Jazz Fest 2019 first week

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Nearer My God

Or

Walk It Off

            Okay Sparkles, you’ve made it to the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival gates, or simply put (like a native) “ yer at da Fest!” There’s really only one ‘Fest’ in New Orleans, other gatherings are simply piggy backing on the usage of the word ‘Fest’ and use it as an adjective and not a noun. Got it? Good.

            Now, take your clothes off and come inside; I’m speaking metaphorically of course, unless you’d really like to disrobe and that’s more than fine with me. You go right on Brothers and Sisters, it’s a free country last I checked (about 1967).

I’m talking about the shedding of all that crap that you’ve been putting up with for the last year and which will await you after you leave the Fest. Those layers of protection and personality that you need put on to get through life’s daily sh*t storm. Leave all that stuff outside, you won’t need it inside and besides that baggage doesn’t do you any good inside. That’s the first piece of advice I have for you and the only one you’ll need. Trust me.

All of the ‘outside’ aspects of your life require of/from you a degree of perfection, efficiency and responsibility: get up, get dressed, go to work, pay your bills, dress your part,  be smart, funny, wise and witty or simply sit down and shut the f**k up; AND be good and quick about it! Find the love of your life, settle down; if you want you can marry. You want other people to admire you, look up to you, listen to your wisdom, take you seriously or not at all. When in doubt, you’ll take a selfie and post it on social media, hoping for some ‘likes’ to vindicate you existence. Consider that that’s life’s reoccurring olfactory bovine excrement experience. At the Fest it’s just horse manure that you’ll smell.

            Anyway--once inside--you’ll see your brothers and sisters are just here to have a good time, listen to music and eat food; it’s great to see so much fun. Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer and Indian Chief: you purchase your ticket and the rest of the day is Coolsville. Occasionally you’ll see complainers and want to ask “if you don’t like it, why are you here and why don’t you leave?” Resist that temptation; absolve them and pass on. Right now there’s Rosemint tea, praline stuffed beignets, Brocato’s gelato and wonderful Quail Andouille Pheasant Gumbo; stroll around the grounds until you feel at home Mrs. Robinson, Al Green loves you more than you could know.

Figure that this is the evolution of the rock concerts of a half a century ago except there’s no free kitchens, limited access to controlled substances and, for the most part, no children will be conceived on premises; god I miss those good old days. It’s now 2019 and the Rolling F**king Stones are gonna be here (!); okay, if you’re really cool they don’t matter as much as the weather, John Boutte, the line at the Cochon de Lait po boy stand and the glorious feeling of cosmic amnesia. Today--inside--there’s no tomorrow, there was no yesterday; there’s only now.

            I admit it, I am a Fest junky. I buy my tickets early, I attend every day (well, maybe not that $185.00 day), I take off work, I save my money, I live one block away and my Fest starts when I wake up and goes well into the evening. I don’t drink alcohol until after I leave the Fest (when it closes at 7:00 PM) and then I sit on my porch or wander the neighborhood enjoying the afterglow and action. The first weekend I have a big pot of red beans and rice for our dinners and the second weekend another big pot, this one with gumbo. Nice breakfast before we wander over. Always getting there for the opening bell.

            I may carry a small shoulder bag with a towel or heavier shirt, sunscreen and my 32 oz bottle of water that I bring in—it’s allowed—unopened. I don’t mind standing in lines, I avoid crowds and know the best places to see any stage without being crushed. I know where the good bathrooms are. I’m never bored, disappointed or discouraged. I’m your model Fest attendee; somebody should give me a friggin’ medal!

