration. And we will save you a trip to room W506 of the Office of Real Estate and Records on the fifth floor of City Hall. In April 1994, 536-42 Chartres (540 Chartres) known as the Gally House, built by renowned French architects Gurley and Guillot and zoned blue for major historical and architectural significance was purchased by K&L Investments L. L. D... represented by Hicham Khodr and Emeril J. Lagasse. Bam!
We called K&L Investments for a statement and we received one within twenty four hours. It was from Emeril Lagasse. The statement reads, and I quote, “When Hicham and I bought the building, we saw that it was in disrepair and had good intentions to renovate it. Then we began to look at the economics of it, and unfortunately it didn’t make sense at the time. I then had to prioritize my holdings and began renovating other properties throughout the city including Emiril’s Delmonico, Emeril’s Restaurant, NOLA Restaurant and our new corporate headquarters, Emeril’s Homebase, located at 829 St. Charles near Lee Circle” End of quote.
K&L Investments bought 540 Chartres St. in 1994 for $665,000.00. Would this be a low priority investment to you? Onward.
We were informed that Hicham Khodr phoned VCC about violations and said that he would begin making improvements. Mr. Cooper informed us, at least twice in our meeting with him on September 3rd, that his response was, and I quote again, “actions speak louder than words”.
In our estimation, seven years is quite a bit of time to recognize a problem and a need -- a four-story need. With this said, we hope, and will applaud Khodr and Lagasse if they begin to take as much pride in this historic building as with the high profile buildings that house Lagasse’s restaurants.
At the Time of this writing no permits for work on 540 Chartres St. have been applied for or issued.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Aliens in New Orleans
Po-Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Ouch, That Hurts
Or
Ground Control to Major Tom
“There are five nameless people that own the entire planet and move everyone around to suit themselves and their purposes”. This statement from a female life form (not unpleasant to look at) that had placed two imitation precious metal discs on a rim surface to indicate her challenge to a contest involving fifteen striped and solid colored spheres being hit with a non colored sphere by way of a long slender rod of wood. The intent of which is to propel those spheres, intentionally, into any of six cavities evenly spaced in a three foot by six feet flat green felt covered horizontal playing surface. I reminded myself that this was just another game of pool.
A hot August evening, a quiet, non-competitive game (against myself), my local pub (Molly’s on Toulouse) and sleeping late the next day had had me lulled into a sense of psychic rest and relaxation. Obviously, this was not meant to be.
In our native vernacular, I responded “So, where y’all from?” She replied that she was from a “planet so far away that I could string toilet paper from my front yard to Uranus (was there a pun intended?), multiply that length by a qua-zillion and not even come close to imagining the distance.” Or, “so fucking far away, it would make your head spin.”
Good answer, I thought, scratched the eight and invited her to rack ‘em.
“So what”, I said, “you’re here to take the planet away from us, free us from destruction, save us from ourselves…what?”
“Nah” she said, “we gave up on y’all, you’d be more of a pain in the ass than we’d care to deal with. I’m just the mop up team; we’re outa here. “Plus,” she added, “most of you’re ugly as hammered shit, and just about as dumb.”
I invited her home. She racked. I broke. Sank nothing. She ran the table, sank the eight in a three bank shot and said: ”sure”: and we were off.
I have a nice house, a clean house, a big house, and a safe house and here I am discussing my world with a brunette who appears to have the intelligence of a spanner wrench. Or not. In either case why would I invite a nut case or an alien into my home? Perhaps the moon was full. Perhaps the planets were mis-alligned. Maybe I thought that I’d get lucky. That’s probably the answer; and while I’ve been laid by a lot of loonies, getting in the sack with an alien would be a new one. Yep, that’s what it was.
Out on the street, I asked about that three-rail bank that she did on the eight ball. She looked at me sweetly and said: “It ain’t rocket surgery, Cap”. Then she touched me behind my ear and something she did shut down my horny honey hornet system. It was like a cold shower, but more effective. I decided that I’d best be polite, that system is usually on red alert twenty four seven, ask anyone that thinks that they know me.
Seated on my porch with the air as still as a tomb and the clouds playing hide and seek with another electrical storm, I asked her what she had found out about us as a race.
“First and foremost: your collective will to exert superiority over each other. Those who find themselves on the lower stratum react with hatred, jealousy and violence while those above keep an illusionary and precarious control by placing value systems and unreachable futile goals that they paint as the pot of gold at the end of the ass kicking.
Those in power wage wars based on greed and oppression using mortality, valor and the joke of an afterlife to brainwash the ignorant into fighting for them.
The very thing that you call ‘sport’ consists, in general, either in abnormal body exertion or the ability to hit, kick, throw, capture or club little balls and then run like hell!
You take finely shredded plants, wrap them in thin paper, put them in your mouth, set fire to them, and then inhale a smoke that you know will shorten your pointless lives.
You drink fermented beverages, aware of their destructive addictive-ness and call it ‘fun’; you injure each other physically, mentally, and emotionally in your homes, your streets and in neighboring countries. Are you catching this or should I go slower for your pitiful ineptness to grasp complex concepts?”
I opened my mouth to answer but she didn’t miss a beat
“You empty your ghettos to provide fodder for rich men’s wars, the last ‘Prince of Peace’ you had got nailed to a tree over two thousand years ago and no one has since been able to muster up enough people to say ‘STOP!’ Got it so far Dummy or do I have to draw a diagram?”
“Uh” I said but as you might suspect, she was on a roll.
“You climbed down from the trees ‘Psycho Monkey’ and took over the planet; since then you have done your best to lay it to waste. You pollute your bodies, your air, and your land, which incidentally doesn’t belong to you but to your future. Are you gonna say to your grandchildren: “Whoops, sorry kids; I forgot to take care of the planet that I’m leaving you?” You have got to have the intelligence of a tree stump to think that we want any part of this. Shit, we’d have to knock all Y’all off and start from scratch and basically, Buddy, that’s not our M. O.”
I asked her where she learned to talk like that. She once again turned on the charm and said: “tapes”.
She unfolded her tightly knit form from my Barco-lounger and said: “Well, hasta la vista, baby” and I begged her to stay, give us another chance; tell us anything that would help us.
She again gave me that certain smile and said “ believe seven impossible things before breakfast”.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Ouch, That Hurts
Or
Ground Control to Major Tom
“There are five nameless people that own the entire planet and move everyone around to suit themselves and their purposes”. This statement from a female life form (not unpleasant to look at) that had placed two imitation precious metal discs on a rim surface to indicate her challenge to a contest involving fifteen striped and solid colored spheres being hit with a non colored sphere by way of a long slender rod of wood. The intent of which is to propel those spheres, intentionally, into any of six cavities evenly spaced in a three foot by six feet flat green felt covered horizontal playing surface. I reminded myself that this was just another game of pool.
A hot August evening, a quiet, non-competitive game (against myself), my local pub (Molly’s on Toulouse) and sleeping late the next day had had me lulled into a sense of psychic rest and relaxation. Obviously, this was not meant to be.
