Guide to The 23rd Annual Tennessee Williams/ New Orleans Literary Festival
March 25-29, 2009
By
Debbie Lindsey and Phil LaMancusa
By now, every adult resident of New Orleans that draws an occasional sober breath knows about the annual Tennessee Williams/ New Orleans Literary Festival (TW/NOLF), or by Gad, should. Unfortunately, most folks forget about it until the last minute or more likely after it has come and gone. Sound like you? This need not be the case and our editors agree; so, heads up, you’re reading this, you’ve got time. Up, up, up!
First, there are those that know that this is a cool thing to do but it’s a matter of… “yeah, I hear that’s pretty cool… what is it again?” For them, let’s start with explanations preceded by theorems and maybe a few axioms thrown in. Whatever… let’s start as if you’re as dumb as I look.
Okay, who doesn’t like to read (raise your tentacle)? Who doesn’t love to lose themselves in a book by a great author with a good story line and a tale with a smashing finish. And who, after reading that book, does not just scream out: how do they do that (write)? where does it come from? or I could do this! Okay, maybe you’re not a screamer, so I’ll tell you who: all readers do with few exceptions. Scratch the surface of any great reader and you’ll find a great writer longing to put pen to paper. You can tell who readers are because they’re pretty much the folks worth talking to. You’ll know non-readers too, because they aint got snot for conversation and because they can’t write except for text shorthand. Easy for me to say, I may just be more attracted to the informed.
About the annual TW/NOLF : here’s the quote: “The five day fete (don’t you adore that word?) which celebrates the life and legacy of Tennessee Williams in the adopted city that he called his ‘spiritual home’ offers two days of master classes; a roster of lively discussions among blue chip panelists; celebrity interviews; theater, food and music events; a scholars’ conference; short fiction and one act play competitions; a breakfast book club; literary and other French Quarter walking tours; a book fair; and an Opening Night Fundraising Gala”. It’s kind of the literary equivalent of Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show--- ‘pack up the babies and grab the old ladies and everyone goes’.
No kidding, we’ve been covering this thing for twelve of their years and one of the things I have to point out here is this:
You know that great big storm that we had, and how, at the time we didn’t know if anything that’s New Orleans was ever, ever going to come back for us -- for us that braved a sad and poignant homecoming? Remember what it was like back in the day when we had no mail service, we swept our own streets and counted each familiar face as a long lost family member? Remember the joy when carnival came back and Jazz Fest? Well, that year the TW/NOLF came back for their twentieth anniversary year and didn’t miss a beat. THAT’S how much of a part of the city this event is.
Anyway, it takes all year to put this festival together and at the time of the event the ball rolls smoothly with hundreds of volunteers coordinated by three staff members and a few contract guns. Our favorites of course are Ellen Johnson and Karissa Kary who can be found just about everywhere with band aids, extinguishers and directions for the fledgling gophers (“you go fer this and YOU go fer that.”) and empty handed pilots (“pick it up here… pilot over there.”) all while smartly frocked and accessorized.
Just about all of the events happen in the French Quarter which makes it an easy escape for that lost weekend that you’ve been promising yourself. A Festival Panel Pass is $60.00 ($50.00 for students); a One-day Pass at $25.00 is hard to beat and special events/theater are ten bucks and up, also Master Classes and Walking Tours reasonably priced and if you want information call the Festival office 504-581-1144 or go to www.tennesseewilliams.net---- yes, there are group rates in case you want to bring your posse of wannabes and word nuts.
I’ve got the info in front of me and it includes words like: noted thespians, Broadway legends, Pulitzer Prize-winning author, acclaimed poet and memoirist, and also Tony Award winning…. Somebodys! (a plural of Somebody that my spell check doesn’t want to accept). There’s a bunch of theater and the shouting contest on the last day; that’s right, your favorite couple Stanley and Stella, is a must. Aren’t you glad that the Kowalskis didn’t have a dog or cat?
You know, or you should have read by now, all the reasons that we go to this event religiously. It is candy for the brain, it’s the uber people watching weekend and it’s informative to us writers that need to put information in their back pockets about real situations that effect us: character development, scoring an editor, finding your ‘voice’, self publishing, what kinds of things are selling and the comfort of knowing how many of us are really out there… and still attending.
Believe it or not, there are a lot of writers that are full blown bat pucky crazy and can make (and have made) a living with the written word, and you learn about that as well.
Word up! Once this thing (TW/NOLF) gets rolling, you’re going to find that some events will be sold out and, as we do, you’ll be the worse for not planning ahead for tickets to events, classes, theater and panels.
Also: be aware that there is little to purchase, as far as eating, at the Festival. You’ll need to time and coordinate your sustenance. Feel free to bring a samich or noshes (avoid littering) for the parks and al fresco dining. Quarterites usually find the best and quickest food in grocery stores and although we have some fine restaurants, it is really important that if you are to stop to dine and have a time constraint that you let that be known on the onset of service. Our local establishments will welcome your hard earned and, the servers are depending on your gratuities, but are not mind readers….yet.
The weather is usually perfect and the folks around you are of the highest caliber. This is the event (the other being the Faulkner bash) that you will come away from with a head full of ideas, questions, interests and a definitively revised reading list. See you there.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Pleasant people in New Orleans
Po-Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Master Thespian
Or
According To Me
I was told today that the simplest things are the most complex to achieve. I’ve also been told that it takes a really smart person to know how stupid that they are. Compounding that, an ex-con of my acquaintance who had found solace in the prison library, laid this one on me: “read a book--- get a clue”. Or, as I find, read a newspaper and have absolutely no clue whatsoever!
So, I’m sitting here, trying to sidetrack a cold by eating a quart of Hot and Sour soup, wishing that I could be home in my jammys… coloring. Instead, I’m at the shop, waiting for and on customers and I’ve got…the newspaper. One thing for sure; there is so much hullabaloo going on outside my little world that I just want to go home, get into my jammys and …. Color. Newspapers are generally the repositories of misery, anguish, defeat and death unless you read the reports on how we are striving to overcome the inevitable hardships that as humans we are destined to live in and with; that or unbearably bear witness to and I can barely do that and maintain a normal blood pressure.
How do you like your unemployment statistics? What do you think about whose war, where and ‘we don’t really think that the killing will stop until we have reached a peace accord’ baloney; and, ‘the floggings will continue until morale improves’ philosophy?
Read the newspaper. Are we still thinking that a march on City Hall will stop us from being the murder capital of the free world? Or: ‘another un-armed man shot by police’--- whew--- at least this time it’s in California--- NIMBY to the rescue on that potential meltdown.
Really, have you read the rags lately? Gloom and doom, riots and rebellions, fear and loathing, the economy has tanked, the Dow is like a moving target and into the fray has waded “The Black Guy With The Worst Job On The Planet” doing everything but knocking heads together to get stuff done.
I doubt if I’m in shape for the Crescent City Classic and I’m finagling time off for the Tennessee Williams Festival (see next month for a feature from Deb and me) and what’s a fellow to do but find solace in faith, fellowship, fun, fantasy and food and thank heavens that I have that in abundance here, or at least where I live--- in my own little world.
No kidding, last night I dreamt that the mayor had issued an executive order that all establishments in this city serve gumbo at dinner time… no exceptions. In my dream I witnessed a man getting pulled over for speeding by the cops and pleading what had become known as the ‘Gumbo Defense’. “I’m sorry officer, but I wasn’t offered gumbo tonight….”
I’m a big believer in dreams, make believe and sleight of hand. I’m still fooled by magic tricks, mesmerized by song lyrics and a sucker for a smile from a pretty woman (especially if she’s handing me a cold beer). And I think that living in my own world is the main factor that gives my sanity any equilibrium; or as the man said: “if I wasn’t crazy, I’d probably go nuts!”
