Emotional New Orleans

The Storm Amongst Us
Or
It’s All Your Fault
Are you as prepared for the next hurricane as you were for your last relationship? You may be in trouble and here is this month’s query: when you see the storm season approaching in your personal life do you batten down your hatches, evacuate or watch and wait for the water to wash you away? Do you cut and run, stay and fight or just suck it up? Yes friends… guess what’s coming to an emotionally and coastally eroded neighborhood near you?
As if life has not already taken us to the limit of our patience. As if the mettle of our core values aren’t being bitch slapped with the frequency and intensity deserving of the dysfunctional passion play that we are caught in. As if we’re all not already being water boarded in the long, dark Guantanamo of our souls (guilty without being charged) every friggin’ day.
We watch the evening weather religiously in the days that we share, with visceral expectation, witnessing the approach of our nebulous nemesis as it turns from depression to storm and possibly into the bogeyman and bane of our existence. As if it (life in general) aint hard enough.
I just now saw that the expiration dates on my evac-ation food supplies are a one way ticket to salmonellaville. I am especially disappointed in my mandarin oranges, Bush’s baked beans and Spam. Le Sueur early peas are good for five years. Louisiana hot sauce and Girl Scout cookies never expire; however, I may have to replenish my Twinkie supply; but, they don’t last long around here anyway.
On the brighter side, it is about time we cleaned out the refrigerator and stockpiled potable water. On the brighter side, it’s June and some lovely couple will be tying the knot that will try them until death do them part. On the brighter side life is a crap-shoot and if we’re to survive with our hides and hearts intact we certainly need a little more practicality and a little less hardheadedness.
Consider the occurrences and incidences in your life as a set of menus, with recipes, available or employed only during a particular time or at particular times of the year. Seasons…seasonings…as you need them fitting the occasion and the weather. A hurricane, a dinner, your career or your relationship; is it time for a new recipe, an old standby or could you simply thaw something that you’ve been keeping on ice? Leftovers? Take out or go out? No meal is the same twice, as hard as we may try for consistency in our lives.
Here’s my impending storm menu:
Appetizer: make sure that the vehicle is ready to roll.
The mechanic, the filling station and the personal sight inspection of peripheries (tires, mirrors, AAA card, fluids and wipers etc.). Wash the car wearing that bikini that you look so cute in (kidding).
1st course: keep updated on impending variances in weather conditions to see how serious the focus should be.
Make sure everyone concerned is on board with the program. You don’t want to be busting your ass while someone else is watching ‘Idols Dancing with the Biggest Loser’ or whatever.
Intermezzo: Check the house for the eventuality of storm and wind resistance, anything that you yourself can guard against.
You can only cover your butt to a certain extent, so do that. Windows, shutters, sand bags and loose plants; however, as we all know, if the floodwalls are going to burst there is no saving anything and the priority becomes the ability to haul ass.
Main course: Of course, supplies. Blankets, batteries, drinking water (and stuff), ice chest, food, tissues (you never know), reading material and road maps. Pet supplies, transistor radio, timepiece, cell phone, children’s essentials (don’t forget the kids!) and first aid.
Plan ahead to reduce your perishables and frozen foods at home to a minimum for the remainder of the season; and, in the days prior to the event plan on eating up anything that you would be reluctant to discard. Eat hot meals… it may be awhile before you eat your own cooking.
Dessert: Now you’re ready to stay or go and whichever the case may be: stay focused and relaxed. Take time to plan your route and the rest stops that you will be taking. Time your departure so that a last candlelight dinner (you did remember candles, right?) is an occasion to cherish. Use the good china and silver, after all, what are you saving them for? If you’ve planned to leave, say goodbye to your remaining possessions. If you’re thinking of sticking it out, be prepared to kiss your sweet ass goodbye.
Now, don’t you wish that life could that simple? If anything goes wrong the chances are that it won’t be your fault. You have met and exceeded your own expectations, the expectations that you have been person enough to live up to on a daily basis. You know that an ounce of preparedness is worth the pound of whup-ass that you’d get if you allowed yourself any complacency. You know that any failure would equal the sentencing of yourself and loved ones to heartache of the highest magnitude. If only your life was able to be guided by an emotional hurricane season that only lasted five months out of the year.