            Back to you. As you know, there’s music going on around town after the Fest and it doesn’t stop for days, day in and day out; but, you know, you’ve got to set your pace. Go out afterwards but stay sharp for the next day; remember, this is a marathon and not a sprint

            And, just a head’s up: these musical geniuses that you witness at the Fest are not going to just get in their jet and split after their performance and they’ve got to go somewhere to relax and chill. For example: on the second Thursday, is it possible at all, at all, that after the shows shut down, that Mavis, Mick, Ivan Neville, Ziggy Marley, Rita Coolidge and Big Sam’s Funky Nation are just going to retire to their hotel suites and take the rest of the night off? Or… any of the other performers on any other evenings? Are they just pimping their talent or…. do they really enjoy what they do? Keep your twitter feed open, Sparky, Bonnie Raitt might be cruising Bullet’s Bar with Delfayo, Branford and maybe Irma Thomas. As they say “In New Orleans the music never stops”; a good reason not to overindulge in anything that will mind bend you into being missing in action missing the action. That’s it, have fun, live long and prosper; go forth knowing the value of time well spent.

           

Stoneless

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Who’s On First?

Or

They Canceled

            So it’s the second weekend of The Fest and you were gonna see the Stones; too bad, so sad. You settled for Fleetwood Mac; guess again. Now they say it’s gonna be Widespread Panic; you know what I say? Who the !@#$%^&* knows? Another ancient throwback mystical million dollar regression music experience? Another ‘legendary’ white group? Euterpe only knows. I’m having a hard time coming up with anyone still alive from those lifetimes ago, music mania monster band days that would fit the bill. Of course, only me, your Mama and possibly your Granma, remembers that far back, when dinosaurs and rockers walked amongst us, singing, dancing, making love and wreaking havoc with the established establishment.

Suffice to say that, during those years, minimum wage was pitiful but everything was cheaper and there really wasn’t anything to spend money on anyway. That’s why it was called the generation of ‘Sex, Drugs and Rock n Roll’ because besides rent, transportation and food, there was nothing else to spend money on. Besides, we hitchhiked everywhere, skated on rents and ate what grew by the side of the road; sometimes dirt. Oh, there was fashion of course, but who knew what that was?

            In New Orleans in those days my rent was $60.00, bus was a dime, phone calls (phone booths?) a nickel and a plate of red and white at Buster Holmes’ in the French Quarter a whooping thirty-seven cents! Bands played for free in the public parks; we had free clinics and coffee houses with folk singers instead of Wi-Fi. New Orleans was a candy store; the kids were in charge. What did we know? We knew nothing.

            We knew that there was racism, sexism, crooked politicians, inequality and armed conflicts started by men that would never see the battlefield; but as old folks are apt to say: “business as usual”. We thought that we could change the world through our music and loving vibrations; what happened was that most of us turned into our parents.

            Now we have the Fest, eight days of peace, love, music and mud (sound familiar?). Will we have another group that will blow the roof off the stage, whose combined ages are also about three centuries and have collectively been playing Rock n Roll music for 200 of those years? Not likely. For sure, the food booths won’t stop serving at 4:00 and other performers will be performing.   

Fortunately the Rolling Mac wouldn’t have been be the only ones that could bring back memories, keep our hands clapping and our booties shaking: Tom Jones, Rita Coolidge, Mavis Staples, Los Lobos, Diana Ross, John Prine, Aaron Neville, Ziggy Marley, Gladys Knight, Cowboy Mouth and other geezers will also perform this weekend. This will be the weekend of  the performers that not only know HOW to play, these will be the guys that know WHY to play, WHY we love this music and can tell you where it came from; forget it, you probably wouldn’t believe them.

            On the local front, the Dixie Cups, Al “Carnival Time” Johnson, Frogman Henry, Big Sam, Irma Thomas, John Boutte and Walter “Wolfman” are here there and everywhere. Indians comin’! Betta git out the way! Oom Ma Lay Cootie Fiyo and a Hey Pocki Way!

What? Oh, you only came for Mick and the group? You weren’t here last week? You didn’t have the Quail, Pheasant and Andouille Gumbo? No Praline stuffed Beignets? You sacrificed for the Stones? I’m sorry; however, as the immortal Roger Miller once sang “You can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd; but, you can be happy if you’ve a mind to”.