In our native vernacular, I responded “So, where y’all from?” She replied that she was from a “planet so far away that I could string toilet paper from my front yard to Uranus (was there a pun intended?), multiply that length by a qua-zillion and not even come close to imagining the distance.” Or, “so fucking far away, it would make your head spin.”
Good answer, I thought, scratched the eight and invited her to rack ‘em.
“So what”, I said, “you’re here to take the planet away from us, free us from destruction, save us from ourselves…what?”
“Nah” she said, “we gave up on y’all, you’d be more of a pain in the ass than we’d care to deal with. I’m just the mop up team; we’re outa here. “Plus,” she added, “most of you’re ugly as hammered shit, and just about as dumb.”
I invited her home. She racked. I broke. Sank nothing. She ran the table, sank the eight in a three bank shot and said: ”sure”: and we were off.
I have a nice house, a clean house, a big house, and a safe house and here I am discussing my world with a brunette who appears to have the intelligence of a spanner wrench. Or not. In either case why would I invite a nut case or an alien into my home? Perhaps the moon was full. Perhaps the planets were mis-alligned. Maybe I thought that I’d get lucky. That’s probably the answer; and while I’ve been laid by a lot of loonies, getting in the sack with an alien would be a new one. Yep, that’s what it was.
Out on the street, I asked about that three-rail bank that she did on the eight ball. She looked at me sweetly and said: “It ain’t rocket surgery, Cap”. Then she touched me behind my ear and something she did shut down my horny honey hornet system. It was like a cold shower, but more effective. I decided that I’d best be polite, that system is usually on red alert twenty four seven, ask anyone that thinks that they know me.
Seated on my porch with the air as still as a tomb and the clouds playing hide and seek with another electrical storm, I asked her what she had found out about us as a race.
“First and foremost: your collective will to exert superiority over each other. Those who find themselves on the lower stratum react with hatred, jealousy and violence while those above keep an illusionary and precarious control by placing value systems and unreachable futile goals that they paint as the pot of gold at the end of the ass kicking.
Those in power wage wars based on greed and oppression using mortality, valor and the joke of an afterlife to brainwash the ignorant into fighting for them.
The very thing that you call ‘sport’ consists, in general, either in abnormal body exertion or the ability to hit, kick, throw, capture or club little balls and then run like hell!
You take finely shredded plants, wrap them in thin paper, put them in your mouth, set fire to them, and then inhale a smoke that you know will shorten your pointless lives.
You drink fermented beverages, aware of their destructive addictive-ness and call it ‘fun’; you injure each other physically, mentally, and emotionally in your homes, your streets and in neighboring countries. Are you catching this or should I go slower for your pitiful ineptness to grasp complex concepts?”
I opened my mouth to answer but she didn’t miss a beat
“You empty your ghettos to provide fodder for rich men’s wars, the last ‘Prince of Peace’ you had got nailed to a tree over two thousand years ago and no one has since been able to muster up enough people to say ‘STOP!’ Got it so far Dummy or do I have to draw a diagram?”
“Uh” I said but as you might suspect, she was on a roll.
“You climbed down from the trees ‘Psycho Monkey’ and took over the planet; since then you have done your best to lay it to waste. You pollute your bodies, your air, and your land, which incidentally doesn’t belong to you but to your future. Are you gonna say to your grandchildren: “Whoops, sorry kids; I forgot to take care of the planet that I’m leaving you?” You have got to have the intelligence of a tree stump to think that we want any part of this. Shit, we’d have to knock all Y’all off and start from scratch and basically, Buddy, that’s not our M. O.”
I asked her where she learned to talk like that. She once again turned on the charm and said: “tapes”.
She unfolded her tightly knit form from my Barco-lounger and said: “Well, hasta la vista, baby” and I begged her to stay, give us another chance; tell us anything that would help us.
She again gave me that certain smile and said “ believe seven impossible things before breakfast”.
Tenants Rights in New Orleans
Tenants Rights
By
Phil LaMancusa
True story, A neighbor of mine is lamenting a leaking roof, I call City Hall to inquiry about her rights as a tenant. The woman on the other end says, “I didn’t know they had any”.
Well she was wrong of course. Although tenants rights haven’t changed much in Louisiana since the early eighteen hundreds (that’s right!) you do have one overwhelmingly simple and basic right. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to suck it up. And if you’re reading the right to ‘shut up and pay your rent’ here, you’re reading right.
Here’s how it works. You find a place that you can afford and maybe it even suits your needs. The landlord hands you a years lease and you sign it, most of the time not bothering to read it. Face it, most people are on the verge of desperation when they finally get to that point. You spend a year making it as livable as you can and what happens? Your lease is up and there is no new lease, you now join the ranks of the month to month renters, which means you have only the above right.
In the first year, if you’ve registered (and only if you’ve registered) your lease at City Hall, you are pretty much guaranteed a place to live with repairs and maintenance supplied by the landlord at a specific price: your rent. After that all bets are off. This is the state that most of us are in. It only takes five to ten days to get you out after that. You’re now at the mercy of the landlord. The kindness of strangers, so to speak.
During World War Two, renters in the USA were given a right called rent control, which assured them of a definite place to live at a specific price for as long as they could afford to live there. Any rent increases were carefully monitored and minimized. After the war only ten states kept it. Louisiana did not keep it.
Do you want rent control? It’s not easy to get. In 1987 the folks in Milwaukee voted for and passed a referendum in favor of rent control. The state legislature annulled it.
Then again it is easy to get rent control. All a city has to do is have its mayor put it into effect. Simple, huh? Don’t hold your breath.
In response to the Civil Rights movement of the sixties, The Federal Government funded a legal service to craft a model renter-landlord code. It was drafted in 1972 and approved by the American Bar Association in 1974. Today most states use the Uniform Residential Landlord Tenant Act (URLTA) as a guideline when writing their own laws regarding landlords and tenants. Louisiana has not.
However, the URLTA does not cover security of tenure, control over rent increases, reduced rent for reduced services, freedom of speech in relationship with the landlord, condominium conversion protection for tenants, appointment of a receiver to manage the building if the landlord fails to or the payment of interest and separate handling of security deposits. All things that we already don’t have.
It does limit the landlord’s free access, hold a standard of a warranty of habitability, and protects against landlord’s retaliation.
Do you think that your landlord’s got you by the cajones? I’m sure as heck that he does.
Here’s what the New Orleans Legal Assistance office recommends: read your lease carefully to learn what the landlord is responsible for and what your responsibilities are. Look carefully around your new place and make sure everything works and is in good order. Have someone as a witness and take photos. Get everything in writing and get and keep all receipts.
The law does state that if you do not get your deposit back in thirty days from moving you have to be told why not, and if you’re not to get all of it back, why that also. However, it’s still you word against the landlord’s, and guess who gets the benefit if the doubt? Right.
You have the right to make necessary repairs that the landlord won’t (given sufficient notice) and take it off your rent and the landlord has the right to evict you with no reason. Simple.
Remember, it’s the landlords that write leases and your rights depend on what the lease says. In the past it has been the landlords who wrote the laws governing renters and property, and those laws are still in effect, by the landlord-for the landlord. It’s landlords that can afford to attend political fundraisers to keep those laws in place.