But it’s not like that. You can be the victim of your own good intentions. Honest mistakes can be construed as sabotage and a simple wrong move can damn you. The lesson here is that there is a storm in your life every day and if you are not on your toes, or living in a monastery, you will be tested again and again by the ones that hold you nearest and dearest; and by others that hardly know you at all The lesson here is that you may consider that there is no room for losers in our society and that only winners are looked on as successes. Are you prepared?

June Preview From New Orleans

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Retropression Regression
Or
How About You?
I suffer to say that I’m getting weary trying to keep up with my recession depression sessions. Too true—I have to give myself pep talks just about every four hours to keep from blowing my cool.
I abide by my cool like Little David abides by his sheep; but, like Killer D, (his rapper name) I get called out to smite the giant. The giant in this case is the gathered collective details of my life that are tending to overwhelm me.
I know that it’s June and I should be thinking moon, spoon, croon and bloom like the song lyrics from another life; except that my attention is more than likely focused on the bills that need paying, the storm that is brewing and the responsibilities that I’ve been neglecting. The devil is in the details, they say, and I am bedeviled, bewitched, bothered and bewildered by life’s daily devilish details. Some things go away if you don’t pay attention and some things don’t.
It’s the simplicity of things that gives immediate and lasting joy. Stopping only to taste and not to analyze, enjoying a tender moment and not being self-conscious, sitting a spell and not being tempted to accomplish a task; is for me like the dream of strolling through the Bois de Boulogne’s lush sylvan hush composing poetry. The need to feel invisible, if you get my drift. A yearning. Are you yearning yet? For a good time call… and hang up… nobody’s home.
A placid, idyllic meadow with the quietude of a pause in the day’s occupation; better known as…. fat chance. I usually pass a day in the mental equivalent of ‘steppin’ and fetchin’ like yer pants are on fire and yer ass is ketchin’ mania.
No kidding, I get up early just so that I can go back to bed and get some rest. I work hard even in my dreams, dammit (Janet)! Last night I dreamed that I was learning to play the piano; do you have any idea how hard that is at my age?
Thank god that girlfriend remembers to set up the coffee at night. And for the alarm clock we have Little Rosie (The Wonder Dog! — retired) who wakes up faithfully at 6:45, coughs a few times (allergies) and ‘scrabbles’ (no other word for it) on the floor and if nobody budges barks with the sound like a concentrated version of nails on a chalkboard. And if still nobody budges, she has trained herself to pee on the rug… pretty smart, huh?
Needless to say that Rosie has us trained. If you ignore her, she will not go away. Financial responsibilities will not go away if you ignore them; love will go away if you ignore it. See how that works? The details of life fall into those two categories. Your drinking problem, that ‘little sound’ your car engine makes, that tooth that the filling fell out of and those words that you spoke in haste? Those few extra pounds that you decided to take care of by switching to Jack and diet? Yep, aint goin’ nowhere.
However, that ache in your shoulder where you worked out, the friend that you keep putting off calling, the ice in your drink and your change on the bar should you take too long in the John? Bye.
My friend Scrounge took too many hits of acid one time and thought that a parked ambulance was, as he put it, “a giant ert woim”. It took a while for that one to go away.
With the economy like it is (the OHMYGOD! economy), if you don’t hit the ground running with pedal to the metal where the rubber hits the road hitting on all eight cylinders and every other metaphor that you can think of: shoulder to the wheel, nose to the grindstone and driving it like you stole it with a lot on your plate toward the glass ceiling, at the end of the day you’ll be out of the loop, your ass will be grass and, Bud, life as you know it, will be the lawnmower.
What do you do? What can you do? You can only chop wood and carry water for so long. You can only run on faith for so long. I say that it’s time for God to kick in. How about it Big Guy?
This is your June prayer since you never had the nerve to ask.
Dear God, whomever you may be. Don’t you think that as your creations that have been groveling before you for millennia asking for justice and mercy and the smiting of our enemies, that it is far past time that you stop the ass kicking that you’ve been giving us and let us catch a !@#$%%^&* BREAK?