The most pleasant people I know are the ones who can let life wash over them and filter out the noise and hear mainly the celestial music of life. Their smiles are genuine, their laughter clean and their eyes clear and when they’re not feeling up to par it’s usually nobody’s bizness but they’re own.
You know people like that. The ones who very seldom resort to profanity to make a point, the ones who defer to others and still maintain their true identities, the ones who you would seek out with a problem for logic and intelligence. I want to be like that when I grow up, when they feel the sniffles coming on they stay home in their jammys and color.
If you were an ice cream flavor what would you be? Name your favorite color, cookie and curiosity. A lot of times I dis-remember the simpler things that keep me happy: how much I love my home, my job (yes, I do), my neighbors and my life. And when I remember, I swear that I’m never going to let that go and then those little and big things start to hem me in again: the news, the sniffles… money money money money.
It’s not easy to keep track of the simpler things and It is the simpler things that let us be happy and allow ourselves, as we define ourselves, to be ourselves. Having food, clothing and shelter is a biggie and once that is taken care of what on this earth more can you possibly ask for? Me? A LOT!!! And that’s where the trouble starts. Patience flies out the window and I want things… NOW! Things and stuff and there I go again forgetting what I have that is my happiness.
So, from the beginning: I was told today that the simplest things are the most complex to achieve. I’ve also been told that it takes a really smart person to know how stupid that they are. A very smart person that I know noticed that a lot of times we forget to breathe properly. Could it be as simple as that? I mean, when you get upset doesn’t someone suggest to take a breath and count to ten? That seems simple.
And dreaming.
And reminding yourself how good your life is.
And letting that special person know how very happy that they let you be, just by the way that they treat you. Let them know that you love them and care.
And believe that you will get … everything that you deserve.
And love. And I can’t recommend this enough: and love.
And live. If not you…who? If not now…when?
And laugh. You have power above anything that you can laugh at.
Now go color.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Master Thespian
Or
According To Me
I was told today that the simplest things are the most complex to achieve. I’ve also been told that it takes a really smart person to know how stupid that they are. Compounding that, an ex-con of my acquaintance who had found solace in the prison library, laid this one on me: “read a book--- get a clue”. Or, as I find, read a newspaper and have absolutely no clue whatsoever!
So, I’m sitting here, trying to sidetrack a cold by eating a quart of Hot and Sour soup, wishing that I could be home in my jammys… coloring. Instead, I’m at the shop, waiting for and on customers and I’ve got…the newspaper. One thing for sure; there is so much hullabaloo going on outside my little world that I just want to go home, get into my jammys and …. Color. Newspapers are generally the repositories of misery, anguish, defeat and death unless you read the reports on how we are striving to overcome the inevitable hardships that as humans we are destined to live in and with; that or unbearably bear witness to and I can barely do that and maintain a normal blood pressure.
How do you like your unemployment statistics? What do you think about whose war, where and ‘we don’t really think that the killing will stop until we have reached a peace accord’ baloney; and, ‘the floggings will continue until morale improves’ philosophy?
Read the newspaper. Are we still thinking that a march on City Hall will stop us from being the murder capital of the free world? Or: ‘another un-armed man shot by police’--- whew--- at least this time it’s in California--- NIMBY to the rescue on that potential meltdown.
Really, have you read the rags lately? Gloom and doom, riots and rebellions, fear and loathing, the economy has tanked, the Dow is like a moving target and into the fray has waded “The Black Guy With The Worst Job On The Planet” doing everything but knocking heads together to get stuff done.
I doubt if I’m in shape for the Crescent City Classic and I’m finagling time off for the Tennessee Williams Festival (see next month for a feature from Deb and me) and what’s a fellow to do but find solace in faith, fellowship, fun, fantasy and food and thank heavens that I have that in abundance here, or at least where I live--- in my own little world.
No kidding, last night I dreamt that the mayor had issued an executive order that all establishments in this city serve gumbo at dinner time… no exceptions. In my dream I witnessed a man getting pulled over for speeding by the cops and pleading what had become known as the ‘Gumbo Defense’. “I’m sorry officer, but I wasn’t offered gumbo tonight….”
I’m a big believer in dreams, make believe and sleight of hand. I’m still fooled by magic tricks, mesmerized by song lyrics and a sucker for a smile from a pretty woman (especially if she’s handing me a cold beer). And I think that living in my own world is the main factor that gives my sanity any equilibrium; or as the man said: “if I wasn’t crazy, I’d probably go nuts!”
The most pleasant people I know are the ones who can let life wash over them and filter out the noise and hear mainly the celestial music of life. Their smiles are genuine, their laughter clean and their eyes clear and when they’re not feeling up to par it’s usually nobody’s bizness but they’re own.
You know people like that. The ones who very seldom resort to profanity to make a point, the ones who defer to others and still maintain their true identities, the ones who you would seek out with a problem for logic and intelligence. I want to be like that when I grow up, when they feel the sniffles coming on they stay home in their jammys and color.
If you were an ice cream flavor what would you be? Name your favorite color, cookie and curiosity. A lot of times I dis-remember the simpler things that keep me happy: how much I love my home, my job (yes, I do), my neighbors and my life. And when I remember, I swear that I’m never going to let that go and then those little and big things start to hem me in again: the news, the sniffles… money money money money.
It’s not easy to keep track of the simpler things and It is the simpler things that let us be happy and allow ourselves, as we define ourselves, to be ourselves. Having food, clothing and shelter is a biggie and once that is taken care of what on this earth more can you possibly ask for? Me? A LOT!!! And that’s where the trouble starts. Patience flies out the window and I want things… NOW! Things and stuff and there I go again forgetting what I have that is my happiness.
So, from the beginning: I was told today that the simplest things are the most complex to achieve. I’ve also been told that it takes a really smart person to know how stupid that they are. A very smart person that I know noticed that a lot of times we forget to breathe properly. Could it be as simple as that? I mean, when you get upset doesn’t someone suggest to take a breath and count to ten? That seems simple.
And dreaming.
And reminding yourself how good your life is.
And letting that special person know how very happy that they let you be, just by the way that they treat you. Let them know that you love them and care.
And believe that you will get … everything that you deserve.
And love. And I can’t recommend this enough: and love.
And live. If not you…who? If not now…when?
And laugh. You have power above anything that you can laugh at.
Now go color.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Learning languages in New Orleans
Parlo qui
Or
I’m talkin’ here
As you may note by our title ^, I’m now getting into ‘lingualing’… a term that I made up myself. You could say that I’m bi-lingualing… but I’m not. I’d buy if I could. You might say tri-lingualing… but I’m not trying that hard. In point of fact, I’m actually wishing to lingual (wi-lingualing?); but, I just can’t get none of that stuff to stick, languages that is. Oh, I’ve got books on the learning of foreign languages and they are all about languages that should not be foreign to me…. but are. I have friends that speak more than one language, I’ve been to other countries where they talk different; and, I eat and cook in several nationalities; however, in a word: succhio: I suck at learning any more than rudiments. And it’s a shame… because I believe that speaking another language should come as natural as passing gas.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not as dumb as I look and I can get a beer, a bed or a bathroom anywhere that I find myself. I have been to some non-English speaking places like Brooklyn, East Los Angeles and parts of rural Mississippi and gotten along fine. Also, I’ve been known to get about fine in Europe and Central America with relative ease if not aplomb. Furthermore, I plan other trips abroad and I really want to get more out of other cultures than a strange look as I order doorknobs and light bulbs for dinner in a restaurant.
I’ve been surrounded by other languages all of my life and I have assimilated a little and even studied some. I can hail folks from the far East to the near West; but, with a brain the size of a planet you would imagine that I could remember enough French to get some extra butter for my croissant or a refill of coffee.
The bitch of it all is that I do know how to say things like that; however, my brain freezes once I open my mouth and by the time things are sorted out, the damn waiter decides to practice his English on me! I just want to say: “Yo! Je parle ici (hey, I’m talkin’ here!)