            Here’s a question for the folks that will miss seeing the Rolling Stones. Did you really miss them? My answer is yes and no, but I’ve already seen ’em; so, next question: what’s your hurry? Slow down, you move too fast. The Fest has never been a hit and run kind of thing; circle back around, breathe deep, have a seat, take a load off, take another day off.  This will be the safest place other than a bunker that you’ll ever be; especially surrounded by this many people. After realizing that you might quite possibly be the last generation to walk this planet, don’t you think that you should pause to listen to the music, savor the moment, smell the horse manure, stand in line patiently?

            True story: there was a lad of nineteen sitting on a couch, with his grandparents on either side of him, watching television in their trailer when a boulder drops from the hillside behind them, crashing through the roof and killing him instantly. The grandpa gets a broken arm, granny got nary a scratch. The kid is history. Guess who doesn’t live here anymore? See how it goes?

            I have four forms of employment, four jobs; each of my employers knows that during Jazz Fest I am in absentia, not available, lost to communication, no call, no show; if you want me, I’ll be at the Fest, come find me and bring me something cold to drink. Say nothing. I got nothing to say, nothing to show, nowhere else that I want to be and nothing else I want to do. Needless to say, I’m not gonna be sitting on a couch watching TV and there’s no hillside behind me from which a boulder can drop; if the Gods want me, I’ll be at Angelo Brocato’s stand getting Spumoni. I’ll take my chances.

Listen, sure it’s bucks and the whole weather, crowd, toilet confusion thing might be daunting. Is it worth having days in your life whose memories will last and last? I believe it is. So, call in and take days off, and get down with the rest of us for the Fest of us. Live life like the best of us.

           

Survey Says

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Survey says

Or

Jigsaw Puzzle

Stopping by our table one morning, a young man earnestly inquires a moment of our time to ask a ‘quick question’ for a project that he’s doing, a study; we’re handed business flyers as means of validation, he introduces himself as David. The question is: do you think that it’s possible to live debt free?

First of all, I’m thinking, never ask a couple of caffeine jacked up geezers for their opinion on anything; don’t you know that we were thinking existentially since before your parents were born? First of all, I think, let’s break that question into three parts: do I think? Yes. Is it possible to live? Sure. Debt free? Define debt free.

Is living debt free the absence of the necessity of need or the ability to effortlessly pay for anything you require? Does it mean you needn’t worry about money because you have so much or that you have none at all and don’t need any?

There’s a tramp in the intersection with a sign. He’s breathing in exhaust fumes for the most part of the day waiting for drivers to give him money; he probably doesn’t pay rent. Sitting on his milk crate, ‘trying to waste his time, with his mentholated sandwich, he’s a walking clothes line’. Is he debt free or does he owe his body and being better? If he gets sick (and you know eventually he will), who will have the debt of taking care of him or will he carry that future debt starting now?  His sign says “God Bless, Anything Helps”; does he live by the kindness of strangers and is that ‘debt free’? After all, what does he owe anyone?

Are food, clothing and shelter considered debts? Child care? Transportation? Taxes? Make-up, dry cleaning, toiletries, drinking water, rent? It’s not debt if you have money coming in from somewhere… like employment. And to what do you owe your job? Is your performance for money a debt that you have to pay so that you can pay the debt of your responsibilities to other things like Entergy, Sewerage & Water and flea medicine for Fido? It’s a loaded f*cking question.

Is debt free a condition where there is more assets than liabilities; more income than outlay; more credits than debits? With more pluses than minuses, what do you have to pay to be on the positive side of that equation? Is it a case of ‘them that gots is them that gets’? If that’s the case asked Ray Charles, ‘how do you get it in the first place (a mystery)?’ How do you get the resources to become debt free without going into debt--- rob a bank?