Yes Lord, it does seem that you’ve been having us hard and dry up against a tree for centuries; how about starting by reopening the Department of Happy Endings? How about putting some peace, love and understanding on this physical plane? I realize that, by all accounts, I am supposed to wait until I’m DEAD to get my reward… but… consider me a trifle impatient. It’s not like we’ve been receiving word from the afterlife. How about working with me, say… NOW? Throw me something Mister Big Stuff!
And hey, if we are really made in your image: why the defects? Why do you make it attractive for people to do stupid and hurtful stuff? Have you considered counseling? Do you have issues?
I admit that you are good at some things, I’ve seen some of your sunsets, your work on cute bunnies and the way you gave us barbecue… those are keepers; but tell me, are you really that pissed at humans that you gotta screw with them the way that you do? How come you do us like you do, do, do? We really do think that it is time for you to let up on the busting of our--- expectations. Amen.
P.S. Oh, that idea of using a waffle iron for grilling vegetables? Thanks.

Nursing Home Blues in New Orleans

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
They say that age aint nothin’ but a number, but I’m not sure that I agree and possibly ‘They’ don’t know what the f**k ‘They’re’ talking about. I agree that age is something that becomes less apparent to a person when adult beverages are being consumed; that is, by the person consuming the adult beverages and of course by other adult beverage consumers in the vicinity. Nothing is more fun than being drunk around a bunch of other drunks, unless you’re not drinking. That's when it's no fun at all.
Recall, if you will, your tipsy Auntie Rose as she did the shimmy-shake (as she recalled it) and how embarrassed you were to be in the same room with her. She was experiencing a time warp and if you had been inside of her, you would have seen a young, very attractive, young girl and not the aging woman that was the product of years and years of hard domestic labor.
But, I digress. Let's start here: There is a certain temperament of person that reads obituaries and they’re usually preoccupied with death. There is also a certain temperament about the person who appears in the obituaries: they’re dead, and if they lived long enough they were old when they died and that in part is the fascination that obituary readers have. The subconscious question in an obit reader is: ‘how long do I have left?’
We ask: who were they? (the deceased) “How come he died so young, or was he very old? Is the body still warm? Is it already cold?”
Do you care what an older person sees when they look out from their eyes? Maybe not, but you’ve read this far.
I can truthfully tell you that they do not see themselves as others see them. The person inside the sixty-plus-year old body is usually no older than twenty-five, except to the person looking at them and if the person looking is a lot younger… that sixty-plus-year old looks more like Methuselah. And if; by the way, Methuselah has not been taking care of themselves their body does not feel, or work, like the twenty-five year old that they imagine themselves to be. There is the stigma of being Peter Pan in an old man’s body. If the stigmatism is worse for men than for women, I couldn’t tell you. All I CAN tell you is this: it sucks getting old.
There’s a song by John Prine that recommends that when you see an older person, look into their eyes and say “hello in there ”. When you get older, you'll find that very few young people will say “hello in there”. So, I say to the youth of today, ‘screw that!’ You’re gonna get old soon enough and if old people feel bad about you not connecting with them, then they just need to suck it up. And don’t feel bad about it, they were the same way about old people when they were young, with few exceptions. Besides, they probably know all the words to that song “Don’t ever hit your Granny with a shovel”, if you get my drift.
When you get older, you’ll find out some stuff about those 'younger persons', which is who you are now. Generally younger people will feel funny about you, and in truth they WILL periodically abide you and sometimes even suffer you. They will be attracted by you, but not to you. There are lessons about getting older that are only learned with age, if you should live that long. So I’ve put together the:
Ten Commandments for Geezers
1. You’re not getting any younger, don’t pretend to be and don’t be ashamed of it. Stop coloring your pubic hairs, it’s too late for that.
2. There are no do-overs, be wise about your everyday actions. Just try not to wear stained clothing, and to trim your nose hairs, it looks weird.
3. Be happy with who you are; you aint got much else, except the fact that you don’t have to work any more and they do.
4. You’d better take better care of yourself, if you haven’t done that good a job of it so far, it might not be too late. Then again it may be too late (but it can’t hurt).