And without someone with a little more authority than me, choosing to change things the renter will always take it in the shorts. And no, Virginia, not all landlords are mean, evil, money grubbing monsters that take their families to Europe, on your dime, as your bathroom ceiling caves in, but there’s nothing stopping them from becoming exactly that.
plamancusa@aol.com
By
Phil LaMancusa
True story, A neighbor of mine is lamenting a leaking roof, I call City Hall to inquiry about her rights as a tenant. The woman on the other end says, “I didn’t know they had any”.
Well she was wrong of course. Although tenants rights haven’t changed much in Louisiana since the early eighteen hundreds (that’s right!) you do have one overwhelmingly simple and basic right. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to suck it up. And if you’re reading the right to ‘shut up and pay your rent’ here, you’re reading right.
Here’s how it works. You find a place that you can afford and maybe it even suits your needs. The landlord hands you a years lease and you sign it, most of the time not bothering to read it. Face it, most people are on the verge of desperation when they finally get to that point. You spend a year making it as livable as you can and what happens? Your lease is up and there is no new lease, you now join the ranks of the month to month renters, which means you have only the above right.
In the first year, if you’ve registered (and only if you’ve registered) your lease at City Hall, you are pretty much guaranteed a place to live with repairs and maintenance supplied by the landlord at a specific price: your rent. After that all bets are off. This is the state that most of us are in. It only takes five to ten days to get you out after that. You’re now at the mercy of the landlord. The kindness of strangers, so to speak.
During World War Two, renters in the USA were given a right called rent control, which assured them of a definite place to live at a specific price for as long as they could afford to live there. Any rent increases were carefully monitored and minimized. After the war only ten states kept it. Louisiana did not keep it.
Do you want rent control? It’s not easy to get. In 1987 the folks in Milwaukee voted for and passed a referendum in favor of rent control. The state legislature annulled it.
Then again it is easy to get rent control. All a city has to do is have its mayor put it into effect. Simple, huh? Don’t hold your breath.
In response to the Civil Rights movement of the sixties, The Federal Government funded a legal service to craft a model renter-landlord code. It was drafted in 1972 and approved by the American Bar Association in 1974. Today most states use the Uniform Residential Landlord Tenant Act (URLTA) as a guideline when writing their own laws regarding landlords and tenants. Louisiana has not.
However, the URLTA does not cover security of tenure, control over rent increases, reduced rent for reduced services, freedom of speech in relationship with the landlord, condominium conversion protection for tenants, appointment of a receiver to manage the building if the landlord fails to or the payment of interest and separate handling of security deposits. All things that we already don’t have.
It does limit the landlord’s free access, hold a standard of a warranty of habitability, and protects against landlord’s retaliation.
Do you think that your landlord’s got you by the cajones? I’m sure as heck that he does.
Here’s what the New Orleans Legal Assistance office recommends: read your lease carefully to learn what the landlord is responsible for and what your responsibilities are. Look carefully around your new place and make sure everything works and is in good order. Have someone as a witness and take photos. Get everything in writing and get and keep all receipts.
The law does state that if you do not get your deposit back in thirty days from moving you have to be told why not, and if you’re not to get all of it back, why that also. However, it’s still you word against the landlord’s, and guess who gets the benefit if the doubt? Right.
You have the right to make necessary repairs that the landlord won’t (given sufficient notice) and take it off your rent and the landlord has the right to evict you with no reason. Simple.
Remember, it’s the landlords that write leases and your rights depend on what the lease says. In the past it has been the landlords who wrote the laws governing renters and property, and those laws are still in effect, by the landlord-for the landlord. It’s landlords that can afford to attend political fundraisers to keep those laws in place.
And without someone with a little more authority than me, choosing to change things the renter will always take it in the shorts. And no, Virginia, not all landlords are mean, evil, money grubbing monsters that take their families to Europe, on your dime, as your bathroom ceiling caves in, but there’s nothing stopping them from becoming exactly that.
plamancusa@aol.com
The Passing of Big Red
Po boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
“Shut Up And Drink Your Beer”
Or
The Passing Of Big Red
Big Red is dead, and wherever she went, I’m sure she’s not happy about it. In fact, I believe that she’s pretty pissed off. She’s gonna miss Jazz Fest.
I got the call that she was circling the drain a couple of weeks earlier and had composed my excuses to miss the wake and burial when the email came about the demise (computers are great, aren’t they?). Reluctantly, I resigned myself to the fact that one did not miss Big Red’s funeral, especially if one were one of Big Red’s sons.
Of course, if you had known Red, you knew that extended periods of mourning were not to be expected or permitted in our family. The next tragedy, at least in our family, doesn’t get put on hold while you take time to get over the last one, if you get my drift. Big Red had seen four siblings, three husbands, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin go before her and never missed a beat raising the five children she bore and dominated. In fact, if anyone could be counted on to not cry in her beer over ill winds (for long), it was her.
So, this year, as usual, I’m going to Jazz Fest. But with different eyes, with different ears and with a new sense of smell. You see, when someone or something that you take as constant and indestructible, an undeniable presence if you will, is somehow permanently, and here I repeat, permanently removed from your life, you must face your own death. Spooky, huh?
Now, you know me, it takes a lot of whiskey for me to get maudlin. If Red’s passing has taught me anything, it’s taught me the importance of savoring the moments. Here’s what I mean.
I go into my stash to see how many Fest days I can afford (I believe in conspicuous consumption) and wrangle my way out work (trading shifts, bribing coworkers coverage, whining to the boss, whatever it takes) for those days. And then, having begun what has now become my spring religious experience, I go through the Jazz Festival rituals.
Standing in line for tickets at the Municipal Auditorium may not be everyone’s cup of gin, but I, on the other hand dig it. I see folks from last year and the year before, eavesdrop on conversations of ‘he said, she said’, watch women with long legs on shiny bikes glide up. The day is naturally clear, as blue a sky as we ever get here (with the natural ‘scattered shower’ prediction), robins egg blue to be precise. It’s a bit breezy, but we knew it would be. I’ve already asked about to see if anyone I know wants me to score for them, it’s cash only, and nothing feels better or more vulnerable than having a few hundred bucks in your pocket. The ticket sellers are distant and aloof, but who gives a rats whisker, this is when it becomes MY Jazz Festival, when I get MY tickets, in MY hand. It’s the beginning of it’s all about ME. If there is anything I hold dear of in my life, it’s my Fest tickets. I watch over them like a mother hen from the time I ritually purchase them to when I hand them over at the gate for the ritual tearing.
Next, the ritual of the packing for the day. Nothing too large, bottled water is allowed and any other food or beverages will have to be consumed before entering the gates or snuck in. You know about ‘The Search’, don’t you? Should I eat before going? Big question. Should I wear baggy pants with shorts underneath? Sweatshirt or light sweater? Sunblock. Hat. Dark glasses. Sittin’ towel. The right footwear. Don’t get overburdened but by all means cover the butt. There’s only one in and one out per day.
The morning of, I’m like a kid going off to camp. Where’s my hat? In what pocket are my tickets, my money, my bus fare, my friggin Chap Stick?