I’m going to go to Sicily soon, where I’m sure you know that they talk a dialect of Italian considered strange, even by Italian standards; and, I’m practicing with dried fava beans in my pie hole, standing on my head and wearing a necklace of garlic. Not really, but close. Compared to classic Italian, the Sicilian accent sounds like a marble salesman with a mouth full of samples; so, it’s gonna be some fun for Tio Felipo.
Meanwhile, back in New Orleans, I’m imagining a city where we all speak other languages some day soon. I picture myself walking down the street to coffee listening to the ‘bon jour’, ‘ teckanes’, ‘buenos dias’, ‘ohio geziamus’, ‘buonjourno’, ‘nee hau ma’ and ‘where Y’at’ of my fellow lingua-maniacs all in the throes of making New Orleans a multi-lingual Mecca.
(Aside: to all non-linguists) You had better learn that ‘Buenos Dias’ thing real quick because New Orleans has a Hispanic population that is growing by leaps and bounds; so, now that you can comfortably order cervesas with your chiles rellenos, you can add phrases like “!Veo al lado de su equipo que usted es vaquero” or “I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy!”. You just never know when you might use it.
It’s just too bad that we can’t get an influx of all kinds of folks here; say… how about a slew of Frenchies? Then we could practice saying stuff like “oui, nous faisons cuire avec plus de douze ingredients” (“yes, we do cook with more than twelve ingredients”). Or, “faire des pomme frites sount fourni avec cette boisson glace?” (do fries come with that shake?) Plus, we already have a lot of our streets with French names, even if we don’t pronounce them like a French person would. Furthermore, they use the same alphabet and we could use more real French restaurants. Also, French people really know how to dress, they really do, and in my humble opinion we could use an influx of metro-sexualism in our wardrobes, n’est pas?
Or, how about we get us more Italians, ah yes, Italians. Is there a more lyrical sound than the romantic, tongue rolling, silk textural, sensual, goose bump inspiring sound of the Italian language delivered with love? Or the baseball bat to the kidney, battery acid to the eyes, ball peen hammer to the temporal lobe of the same tongue spoken in anger turned to wrath? No, on both counts. Italian is the language of passion and persuasion. Witness, if you will, the English translation of “Se lei tocca mia molgie… rompero la sua faccia!” (you touch my wife…I break you face!) And, here’s one for you to learn: “Lo scambio Americano della moglie e una cosa del passato” (American wife swapping is a thing of the past), or Cio e una pistola nella sua tasca o la sono appena contento per mi verdere? (Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?) See, there’s something for everyone.
Okay, we’re on a roll here, let’s try this: You and your friend are in a coffee shop and at the next table you think that you hear a some Germans talking. Have your friend say “Ich wette Sie, das ich weib, wo, Sie sie schuhe erhalten haben. (I bet that I can tell you where you got your shoes). Now, if they look at you funny, they might be Dutch and not German. How do you tell? Well, you just lean real close to the biggest one and say “Ik ben niet zeker maar Ik denk dat hij over uw moeder prat” (I’m not sure, but I think he’s talking about your mother) That ought to do it, huh?
Whew! We’re out of space now; but, New Year’s resolution (!!)… expand your linguals!!
plamancusa@aol.com
Or
I’m talkin’ here
As you may note by our title ^, I’m now getting into ‘lingualing’… a term that I made up myself. You could say that I’m bi-lingualing… but I’m not. I’d buy if I could. You might say tri-lingualing… but I’m not trying that hard. In point of fact, I’m actually wishing to lingual (wi-lingualing?); but, I just can’t get none of that stuff to stick, languages that is. Oh, I’ve got books on the learning of foreign languages and they are all about languages that should not be foreign to me…. but are. I have friends that speak more than one language, I’ve been to other countries where they talk different; and, I eat and cook in several nationalities; however, in a word: succhio: I suck at learning any more than rudiments. And it’s a shame… because I believe that speaking another language should come as natural as passing gas.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not as dumb as I look and I can get a beer, a bed or a bathroom anywhere that I find myself. I have been to some non-English speaking places like Brooklyn, East Los Angeles and parts of rural Mississippi and gotten along fine. Also, I’ve been known to get about fine in Europe and Central America with relative ease if not aplomb. Furthermore, I plan other trips abroad and I really want to get more out of other cultures than a strange look as I order doorknobs and light bulbs for dinner in a restaurant.
I’ve been surrounded by other languages all of my life and I have assimilated a little and even studied some. I can hail folks from the far East to the near West; but, with a brain the size of a planet you would imagine that I could remember enough French to get some extra butter for my croissant or a refill of coffee.
The bitch of it all is that I do know how to say things like that; however, my brain freezes once I open my mouth and by the time things are sorted out, the damn waiter decides to practice his English on me! I just want to say: “Yo! Je parle ici (hey, I’m talkin’ here!)
I’m going to go to Sicily soon, where I’m sure you know that they talk a dialect of Italian considered strange, even by Italian standards; and, I’m practicing with dried fava beans in my pie hole, standing on my head and wearing a necklace of garlic. Not really, but close. Compared to classic Italian, the Sicilian accent sounds like a marble salesman with a mouth full of samples; so, it’s gonna be some fun for Tio Felipo.
Meanwhile, back in New Orleans, I’m imagining a city where we all speak other languages some day soon. I picture myself walking down the street to coffee listening to the ‘bon jour’, ‘ teckanes’, ‘buenos dias’, ‘ohio geziamus’, ‘buonjourno’, ‘nee hau ma’ and ‘where Y’at’ of my fellow lingua-maniacs all in the throes of making New Orleans a multi-lingual Mecca.
(Aside: to all non-linguists) You had better learn that ‘Buenos Dias’ thing real quick because New Orleans has a Hispanic population that is growing by leaps and bounds; so, now that you can comfortably order cervesas with your chiles rellenos, you can add phrases like “!Veo al lado de su equipo que usted es vaquero” or “I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy!”. You just never know when you might use it.
It’s just too bad that we can’t get an influx of all kinds of folks here; say… how about a slew of Frenchies? Then we could practice saying stuff like “oui, nous faisons cuire avec plus de douze ingredients” (“yes, we do cook with more than twelve ingredients”). Or, “faire des pomme frites sount fourni avec cette boisson glace?” (do fries come with that shake?) Plus, we already have a lot of our streets with French names, even if we don’t pronounce them like a French person would. Furthermore, they use the same alphabet and we could use more real French restaurants. Also, French people really know how to dress, they really do, and in my humble opinion we could use an influx of metro-sexualism in our wardrobes, n’est pas?
Or, how about we get us more Italians, ah yes, Italians. Is there a more lyrical sound than the romantic, tongue rolling, silk textural, sensual, goose bump inspiring sound of the Italian language delivered with love? Or the baseball bat to the kidney, battery acid to the eyes, ball peen hammer to the temporal lobe of the same tongue spoken in anger turned to wrath? No, on both counts. Italian is the language of passion and persuasion. Witness, if you will, the English translation of “Se lei tocca mia molgie… rompero la sua faccia!” (you touch my wife…I break you face!) And, here’s one for you to learn: “Lo scambio Americano della moglie e una cosa del passato” (American wife swapping is a thing of the past), or Cio e una pistola nella sua tasca o la sono appena contento per mi verdere? (Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?) See, there’s something for everyone.
Okay, we’re on a roll here, let’s try this: You and your friend are in a coffee shop and at the next table you think that you hear a some Germans talking. Have your friend say “Ich wette Sie, das ich weib, wo, Sie sie schuhe erhalten haben. (I bet that I can tell you where you got your shoes). Now, if they look at you funny, they might be Dutch and not German. How do you tell? Well, you just lean real close to the biggest one and say “Ik ben niet zeker maar Ik denk dat hij over uw moeder prat” (I’m not sure, but I think he’s talking about your mother) That ought to do it, huh?