5. Don’t dwell on your age or your past, dwell on how you’re going to go about feeling good about who you are at this moment, when you’re probably about to pass gas.
6. Keep busy, there’s still a lot to do and see, taste, feel and experience. It’s time to spend your retirement money. Eat cake and leave no crumbs
7. Try not to piss anybody off, and by all accounts, you’ve done enough of that already. Don’t judge: they’re just like you are/were.
8. Don’t expect sympathy, understanding or patience from anyone around you, especially from those young shits.
9. Get out more; volunteer to monitor a Happy Hour at the local VFW or some other seedy joint. It’s five o’clock somewhere.
10. Don’t take any more advice, especially from me. It’s all rot.
It does seem a crime that we should age; but, age we do, whether we like it or not. The days of James Dean’s “die young and leave a good looking corpse” have long ago proven to be simply.... lame. What we want now is to live longer, love better, run faster, jump higher, enjoy our bodies and eat/drink whatever the fuck we want!
As the country folk are fond of saying: “you’ll never get out of this world alive”. Which means: keep reading the obituaries, and when one day you find your picture in those pages… curse your friends for not letting you know sooner and catch the first flight outa here; you might cheat death yet.
One can only hope and let me know if you do. You’ve got my number.

Jazz Fest Fantasy New Orleans

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Truffles I’ve Seen
Or
The Fest Is In Venus
I stopped by Matassa’s for a paper on my way into the Quarter. I asked Louie how it was going and he replied that it was.
“Ya Mama an ‘em?”
“Another perfect day”.
Lump was on the corner holding down his first Bushe in a bag (it was only nine thirty) breakfast. He told me that Q’s Annie had told him that A.J. had taken one in his back at a crap game over by St. Peter’s and that he figured that it might be in today’s paper or as he said ‘Not’.
“How’d he catch one in the back?” I asked. “Tryin’ to run” says Lump.
The Lump is one of the leftovers from an older and more colorful French Quarter that you usually only see at Mass, the Polls or outside at the grocery store. They slip by you in the street un-noticed mostly unless you are also in that category yourself. They’re the ones without cameras, beads or funny colored drinks. I’m also one of the leftovers, urbane we are not and damn proud not to be. We remember things about the Quarter that can only be told as ghost stories at social occasions involving adult beverages because, once you start remembering the old Quarter, spirits rise from the pavement like Macbeth’s wraiths and old souls and scalawags wink from shadows.
“I owe’m five bucks and I thought I’d go and put it on a pony for him” says Lump. “You’ve gone mush” says I, “it’s Jazz Fest this weekend”. Lump nods his head solemnly and says “Yeah, yeah, it slipped my mind; I hope they buy something this year”.
“Who?”
“Them rich folks from up North, they’re the only ones that got that money to go, ‘cept they don’t buy nuttin’ from Ronnie or Clarice”. With that, Lump does his best lower lip and pulls his drawers out of his behind.
I start to tell him about all the locals that attend, spend money around town and patronize local shops, realize that I’ve had this conversation many times before and decide to steer the conversation toward my speedy departure from our chance encounter. I ask about the circumstances of A.J.’s latest dilemma. That turns out to be a bad move and I know that I’m gonna be late. Again.
“He’s shootin’ craps upstairs at that place across from Pat O’s and you know what a smart mouth he’s got; well, Spider is up and A.J. says something to him and Spider’s been workin’ all those doubles and is in no mood so Spider tells A.J. to shut his pie hole and A.J. is like ‘yeah, yer sister liked it’ and you know how Spider’s sister was busted just last week and he’s kinda sensitive so Spider pulls his piece and it gets real quiet and A.J. (who’s not all up there anyway) says like he’s Dirty Harry: ‘you aint got the balls’.