If I have a business that allows my life to be debt free, here’s how it works: I can’t get a lease until I have insurance; I can’t get insurance until I have an alarm system and fire alerts. The State taxes my inventory every year whether that inventory is new or left from last year. I need to replenish inventory as it sells; I might have to pay someone who works for me; I pay lights, cable, trash, supplies, repairs and maintenance. I take the profits and suffer any losses. Somehow at home I’m not worried about the living expenses for me and my loved ones. Am I debt free? What exactly is a debt?

Are living expenses considered debts? Is my growth and well being (physical, mental, emotional, spiritual) a debt? Is the happiness of others that have come to be part of my life’s function a debt that I have incurred? Do we not pay a debt to love every time we express and exercise that feeling? Is care in and of itself not a debt that we take on? Is responsibility a debt? Is loving something a responsibility, and therefore an expense; a debt?

So, what would you say to that sincere lad who approaches you with a seemingly innocuous question? “Sure, you dimwit squirrel, move to City Park, live in a tree; eat acorns!”  Or do you tell him “Lad, you went into debt while you grew in your mother’s uterus and you’ll be in debt until the moment they lay you in that pine box.” Not very reassuring, eh?

And when you get to heaven will you still owe your soul to the Company Store? Are you gonna leave some debt behind for someone else to pick up? Did I inherit debt from my family? Do I have to repay kindnesses? Do I owe anyone an explanation? Have you ever considered: ‘can I live debt free?’  “NO!” says your bartender. Also, NO says the doctor, NO says the nurse and NO says the lady with the alligator purse; we live in a debt society, suck it up.

So, you have to wonder (or I do) is debt a happy thing? It is, if you consider that the things that you’re paying for give you happiness; if things that you’re paying for don’t contribute to your happiness and well being… why bother?

Well, what’s the alternative? Join the counterculture who refuse to go into debt—sounds easy, right—don’t become materialistic. Also be willing to make sacrifices as to what you bring into your life—is this a debt you really want? Practice self control, be goal driven and run away from anything that causes debt; in short, a lot of work for little reward.

True story: I once built a covered wagon and bought a mule with the intent on traveling the country (with woman and child) being totally off grid forever; a foray through white nationalist country resulted in the burning of the wagon and poisoning of the mule. Can you live without being part of the debt system? No. Life, as we know it, will not allow that.

Food Memories (unfinished)

Guinea Red Soup

By

Phil LaMancusa

My most mind blowing dinner was one Big Red made when I was a kid; I’d have to do the shopping for it. These were the days when we had small Mom and Pop stores selling what we now find in sections of the super markets; I would be sent out with $1.50 in quarters.

First stop: the butcher where I would get a quarter’s worth of soup bones; on to the green grocer for .25 cents of soup greens (carrot, onion, turnip, celery, parsley). Then to the Italian deli for a quarter’s worth of parmesan cheese, a pound of large shell macaroni, a can of tomatoes and a loaf of crusty Italian bread. Typical LaMancusa kitchen magic: this would feed five kids and two adults.

The ritual would be when each would grate their cheese into the fragrant, steamy soup; we would each sing this brief Italian song and grate like crazy, for when the song was over we had to pass the cheese to the next person. It’s a ditty concerning a girl; a fireman and her mother who is gonna tell her father. Amazingly all five kids, now grown and retired, remember the song and the soup.

The Game

Po Boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

The Game

Or

Robbed

            We ducked out of work early enough to catch The Game at half time, our usual hangout, Liuzza’s by the Track. Jonas, Jada and the other smokers are outside huffing some nicotine before the game resumes; our team, the Saints, are in the playoffs, win this one and we’re going to the Superbowl. We’re favored over the Rams; there’s gonna be heartache tonight in one LA or another. I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.

            We’re in our Saints lucky garb, the same black and gold that we wore the week before, hung up immediately after the last game and worn again, as was, so the luck didn’t have a chance to wash off. Superstitious? You bet.