I’m also, if you’ve been reading past Fest issues, a Jazz Fest maverick in the true sense of the word. I don’t herd, I don’t camp and if I see anyone I know with one of those long poles that have flags or fishes or cows horns on top of them……….(what is it with that anyway?)…….I head in the other direction. I kinda don’t get the wearing of matching clothes, ‘I’ll meet you at the water fountain at such a time’, ‘ we have our spot picked out’ attitude. I guess I’m missing some kind of bonding thing, but not much. The way that I get Fested is by roaming the grounds, wind in my receded hairline, sun in my face, gumbo on my shirt, mud on my tennies.
I’ve already had coffee for an hour before the bus ride; I know what stop to get on and where to get off. I’ve gone to the bathroom. I’m a veteran of thirty years. This year Big Red’s gonna miss it.
Like I said, I come prepared. I come prepared for an exhausting day of avoiding crowds, sunstroke, food lines and pit stop delays. I come prepared to see my music idols and icons, some of whom now resemble Jabba the Hut. I come prepared to be restless and to roam free, as free as the grass grows.
I’m mentally composing this riding in my brother’s car as we follow the hearse. Big Red was buried with a six pack at her feet (in the coffin), Lotto tickets, TV guide, rosary and a ziplock of sand from her favorite beach. The procession passes her favorite bars, Bingo parlors, past domiciles, and then a slow pass in front of the Track.
Big Red was also buried wearing bright red lipstick. She claimed that you never know when you might meet a millionaire at the mailbox, I’ll always remember her words of encouragement after reading (against her will) one of my (as I considered it to be) more witty columns: “The only thing funny about you is your face”. Say goodnight Gracie.
By
Phil LaMancusa
“Shut Up And Drink Your Beer”
Or
The Passing Of Big Red
Big Red is dead, and wherever she went, I’m sure she’s not happy about it. In fact, I believe that she’s pretty pissed off. She’s gonna miss Jazz Fest.
I got the call that she was circling the drain a couple of weeks earlier and had composed my excuses to miss the wake and burial when the email came about the demise (computers are great, aren’t they?). Reluctantly, I resigned myself to the fact that one did not miss Big Red’s funeral, especially if one were one of Big Red’s sons.
Of course, if you had known Red, you knew that extended periods of mourning were not to be expected or permitted in our family. The next tragedy, at least in our family, doesn’t get put on hold while you take time to get over the last one, if you get my drift. Big Red had seen four siblings, three husbands, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin go before her and never missed a beat raising the five children she bore and dominated. In fact, if anyone could be counted on to not cry in her beer over ill winds (for long), it was her.
So, this year, as usual, I’m going to Jazz Fest. But with different eyes, with different ears and with a new sense of smell. You see, when someone or something that you take as constant and indestructible, an undeniable presence if you will, is somehow permanently, and here I repeat, permanently removed from your life, you must face your own death. Spooky, huh?
Now, you know me, it takes a lot of whiskey for me to get maudlin. If Red’s passing has taught me anything, it’s taught me the importance of savoring the moments. Here’s what I mean.
I go into my stash to see how many Fest days I can afford (I believe in conspicuous consumption) and wrangle my way out work (trading shifts, bribing coworkers coverage, whining to the boss, whatever it takes) for those days. And then, having begun what has now become my spring religious experience, I go through the Jazz Festival rituals.
Standing in line for tickets at the Municipal Auditorium may not be everyone’s cup of gin, but I, on the other hand dig it. I see folks from last year and the year before, eavesdrop on conversations of ‘he said, she said’, watch women with long legs on shiny bikes glide up. The day is naturally clear, as blue a sky as we ever get here (with the natural ‘scattered shower’ prediction), robins egg blue to be precise. It’s a bit breezy, but we knew it would be. I’ve already asked about to see if anyone I know wants me to score for them, it’s cash only, and nothing feels better or more vulnerable than having a few hundred bucks in your pocket. The ticket sellers are distant and aloof, but who gives a rats whisker, this is when it becomes MY Jazz Festival, when I get MY tickets, in MY hand. It’s the beginning of it’s all about ME. If there is anything I hold dear of in my life, it’s my Fest tickets. I watch over them like a mother hen from the time I ritually purchase them to when I hand them over at the gate for the ritual tearing.
Next, the ritual of the packing for the day. Nothing too large, bottled water is allowed and any other food or beverages will have to be consumed before entering the gates or snuck in. You know about ‘The Search’, don’t you? Should I eat before going? Big question. Should I wear baggy pants with shorts underneath? Sweatshirt or light sweater? Sunblock. Hat. Dark glasses. Sittin’ towel. The right footwear. Don’t get overburdened but by all means cover the butt. There’s only one in and one out per day.
The morning of, I’m like a kid going off to camp. Where’s my hat? In what pocket are my tickets, my money, my bus fare, my friggin Chap Stick?
I’m also, if you’ve been reading past Fest issues, a Jazz Fest maverick in the true sense of the word. I don’t herd, I don’t camp and if I see anyone I know with one of those long poles that have flags or fishes or cows horns on top of them……….(what is it with that anyway?)…….I head in the other direction. I kinda don’t get the wearing of matching clothes, ‘I’ll meet you at the water fountain at such a time’, ‘ we have our spot picked out’ attitude. I guess I’m missing some kind of bonding thing, but not much. The way that I get Fested is by roaming the grounds, wind in my receded hairline, sun in my face, gumbo on my shirt, mud on my tennies.
I’ve already had coffee for an hour before the bus ride; I know what stop to get on and where to get off. I’ve gone to the bathroom. I’m a veteran of thirty years. This year Big Red’s gonna miss it.
Like I said, I come prepared. I come prepared for an exhausting day of avoiding crowds, sunstroke, food lines and pit stop delays. I come prepared to see my music idols and icons, some of whom now resemble Jabba the Hut. I come prepared to be restless and to roam free, as free as the grass grows.
I’m mentally composing this riding in my brother’s car as we follow the hearse. Big Red was buried with a six pack at her feet (in the coffin), Lotto tickets, TV guide, rosary and a ziplock of sand from her favorite beach. The procession passes her favorite bars, Bingo parlors, past domiciles, and then a slow pass in front of the Track.
Big Red was also buried wearing bright red lipstick. She claimed that you never know when you might meet a millionaire at the mailbox, I’ll always remember her words of encouragement after reading (against her will) one of my (as I considered it to be) more witty columns: “The only thing funny about you is your face”. Say goodnight Gracie.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Not a begonia in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Not a begonia
Or
The column that ‘twern’t
I had decided that it was high time that someone did an article about the abundance of bellies in New Orleans. From the petite and pretty pooches of the barely post pubescent to Ponderosa paunches approaching personal postal zones, like the cone heads in Harry Nilsson’s ‘The Point’, “everybody’s got one” here. Including me. Then I thought: how does a future friendless sound after I’ve made light of that subject?
Then I thought that a complete page devoted to George Carlin would be the ticket; you know, the guy that thought that six six seven was the neighbor of the beast and reportedly was disappointed that when he put a dollar in the change machine… nothing changed. Too deadpan?
