Dazeball World Serious

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

            Yes, we’re in the thick of baseball season. Baseball described by Brazilian friends as the “hit the boll with a stick run around in a circle” game that is near and dear to the heart of any red blooded American who believes in apple pie, Mom, the NRA and people pulling themselves up by their bootstraps (even those with no boots).

            Okay, here we are in the World Serious--game seven-- each team has won three and this one is for the whole enchilada. The Chicano Red Sox are playing the New York Wankers for the title of ‘World Champion. It’s a cool, clear day in the Wankers’ stadium, the fans sit half-dozing in their seats, women in tight dresses and men with powerful thirsts and a taste for tubes of mystery meat wrapped in bread garnished with a spiced yellow substance which we thought was mustard, but wa snot.

            The score is tied at nothing to zero in the bottom of the ninth and if this game goes into extra innings the crowd will surely riot. To pay good money for this much boredom is close enough to criminal to warrant at least one arrest. The air smells of stale beer, cooked swine, sun tan oil and pot. Runners at first and third and this year for the first time each team has brought picnic lunches and barbecue grills. The Wankers are holding their annual carwash in center field complete with women in skimpy swimsuits. The Sox not to be outdone are passing around shots of tequila and funny cigarettes.

            Up at bat is the Wankers’ Lefty Miller who is batting right handed since being hit by a fly ball in the sixth inning while waving at the crowd and still making a spectacular catch with his cap. He eyes the pitcher warily sensing a real showdown. The pitcher Willie Mantle is answering a text from home plate while the catcher counts to five four times with his left hand signaling Willie’s famous twenty second slow ball which can be swung at three times before passing the plate effectively banishing another batter to the dugout bullpen walking slow and singing sad.

            Lefty steps up to the plate, swings a few times for practice, spits, grabs his crotch and hits his shoe with the bat before crossing himself and looking up to heaven for the Lord’s sanction. Willie grabs his crotch and spits, looking to the first baseman who spits and then grabs his crotch, the runner on first spits twice and grabs his crotch with both hands; soon both teams are spitting and grabbing crotches (theirs and those of their teammates); the umpires call a time out to gather and lecture both team’s crotches… er….coaches who are eating sunflower seeds and spitting the seeds out and scratching the backs of their necks. Soon the umpires are scratching their necks and chewing tobacco because they don’t have any sunflower seeds, but still feel the need to spit something to stay part of the game in solidarity.

            The play continues and the ball is thrown. Swung on and missed, strike one; a snore goes up from the crowd. The catcher returns the ball and Willie throws again,. Close and inside  and Lefty puts one high on the outside over right field, the right fielder picks the ball on the bounce stops to take a selfie , throws to home and the runner is picked off at the plate after a ten yard slide, the call is ‘out’ and the score remains tied, nada nada. After snuffing out the runner from third the catcher tweets his prowess to the multitude of his followers. Lefty holds on at first and instagrams his arrival with a pose with the first base coach who slaps him on the ass and high fives are passed around.

            The score is still zip to zilch at the top of the ninth with runners on first and second, two outs and up to the plate comes Pee Wee Romano the Chicano short stop, who walks to the plate slips under the ump’s arm and steps on the catchers foot. He swings two bats and throws one over his shoulder, hisses under his breath and shoots a dirty look at the pitcher who is on his cell phone and with his back turned tosses the ball which Pee Wee bunts, slides to first, trips the first baseman and the bases are loaded. The crowd wakes up. And as if you cannot guess what happens now, Mighty Casey comes to bat. Wearing headphones.

            The time is now the place is here, folks; top of the ninth bases loaded and so is Casey. The pitcher throws one at his head and the call is ‘ball one’. Next pitch is a screaming fast ball that catches Casey unawares and : Steeeerike One!!!” two pitches follow quickly, aimed at his knees and feet, and the call stands at three balls and one strike. The women are throwing their panties into the infield and the men are calling their mistresses.

            Mighty Casey points his bat over center field to indicate where his next homer is going to land and Willie takes a wad of spit from under his cap and greases the ball, the coach rubs his stomach, picks his nose and pulls at his belt. The catcher is signaling in sign language and the pitch is thrown. Casey, Mighty Casey, Huge, mean, powerful, godlike Casey swings his mighty bat …………..and misses. Men cry, women faint, children pick pockets and snatch purses

This is the moment of truth; bases are loaded, full count to the batter, the best batter the league has ever seen and the pitcher winds up; but before the pitch is thrown the skies open up and it starts to pour rain and the game is called at nil to nothing. Tune in tomorrow..