Anyway, you know how Spider’s got that wall eye and aint been right since his old man hit him with the tire iron and he lets a couple of caps go and they go wide and A.J. pulls that lamp down on Spider--- that one with the nice shade from Manny’s mama--- and Q’s Annie is comin up to see what’s goin’ on and she’s hittin’ the door goin’ in just as A.J.’s tryin’ to get out, A.J. bounces and Spider’s next cap gets him right above his money belt and he goes down and get this: Spider’s piece jams and he goes for A.J. but you know how A.J. carries that straight razor and he’s got it out of his shoe when Fast Eddie steps on A.J.’s hand and pimp slaps Spider and tells Q’s Annie to call a ambalance ‘cause A.J.’s startin’ to bleed pretty good and they take’m to Touro and he’s pissed ‘cause theys ‘sposed to go to his Parain’s for little Rosie’s Communion on Sunday and say, you aint goin’ to the Fest are ya?”
Right now if I don’t get to work, my balls will be bookends I tell him and he nods again and takes a pull from the straw in his beer; I’m thinking that I’m supposed to notice and ask about the straw so I do and the Lump tells me that the straw is so that he doesn’t have to tip his head back as he drinks. Lump logic.
So, I’m on my way in to work, thinking this and that and how we got people in for Jazz Fest and where I’m going to tell them to go eat. I figure that I’ll just keep it to three since they’ll probably stuff themselves at the event.
1. Willie Mae’s Scotch House (restaurant) for fried chicken
2. Yo Mama’s for crawfish boil and
3. Austin’s for the deep fried roast beef and gravy po-boy
All three have other stuff on their menus worthy of the trips and, Lord knows, I’ve put on the pounds to prove it; but, if I start recommending more places I’ll drive them and myself nuts.
I hope this year that I don’t have to reiterate my cautions on street smarts and receive the pity from another outsider on the tribulations of living here. I know all that and chose to live here and they chose to visit and that should be that. I also know that for all of it’s foibles, fallacies and facts of life that wound me, I live in the greatest city that there is; and once again, I only need express that the only thing worse than living here, for me, would be living anywhere else.
Oh, Ronnie and Clarice work in shops in the French Quarter and Lump says that they’re depending on you to buy stuff from them so’s they can keep their jobs and make their rent. Lump says he don’t need no money ‘cause he’s got asbestos in his lungs from working at the insulation plant and he’s on disability. I told him I’d mention it.

Where Y'at Restaurants in New Orleans

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
La Phire Restaurant
Or
Here We Go Again
My childhood began in the late 1960’s in New Orleans in my late 20’s. At that time there was an epidemic of young people, I don’t know what happened to most of them since then; but, in those days the inmates ran the asylum. The New Orleans young folks dressed strange, thought differently from their elders and were not afraid to speak their mind. The city was one big tribe. For the most part we had all decided to stop working for ‘the Man’ and had told Kemo Sabe to kiss our asses.
The tribe was broken up into smaller groups; singles and couples, twos and threes and twelve and up. These of the latter (12+) were called communes. Communes were loosely based around an ideal, philosophy, art or business venture. There were groups of people concentrating on free clinics, newspapers (called ‘Underground Newspapers’) food distribution, publishing houses, religion and of course those brave souls that kept body and soul together by keeping us supplied with hallucinogens (bless their hearts). I was part of a commune; we had a restaurant.
Sundays were particularly pleasant because the tribe would get together in the park for what we called The Celebration of Life. Naturally the ‘establishment ‘ hated us. Imagine a thousand young people on public land, setting up one geeenormuss picnic on a Sunday afternoon. Bands would perform for no cost, children would run and play, love would be in the air and many of us would be exploring astral planes. Our tribes would meet with other tribes at venues called Rainbow Gatherings---- you had to be there.
For a time, our group lived in a crumbling plantation house on Chippewa Street. Our restaurant, after humble beginnings on Conti Street moved (with us) to a four-story warehouse on Barracks Street. The conditions were more than primitive.
We carved out a theater on the first floor, restaurant on the second and living spaces on the third and fourth. The rent was $500.00 a month, and we were rarely on time in paying it. It was a simpler time; computers were but a rumor, dress codes were non issue and hand held communication devices were the stuff of science fiction. We drank water from the tap, ‘there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air’.