Whew! We’re out of space now; but, New Year’s resolution (!!)… expand your linguals!!
plamancusa@aol.com
Valentine's in New Orleans
Valentine’s Day
Or
I’ll Get You For This!
Okay, I’m channeling Carrie Bradshaw here; but, is it not true that when you tell someone that big old “L” word that, in essence, you are committing to a technicolor, gossamer lined, cotton candy, hold ’em close and never let them go, love you to death debt of honor; and, at the same time subjecting yourself to a like indenture? In other words, when you say I love you…do you really mean “you owe me”? Do I hear the shackling of the handcuffs to the heart?
Now, don’t take this personal; these are just questions, and perhaps a waste of space except that February is ripe for such inquiries, what with Valentine’s and all…plus, there is my never ending tendency to challenge your thought processes.
At this point let me clarify that, yes, I do have a lover in my life and not only does my lover act, show and treat me as if I am worthy of love; my lover tells me that she loves me and I appreciate each and every time that I hear it from her lips. Yet, I remain amazed at the plethora of connotations that are implied with the use of the word ‘love’.
“I love you”. Did your Mama an ‘em lay that one on you (“I love you, Little Booger”) when you were young; and, did you not know that any mischief, mayhem or mis-step that you made would be a breach of faith to that love? That, that love, that was given so freely and then held over your head like a fragile bird (that you could destroy with a slip in your behavior), was cemented with those words? What do we actually mean by those three little words? AND, do we accept or place burdens on ourselves and others, perhaps naively, by their use? Is it as well an award and a reward? Is the word ‘love’ slung around like a garnish of whipped cream? Does it curdle with misuse or neglect; and, (like whipped cream) does it’s use in sex seem a little weird sometimes? A re-enforcement, a goose bumpy, puppy face-licking phrase of sub-serviance?
First though: Asking about what we mean by love itself can fill this newspaper and plenty of others and so, we’re not going to get into all that here. Better to save that discussion (what is love?) for a dark and stormy night, by a warm fire with a couple of brandies under our belts. I’m wondering about the many ways that we use the word. Disparities abound in a myriad of circumstances with the uses, the oft overlooked conundrum: what do we really mean when we say “I love you”? Can it possibly be as simple as that; the epitome of human felling can be condensed into three words? Let’s see.
Now, sometimes the ‘L’ word is used as a benediction as in when you’re leaving someone in a hospital bed, kissing a child good night or ringing off on a phone conversation. At times, guns drawn and ready to break down the perp’s door and my partner and I take a deep breath and I say “ready?” and she nods assent, I say softly “I love you” and we bust in guns blazing!
Newspaper cartoon of a girl child waking up her father and he says: “huh, wha?” and she says “Dad, I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful father you are and that I love you”. The dad smiles and the child adds “and I just spilled a gallon of fruit punch in the refrigerator”.
But wait! There’s more: Is it a natural or conditioned response that when someone says ‘I love you” to say “I love you, too”? Try responding: “Why, what did you do?” or “Yes but, I love you more” or (here’s the best one) “Okay. Grab me a beer, will ya?”
Okay, show of hands… how many of us take our critters close and say those words? I do, and I’m not too shy to admit to kissing my cat and nuzzling my dog; or, nuzzling my cat and kissing my dog. Either circumstance has me saying those three little words. Incidentally when a dog licks you is that an ‘I love you’ or a ‘don’t kick me’? Who can swear?
Does Jesus really love me? Did God love me so much that he sent Jesus to save me? I don’t know, I haven’t met either one of them. Which brings up love in religion and the faithful. Is it love or fear? Does Buddha love me? Muhammad? Does eternal love require eternally saying it? What is expected in return? No, you can’t have my beer.
Can you love a government the way that you love someone’s sweater, earrings or lipstick? And don’t tell me that I don’t know the difference between love and lust; although, I have been known to use ‘the word’ interchangeably for both types of attraction.
And I’m here to tell you that I am a great fan of the spoken word, especially when it’s to express love; however, this Valentine’s I’m making a resolution to mix it up: learning to say ‘I love you’ in foreign languages, wagging my tail or purring are also things that I’m up for trying. But also, there are other ways to keep love’s attention: treat, act and show are good places to start for the non-verbal communication of our feelings.
Face it, we show our loved ones that we love them by our actions and how we treat them; ‘the do’s: politeness, respect, space considerations and compliments as well as understanding, patience, forgiveness that go with the practicing of the Golden Rule. Add to that the ‘nots’: not being a pain in the ass to be around, not acting the fool, not overstressing your opinions and not knowing when to shut the fuck up.
Another thing that you can do is to read this article to your loved one. Just make sure that you stress after the reading that; “Honey, I’m sure that he’s not talking about us!”. Happy V.D. (Valentine’s Day) P.S. I love you.
plamancusa@aol.com
Or
I’ll Get You For This!
Okay, I’m channeling Carrie Bradshaw here; but, is it not true that when you tell someone that big old “L” word that, in essence, you are committing to a technicolor, gossamer lined, cotton candy, hold ’em close and never let them go, love you to death debt of honor; and, at the same time subjecting yourself to a like indenture? In other words, when you say I love you…do you really mean “you owe me”? Do I hear the shackling of the handcuffs to the heart?
Now, don’t take this personal; these are just questions, and perhaps a waste of space except that February is ripe for such inquiries, what with Valentine’s and all…plus, there is my never ending tendency to challenge your thought processes.
At this point let me clarify that, yes, I do have a lover in my life and not only does my lover act, show and treat me as if I am worthy of love; my lover tells me that she loves me and I appreciate each and every time that I hear it from her lips. Yet, I remain amazed at the plethora of connotations that are implied with the use of the word ‘love’.
“I love you”. Did your Mama an ‘em lay that one on you (“I love you, Little Booger”) when you were young; and, did you not know that any mischief, mayhem or mis-step that you made would be a breach of faith to that love? That, that love, that was given so freely and then held over your head like a fragile bird (that you could destroy with a slip in your behavior), was cemented with those words? What do we actually mean by those three little words? AND, do we accept or place burdens on ourselves and others, perhaps naively, by their use? Is it as well an award and a reward? Is the word ‘love’ slung around like a garnish of whipped cream? Does it curdle with misuse or neglect; and, (like whipped cream) does it’s use in sex seem a little weird sometimes? A re-enforcement, a goose bumpy, puppy face-licking phrase of sub-serviance?
First though: Asking about what we mean by love itself can fill this newspaper and plenty of others and so, we’re not going to get into all that here. Better to save that discussion (what is love?) for a dark and stormy night, by a warm fire with a couple of brandies under our belts. I’m wondering about the many ways that we use the word. Disparities abound in a myriad of circumstances with the uses, the oft overlooked conundrum: what do we really mean when we say “I love you”? Can it possibly be as simple as that; the epitome of human felling can be condensed into three words? Let’s see.
Now, sometimes the ‘L’ word is used as a benediction as in when you’re leaving someone in a hospital bed, kissing a child good night or ringing off on a phone conversation. At times, guns drawn and ready to break down the perp’s door and my partner and I take a deep breath and I say “ready?” and she nods assent, I say softly “I love you” and we bust in guns blazing!
Newspaper cartoon of a girl child waking up her father and he says: “huh, wha?” and she says “Dad, I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful father you are and that I love you”. The dad smiles and the child adds “and I just spilled a gallon of fruit punch in the refrigerator”.
But wait! There’s more: Is it a natural or conditioned response that when someone says ‘I love you” to say “I love you, too”? Try responding: “Why, what did you do?” or “Yes but, I love you more” or (here’s the best one) “Okay. Grab me a beer, will ya?”
Okay, show of hands… how many of us take our critters close and say those words? I do, and I’m not too shy to admit to kissing my cat and nuzzling my dog; or, nuzzling my cat and kissing my dog. Either circumstance has me saying those three little words. Incidentally when a dog licks you is that an ‘I love you’ or a ‘don’t kick me’? Who can swear?