           

           

Me For Mayor

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Supreme Commander

Or

Hizzonah Myself

            So you want to know what I would do as your next Mayor? Well, I don’t blame you; as y’all know, this city has more issues than Good Housekeeping and I having to tackle each and every one of them is the foundation of my platform… plus this:

1.    I wouldn’t take a salary and would donate that money to the food bank.

2.    I would live and stay put in this city for the duration of my term.

3.    I would never lie, misconstrue or evade in my communications.

4.    Period.

My first manner of leadership is to tell you things that you do not want to hear and institute policy that is for everyone’s good and safety. Such as, I see no need in our city to allow anyone to possess an assault or rapid fire weapon for any reason. If that pisses some people off--- so be it.

We have a civic vampire attitude running rampant through our city that’s sucking the life out of us all; therefore I propose that we stop making our city a suck city.  And I propose that we all let eachother know how we are bringing us down by saying something.

1.    If you mistreat your children, spouses or pets: you suck.

2.    If you litter, don’t recycle or conserve resources: you suck.

3.    Merchants, landlords and businesses that screw people: suck.

4.    You don’t vote: you guessed it.

5.    Inconsiderate, rude or abrasive? You so suck.

Okay, you’re riding to work and you see me doing something counterproductive to our city’s good name; you need to yell at me “Hey Phil…. You suck!” Period.

Next I would have a website called NOLApedia where you can get information about what’s going on in the city and why; such as  “what the heck have they been doing on Louisiana Avenue all this time?” or “Why do I see one city worker digging a hole in my street and why does it take six people to supervise him?” or “why do the public swimming pools close down in August,  what happened to free citywide WiFi  or why do we have solar trashcans and inadequate street lighting?” “What ever happened to the crime cameras that we were promised?” Stuff like that.

How about I base, as a cornerstone of my campaign, permanently repairing our streets? Would you like that? How about if your mayor and city council members personally answered your phone calls and your emails? You don’t keep up with what your elected leaders are up to? (you suck.) How about if I create a position in government called “City Mother” to look after motherly concerns like “how do I control that 14 year old that is terrorizing my chickens?”

How about a policy that makes a parent responsible for their child’s stupidity? How about if a mugger had to pay his victim’s inconveniences? What if the police were in shape and actually walked their beat and not segue? How about we ease the heck up on the Nazi parking policies?

Listen, (I’m told) there is a little known statute on our books called ‘proof of gainful employment’ (the vagrancy statute); the police have been using it for years to harass African Americans returning from work at night (betcha didn’t want to hear that one). If that’s true, why do we have the same vagabonds on the same corners of our neighborhoods and who are those people holding signs begging for money at our intersections and how can we really help them? Speaking of which, how come we don’t have licenses for street ‘entrepreneurs’ who make their living from the kindness of visitors and strangers (and have them file taxes like the rest of us)? And if we have enough legislation on our books to make us a great city, why are we not able to enforce these rules, like getting pets spayed and neutered (it IS the law).

Why do we treat our elders and disabled like they’re throwaway citizens? Why don’t we put a deposit on cans and bottles (and to go containers?)  And get rid of plastic grocery bags and all Styrofoam, while we’re at it.

I also propose things like putting into effect the raise in minimum wage that the voters voted for years ago and also to give minimum wage to hospitality workers. Restaurant owners won’t like that but, hey; there are more waiters that vote than owners, so what the heck. Also I would strive to create more jobs, and more jobs outside of the hospitality sector by citing that we don’t need more dishwasher and busboys---we need more carpenters, plumbers and electricians. What does that mean? That means that every kid does not have to go to college and get a degree in political science that will only be used in getting them a job in a restaurant.. We need vocational schools and we have places for them.

And yes, everyone in this city needs access to healthcare that’s affordable to their level of income (and NO compromise on that!). And on and on.

In short, I don’t want to live in a sucky city and I propose (with your help and cooperation) to lead us out of that. Heck after that I may run for governor so that our state doesn’t suck. And who knows, sometime in the future you may see a Presidential contender who is running on the platform of “We don’t need to suck as a country anymore!”

