Gone Pecan

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Small Potatoes

Or

Gone Pecan

        They sat together behind the counter of their small (but perfect, they claimed) shop in the French Quarter of New Orleans; they read and reread the letter. The letter was from a property management company informing them that their rent would more than double when/if they chose to renew their lease in ninety days. The raise in rent also included the ‘Triple Net’ clause of them assuming the responsibility of paying for real estate taxes, maintenance and insurance on the entire building while the shop occupied only the first floor and at that, only the front portion.

        They had taken a leap of faith to open the shop ten years earlier, factually, being one of the first new businesses to apply for a license while the city was still reeling from Hurricane Katrina. They had sweat equity in their city, and their business, and had worked to build inventory and income; however, not to the extent of taking this kind of financial hit. The first response was disbelief. “What did we do?”

        Their calls to the landlord went unanswered. “What CAN we do?” they asked neighboring small businesses, who, while expressing solidarity, had no answers. “We belong here; people come to see us; we’re that funky little shop that visitors expect to see here; we love our city, our town, our customers, and our customers love us! What the f*ck are we supposed to do?” It was like a body blow, a sidewinder, a sucker punch to the gut. They were helpless and heartbroken when it settled in that there was no compromise available to them; no eleventh-hour-save on the horizon.

        No one. The landlord blamed the management company; the management blamed the landlord and they both blamed current ‘Market Rates” for commercial property. Indeed, all around them, in the Quarter, Mom and Pop businesses were going under in the name of ‘Market Rates’ that judged a business by how much they could pay per square inch of their floor space and not their heart and loyalty to their city. Small single owner shops and eateries washed away like love letters on a sandy beach.

        Correspondence flowed in from customers to their landlord expressing the value of the shop and asking for some degree of mercy, and there was no mercy shown; no quarter given; no middle ground to be reached. When their friendship with the landlord turned to ice and the management company stopped being courteous; the deadline looming, they looked for a place to relocate. They were told “it is what it is”.

        They were to become yet another subject of conversation that started with “didn’t there used to be…” A conversation that they had had with returning visitors over their ten year tenure: “wasn’t there once a record store, Laundromat, hardware store, grocery, bookshop, a place to get a watch battery, use a computer, buy a stamp?” Mom and Pop restaurants were being taken over by corporations; the soul of the French Quarter was being sucked away in the name of Market Rates, being replaced by Disney-like gift shops and get-it-anywhere souvenirs. You could now get your feet massaged where the spice shop had been; you could now get a cemetery tour ticket where there used to be an ice cream shop. Tourist Information hawkers now took up space where neighbors once owned coffee shops; places where you could go for a cup, read your paper, laugh with friends, meet new people.

        They found a place closer to home with more space, easier rent with a friendly landlord but less customer traffic; they watched their old shop sit empty for almost a year and wondered again at the turn of events that put them where they were; the taking out of the bank loan to move; the lack of business; their loyal Quarter customers getting less willing to make the trip to the new space. For four years, the bills went up, the sales went down. When the lease for the ‘new place’ expired they realized that they had no more resources to meet the expenses to remain and they threw in the towel. “It had been a good run” they told each other “we made some good friends; but I’ll miss going to work every day, the shop was like our baby, I want to cry”.

        The ‘SALE’ sign went in the windows; first 10%; then 25%; HALF OFF! and finally ten cents on the dollar. In the end, much was donated. Shelving, rugs, wall pieces, cabinets and office equipment “take it, we won’t be needing it, consider it a souvenir. Sorry? Yeah, me too”.

        Oh, don’t worry about them, they’ll bounce back, you know, when one door closes, another door opens; it’s just another Going Out of Business sign on a place that you can’t remember the last time you shopped in. But for them, another door closing does not always mean that another opens; sometimes when your door closes, your walls cave in.

        A few years later, they’re still going by to feed the clowder of cats that they’ve committed themselves to; they have other jobs and a lot more free time as well as less financial strain. They count themselves fortunate that they closed before the pandemic crippled the local economy sending shockwaves to many more local businesses; ironically sparing ‘Market Rates’. The point being that property management (and real estate) companies stay profitable by setting, and inflating, these rates; that’s how they pay themselves, landlords naturally acquiesce. 

        Take from this what you will and consider that this is not an isolated story; but one to consider as an example of the answer to your question: “wasn’t that a place called The Coffee Pot?” Or “Wasn’t the bar we used to go to right there? Remember? I wonder what happened to them?”

        P.S. They’re still paying on that loan.

JazzFest 2022

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

We See You

Or

The Chosen Few

        Dear Readers,

        This year they tell us, yes, that we’re really gonna have a real, live and in person Jazz Fest. The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival 2022. Come one, come all, we’re having a Fest to beat all festivals! Let the tents go up; “let there be dancing in the streets, drinking in the saloons and necking in the parlor!” (Groucho Marx).

        And you, yes you, the not-from-here folk, will walk into the Jazz Fest like you are walking on to a yacht. You’ve traveled miles, paid a premium, you’re here to take it in, to absorb; you deserve this. You’re saucy, you’re sassy, you’re sexy.  We smile.

You’re impressed that all this can go on in one place; you rock it up, rip it up, shake it up, ball it up; you get some fun, sun, mud, food, festivities and maybe some flirting, you feel fulfilled. Full. Filled.  And then you are outside the gates and lo, the party’s still going on! We go on smiling. Who are we? We live here.