What about a trip up Saint Louis Street, from the cradle of the Mississippi to the grave of Saint Louis cemetery? We could go up past Johnny’s Po boys to the Napoleon House, the old Royal Orleans Hotel, Antoine’s, Herman Grima and crack alley etc. Maybe a little too real.
Then I remembered a trip to Walgreens where a young black kid swiped a bag of potato chips, compounded by a trip to Whole Foods where thirty something white guys snitched chocolates from the bulk section while their girlfriends looked on smiling. Kids these days.
What about the carpenter/musician that had three fingers cut off in a construction accident? Bad visual.
Well, what shall I write about? My twelve favorite places to kiss in New Orleans? I can only think of three… the mouth, the ear… make that four.
The weather here could inspire tomes. We don’t have room for that subject, stick around fifteen minutes, it’ll change.
How about my upcoming trip to Paris as I teach myself to speak Italian? How weird is that? “dove posso trovare” and fill in the blanks? Present, past present, future subjunctive imperative? Want to watch some paint dry? What the Dickens is a ‘past present’? Lingerie?
Murder, mayhem, crime, corruption and the jerking off of the hopes and wishes of New Orleans optimists? Old news and we’re down to losing only a quarter of our population as rents rise and locals in need of pharmaceuticals go haywire watching dreams dashed.
Good news! You can recycle cans and paper at the Green Project, give them some kind of donation (cash) to help on the cost, they’re still fighting the good fight. AND, I’m a grandpa! A baby girl, eight pounds eleven ounces, twenty-one inches long. I told my daughter that she did not have a baby…she gave birth to an anaconda! Woof!
Alright, I’ll tell you a story. I was a kid that ran away from home a lot, so it stands to reason that as an adult not much changed. You know, they say that in any situation there’s love, then work and then love comes back, Well, I’m not the person that ever stuck around for the work part. When things get tough… this tough guy gets going.
Anyway, to make a long story longer, one time I decided to get a mule and wagon and start traveling (at five miles an hour) for the rest of my life. No kidding, I’ve got pictures to prove it. It’s really not such a long story. We had a wheel break in Homer, La. back then it was the home of the KKK. They didn’t like the idea of some longhaired guy, even if he was with woman and child, passing through their turf and in a very short space of time, the mule was poisoned and the wagon was burned. That’s not such a good story. Let’s try again.
A limerick? An excuse, an alibi, an amusing anecdote? Sorry, nothing comes to mind. Does the word ‘embarrassed’ really come from being bare assed? Do catfish have kitten fish? How much sawdust does a chicken have to eat to lay a two by four twelve inches long? Can you picture those motorcycle dudes on tractors instead? Talk about penis envy.
Still here? When was the last time you saw a quarter with red fingernail polish on it? How old am I?
I’m old enough to remember penny candy, rotary phones and correspondence in long hand. I remember Grand Funk Railroad on vinyl. I remember when Keith Richards didn’t look like Frankenstein and Etta James didn’t resemble Jabba the hutt. Hell, I’ve forgotten how much I remember!!!
Okay. Now it’s your turn, what do you want to talk about? The war? Crime, poverty, education, where to have dinner or how to stop drinking? Politics? A statue of a baby with a clock in it’s stomach? Bob Dylan’s unlisted phone number?
Enough about you, let’s talk about me. Me? I have Opus envy. I want to be that pintsize penguin. Oh, I know, I could have Martha Stewart envy or Kermit Ruffins, Doctor John, Bill Gates or even Jenna Bush envy. Noooooo, I wanna be Opus and hang out with Bill D. Kat and that whole gang. Do you think it strange to want to be a cartoon character? C’mon; Wonder woman, Garfield Batman, Snoopy, Sylvester, Mickey…they all have charm. Get Fuzzy, Pearls Before Swine and Doonsesbury are all cool; but Opus…he’s da bomb! Who do you want to be? Brad Pitt or Jennifer Anniston?
Chatter, chatter, cosmic debris. I read about California wildfires, Democratic leaders, car bombings and civil unions gaining ground. I must be on overload; now it’s American Indians selling drugs, anti Cuban exiles getting released on bail, an ex judge is guilty of bribery and a woman in New York that had her gall bladder removed through her vagina!
I sometimes think that the world cannot get any more strange and then it does. I kinda wish that the government would re-institute the draft just to see what would happen.
Rounding third and heading for home. By this time next month, I’d had gone in for a procedure involving my colon that they tell me is common for guys my age. Tune in and I’ll tell you how much a pain in the ass doctors can be. Good night Irene, I’ll see you in my dreams.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Not a begonia
Or
The column that ‘twern’t
I had decided that it was high time that someone did an article about the abundance of bellies in New Orleans. From the petite and pretty pooches of the barely post pubescent to Ponderosa paunches approaching personal postal zones, like the cone heads in Harry Nilsson’s ‘The Point’, “everybody’s got one” here. Including me. Then I thought: how does a future friendless sound after I’ve made light of that subject?
Then I thought that a complete page devoted to George Carlin would be the ticket; you know, the guy that thought that six six seven was the neighbor of the beast and reportedly was disappointed that when he put a dollar in the change machine… nothing changed. Too deadpan?
What about a trip up Saint Louis Street, from the cradle of the Mississippi to the grave of Saint Louis cemetery? We could go up past Johnny’s Po boys to the Napoleon House, the old Royal Orleans Hotel, Antoine’s, Herman Grima and crack alley etc. Maybe a little too real.
Then I remembered a trip to Walgreens where a young black kid swiped a bag of potato chips, compounded by a trip to Whole Foods where thirty something white guys snitched chocolates from the bulk section while their girlfriends looked on smiling. Kids these days.
What about the carpenter/musician that had three fingers cut off in a construction accident? Bad visual.
Well, what shall I write about? My twelve favorite places to kiss in New Orleans? I can only think of three… the mouth, the ear… make that four.
The weather here could inspire tomes. We don’t have room for that subject, stick around fifteen minutes, it’ll change.
How about my upcoming trip to Paris as I teach myself to speak Italian? How weird is that? “dove posso trovare” and fill in the blanks? Present, past present, future subjunctive imperative? Want to watch some paint dry? What the Dickens is a ‘past present’? Lingerie?
Murder, mayhem, crime, corruption and the jerking off of the hopes and wishes of New Orleans optimists? Old news and we’re down to losing only a quarter of our population as rents rise and locals in need of pharmaceuticals go haywire watching dreams dashed.
Good news! You can recycle cans and paper at the Green Project, give them some kind of donation (cash) to help on the cost, they’re still fighting the good fight. AND, I’m a grandpa! A baby girl, eight pounds eleven ounces, twenty-one inches long. I told my daughter that she did not have a baby…she gave birth to an anaconda! Woof!
Alright, I’ll tell you a story. I was a kid that ran away from home a lot, so it stands to reason that as an adult not much changed. You know, they say that in any situation there’s love, then work and then love comes back, Well, I’m not the person that ever stuck around for the work part. When things get tough… this tough guy gets going.