Bob's in the hospital

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Wounded Bird

Or

The Kindness of Strangers

The call comes in as we knew someday it would. Bob’s in the hospital and it ain’t lookin’ good.

You know, when we’re born, we’re all dealt an unjust hand with which to make sense of our lives and desires. Deal with it; life isn’t fair. We all live with seemingly irreversible idiosyncrasies-- which affect us personally –that we’re stuck with. For most of us it’s merely an insecurity that we live with: am I fat, balding, weak, unattractive or will I ever have enough wealth/fame/power to live well? I’m going to die?

Born with Cerebral Palsy (and a 157 I.Q.), Bob’s had a much harder road to hoe than most of us. On the plus side: He’s extremely independent. on the other side of the coin: Bob’s short on taking responsibility for his life, health and welfare. That’s major challenges that Bob faces, or in his case, didn’t face. Bob’s basically screwed.

Bob has his own apartment, motorized scooter and is on the dole; things are hunky-dory, right? No. Bob; has a health care aide that doesn’t show up except maybe to put him on the toilet, Bob lives in his chair, sleeping and not being groomed at all. Bob fritters away his income except on his lights, heat and air conditioning. The end of January, when Bob has not turned on his heater, Bob is taken to a hospital with his body locked in silting position, dirty, smelling of the infections that have swollen his legs and brought them to the point of ooze.

Bob is happy, briefly, to be taken care of until he finds that his salvation has become his prison; flat on is back (with his legs still locked) Bob lacked the strength to feed himself. The aid and assistance (at the facility) Bob received was swift and professional; unfortunately, Bob had let himself deteriorate for so long that his comeback will be long and arduous. Add to that that Bob is not a self starter; his stay consists of him in bed with a diaper on, a radio and a television that he watches (old movie channel) with the sound off and Girlfriend and I, his gophers, who bring him treats, real food (facility provides pureed diet), and pep talk visits at least four times a week,.

Now hear this, Bob’s stay is paid by Medicaid/care for the first hundred days and after that he is either discharged or he stays and (all) his income/assets belong to the facility, they’ll give him $38.00 a month for himself and he’ll be there, barring outside assistance for the rest of his life. On his back. In a diaper. Eating pureed food.

The facility does not have a barber on staff, nor a dentist and a doctor visits pretty much sporadically and infrequently. There is probably 30 nurses to every doctor and a like amount of attendants. If you’d like to see the place that people go and become invisible, visit one of these ‘Nursing/Healthcare Centers’.

Now don’t get me wrong, Bob gets three squares, physical therapy, nurses that care about him specifically, medications, speech therapy and a social worker to conduct his stay. For the rest of his life. They do the best they can. Bob is only sixty-two years old; he wants to get out but cannot. At first he was very adamant, wanting his chair so that he could leave (I personally rode his scooter up the two miles to him----giving me great respect for those in such vehicles). He then resigned himself to care and through the weeks I have been with him through his myriad of moods: fear, depression, anger, frustration, indignity, helplessness, loneliness, and near rage. I have kept his rent paid and his bills; I’ve cleaned his apartment and donated his music collection to anyone who would keep and appreciate it. I have raised what money I can to keep his life available once he’s able, if ever, to go home. I have a new home aide service in place to aid him upon his discharge. It’s complicated.

Friends and acquaintances have sent cards, kids have drawn pictures; we have given talks to Bob from ‘attaboy’ to ‘get off your ass’. I’ve endeavored to keep up his spirits; but you know what(?) I’m not the one in a broken body, bed bound twenty-four-seven with nothing but my thoughts and vulnerability. I’m the impotent friend that can do nothing to help him back to the life he misses and bring him creature comforts and explore ways to get him back to his form of a normal life. Sometimes when I feel frustrated I imagine his plight and realize how blessed I am.

Bob’s doctor and therapist advise him of the riskiness of him going home now and he’s being moved to the residency area of the facility, a hundred days have passed. They told me that his recovery is in his own hands; he’s come a ways but has a long way to go. No one has told him how long that will be so, Bob’s in limbo. It’s up to Bob to overcome his tendency for inaction regarding his welfare and work harder. I believe in Bob, I have faith in him. I pray for him. My troubles are nothing compared with his.