Does Jesus really love me? Did God love me so much that he sent Jesus to save me? I don’t know, I haven’t met either one of them. Which brings up love in religion and the faithful. Is it love or fear? Does Buddha love me? Muhammad? Does eternal love require eternally saying it? What is expected in return? No, you can’t have my beer.
Can you love a government the way that you love someone’s sweater, earrings or lipstick? And don’t tell me that I don’t know the difference between love and lust; although, I have been known to use ‘the word’ interchangeably for both types of attraction.
And I’m here to tell you that I am a great fan of the spoken word, especially when it’s to express love; however, this Valentine’s I’m making a resolution to mix it up: learning to say ‘I love you’ in foreign languages, wagging my tail or purring are also things that I’m up for trying. But also, there are other ways to keep love’s attention: treat, act and show are good places to start for the non-verbal communication of our feelings.
Face it, we show our loved ones that we love them by our actions and how we treat them; ‘the do’s: politeness, respect, space considerations and compliments as well as understanding, patience, forgiveness that go with the practicing of the Golden Rule. Add to that the ‘nots’: not being a pain in the ass to be around, not acting the fool, not overstressing your opinions and not knowing when to shut the fuck up.
Another thing that you can do is to read this article to your loved one. Just make sure that you stress after the reading that; “Honey, I’m sure that he’s not talking about us!”. Happy V.D. (Valentine’s Day) P.S. I love you.
plamancusa@aol.com
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Christmas Balls in New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Christmas Balls
Or
Darning the Coal in Your Stockings
This year it’s my turn to give presents and, times being what they are, the coffers of poor boys everywhere are looking like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard; can I get a witness? My glass is nowhere near half anything, my money is funny and in the words of P. Floyd “they’re giving none away”.
So this year I’m going to give away what I have the most of, besides the love in my heart. I’m giving, for the holidays, my opinions. Unabashed, forthright, brazen and bold. I’m soul weary of biting my tongue about stuff that no one wants to talk about and so, as a gift, I want to give you something to talk about, think about and agree or not agree with. Here’s a start:
ONE. I am against white people moving into black neighborhoods and taking a slice from the home turf of African Americans and gentrifying it and objecting to traditions and rituals like second lines and meeting places that may cut into their peace and quiet. You know what, if you want peace and quiet….don’t buy a house across the street from a bar! In a Black neighborhood!
To that end, I want African Americans of means to move back into the hood, buy homes, contribute to community and vision and send white people back to their own neighborhoods, get grocery stores, markets, and services back into the neighbor’s hands. Revolt against the white slumlords that are keeping African American culture down and take back our legacy (yes, Black legacy belongs to all of us). What’s the matter of investing in rental properties where it will do the most good? Put your money where your mouth is. What’s more, I believe that the Claiborne overpass should be torn down, oak trees replanted and the division of the Treme obliterated like the crime that it is.
TWO. I believe that Catholics should maintain the right to have their churches stay where they have been, convenient, accessible and NOT be discontinued on the whim of some self appointed guardian of their groove. My solution would be for parishioners of threatened parishes to purchase their churches and hire their own priests. To hell with being pushed around! Have the archdiocese sell the buildings to the parishioners and maintain staff using an old concept called tithing. Do I hear an AMEN? You Catholics run your schools the same way, don’t you?
THREE. Let us dispense with the premise that all people are created equal, and no, I’m not about to question anybody’s inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit. I’m talking about the fact that there are smart people and there are some folks that are dumber than rocks. There are people that can read a book and have instant recall, and there’s me who can’t remember anything that I’ve read from one moment to the next. There’s the person that can’t exist without a book in their hands and then there is the person that hasn’t read anything but the funnies since they left school. There are good guys, there’s bad guys, there’s a guy that will give you the shirt off their back and the one who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire. Some people are as solid as a rock and others cannot hold a job for love or money. Some people can drink alcohol and others are better off letting the hooch alone. Some women make wonderful mothers and others pass on traditions of abuse, neglect and ignorance. I think that we should give people all the respect that they deserve, stop making excuses for losers and concentrate on saving the children before they become the next generation of defects. Concentrate more on giving hands up and less on giving hand outs.
FOUR. How about this? Anyone who is crying about this economic crisis that we’re having and how it affects New Orleans citizens should try opening a community oriented business of their own. Be part of the stimulus and get some money moving around our town. We need more corner grocers, mechanics and notary publics; stationers, shop owners, seamstresses, haberdashers and repairmen. We live in a fragmented society because we have ceased to function in our immediate environment, we work for employers that care little if anything about our lives and the future of our families. We shop in box stores that buy stuff from China and diss our made in USA stuff. We act as a nation of sheep, of service to no-one and of good to no-thing. What happened to that person that we wanted to be when we grew up?
Are we in the holiday spirit yet? No? Well how about some bad news?
FIVE. As I see it, a lot of the messes that we’ve gotten into have at their root irrational and selfish expectations impaired by a deficiency of imagination and compounded by poor work ethics, inexperience and the unwillingness to learn from mistakes, ours and others. We let ourselves get into jams by being greedy and laboring under the misconception that luck and the kindness of strangers will pull us through, and then complain when that does not happen.
Witness if you will this month’s daily newspaper that has a toy drive for the needy with sob stories about unwed mothers with multiple offspring, ignored by the fathers, possibly having part time jobs or on the public dole, in section eight accommodations and without the means or wherewithal to be an asset to America? Am I wrong or if a parent cannot afford to have a child, is it not logical to practice some form of birth control? Or… doesn’t bringing a child into this world come with some form of parental responsibility?
Next to all those bastards that voted in 700 billion dollars in bailout and than added another one and a half billion of pork to it: You suck.
And yes, Virginia, race has everything to do with elections.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Christmas Balls
Or
Darning the Coal in Your Stockings
This year it’s my turn to give presents and, times being what they are, the coffers of poor boys everywhere are looking like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard; can I get a witness? My glass is nowhere near half anything, my money is funny and in the words of P. Floyd “they’re giving none away”.
So this year I’m going to give away what I have the most of, besides the love in my heart. I’m giving, for the holidays, my opinions. Unabashed, forthright, brazen and bold. I’m soul weary of biting my tongue about stuff that no one wants to talk about and so, as a gift, I want to give you something to talk about, think about and agree or not agree with. Here’s a start:
ONE. I am against white people moving into black neighborhoods and taking a slice from the home turf of African Americans and gentrifying it and objecting to traditions and rituals like second lines and meeting places that may cut into their peace and quiet. You know what, if you want peace and quiet….don’t buy a house across the street from a bar! In a Black neighborhood!
To that end, I want African Americans of means to move back into the hood, buy homes, contribute to community and vision and send white people back to their own neighborhoods, get grocery stores, markets, and services back into the neighbor’s hands. Revolt against the white slumlords that are keeping African American culture down and take back our legacy (yes, Black legacy belongs to all of us). What’s the matter of investing in rental properties where it will do the most good? Put your money where your mouth is. What’s more, I believe that the Claiborne overpass should be torn down, oak trees replanted and the division of the Treme obliterated like the crime that it is.
TWO. I believe that Catholics should maintain the right to have their churches stay where they have been, convenient, accessible and NOT be discontinued on the whim of some self appointed guardian of their groove. My solution would be for parishioners of threatened parishes to purchase their churches and hire their own priests. To hell with being pushed around! Have the archdiocese sell the buildings to the parishioners and maintain staff using an old concept called tithing. Do I hear an AMEN? You Catholics run your schools the same way, don’t you?