Anyway, to make a long story longer, one time I decided to get a mule and wagon and start traveling (at five miles an hour) for the rest of my life. No kidding, I’ve got pictures to prove it. It’s really not such a long story. We had a wheel break in Homer, La. back then it was the home of the KKK. They didn’t like the idea of some longhaired guy, even if he was with woman and child, passing through their turf and in a very short space of time, the mule was poisoned and the wagon was burned. That’s not such a good story. Let’s try again.
A limerick? An excuse, an alibi, an amusing anecdote? Sorry, nothing comes to mind. Does the word ‘embarrassed’ really come from being bare assed? Do catfish have kitten fish? How much sawdust does a chicken have to eat to lay a two by four twelve inches long? Can you picture those motorcycle dudes on tractors instead? Talk about penis envy.
Still here? When was the last time you saw a quarter with red fingernail polish on it? How old am I?
I’m old enough to remember penny candy, rotary phones and correspondence in long hand. I remember Grand Funk Railroad on vinyl. I remember when Keith Richards didn’t look like Frankenstein and Etta James didn’t resemble Jabba the hutt. Hell, I’ve forgotten how much I remember!!!
Okay. Now it’s your turn, what do you want to talk about? The war? Crime, poverty, education, where to have dinner or how to stop drinking? Politics? A statue of a baby with a clock in it’s stomach? Bob Dylan’s unlisted phone number?
Enough about you, let’s talk about me. Me? I have Opus envy. I want to be that pintsize penguin. Oh, I know, I could have Martha Stewart envy or Kermit Ruffins, Doctor John, Bill Gates or even Jenna Bush envy. Noooooo, I wanna be Opus and hang out with Bill D. Kat and that whole gang. Do you think it strange to want to be a cartoon character? C’mon; Wonder woman, Garfield Batman, Snoopy, Sylvester, Mickey…they all have charm. Get Fuzzy, Pearls Before Swine and Doonsesbury are all cool; but Opus…he’s da bomb! Who do you want to be? Brad Pitt or Jennifer Anniston?
Chatter, chatter, cosmic debris. I read about California wildfires, Democratic leaders, car bombings and civil unions gaining ground. I must be on overload; now it’s American Indians selling drugs, anti Cuban exiles getting released on bail, an ex judge is guilty of bribery and a woman in New York that had her gall bladder removed through her vagina!
I sometimes think that the world cannot get any more strange and then it does. I kinda wish that the government would re-institute the draft just to see what would happen.
Rounding third and heading for home. By this time next month, I’d had gone in for a procedure involving my colon that they tell me is common for guys my age. Tune in and I’ll tell you how much a pain in the ass doctors can be. Good night Irene, I’ll see you in my dreams.
'K' First Year in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Long Black Line
Or
A Very Merry Un- Birthday
In essence this article is a time capsule. What happens is this: at the time of this writing, it is July 27th, the August issue of Where Y’at comes out next Tuesday (Aug. 1), and I’m writing about the events of last year’s tragedy and travesties. Some time in the future, I’m going to reread what I’m writing now and wonder what the hell I was thinking. Welcome to my world. There’s one issue out, this rant is due to hit the stands and I’m on a deadline for another a month from now. Do I ever sound confused to you? You should see it from the inside.
So, I’m sending you a one-year anniversary card, in advance, hoping it will get to you, on the occasion of that that will not be named. This is not a Happy Birthday card. At this point, I am hard pressed to find a happy person that lived through IT and lives here now. I’m not sure how the displaced feel.
Today’s headline, page one, reports: “Mayor finally breaks post-election silence”. (Your mayor was re-elected in May). In the third paragraph of the article it says: “…with the most devastated areas showing few sign of life and even the most resilient neighborhoods still dogged by crime, debris and shuttered stores, Nagin said that the city is becoming safer, cleaner and economically healthier by the day”. You be the judge.
As of today, as I see it, our previous post K woes and concerns have not been assuaged . As of today the police are still supplemented by the Guard and State Police. Guns and drugs remain in the news.
On the economic front: In the French Quarter, walking from coffee to work (five blocks) I pass no fewer than sixteen businesses abandoned, shuttered, empty and failed. I’ve seen new businesses open and fail and leave. Many shops cannot open seven days a week, as previously the norm, because of the lack of customers and staff.
Staffing is a challenge. Why? Two reasons: two thirds of the city is still decimated and rents go unregulated. This month I was given the option of moving or paying double my rent, this was a less than three-week notice. I am not an isolated occurrence.
Does the administration have the authority to institute rent control and tenant’s rights measures. You bet your sweet ass it does. Did it? Ask the people that have been evicted for the landlord’s shot at more lucrative prospects.
We’re asking people to come back to $10.00 an hour jobs and telling them that the only housing available is beyond their financial reach.
How’s our school system coming along? Last week it announced that the rigorous teacher qualification process took too much time so they’re going for short cuts. Has anyone thought of suing the school system for failing to do it’s job for the last thirty years? Probably not smart enough.
We stayed for six days after the storm because we had parked at the Krauss lot (fifth level) that took too much water to drive through and because we weren’t going without our critters. Our generation has a deep-seated distrust of organized government so, we did not want to be rescued and sent to some refuge “of last resort”. Does anyone remember the phrase (in another language) from another refuge of last resort: “Work Will Set You Free”?
We live in the Quarter. Half of a big tree came down on our own refuge. We lost gutters, siding, chimneys and roof tiles. We were the lucky ones. We went through six days of flooding, fires, looting, death and warm beer. We went to sleep by gunshot sounds; explosions awakened us. We sewed money into our clothes. We commandeered a car. We were scared shitless.
Through the processes of car returns and rental car juggling, a week after our evacuation we were rolling into San Francisco. There before us was the skyline of the true Oz. We had talked on the way of relocation to this great city.
We’re driving in, the radio is playing a benefit for New Orleans musicians.
They play “Do You Know What IT Means To Miss New Orleans?” And we lose it.
Don’t get me wrong, we had a great time out west. We were treated like royalty. We drove to Monterey to do Laundry, we visited Santa Cruz to shop for groceries, and we had lunch in Mill Valley just up the road from Sausalito on the bay. We had lovely two-bedroom kitchenette motel digs on the Pacific Ocean. We watched the updates from New Orleans like news junkies and believe me, a transistor radio in the dark on Dauphine St. paled by comparison to our West Coast telly. I had cold beer.
We came back as soon as we heard that the city was reopened. We came back to streets of refrigerators, coffin flies, decomposed matter and water that smelled like bleach.
We got jobs; we opened a small, but perfect, cookbook shop. We have the Katrina cough or whatever you want to call it. We find it hard to keep up our spirits. At times I feel as though I’m being punished for coming back to the city that I love.
Debbie said that not coming back would have been like “leaving your dying mother”. I claimed that not coming back was more like deserting your home team just because they had gotten their butts kicked. We’re not as upbeat now.
I think that the one-year mark will signal the return to something better than what we were OR the anniversary of our discontent.
I don’t know. You’re the one that’s going to be reading this (hopefully) on the milestone occasion. From where I sit today, it don’t look too promising. Please, please tell me that I was wrong.