            Liuzza’s is about the size of an Architectural Digest living room shoot and it’s as crowded as a Big Apple subway.  The usual suspects:  Bobby and Michelle; Genorie and Piret; Joy and Tommy-up from Cajun country—with both grown daughters; Tom, Mickey, Chris Champagne and Byrd are here; Mike and Kathy, it’s a communal affair. One big Saints family. The food tables are groaning with potluck (Liuzza’s kitchen is closed on Sunday); Jeanne’s mac and cheese is already gone; a dozen or so neighborly offerings are in various states of ravage. I considered briefly if I should take the last piece of fried chicken, very briefly, and of course I do.

            Theresa is behind the bar moving in an aerobic running back ballet of service; it’s not easy keeping forty plus customers constantly and consistently served their favorite libations, but she makes it look like a dance: “on the rocks straight up Miller Lite PBR shots McCallan neat and another vodka tonic with extra limes; this round goes on my tab, thanks Babe”.

            We walk in, it’s half time, the Saints are ahead by three; it’s pretty plain even to me that this isn’t gonna be the slam dunk that (our) pundits have predicted. On both sides, the defensive teams are monsters that are allowing no quarter. Even to my moronic level of sports knowledge it appears that the game is not gonna be about spectacular passes and heroic touchdown runs; there are more turnovers, do overs, uncaught balls and outwardly botched plays than not. Neither offense can get up to speed. It’s a game that’s gonna be won three points at a time and, for the life of me, I can’t follow all of the whys and wherefores. There are flags thrown every now and again, the crowd in the bar is cheering, cursing, groaning and yelling at the three TVs that are surrounding us, the commercials aren’t entertaining and more of a pain in the ass than anything else. Everyone else in the room seems to know all about the action (or inaction) and I am totally ignorant; I’m here to watch the home team win at home and I’m not seeing it happening. We’re still ahead though and seemingly in control of whatever the situation is; although, I’m never sure what situation that is at any given moment.

            Now, I know about as much about football as the average Brillo pad; heck, every season the Saints seem to change the names of players, positions and rules, leaving me constantly stuck on stupid. However, I can see that handing the ball off and expecting the carrier to run through the defensive line is a jolly good waste of time for both teams; I’m this close to yelling “throw the damn ball, fool!”, but some few people have beaten me to it. The whole place seems to be connected by some primal umbilical cord and when something worthwhile happens (or doesn’t happen) the fans rise as one with their vocal outcries; I try pitifully to keep up my end of the noise and applaud and curse as if on cue hopefully appearing to understand what the teams are doing. One thing I can see is that the game is relying on turnovers and field goals and it feels like a frigging waste.

            What’s that? The F bomb is going off all around me--- something’s happened. It’s the fourth quarter and we can’t hold on to the ball, the other team gets it and then we get it back, Brees passes and the ball is in the air heading to Tomylee Lewis, we’re all holding our breaths and glued to the sets. When out of nowhere, with the velocity of a photon particle, this thing, this person, this defensive back from the opposing team, while the ball is still in the air, head butt body slams our guy, with the whole world (as well as the referee a mere ten feet away) watching and there is no flag! “Pass interference!!!” the crowd is yelling; Sean Payton is shouting, Drew Brees is shouting and the refs are as straight-faced as Buddha. In Liuzza’s the oxygen has momentarily left the room and in a flash returns as a tsunami of outrage carpet bombed by the “WTF!”s and “did you see that?” and “where’s the flag?” and if psychic energy could be physically manifested the entire Rams team AND all the referees would have been Raptured off this planet and into a deep dark black hole in outer space; left to perish in an agony of alligator stomach acid.

            Next, the game’s in overtime and Brees throws an interception, the other team gets the ball and a fifty-seven yard field goal gives the game to the City of Angels.

            There are no words that can express the despair, the depth of heartache, the feeling of being cheated and wronged. A woman’s voice is heard as the television sets grow dim and she speaks for us all: “Son of a Mother F**king Bit*h!” Needless to say, we will be NOT watching the Super Bowl this year.