THREE. Let us dispense with the premise that all people are created equal, and no, I’m not about to question anybody’s inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit. I’m talking about the fact that there are smart people and there are some folks that are dumber than rocks. There are people that can read a book and have instant recall, and there’s me who can’t remember anything that I’ve read from one moment to the next. There’s the person that can’t exist without a book in their hands and then there is the person that hasn’t read anything but the funnies since they left school. There are good guys, there’s bad guys, there’s a guy that will give you the shirt off their back and the one who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire. Some people are as solid as a rock and others cannot hold a job for love or money. Some people can drink alcohol and others are better off letting the hooch alone. Some women make wonderful mothers and others pass on traditions of abuse, neglect and ignorance. I think that we should give people all the respect that they deserve, stop making excuses for losers and concentrate on saving the children before they become the next generation of defects. Concentrate more on giving hands up and less on giving hand outs.
FOUR. How about this? Anyone who is crying about this economic crisis that we’re having and how it affects New Orleans citizens should try opening a community oriented business of their own. Be part of the stimulus and get some money moving around our town. We need more corner grocers, mechanics and notary publics; stationers, shop owners, seamstresses, haberdashers and repairmen. We live in a fragmented society because we have ceased to function in our immediate environment, we work for employers that care little if anything about our lives and the future of our families. We shop in box stores that buy stuff from China and diss our made in USA stuff. We act as a nation of sheep, of service to no-one and of good to no-thing. What happened to that person that we wanted to be when we grew up?
Are we in the holiday spirit yet? No? Well how about some bad news?
FIVE. As I see it, a lot of the messes that we’ve gotten into have at their root irrational and selfish expectations impaired by a deficiency of imagination and compounded by poor work ethics, inexperience and the unwillingness to learn from mistakes, ours and others. We let ourselves get into jams by being greedy and laboring under the misconception that luck and the kindness of strangers will pull us through, and then complain when that does not happen.
Witness if you will this month’s daily newspaper that has a toy drive for the needy with sob stories about unwed mothers with multiple offspring, ignored by the fathers, possibly having part time jobs or on the public dole, in section eight accommodations and without the means or wherewithal to be an asset to America? Am I wrong or if a parent cannot afford to have a child, is it not logical to practice some form of birth control? Or… doesn’t bringing a child into this world come with some form of parental responsibility?
Next to all those bastards that voted in 700 billion dollars in bailout and than added another one and a half billion of pork to it: You suck.
And yes, Virginia, race has everything to do with elections.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
2008 vote from New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Are We There Yet?
Or
Coo Coo Ka Joo
Well, it’s November and we’re about to be shot at and missed and shit at and hit. The days of wine and roses have come and gone and with the last shred of my innocence we’ll go from hell and high water straight into the prospect of a Thanksgiving with the realization that we may have, with our votes, actually chosen the wrong team to lead us. I mean, what happens if we are left at the mercy of those who may (or may not) have voted with us being instrumental in making the exact wrong choice. Have we unleashed the hounds of hell or elected people who, for all intents and purposes, cannot (read are not capable to) deliver the change that they promised because the infection of greed in our country goes too deep even for the brightest and the best of us to effect a difference for the good of all? When doubt rears its ugly head, pessimism snarls like a junk yard dog and optimists catch the last train to Clarksville. All those oysters and no pearls of wisdom.
The gas companies raked in sixty billion dollars this year in profits, the combined salaries of the two biggest loan association’s presidents (that the government had to bail out) is in excess of thirty million dollars a year and I’m sitting here eating pimento cheese spread and crackers wondering how I’m going to pay next month’s rent.
I remember that I had too few friends growing up, I remember when I didn’t give a thought about politics and I remember a time when ambrosia was the most exotic dish that I could ever have imagined. Concentrating on the welfare of my pals and eating exotic foods are good for my nerves, thinking about politics is not.
You have to take into consideration that this column is being written with a deadline of early September and hurricanes and evacuations are more on my mind then the outcome of a decision that will be collectively made about this country’s future standing and it’s citizens’ welfare for years to come. Believe you me, this is putting a serious cramp on my Halloween plans.
Now see what you made me do? You know how hard it is to set down a thousand words and I just erased what would have been the next one hundred and twenty five words just because they were ugly and mean. Believe me, you do not want to know.
Let’s start again. Yo! Flaws and faux pas, goofs and gaffes, the crass, the craven and the interlopers will be led up the golden staircase only to be cast aside for the chosen few to take their unrightful place and there will be the gnashing of teeth and the rending of garments by those affected and afflicted by the loss of prestige and power. How many ballerinas will dance on the head of the pin? Who will do the laundry when Snow White goes out to play? While Harry Potter strips to the full Monty and love affairs are conducted by text messaging; where do the unenlightened go for a good cup of Joe? Clover Grill hops with Little Queenie and the Percolators and Chris Owens look-alikes vie for the company of gorillas and nobody wants to dress up in the costume of a governor. Meals ready to eat, bottles of water and bags if ice served on blue tarp tablecloths and we’re celebrating the day of all souls on the eve of All Saints in black and gold. When someone passes us a joint we pass it back with solemn invocation…”it’s only dinner”.
The Von Trapps have escaped again and Monkey Hill is alive with the sound of charwomen dressed as faeries. Who will be the next manipulator of history? Who will pass the mental note torch, pull the trick of the mind? From whence will come our collective next brain seizure? You’ll need to be Houdini to get out of this one.
Dust off your View Finder and find the 3D images cavorting on Bourbon Street. Despots will come and go, the next incarnation of the Maitreya is at hand and the crazed delivery boy beheads his lover and after ravishing what’s left of her body, goes for a lap dance and a drink culminated by a swan dive from a roof top. Ambiguous thunder from the East and Lenny Bruce nods out sagely after declaring “I told you so… Halloween is Carnival compressed”. The Fire Queen is being summoned to the court of the Crimson King and the next four years will need you to call for much more than lawyers, guns and money. This may be the election that screws us hard and dry and up against a frigging tree.
However, before I tell you to hang the crepe…. you are a registered voter, right? You have been following the debates, interviews and massive media debris, right? Right? Well, where’s your friggin’ button? How ready are you to defend your candidate with facts, logic and energy? You won’t get fooled again. Right?
One thing that we can all agree upon (I hope to god we can all agree) is that the last administration mugged, raped and pillaged us. We the people. And the fact of the matter is that we did absolutely nothing to stop them except to wait for our phone to ring with a pollster asking how we rated the destruction, as if the fate of the world was judged like a popularity contest…the biggest looser. Which in effect makes us all a bunch of lazy cowards who put up with the bullying, backstabbing and deceit and let them stay on the island.
The least that your vote can accomplish is to cancel out one of theirs. The amount that your voice can accomplish is that you speak up for what you believe in and the fact that you do believe in something more than what you’ve got today. It means that you want a stake in your future and that leaving home was not the last mature thing that you did.
I work the polls. If you’re registered, I’ve got your name. If I’ve got your name, I’ll know if you vote. Not voting is the most self-destructive thing that you could ever do.
Missed a column? Phillamancusa.blogspot.com
By
Phil LaMancusa
Are We There Yet?
Or
Coo Coo Ka Joo
Well, it’s November and we’re about to be shot at and missed and shit at and hit. The days of wine and roses have come and gone and with the last shred of my innocence we’ll go from hell and high water straight into the prospect of a Thanksgiving with the realization that we may have, with our votes, actually chosen the wrong team to lead us. I mean, what happens if we are left at the mercy of those who may (or may not) have voted with us being instrumental in making the exact wrong choice. Have we unleashed the hounds of hell or elected people who, for all intents and purposes, cannot (read are not capable to) deliver the change that they promised because the infection of greed in our country goes too deep even for the brightest and the best of us to effect a difference for the good of all? When doubt rears its ugly head, pessimism snarls like a junk yard dog and optimists catch the last train to Clarksville. All those oysters and no pearls of wisdom.
The gas companies raked in sixty billion dollars this year in profits, the combined salaries of the two biggest loan association’s presidents (that the government had to bail out) is in excess of thirty million dollars a year and I’m sitting here eating pimento cheese spread and crackers wondering how I’m going to pay next month’s rent.