We took in any visitors for three days at a time, after that (with approval) they were welcomed to move in or out. One of our better additions happened when we took in four refugees from a situation up north at Kent State University who decided to stick around. You have to realize that we were living a Never-never land existence, we had a hierarchy, we a cohesion, we had 12-20 of us to keep fed and a business to run. It appears to me now that it is more than a possibility that not one of us knew what we were doing. Sonya was a mother to us all; luckily for us she had a young child and had some practice. There are too many names to mention and each with a story.
If you were lucky enough to come and dine, you would sit at a homemade table in found chairs, the settings were mismatched and the food was simple, nutritious and very inexpensive. We served food that we had learned to cook without the advantage of modern equipment and everything we cooked was in season. We were a block away from, what was then, a fully functional produce market that stretched for blocks and blocks. We lived above the restaurant and we cooked all the time, we baked our own bread and what was good for one of us was good for all of us or it wasn’t good at all. Our lawyer rode his bicycle to cut down on air pollution. We did a lot of shopping at Schwegmann’s; we called ourselves a family.
There was (and still is) a big parking lot next to us that generally had the comings and goings of young nomads and one semi permanent fixture was a mini school bus that had the emblazoned placard reading “Why Not?” And that was just the way it was.
Many times one or more of us would take an outside job to help out financially. One job that I had taken was with the French Market Corporation as a street sweeper. I swept from Jackson Square to Barracks Street from eleven at night until seven in the morning. We worked in teams. I worked with a man named Ely.
At times, produce vendors would put out fruits and vegetables that had become too ripe to sell: tomatoes, squashes, citrus and I would bring them home to be prepped. There was a big shrimp warehouse that trucks of shrimp would come in to, to be unloaded by men with snow shovels. What spilled was mine, usually between five and eight pounds at a time. I once saw a man skin a possum on the dock to take home for dinner.
I’ve seen a dozen sweating blacks offload an open-bed semi of watermelons, tossing them with silent rhythm, glistening like ebony gods of the underworld under an indigo sky. I’ve seen country folk sleeping in beds of corn or onions waiting for the market to open. Feral cats keeping the rodent population down and mating among the smells of the roasting coffee and Old Man River. On the right breeze you could smell the potatoes frying at the chip factory on Elysian Fields.
We would catch breaks at Morning Call, the stand that was in competition with Café Du Monde that still had a ‘Colored’ serving room and what a juke box! After, we would turn on the hydrants just to watch the street flood in the moonlight. We would tell inquirers that we were lowering the level of the river.
I’ve been with members of the tribe as we watched the sun rise in the East over the West Bank and trundled home to the smell of Ray, our baker, getting out the first loaves. To a four story warehouse on Barracks Street that was a restaurant named La Phire.
And you need an article for a Restaurant Issue?

Old And In The Way in New Orleans

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Po Mouf
Or
Old And In The way
I came across an old photo in a book the other day; it was a young guy, a thin guy and he didn’t wear glasses with which to be able to see. Now, this sounds like the beginning of a country western song and I guess you know the next line: “yes, that young guy was me…”
Although I’m still young for a geezer and definitely have some tread left, I seem to be seeing more people around me that are younger and, if I might add…. younger.
Whoo Boy Howdy!!; I could have raised some hackles by ending that sentence with words like cuter, dumber, brighter, weaker or any other adjective that someone long in the tooth says, on a regular basis, about those that they don’t understand that are just plain………. younger.
‘When I was your age’, another phrase of boredom usually begins with, I didn’t give a shit about what someone older than I had to say. Now that I’m older, I don’t listen, any more than casually, to anyone older ---or younger--- about anything. I can usually get by best with my peer group; those folks that when they say: “they told me that I’d get older, they just didn’t tell me that it would hurt” I literally feel them.