Oh, P.S. Another headline today “Corps: We can’t be held liable.” Figure that one out. See you in September.
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Long Black Line
Or
A Very Merry Un- Birthday
In essence this article is a time capsule. What happens is this: at the time of this writing, it is July 27th, the August issue of Where Y’at comes out next Tuesday (Aug. 1), and I’m writing about the events of last year’s tragedy and travesties. Some time in the future, I’m going to reread what I’m writing now and wonder what the hell I was thinking. Welcome to my world. There’s one issue out, this rant is due to hit the stands and I’m on a deadline for another a month from now. Do I ever sound confused to you? You should see it from the inside.
So, I’m sending you a one-year anniversary card, in advance, hoping it will get to you, on the occasion of that that will not be named. This is not a Happy Birthday card. At this point, I am hard pressed to find a happy person that lived through IT and lives here now. I’m not sure how the displaced feel.
Today’s headline, page one, reports: “Mayor finally breaks post-election silence”. (Your mayor was re-elected in May). In the third paragraph of the article it says: “…with the most devastated areas showing few sign of life and even the most resilient neighborhoods still dogged by crime, debris and shuttered stores, Nagin said that the city is becoming safer, cleaner and economically healthier by the day”. You be the judge.
As of today, as I see it, our previous post K woes and concerns have not been assuaged . As of today the police are still supplemented by the Guard and State Police. Guns and drugs remain in the news.
On the economic front: In the French Quarter, walking from coffee to work (five blocks) I pass no fewer than sixteen businesses abandoned, shuttered, empty and failed. I’ve seen new businesses open and fail and leave. Many shops cannot open seven days a week, as previously the norm, because of the lack of customers and staff.
Staffing is a challenge. Why? Two reasons: two thirds of the city is still decimated and rents go unregulated. This month I was given the option of moving or paying double my rent, this was a less than three-week notice. I am not an isolated occurrence.
Does the administration have the authority to institute rent control and tenant’s rights measures. You bet your sweet ass it does. Did it? Ask the people that have been evicted for the landlord’s shot at more lucrative prospects.
We’re asking people to come back to $10.00 an hour jobs and telling them that the only housing available is beyond their financial reach.
How’s our school system coming along? Last week it announced that the rigorous teacher qualification process took too much time so they’re going for short cuts. Has anyone thought of suing the school system for failing to do it’s job for the last thirty years? Probably not smart enough.
We stayed for six days after the storm because we had parked at the Krauss lot (fifth level) that took too much water to drive through and because we weren’t going without our critters. Our generation has a deep-seated distrust of organized government so, we did not want to be rescued and sent to some refuge “of last resort”. Does anyone remember the phrase (in another language) from another refuge of last resort: “Work Will Set You Free”?
We live in the Quarter. Half of a big tree came down on our own refuge. We lost gutters, siding, chimneys and roof tiles. We were the lucky ones. We went through six days of flooding, fires, looting, death and warm beer. We went to sleep by gunshot sounds; explosions awakened us. We sewed money into our clothes. We commandeered a car. We were scared shitless.
Through the processes of car returns and rental car juggling, a week after our evacuation we were rolling into San Francisco. There before us was the skyline of the true Oz. We had talked on the way of relocation to this great city.
We’re driving in, the radio is playing a benefit for New Orleans musicians.
They play “Do You Know What IT Means To Miss New Orleans?” And we lose it.
Don’t get me wrong, we had a great time out west. We were treated like royalty. We drove to Monterey to do Laundry, we visited Santa Cruz to shop for groceries, and we had lunch in Mill Valley just up the road from Sausalito on the bay. We had lovely two-bedroom kitchenette motel digs on the Pacific Ocean. We watched the updates from New Orleans like news junkies and believe me, a transistor radio in the dark on Dauphine St. paled by comparison to our West Coast telly. I had cold beer.
We came back as soon as we heard that the city was reopened. We came back to streets of refrigerators, coffin flies, decomposed matter and water that smelled like bleach.
We got jobs; we opened a small, but perfect, cookbook shop. We have the Katrina cough or whatever you want to call it. We find it hard to keep up our spirits. At times I feel as though I’m being punished for coming back to the city that I love.
Debbie said that not coming back would have been like “leaving your dying mother”. I claimed that not coming back was more like deserting your home team just because they had gotten their butts kicked. We’re not as upbeat now.
I think that the one-year mark will signal the return to something better than what we were OR the anniversary of our discontent.
I don’t know. You’re the one that’s going to be reading this (hopefully) on the milestone occasion. From where I sit today, it don’t look too promising. Please, please tell me that I was wrong.
Oh, P.S. Another headline today “Corps: We can’t be held liable.” Figure that one out. See you in September.
Birth Defect in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
I Can’t Get No
Or
The Lazarus Factor
There’s a notice that is placed in many establishments that I frequent. Essentially what it says to me is that, with the amount of alcohol that flows in my bloodstream and that has run rampant in my family for generations, I am a birth defect.
I, like many Americans my age, come from a heritage where drinking was an expected daily activity that pregnancy did not interrupt…or even slow down. As we all know, the ritual of imbibing and carousing, as an intramural sport, leads to altered states of mind. In my case, those altered states span generations. Perhaps that is what makes and keeps my thinking processes askew of what is considered ‘normal’ by persons (un-named) who claim normalcy as a personal character trait. Maybe I need a support group. ‘Hello, my name is Phil and I am a birth defect’….. “Hello Phil!”
So, my trains of thought, on no particular schedule or premeditated route, run amok occasionally, if not more often. I’m often caught boarding the segue bus, as well.
. What would you say if you found out that I was paying good money to see a doctor with symptoms of chills, fever, loss of appetite, lethargy, disorientation, sinus flows that rival Niagara and stuff coming up from lungs that is the consistency of crème brulee. Compounded by fits of coughing that lead to gagging and gasping for breath? You probably would say that I needed to find a healthier doctor, or, being I was the patient, that this would be a case of money well spent, eh?
What if the doctor said, “It sounds as if you have an irritation”? Would it be askew to think ‘Yes, in fact I DO have an irritation, in fact, I’m getting more irritated by the minute and I think that you have just made me even MORE irritated, Far be it from me to need a better diagnosis than"irritation".
I just talked to one friend that told me that he was in a bar, really recently, and the bar was held up by goons with shotguns. Another man that I had worked with showed up with a beating that he took on his doorstep for his money, identification, cell phone and keys. His face resembled raw meat.
A man that I know told me of his car being totaled by a hit and runner. He told me that as the police arrived, the scores of witnesses to the event all got up and went inside their houses.
Talk about irritations!
My landlady called me up to tell me that my rent was being doubled at the end of the month, and I’m looking for something upbeat to write about. That would be nice except right now I'm packing up and looking for another place to live and trying to keep my cool. I’m trying not to be irritated anymore.
I want visions of sugarplums to dance in my head, and raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens; not towels packed in boxes and sofas in storage.
Okay, I’ll tell you a funny story.