I remember that I had too few friends growing up, I remember when I didn’t give a thought about politics and I remember a time when ambrosia was the most exotic dish that I could ever have imagined. Concentrating on the welfare of my pals and eating exotic foods are good for my nerves, thinking about politics is not.
You have to take into consideration that this column is being written with a deadline of early September and hurricanes and evacuations are more on my mind then the outcome of a decision that will be collectively made about this country’s future standing and it’s citizens’ welfare for years to come. Believe you me, this is putting a serious cramp on my Halloween plans.
Now see what you made me do? You know how hard it is to set down a thousand words and I just erased what would have been the next one hundred and twenty five words just because they were ugly and mean. Believe me, you do not want to know.
Let’s start again. Yo! Flaws and faux pas, goofs and gaffes, the crass, the craven and the interlopers will be led up the golden staircase only to be cast aside for the chosen few to take their unrightful place and there will be the gnashing of teeth and the rending of garments by those affected and afflicted by the loss of prestige and power. How many ballerinas will dance on the head of the pin? Who will do the laundry when Snow White goes out to play? While Harry Potter strips to the full Monty and love affairs are conducted by text messaging; where do the unenlightened go for a good cup of Joe? Clover Grill hops with Little Queenie and the Percolators and Chris Owens look-alikes vie for the company of gorillas and nobody wants to dress up in the costume of a governor. Meals ready to eat, bottles of water and bags if ice served on blue tarp tablecloths and we’re celebrating the day of all souls on the eve of All Saints in black and gold. When someone passes us a joint we pass it back with solemn invocation…”it’s only dinner”.
The Von Trapps have escaped again and Monkey Hill is alive with the sound of charwomen dressed as faeries. Who will be the next manipulator of history? Who will pass the mental note torch, pull the trick of the mind? From whence will come our collective next brain seizure? You’ll need to be Houdini to get out of this one.
Dust off your View Finder and find the 3D images cavorting on Bourbon Street. Despots will come and go, the next incarnation of the Maitreya is at hand and the crazed delivery boy beheads his lover and after ravishing what’s left of her body, goes for a lap dance and a drink culminated by a swan dive from a roof top. Ambiguous thunder from the East and Lenny Bruce nods out sagely after declaring “I told you so… Halloween is Carnival compressed”. The Fire Queen is being summoned to the court of the Crimson King and the next four years will need you to call for much more than lawyers, guns and money. This may be the election that screws us hard and dry and up against a frigging tree.
However, before I tell you to hang the crepe…. you are a registered voter, right? You have been following the debates, interviews and massive media debris, right? Right? Well, where’s your friggin’ button? How ready are you to defend your candidate with facts, logic and energy? You won’t get fooled again. Right?
One thing that we can all agree upon (I hope to god we can all agree) is that the last administration mugged, raped and pillaged us. We the people. And the fact of the matter is that we did absolutely nothing to stop them except to wait for our phone to ring with a pollster asking how we rated the destruction, as if the fate of the world was judged like a popularity contest…the biggest looser. Which in effect makes us all a bunch of lazy cowards who put up with the bullying, backstabbing and deceit and let them stay on the island.
The least that your vote can accomplish is to cancel out one of theirs. The amount that your voice can accomplish is that you speak up for what you believe in and the fact that you do believe in something more than what you’ve got today. It means that you want a stake in your future and that leaving home was not the last mature thing that you did.
I work the polls. If you’re registered, I’ve got your name. If I’ve got your name, I’ll know if you vote. Not voting is the most self-destructive thing that you could ever do.
Missed a column? Phillamancusa.blogspot.com
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Carnival in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Twenty-five Thousand Dollar Cake
Or
Mardi Gras Mad Man
***********
Cab drivers and communists! Cheese and crackers! Christ on a crutch! My long lost nephew has moved back to The Big Easy!
Actually, I don’t know if he’s ever lived here before; I haven’t laid eyes on him since he was knee high to a Huge Ass Beer ™ cup. But, his parents used to live here, so that’s enough for me to classify him as a replant, of sorts. There was, as I recall, a certain gleam in his Daddy’s eyes while he was here, who knows, it may have been him.
I’ve only seen him once since he’s been back, but knowing the intelligence level of his family, and mine, I feel sure that he’s reading this. I must tell him about Mardi Gras, lest he become grist for the mill.
Dear Nephew,
Welcome back and let me say, for one, that things have changed a bit since you were here last in flesh or in gleam and not, I fear, for the better.
You see, there’s this thing called Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday (not to be confused with Lundi Gras, which is the day before, or Foie Gras, which is the Friday before). Fat Tuesday has always been preceded by Carnival. It is, definitively, THE uber-experience. There’s even a Mardi Gras Cake that won $25,000.00 in a national bake off.
The word Carnival comes from the Latin ‘cruise from Hell’ or ‘flesh be gone’ which ever you choose to believe. Carnival is a time for partying, exchanging body fluids, dancing, eating and throwing up, all to excess. A lot of natives do this all the time; but, when you have millions of amateur ‘visitors’ trying to keep up, it can get real messy.
Mardi Gras in New Orleans is a tired old horse that middle-aged merchants start whipping at the beginning of the year in the hopes that by Ash Wednesday the frothing, wide eyed, sweat soaked, bleeding and exhausted mount will have generated enough profit that some of it may actually stay in Louisiana.
Carnival officially starts at Twelfth Night, which is twelve days after Christmas, called Kings Night, after the Three Wise Guys who came to see newborn Baby Jee; they had given all the gifts they could, starting with a partridge in a pear tree, had to split back to the Orient and marked the occasion as a Catholic holiday. Amen.
What we do nowadays on Twelfth Night is: bake a cake with a baby in it, smear it with purple, yellow and green icing and whoever bites into the baby gets to sue the bakery or buy the next ‘King Cake’ and continue the cycle. Needless to say, a lot of dentists make money during Carnival. This continues until Mardi Gras, which is the day before Ash Wednesday . Ash Wednesday is forty days before Easter and nobody is supposed to have a good time during that period. It’s Called Lent. Why? I don’t know.
When is Mardi Gras? Forty-one days before Easter. When is Easter?
Officially, Easter is the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox or Winter Solstice or something . So, to find out when Mardi Gras is, do the math, consult an occultist or look at a calendar.
To start celebrating Carnival, start drinking at Thanksgiving and don’t stop until the trash on Bourbon Street is waist high and everyone else looks really, really strange. The two may, at times, be mutually exclusive.
******************************************
Carnival is also celebrated with Fancy Dressed and Masked Balls (no pun intended), Parades, public humiliation, and large amounts of money going to other Third World Countries. The only thing we stop short of is human sacrifice, I think.
Parades and Balls are put on by Krewes, which is French for Crews. Krewes are made up of ‘social and pleasure’ clubs that elect a King and a Queen to lead them in parades where they cheerfully throw things like cabbages, condoms, coconuts, medallions, doubloons and strings of beads at frothing, maniacal spectators who then fight over them. The King is usually a middle-aged merchant and the Queen is usually a young woman from a well to do family who has reached drinking age. The King remains masked while the Queen wears Lancôme ™ tastefully. What’s up with that? Again, I don’t know; they’re called ‘Secret Societies’.
Another group of ‘Secret Societies’ is The Mardi Gras Indians. The fact that I consider any ‘Society’ that doesn’t invite me to join them, ‘Secret’ is another issue altogether. The Indians, far and away, would be the last group to ask me in. Why? I can’t sew and I don’t speak their language. Let me explain:
‘The Indians’ trace their roots back to the native Americans that befriended persons of color that they felt a kinship with because of the, non native, persons of non color’s rotten attitude toward anyone besides themselves, middle-aged merchants and young women who had reached drinking age. That’s how I see it, I could be wrong, it’s only my word against anyone else’s.