Louisiana Blues (draft)

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Louisiana Blues

Or

Lay On MacDuff

         Today marks six weeks without sugar. Running 3 miles a day, no meat, dairy or flour. No caffeine! The change has been fantastic! I feel great! Zero alcohol! A healthy diet, gluten-free, and a 2-hour workout every day. Never felt better!! ---

I didn't know whose status this was, but I picked it up on FaceBook and was really proud of them. So I decided to copy and paste. I got more ‘likes’ than when I posted a clip of Midnight the Cat playing piano. What I did know is that the person who wrote it was either playing with my tomahawk, was someone that I would never, ever run into or lived somewhere other than New Orleans.
        Meanwhile as reported in Gambit Magazine : Louisiana came in last place in United health Foundation’s annual America’s Health Ratings, taking the bottom spot away from Mississippi. According to the survey, Louisiana has the highest percentage of children in poverty in the nation as well as high rates of smoking, obesity, mental and physical distress and low birth weight in babies.

As far as I can see, neither pieces of information have caused a ripple in anyone’s daily life as we all go on our merry way. We’re number three in poorest education; according to U.S. Bureau of Justice, we are far and away the state with the highest per capita of imprisoned populations. According to Neighborhood Scout (.com) chances of being a victim of violent crime in New Orleans is 1 in 88; property crime: 1 in 23. I’ve bet on horses with less chances (and won!).

Is this because of poverty, poor role models, substandard education, inadequate wage compensation and/or weak city service infrastructure?  Could be. Is this because of people that are without being easily victimized by people with? Slumlords; drug dealers; arrogance and the prospering income of New Orleans hustling? Could be. Is it because we as New Orleanians conduct ourselves with no concern for consequences of our actions? Do we have a distorted self image or just a warped sense of humor? Is everything dysfunctional around us either somebody else’s problem or not worth our time and energy to be concerned enough about making a change for the better? Do we just not pay attention or do we just don’t give a sh*t, not even about ourselves? Has anyone considered spreading the word that linear thinking is counterproductive and that we need more of a quantum mindset to change our world? Consider this: why are all the toilets in bathrooms set at right angles instead of forty-five… because it is foolish or has just nobody ever thought of it? Think about thinking about it; while you’re at it, think about thinking.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over the same way and expecting different results from your actions, and that is what I think, and believe, is what holds us back as a people; that, not learning (quickly enough) from our mistakes and a hesitancy to reboot immediately when necessary. It’s our falling short of passion for living a successful life; a life of promise, peace, tranquility and freedom.

A wise person once said that all misery stems from greed; and if you quantum that thought it stands to reason that greedy people not only create misery for themselves but also create misery in those who become the victims of their greedy actions. And on and on; the greedy boss wants more from his worker that wants more compensation for his labors; boss mistreats the man; the man goes home and out of frustration and a feeling of impotence, mistreats his wife; the wife yells at the kid; the kid kicks the dog; the dog bites the cat; the cat chases the mouse and the cheese stands alone. Hi ho, the derry-o.

What are we to do? I don’t care; it’s carnival time and I’m alright so I don’t care. Check me out during Lent and when I’m atoning for my shortcomings and I’ll be more philosophical about Life, The Universe and Everything. Right now it’s King Cake and turkey necks; because, what is easy and convenient is a whole lot more fun than

Saint Joe

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Saint Joe Street Cred

Or

Blessed Be

            “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”  Big Red would yell in frustration when, as a kid, I had done something particularly dim-witted; and face it, often times stuff I did as a youngster was considered dumb. Of course, I saw myself as clever, smart and extremely witty; others around me, when not considering that I was just another pretty face, believed I was as dim as a box of rocks; a tree stump; a sack of hammers; a Brillo pad. You get the picture.

            I was raised in the Catholic religion, which was even then losing parishioners faster than a sinking ship; my family was intractable in their loyalty and all the children were subjected to a fair amount of religious instruction, coming away with scars to prove it.