I have a very good friend that I worked along side of, as we elders say, back in the day. We were, and still are to some degree, chefs; but we referred to ourselves as “line cookin’ dogs”. Between the two of us, it is safe to say that, we have forgotten more about cooking than the average chef knows today. He’s in Costa Rica and I have a cookbook shop; a tale best saved for much more space and time. Anyway, David and I communicate regularly by email and under the subject space (you know, that little window at the top of the message?) we generally put in the words to songs (of our day) that we knew and could recite easily. We also sign on and off in fictitious names; our beginnings and sign offs take forms such as to: Florenz from: Ziegfeld or Jackie to Gleason, Philip to Morris, Ben from Dover and generally have a grand old time busting each others chops and commiserating on the times that we’re in, the aches that we’ve accumulated and, of course, sex, drugs and Rock n’ Roll. We generally agree that older people didn’t smoke enough dope when they were younger and, younger people haven’t smoked enough yet to talk about. We consider ourselves of a blessed generation. We know Jack.
But wait, it gets better. Back in the day (there I go again) and in a time that not many people remember there was a man named Mel Lyman. He was an avatar and prophet; some said he was god and some said that he was the devil. I know that he was a teacher and the main thing that he taught me was, coincidentally the same thing that Ernie K. Doe taught: “pay attention to your intentions”. I’m trying. It gets confusing.
I don’t want my shoes made by children or my chocolate from slave labor. I don’t want to have the evidence of my existence wind up in a landfill and I want a say in what goes on in my life. By the same token, I want those nouns that are around me (people, places and things) to look further than their noses as to what is really best for all of us collectively, to live with an inquiring and a questioning set of ethics and awareness. And this means you; is that too much to ask? I wonder how would George Carlin would put it?
I was at the corner of Broad and Esplanade waiting for the Shame Train (bus) along with other denizens of my hood. It is a lesson in humility, civility and patience to wait on the Shame Train, I recommend that everyone stay in touch with that school of soft knocks. Folks are reluctant to have conversation with one another; and for good reason. Only those who can’t afford to drive or are incompetent, invalid or indigent have the nerve and reason to bus it. Only those traveling far a field from home bus it.
For me it takes a real steeling to ride the Shame Train and there are times when, frankly, I’ll go on the ‘shoe leather express’ rather than take that ‘humbling’; it’s healthier for mind and body anyway.
So, there I was waiting with my ‘rounds (those that live ‘round me) and abruptly, a couple of young girls started signifying to a couple of young dudes in a pick-me-up truck, talking “bitch this and bitch that and mother f*cker that and N***** the other”. As they spotted me and a like aged black woman they apologized for “dis-‘specting” us “elders”. “Okay, fine, don’t worry”.
I turned to the woman and asked: “did you see that special on television on Petey Greene?” Well, you know a conversation can only go so far when the person that you’re talking to doesn’t understand who or what you’re talking about, and we got no further. Going no further sucks.
Where am I going with this? Just this: this is the year of the teacher and the student, and time is a terrible thing to waste. This Spring can be a new awakening; primavera means Spring: the first truth (and not a pasta dish), it’s time to shake out the cobwebs from the winters of our discontent and be positive influences on our lives and in the lives of others.
Going… going…
And, as this is one of the tougher pieces that I’ve written. I’ve read it over and over again trying to get my point and it turns out that my point is, quite frankly, purely subjective. There is way too much bullshit in our lives and I’ve been taking it in and dishing it out and not listening to my Teachers as I should. However; Spring is a good time to make changes, isn’t it?
River Deep—Mountain High

Day Trips from New Orleans

Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Vacationing At The Beginning Of The World
Or
Lafayette, We Are Here
The train pulls in like a tired, wet mule; breathing slow and hard, unable to shake the same wet and heat off that any junkyard cur has the inherent gift and liberty of doing, and sitting patiently achuffing as a group of passengers get off ahuddling under yesterday’s newspapers and dime store umbrellas to take a cigarette smoke break under the lone oak that plays depot to the town that is on the verge of realizing its own potential pure yet dormant, The year is 2002 but it could be a scene from a hundred years ago, rain is falling steadily, unaffected by, and not affecting, the heat. The precipitation feels like humidity personified. (Forgive the first paragraph-I is reading Faulkner)
We pick around the mud and start walking toward what appears to be ‘town’. We share three canvas bags and no umbrella. The rain is slowing and it’s four blocks before we find someone to ask directions from. We're headed the right way, but for sure, we’re not in the French Quarter any more.