Anyway, Indians sew elaborate, intricate and complex Native American costumes, the likes of which would have Sitting Bull standing in his grave. They parade in groups of twelve to twenty resplendent in sequins, feathers, fabrics and heavy artillery. In their words “when you see us comin’, better get out the way!”
The Indians chant words like “Jock-imo findo hondo-wando fee nah nay”,
“Iko Iko”, “Tu-way-pa-ka-way. Oowa-a-a!” and “kick your ass on the overpass”. This either means: “my ‘Spy Boy’ spotted your ‘Flag Boy’ and ‘Big Chief’ (from the Metarie Ridge) has a shiny pistol and is “gonna make you jump in de river”, or “War, huuh, (good God, y’all) what is it good for?” (Absolutely nuthin’!).
********************************************
Anyway, Carnival generates a gazillion samollions towards the housing, education, working conditions and welfare of the needy for places like Mexico (tee shirts), Burma (sweat shirts), India (condoms), China (baseball caps), Indonesia (beads) and other parts of this country (food stuffs, plastic ware, breast implants and alcoholic beverages), none of which you’ll ever see. Content yourself with having a good time watching a bazillion of out of towners doing things that they would never do at home and remember:
1. Never drink anything stronger than you are, or of a color not found in nature.
2. Never, ever try to stop someone from acting improperly. One woman that I know did that and got her ass kicked by not one, not two but three ‘visitors’.
3. Don’t fight old ladies for beads. Doing so is a sure way of getting a heel print imbedded on the back of your hand.
4. Dress appropriately. No beads, wallet, credit cards, expensive jewelry or more cash than you care to part with.
5. If someone wants to bet you that they know ‘where you got your shoes’, tell them that they’re not your shoes.
Your loving Uncle, Phil
P.S. If you want the recipe for the $25,000.00 Mardi Gras Cake email me
Plamancusa@aol
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Twenty-five Thousand Dollar Cake
Or
Mardi Gras Mad Man
***********
Cab drivers and communists! Cheese and crackers! Christ on a crutch! My long lost nephew has moved back to The Big Easy!
Actually, I don’t know if he’s ever lived here before; I haven’t laid eyes on him since he was knee high to a Huge Ass Beer ™ cup. But, his parents used to live here, so that’s enough for me to classify him as a replant, of sorts. There was, as I recall, a certain gleam in his Daddy’s eyes while he was here, who knows, it may have been him.
I’ve only seen him once since he’s been back, but knowing the intelligence level of his family, and mine, I feel sure that he’s reading this. I must tell him about Mardi Gras, lest he become grist for the mill.
Dear Nephew,
Welcome back and let me say, for one, that things have changed a bit since you were here last in flesh or in gleam and not, I fear, for the better.
You see, there’s this thing called Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday (not to be confused with Lundi Gras, which is the day before, or Foie Gras, which is the Friday before). Fat Tuesday has always been preceded by Carnival. It is, definitively, THE uber-experience. There’s even a Mardi Gras Cake that won $25,000.00 in a national bake off.
The word Carnival comes from the Latin ‘cruise from Hell’ or ‘flesh be gone’ which ever you choose to believe. Carnival is a time for partying, exchanging body fluids, dancing, eating and throwing up, all to excess. A lot of natives do this all the time; but, when you have millions of amateur ‘visitors’ trying to keep up, it can get real messy.
Mardi Gras in New Orleans is a tired old horse that middle-aged merchants start whipping at the beginning of the year in the hopes that by Ash Wednesday the frothing, wide eyed, sweat soaked, bleeding and exhausted mount will have generated enough profit that some of it may actually stay in Louisiana.
Carnival officially starts at Twelfth Night, which is twelve days after Christmas, called Kings Night, after the Three Wise Guys who came to see newborn Baby Jee; they had given all the gifts they could, starting with a partridge in a pear tree, had to split back to the Orient and marked the occasion as a Catholic holiday. Amen.
What we do nowadays on Twelfth Night is: bake a cake with a baby in it, smear it with purple, yellow and green icing and whoever bites into the baby gets to sue the bakery or buy the next ‘King Cake’ and continue the cycle. Needless to say, a lot of dentists make money during Carnival. This continues until Mardi Gras, which is the day before Ash Wednesday . Ash Wednesday is forty days before Easter and nobody is supposed to have a good time during that period. It’s Called Lent. Why? I don’t know.
When is Mardi Gras? Forty-one days before Easter. When is Easter?
Officially, Easter is the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox or Winter Solstice or something . So, to find out when Mardi Gras is, do the math, consult an occultist or look at a calendar.
To start celebrating Carnival, start drinking at Thanksgiving and don’t stop until the trash on Bourbon Street is waist high and everyone else looks really, really strange. The two may, at times, be mutually exclusive.
******************************************
Carnival is also celebrated with Fancy Dressed and Masked Balls (no pun intended), Parades, public humiliation, and large amounts of money going to other Third World Countries. The only thing we stop short of is human sacrifice, I think.
Parades and Balls are put on by Krewes, which is French for Crews. Krewes are made up of ‘social and pleasure’ clubs that elect a King and a Queen to lead them in parades where they cheerfully throw things like cabbages, condoms, coconuts, medallions, doubloons and strings of beads at frothing, maniacal spectators who then fight over them. The King is usually a middle-aged merchant and the Queen is usually a young woman from a well to do family who has reached drinking age. The King remains masked while the Queen wears Lancôme ™ tastefully. What’s up with that? Again, I don’t know; they’re called ‘Secret Societies’.
Another group of ‘Secret Societies’ is The Mardi Gras Indians. The fact that I consider any ‘Society’ that doesn’t invite me to join them, ‘Secret’ is another issue altogether. The Indians, far and away, would be the last group to ask me in. Why? I can’t sew and I don’t speak their language. Let me explain:
‘The Indians’ trace their roots back to the native Americans that befriended persons of color that they felt a kinship with because of the, non native, persons of non color’s rotten attitude toward anyone besides themselves, middle-aged merchants and young women who had reached drinking age. That’s how I see it, I could be wrong, it’s only my word against anyone else’s.
Anyway, Indians sew elaborate, intricate and complex Native American costumes, the likes of which would have Sitting Bull standing in his grave. They parade in groups of twelve to twenty resplendent in sequins, feathers, fabrics and heavy artillery. In their words “when you see us comin’, better get out the way!”
The Indians chant words like “Jock-imo findo hondo-wando fee nah nay”,
“Iko Iko”, “Tu-way-pa-ka-way. Oowa-a-a!” and “kick your ass on the overpass”. This either means: “my ‘Spy Boy’ spotted your ‘Flag Boy’ and ‘Big Chief’ (from the Metarie Ridge) has a shiny pistol and is “gonna make you jump in de river”, or “War, huuh, (good God, y’all) what is it good for?” (Absolutely nuthin’!).
********************************************
Anyway, Carnival generates a gazillion samollions towards the housing, education, working conditions and welfare of the needy for places like Mexico (tee shirts), Burma (sweat shirts), India (condoms), China (baseball caps), Indonesia (beads) and other parts of this country (food stuffs, plastic ware, breast implants and alcoholic beverages), none of which you’ll ever see. Content yourself with having a good time watching a bazillion of out of towners doing things that they would never do at home and remember:
1. Never drink anything stronger than you are, or of a color not found in nature.
2. Never, ever try to stop someone from acting improperly. One woman that I know did that and got her ass kicked by not one, not two but three ‘visitors’.
3. Don’t fight old ladies for beads. Doing so is a sure way of getting a heel print imbedded on the back of your hand.
4. Dress appropriately. No beads, wallet, credit cards, expensive jewelry or more cash than you care to part with.
5. If someone wants to bet you that they know ‘where you got your shoes’, tell them that they’re not your shoes.
Your loving Uncle, Phil
P.S. If you want the recipe for the $25,000.00 Mardi Gras Cake email me
Plamancusa@aol
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