The Verb to Be

FROM THE ARCHIVE

The Verb to Be

February 19, 2015 | by Dan Piepenbring

André Breton in 1924.

André Breton’s poem “The Verb to Be” originally appeared in our Spring 1985 issue.

I know the general outline of despair. Despair has no wings, it doesn’t necessarily sit at a cleared table in the evening on a terrace by the sea. It’s despair and not the return of a quantity of insignificant facts like seeds that leave one furrow for another at nightfall. It’s not the moss that forms on a rock or the foam that rocks in a glass. It’s a boat riddled with snow, if you will, like birds that fall and their blood doesn’t have the slightest thickness. I know the general outline of despair. A very small shape, defined by jewels worn in the hair. That’s despair. A pearl necklace for which no clasp can be found and whose existence can’t even hang by a thread. That’s despair for you. Let’s not go into the rest. Once we begin to despair we don’t stop. I myself despair of the lampshade around four o’clock, I despair of the fan towards midnight, I despair of the cigarette smoked by men on death row. I know the general outline of despair. Despair has no heart, my hand always touches breathless despair, the despair whose mirrors never tell us if it’s dead. I live on that despair which enchants me. I love that blue fly which hovers in the sky at the hour when the stars hum. I know the general outline of the despair with long slender surprises, the despair of pride, the despair of anger. I get up every day like everyone else and I stretch my arms against a floral wallpaper. I don’t remember anything and it’s always in despair that I discover the beautiful uprooted trees of night. The air in the room is as beautiful as drumsticks. What weathery weather. I know the general outline of despair. It’s like the curtain’s wind that holds out a helping hand. Can you imagine such a despair? Fire! Ah they’re on their way … Help! Here they come falling down the stairs … And the ads in the newspaper, and the illuminated signs along the canal. Sandpile, beat it, you dirty sandpile! In its general outline despair has no importance. It’s a squad of trees that will eventually make a forest, it’s a squad of stars that will eventually make one less day, it’s a squad of one­-less-­days that will eventually make up my life.

Translated from the French by Bill Zavatsky and Zack Rogow.

TAGS Andre Breton, back issues, despair, French writer

This is NOT poetry

Tea and Oranges

There is no new poetry, there are only new poets. Excited wild wide eyed innocents and morose maudlin mopers, alike and as if new, continue to splash additional tattoo-like thoughtful art ink letters (flotsam really), to wash upon the sand skin shores of blank crushed vegetable pulp. Hieroglyphics. Flying kites. Fishing lures. Bread crumb clues from wayward mind meanderings, forming words strung together, or scattered; painting pictures to resonate in our mind’s eyes, whose sole purpose is literary terrorism. Once arms are taken up there is no about face.

The telephone party line of life making a call to the imaging thesaurus of our thoughts, dreams and, crystallizing faith, fomenting feelings……………. Ideas, credence and beliefs signaled in so many curves and angled lines; so many words; so many pictures. Language. Squiggles. Star analogies hung on the Christmas tree of the indigo night sky; the prickly cosmic hitchhiker stickers giving them importance, meaning, value and merit; hung in the endless infinite otherwise vacant heavens with the moon shining like pattern baldness on a geezer’s pate. There is no new poetry, there are only new poets, guerilla word soldiers armed with loaded language, sniping words to be fixed together, reminiscent dots interpretively connected forming the images that reverberate, vibrate, resound, echo, resonate, explode, catch fire, create light, significance and substance. Boom.      

Thousands of thoughts and feelings; these are heartset dulcimer strings that have always been a little out of tune, strum them; these are the fruits of our Johnny apple trees, pluck them anew like emotional fruit, sometimes ripe, sometimes not. We open our minds and accept the call, stringing the feelings and experiences of past present and futures born in pain and nurtured into comfort with the milk of fancies, desires, visions, dreams, hopes and fantasies fed by the world around us within us without us. Nowhere to go that we haven’t been that isn’t there until we arrive. Willing or not. One plodding, skipping, racing heartbeat hoof in front of another. In the beginning was the word.