Five blocks further and we reach The Blue Moon Hostel. As described, it IS right across from the Borden’s Ice Cream Parlor. Three kids (read: any adult at least half our ages) stand, beaming at us as if we were the village idiots who had finally found their way home. Two are male and that’s as much as I notice about them except that they are apparently unarmed (there’s the New Orleans coming out in me), the third is a charming woman, worthy of every positive adjective I can think of.
Anyway, with a smile that could charm puppets, paupers, pirates, poets, pawns and Kings (that’s life!) she says “looking for a room?” she’s actually grinning and on her it’s the grin of a window being raised in a stuffy room. The very air became lighter and fresher.
“No, I think we already have one” Debbie starts, “We’re looking for…”
and in unison three of us say “…Catherine!” and share a laugh. Sounds stupid, felt great.
“Welcome and welcome howareya jahavagoodtrip and I’ll show you in and we’ll be back in twenty minutes we’re goin’ for ice cream make yourselves at home”. Yes we were really not in the French Quarter, ice cream indeed!
It’s been like going to Grammy’s house. Living room, dining room, big kitchen, bedrooms, bunk rooms, back yard, front yard. Cozy, spacious, hospitable and definitely ‘Home’ (with a capital ‘H’) and more about this later.
To make a long story longer: we dropped off our bags and went to find ‘town’. After all it was only mid day Monday and we were anxious to see the sights.
Armed with a McDonald’s map of the downtown we found Jefferson St. and walked its length, about twelve of their blocks. We passed about four people. We found some businesses. They were all closed. We found some bars. They were closed except for the one (Chips) that we had a drink at that was closing in an hour. The most action we found was at Circle K.
Naturally delighted (not), we returned to the warmth of Blue Moon, made our dinner in the communal kitchen, opened our bottle of wine (word: never travel to unexplored territory without at least two bottles of a familiar wine, corkscrew and enough snacks for a family of four per person), sat in the back yard for a spell and then went inside, cuddled up on the couch and read our respective books (never go anywhere without a book. Never. Anywhere.) Miles Davis was playing softly and the City Rats (us) finally started to chill. I think that’s when we got it.
Believe it or not, what we consider our fair city; our Big Easy, to be: laid back; can only be true when we compare ourselves to other cities much larger than ourselves, like New York or Chicago. It seems, from even my limited perspective, that even a blind person could see that we’re all running around like lunatics here. We (in New Orleans) don’t take a walk on the wild side, we go at it like we’re keepin’ score on how much we can get accomplished, and you know what? Other people don’t do that! Not even other people a hundred or so miles from here that say that they live in a city called Lafayette, Louisiana.
Listen, we were on the Amtrak, snackin’ down, curlin’ up, happy as clams, watching the world go by, and two women whom we couldn’t help but notice came through the car, jouncing around, and as they pass us one says to the other “I’m gonna go slam back some Jack, this is soooo boring!” Huh? Well, it seems like this particular train didn’t have a designated smoking area and, have you ever seen a smoker going through a nicotine jones? Of course not. A smoker here can smoke pretty much wherever and whenever they want. Same with drinkers, gamblers and any other kind of stimulus junky. We don’t have to, but the point is we can.
Heads up! What did you do on your day off? Answer: you did too much!
The next morning, we looked at Lafayette through different eyes. The place is sweet. They have an Arcadiana Fest each September, they’re building a Planetarium, have a Children’s Craft Center, buildings 150-200 years old, antique shops and was the capitol of French Louisiana. Bring your car, there’s a lot to see outside of it as well. The place is et up with culture. They give tours fer Chrissakes!
We went to Don’s Seafood Restaurant; it was like a dinner from a time capsule, circa 1965. Lost in space and time and free of the !@#$%^&*( pretensions that we seek here.
Upon reading the brochure, at the Greyhound Bus terminal (the train was running eight hours behind, but they are building a terminal for it to stop at. I’ll miss that tree), I found out that the full name of our lodgings is The Blue Moon Guest House and Saloon. They have music on the weekends, guests from around the world, the most affordable prices and co-op type atmosphere. Except for the convenience of computers (they have a website too), you would think that you just stepped back in time, and, yes; I did go out for ice cream!