Since I’ve moved back, as if THAT is not funny enough, I’ve been more fascinated by the obituary section of the newspaper. For anyone who relates to this: do you notice that, post K, our obits suck? Where are the explanations of their Big Ds? Where are the nicknames? Where are the “undetermined causes”? I don’t want to know about the ‘passing on into the arms of sweet baby Jesus quietly in the night’. I want mayhem, murder, cancers, carbuncles, train wrecks and mysterious chasms that open and swallow. I want to feel lucky.
I tell people that I’m looking for my name there, and that it would be just like my friends to let me die and not tell me, just for the sicko fun of seeing me show up for work when I could’ve taken the day off. What I’m really looking for is some clue to the purpose of dying. I think that if I search these people’s faces and read their eulogies that I might glean an insight into Big Chill Rationale.
I’ve always considered myself immortal. I’ve always considered death not only an inconvenience, but an insult as well. Doesn’t anyone know how much I have to live for? Or, how much that I have yet to do, to see, to read? Is there a certain age where passion ebbs and the spirit calls it quits? Will my body give out before I do? What happened to those faces on the obituary pages?
I read one once when the cause of death was listed as ‘complications due to Alzheimer’s. Here I thought stuff got simpler with Alzheimer’s -- I guess not.
It took me a long time to wrap my head around “renal failure”. I couldn’t figure my renal from a hole in the ground, let alone how it could fail. I still don’t want to wrap my head around it.
I can see it now: "Phil LaMancusa, died from complications of an irritation"
FYI, I go so far as to collect, clip and post some death notices: a musician here, a chef there. Childhood sweethearts (in their eighties) passing after the hurricane evacuation, an obscure character actor that I remember from my childhood. As I sadly pack to leave my beloved digs I take them down and pack them carefully: doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief.
I just realized that this is not a funny story. Bear with me, maybe I’ll be able to pull it off in the next two hundred words.
So here I am dismantling my life and home. I left posted on the wall two of my small signs; one says “Don’t Look Back”, the other says, “You Are NOT Dreaming”. They have new significance now. I think that I will leave the one that l have over the inside of the front door that says “Entrance To The Asylum”; I put it there to remind myself how nuts the world is and how safe I was once I got home.
I tried to crack a funny with my dog the other day. The vet has given her two more years to live. I opined: “hell Girl, that’s fourteen of your years!” She was not impressed. I said: “what do you expect from a ‘Post K’ birth defect?” She asked me if ‘Post K’ was a breakfast cereal.
plamancusa@aol.com
By
Phil LaMancusa
I Can’t Get No
Or
The Lazarus Factor
There’s a notice that is placed in many establishments that I frequent. Essentially what it says to me is that, with the amount of alcohol that flows in my bloodstream and that has run rampant in my family for generations, I am a birth defect.
I, like many Americans my age, come from a heritage where drinking was an expected daily activity that pregnancy did not interrupt…or even slow down. As we all know, the ritual of imbibing and carousing, as an intramural sport, leads to altered states of mind. In my case, those altered states span generations. Perhaps that is what makes and keeps my thinking processes askew of what is considered ‘normal’ by persons (un-named) who claim normalcy as a personal character trait. Maybe I need a support group. ‘Hello, my name is Phil and I am a birth defect’….. “Hello Phil!”
So, my trains of thought, on no particular schedule or premeditated route, run amok occasionally, if not more often. I’m often caught boarding the segue bus, as well.
. What would you say if you found out that I was paying good money to see a doctor with symptoms of chills, fever, loss of appetite, lethargy, disorientation, sinus flows that rival Niagara and stuff coming up from lungs that is the consistency of crème brulee. Compounded by fits of coughing that lead to gagging and gasping for breath? You probably would say that I needed to find a healthier doctor, or, being I was the patient, that this would be a case of money well spent, eh?
What if the doctor said, “It sounds as if you have an irritation”? Would it be askew to think ‘Yes, in fact I DO have an irritation, in fact, I’m getting more irritated by the minute and I think that you have just made me even MORE irritated, Far be it from me to need a better diagnosis than"irritation".
I just talked to one friend that told me that he was in a bar, really recently, and the bar was held up by goons with shotguns. Another man that I had worked with showed up with a beating that he took on his doorstep for his money, identification, cell phone and keys. His face resembled raw meat.
A man that I know told me of his car being totaled by a hit and runner. He told me that as the police arrived, the scores of witnesses to the event all got up and went inside their houses.
Talk about irritations!
My landlady called me up to tell me that my rent was being doubled at the end of the month, and I’m looking for something upbeat to write about. That would be nice except right now I'm packing up and looking for another place to live and trying to keep my cool. I’m trying not to be irritated anymore.
I want visions of sugarplums to dance in my head, and raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens; not towels packed in boxes and sofas in storage.
Okay, I’ll tell you a funny story.
Since I’ve moved back, as if THAT is not funny enough, I’ve been more fascinated by the obituary section of the newspaper. For anyone who relates to this: do you notice that, post K, our obits suck? Where are the explanations of their Big Ds? Where are the nicknames? Where are the “undetermined causes”? I don’t want to know about the ‘passing on into the arms of sweet baby Jesus quietly in the night’. I want mayhem, murder, cancers, carbuncles, train wrecks and mysterious chasms that open and swallow. I want to feel lucky.
I tell people that I’m looking for my name there, and that it would be just like my friends to let me die and not tell me, just for the sicko fun of seeing me show up for work when I could’ve taken the day off. What I’m really looking for is some clue to the purpose of dying. I think that if I search these people’s faces and read their eulogies that I might glean an insight into Big Chill Rationale.
I’ve always considered myself immortal. I’ve always considered death not only an inconvenience, but an insult as well. Doesn’t anyone know how much I have to live for? Or, how much that I have yet to do, to see, to read? Is there a certain age where passion ebbs and the spirit calls it quits? Will my body give out before I do? What happened to those faces on the obituary pages?
I read one once when the cause of death was listed as ‘complications due to Alzheimer’s. Here I thought stuff got simpler with Alzheimer’s -- I guess not.
It took me a long time to wrap my head around “renal failure”. I couldn’t figure my renal from a hole in the ground, let alone how it could fail. I still don’t want to wrap my head around it.
I can see it now: "Phil LaMancusa, died from complications of an irritation"
FYI, I go so far as to collect, clip and post some death notices: a musician here, a chef there. Childhood sweethearts (in their eighties) passing after the hurricane evacuation, an obscure character actor that I remember from my childhood. As I sadly pack to leave my beloved digs I take them down and pack them carefully: doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief.
I just realized that this is not a funny story. Bear with me, maybe I’ll be able to pull it off in the next two hundred words.
So here I am dismantling my life and home. I left posted on the wall two of my small signs; one says “Don’t Look Back”, the other says, “You Are NOT Dreaming”. They have new significance now. I think that I will leave the one that l have over the inside of the front door that says “Entrance To The Asylum”; I put it there to remind myself how nuts the world is and how safe I was once I got home.
I tried to crack a funny with my dog the other day. The vet has given her two more years to live. I opined: “hell Girl, that’s fourteen of your years!” She was not impressed. I said: “what do you expect from a ‘Post K’ birth defect?” She asked me if ‘Post K’ was a breakfast cereal.
plamancusa@aol.com
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