An emotional New Orleans gumbo served up to our mind-senses is a flavor of what has already  been recognized, identified, made out, tasted already digested known.  Learn that we already know that which is not already known. How do we know not know? Learning nothing new, anew, somnambulating into a greater wake-fullness. Wiser than we think dumber than we look. Newness. Newness:  the old shirt that we find at the bottom of our awareness laundry pile. Whatever doesn’t register we picture, envision, make up, visualize, imagine. Confusions of grandeur. What color is red?

Reading poetry brings to

Mind, the joyous gathering

Of sea foam, humid August

 Nights under the sly Orion

Constellation, wearing SPF 50

And gossamer Shadow glasses.

Martin Block is conducting the

Orchestra on the volcanic shores

Of The Make-believe Ballroom

Washing your cares away with

Oil slick tones extorting all his

Shoeless children to come dance.

            To be read again and read it again to fathom, digest and get intrinsic meaning from the words poured forth, spread out and condensed in bite sized form and fashion, tid-bit teasing surprised poultry into pausing mid-road to find rhythm or rhyme, dancing beach tar queen, smoky sloe eyed, sandal-footed wordsmith courtesan; beckoning, one step ahead of our stumbling ability to keep up. A treasure map. That crab stepping pirate leaving hints and allegations that whisper “I know and you do not, repeat after me, repeat after me, assess, dissect and leave no more informed than when you took up the task; you knew the job was dangerous when you took it.” Solipsitically speaking, the significance exists only as the meaning was implied and not as you imagined.

            Selfish writer expounding Kindness

            Compassion charity truth and love.

            Cloaked nuances of sex and power

            Hide agendas in shadowed rhetoric

 Placate me not with false promises.

Come clean villain expose your lies

           

Serpents swallowing tail’s testimony line

By line X marking the spilled ruby blood

Spots at the foot of the umber innocent’s

 Crucifixion turning into self immolation

Disguised as sheaves of sleeping grain

Prestidigitation of the written wordsmith

Now you see hidden meanings now you don’t

The ingredients remain constant, the only constant is the change, the only change has slipped between the cushions of your consciousness and you search for the meanings of poetry as for nickels and pennies to buy another pack of Lucky Strikes. The poet is the devil daring to mesmerize, confuse, tantalize, puzzle and perplex; rebuke him, oh Lord, we humbly beseech you.  Damn their nickel dickering soulless word excursions nebulous cumulous cloud illusions; I recall cold comfort from cheerless climes. Mona Lisa smiles, stumbling blocks, stepping stones, a lead down the garden path, over the river and through the woods. In the beginning mine eyes saw the glory and now the expressions become another jambalaya served up by pensive Polymnia for Orpheus her son, who reposes in the dirt yard playing with rollypollies. Pray she slakes his mind’s thirst, satisfies his hearts desires, watch his soft lips repeat the food of words meanings: the moon and sauerkraut; for better or for worse and to Hell and back if you really care.

            The bard then takes pity with meter and rhyming

next eases our plight mastering tempo and timing

Our simple mind’s eye comprehends easy relevance

Because truth be told there’s no strain on intelligence

As ditties likewise recited from youthful awareness

Reveal evidence of poetry’s magnanimous fairness.

Grown jaded and graying into ill-tempered maturity

still savagely take pleasure from youthful obscurity

words crooned hypnotic while on soft knees seated

sing song sweet narratives blurred lessons repeated.

And pity the fool who blind performs (when they can)

The arabesque that starts “there once was a man…”

Separation Anxiety

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Separation Anxiety

Or

“There’s no more room! There’s too much stuff!!

  I’m a born collector, I collect stuff; and if collecting stuff ever became illegal, I’d  have to plead insanity. I’m crazy about collecting! (stuff).  Accepting this seemingly harmless addiction as a fact of my life have, enjoying living with it, and loving it; I’ve never considered a support group nor an intervention. I ‘m at home with my obsession. “Too much of everything is just enough” I say. My life and living spaces reflect that sentiment; I resemble that remark. America (the world) is full of us collectors but, unfortunately there is a down side to our lifestyle: what happens to all of our stuff when we go away?

What happens when we get sick, leave town, get pinched, evicted, become incapacitated, decapitated, hop on the bus (Gus), go into a facility, take it on the lam or die from bad ham.  What happens to our stuff? What happens is that someone else has to deal with it.