            Be that as it may; picture a younger me mulling over the story of Jesus and Mary being ferried around by this guy, this carpenter, this fatherly figure to a savant savior child, born of a virgin who, after the kid kicks money lenders out of the temple, totally disappears from the gospels. Who is this guy? Where did he go?

            Where did he come from is more like the question; some writings say that a man named Joseph was married to the virgin, before she gave birth. Some recount a Joseph of Arimathea, purportedly Mary’s Uncle, a disciple and spreader of the gospel into Britain. He is not the Saint; he’s the guy that paid for the tomb to house the so called dead body of the thirty-three year old King of the Jews. I think it was the first one that became the saint because he brought the mother and son through trials and tribulations and taught the kid how to use a hammer.

            I grew up Catholic, we looked up to Saint Joseph; I was raised Italian, we celebrated Saint Joseph’s Day. I wound up in New Orleans where Catholic Italians, especially the Sicilians, would take a bullet for Saint Joe. Growing up, we couldn’t have explained St. Joe if our ice cream money depended on it; my question is still: who is this guy?

            Let’s go with what we know and what’s been told to us. Saint Joseph’s Day is March 19^th, every year. In New Orleans we celebrate with altars of food and public meals. We make special dishes, savory and sweet. We essentially pay back St. Joe for all his blessings bestowed upon us during the year.  March 19^th: payback time; the job we got, the school that our kid got accepted to, the pregnancy that did (or didn’t) happen, business deals, living arrangements, debts paid or forgiven, blood unshed. ‘Thank you Saint Joseph, I will build an altar of food, donate it to the less fortunate and invite strangers to eat at my table’. Churches, homes and businesses participate; it’s during the Lenten season and so there’s no red-blooded animals consumed.

            Here’s what we’re told: Saint Joseph is the Saint of the everyman, the patron of unwed mothers, a model for fathers, protector of children, keeper of secrets, married to that blessed mother (after she became preggo) and the one who gives us strength when we are sick and/or leaving this earthly coil. He is considered the legal (not spiritual) father of Jesus. Chief David Montana once explained to me why the Mardi Gras Indians came out on St. Joe’s Day: “because he was black!” Take your pick; I’m only here for lunch.

            Saint Joseph is considered patron of the universal church of Catholicism; the Sicilians believe that he saved them from starvation by giving them the fava bean and some believe that if you want to sell your house you plant a statue of St. Joseph, head first, in your back yard. I’m a fan and look forward to St. Joe’s Day for the cookies (sesame and fig) if nothing else.

            Logistically Saint Joseph and Saint Patrick days are March 19^th and 17^th; there’s not enough Italians or Irish in New Orleans to have enough participants to throw individual parades, so they combine them. Correct me if I’m wrong, that’s my story. So, here come the two cultures parading; Irish giving potatoes and cabbages as gifts and Italians trading flowers for kisses. It’s a good day for Italians.

            On March 19^th I go to whatever Catholic church is nearby and I am served, sometimes up to a dozen different morsels of lunch (of course, pasta rules) with lemonade and/or sweet tea; I’m as happy as a clam. I donate money, light candles and generally feel part of the family of man (and woman) all in the name of this guy who heard God’s voice and did what he was told. I’d like to think that he held down the fort with the lovely Mary while ‘his son’ went traveling for 18 years preparing for his ministry and eventual execution.

            Back to the day of lunch: because I have greased the celebratory wheels  I’m given a little paper bag of goodies containing a prayer card, cookies, a blessed fava bean and a slice of French bread. I bring that home (after eating the cookies) and place it on my home altar; I put the fava bean in my wallet to bring me luck and money during the next year. The significance of the bread has something to do with casting bread upon waters to calm them. Here, we believe that the bread is used to ward off hurricanes; that’s correct, when a storm is approaching we take that slice of bread and throw is out our back widow and the tempest will pass us by. It works too (but not for ‘outer bands’). For the sake of St. Joseph we all remember that we’re all part of the same tribe; at lunch we say to ourselves “welcome home and thank you Joe”.