“Not me!” I hear you say “nothing and no one will ever separate me from my stuff!” So, okay, tell me: is your job that secure, your home life that stable, your finances that protected? Is your health, surroundings and way of life immune to harm (or bad ham)?  It’s fine to live with an optimistic attitude; but you know, sh*t happens and your support group is only as strong as their finances, health and well being. Truth be told, we’re all one step away from the loss of the independence that is crucial to the custodianship of our belongings.

Bob is my friend. He is no longer able to take care of himself. He is at the mercy of the public health system and has no one to take him in, give him support and/or assist him in his daily life. Bob has an apartment full of stuff. Guess who Bob calls? I’ll give you a hint: it isn’t Ghostbusters.

To get into Bob’s house I need his keys, I need a note to the landlord, I need to get past security. I’m thinking that Bob is going to move back, I spend time cleaning, straightening; hell, I even construct new shelves for his stuff. It’s looking like that won’t be the case and now it’s up to me to handle that. This cannot happen over a weekend; get rid of his stuff, stuff that he has lovingly collected and stuff that (mostly) no one else wants. To take charge of his responsibilities, make sure his affairs are settled, creatimg order out of the chaos that he’s leaving behind is work.

A**** and G**** were my landladies when I lived on Dauphine Street. They had lived in the house since childhood, they grew up in the streets of the French Quarter, went to mass at the Cathedral, shopped at Matassa’s, their husbands were waiters at Antoine’s. G***** was sent to a nursing home. A**** never came back after Katrina. Their apartments were emptied and their personal effects put into trash bags and left on the curb for the evening garbage truck. A crocheted tissue box holder, a ball of twine collected from the restaurant, a bottle of holy water, a report card from their child’s second grade class. Landfill. Up for ridicule. The tree that their father planted in 1955 has been cut down. The building is now condos. It’s as if they had never been born.

John’s mother committed suicide when she was twenty-seven and he was three. He and his little sister were raised by their Dad in a house by the beach. His Dad was an engineer and John became one also. John took his own life at twenty-seven. His kid sister kept the photo album of John’s (and her) baby photos. She lived a long life.

I found the photo album at a thrift store, after she passed; they were about to throw away the photos and sell the album on its own. I have the album (with the photos) and John (and his sister) will live with me as long as we can hold out. Eventually something will happen to me and my stuff will have to be dealt with.

I love my stuff; my stuff anchors me here, keeps me connected to my home and environment. Willingly. Someday I will go away (see above), and my things, that I’ve collected, that help my sanity and stability, will no longer have a home. I tend to anthropomorphize my belongings and as much as I am going to miss them, I know that they’re going to miss me as well.

Sadly, I think that I’d better stop collecting stuff and maybe start letting go of some of what I have. I can call it ‘downsizing’ or maybe just easing the burden that I would place on whoever has to, someday, clean up after me. Perhaps it would have been better if I had not kept so many possessions. Maybe I’ll do it because I've been given a lesson by those that have passed before me. Stuff is just stuff, after all...................Or is it?

Writer's picks Spring 2015

Writer’s picks 2015

By

Phil Lamancusa

The ‘other’ Best radio station: WTIX FM 94.3

            “Today’s music ain’t got the same soul; I love that old time Rock n’ Roll!” Mention Public Radio and listener supported ‘Guardian of the Groove’ and I’ll say “I love them both!” However, get me putting screen on the door, cutting back banana trees in the yard or driving across town to pick up my Girl and you’re gonna hear a bunch of TIX. (Casey Kasem on Sunday. Word.)

The best taste of New Orleans: Destination Kitchen Tours

            Got company coming?  Send/take them on a culinary tour with stops at local food vendors and guides that can fill them up with the history and traditions of our city’s iconic culinary culture. Put your money where your mouth is and get satiated! The walking/eating tour takes three hours and is filling in soul and stomach; BTW: tipping is appropriate and appreciated. Tell them Phil sent you. .www.destination-kitchen.com 

Best place to take the tots: The Children’s Museum

            So, you’re having a good time, your friends are having a good time; the kids need a good time. Three floors of unadulterated kid’s stuff to do, see, touch, run, skip, dress up and play, play, play! Hours of fun and a gang of young adults to pick up after them. A play restaurant, food store, story time, hideaway spots, art, education and much, much more. 420 Julia Street 504-523-1357