        We don’t get here early and stay late, we’re here 24/7; like I told you: we live here. When you go back home and wish you could stay, we do. We’re the folks on the porches sipping a cold one watching you dance your way back to where you stay and are seen smiling. Still smiling. We’re the guys who wouldn’t live anywhere else. This is our spot, now is our time.

        We look forward to Jazz Fest all year, every year; we buy our tickets early, receive residential parking passes and get the local’s discount on Thursdays. We bitch about the parking, guard our driveways and wait in longer than average lines at the grocers, restaurants and public transportation for you to enjoy for a spell what we have full time. We even pick up the trash you leave, sell you a little something extra on the road and think y’all are cute as bugs. 

We queue up next to you, behind you with nothing but a small bag and a water bottle; too much baggage is counterproductive, I say. We’re on a budget, we only carry the cash we intend on spending (hell, no credit cards); we already have our posters, apparel and souvenirs from years past, if we want something else (from this year) we’ll bring extra money tomorrow and get it.

        I’m a hiccup away from the action. I’m fortunate enough to stay mid way between Liuzza’s by the Track and the Fair Grounds itself. I’ve been in this neighborhood for over a dozen years, have seen people come and go, I know the merchants, minors, mutts and miscreants, during Jazz fest I go the whole nine yards as well as the entire eight days. My friends come by and we stoop, there’s a brass band right outside our front gate, we’re on a first name basis with the policeman directing traffic; it doesn’t get much better that this.

        We’re also those folks taking tickets, slinging beer, directing traffic and emptying the cans of used Styrofoam containers (to go into our landfill) that once held your stuff from food and drink booths, we’re here at the first aid station, console your lost kids and set up and break down this whole affair so that all you have to do is come and enjoy.

        On the whole this is a pretty quiet neighborhood the rest of the year with friendly feral felines, a variety of birds, bees, beers, bubbas and broads; the young, the not so young, the very young. We have cook outs, second lines, crawfish boils and street festivals, get our kids off to school and our breadwinners off to bring home the bacon; you know, like people. We walk our dogs and pick up their poop just like you.

        Only, we may have a little more pep in our step, glide in our stride and a little extra gut in our strut. We smile a little easier, nod to strangers and neighbors alike; we’re not shy about talking to each other or you, there are no strangers here, only us strange folks that go about our lives and look forward to that time of year when we see the tents going up and the sounds of setting up that is music to our ears.

        Of course no bed of roses is complete without the thorns and by no means is this utopia, but we get along and look out for each other, you know, like neighbors. We celebrate each new addition to families (especially critters) and mourn our loses; we gossip, fret, complain and console; we shop locally, go to fish fry’s at the church and walk up to the bayou to chill on fine southern weather days.

        We’re also the ones who feel it the most deep when they threaten to, and then do, cancel Jazz Fest, which they did three times in the last two years! What did we do? Well, we held ‘Festing In Place’ celebrations; we decorated our houses; the radio re-broadcast old Fest shows for us on the days that would have been the live performances; we HAD a Jazz Fest in exile and we smiled.

                Am I looking forward to it? Did I buy my tickets in February? Am I planning my food forays? Is a bear Catholic and does the Pope…? Care will be left at the gate, my phone will be left at home, time will be suspended and I will live in and for the moment. Do I know who I’m going to see? Yes, I’m going to see you having the time of your life as I watch whom you’re watching; I’ll be objectively and subjectively having the time of my life. See you there!

        Signed, That Weird Smiling Guy (appropriate emoji here).

       

         

 

 

Baby Driver

 

Po-Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Street Wise

Or

Baby Driver

This is my inside voice on the yoga mat “Om Mane Padme hum (praise to the jewel in the lotus)” This is my outside voice driving the streets of New Orleans “Nice turn signal, F**K Face!!”

You/I can only be courteous driving here for just so long, and I’ve been driving here for so many decades, I’m jaded up to my gills. I’m able to tell you that, not only do we have bad drivers here, but, that I am one of them; Oh, I’ve never succumbed to a road rage exhibition, I tend to keep my anguish inside and wisely stay at a silent wonder as to how we, with God’s blessing, are allowed to operate 10,000 pounds of twisted steel that have the ability to go fast and do damage. Now that I’m in my stately and mature years, I observe how inane, consciously or unconsciously, the driving public (including myself) actually is; basically, it’s as if once we got our licenses to operate  moving vehicles, we developed amnesia pertaining to rules, regulations, manners or instructions that allowed to get behind the wheel in the first place.

I’ve had my share of cause and effect traffic mishaps; I’ve never hurt anyone or gotten a DWI, but I have managed to put bumps, bruises and sometimes major damage to the vehicle I’ve been at the wheel of. If I drink and drive nowadays, a single beer is my limit, if that.

I adore the open road but not freeways or interstate highways. I harken back to the days when I could fix my own car; when the windows operated with a crank handle, when we had side vents for air flow, nothing was electronic, gas was cheap and families had only one car. It felt safer.

Now it’s almost cartoonish. That Yosemite Sam that cuts you off from the left lane to make a right turn; Elmer Fudd at the stoplight that decides that it’s taking too damn long and they’re gonna go for it; Bugs Bunny on a bike that’s not stopping for anything; Daffy Duck deciding that you’re going too slow so they’re gonna pass you from the bike lane that some Pepe le Pew is using it as a motor scooter lane, while Foghorn Leghorn is deciding to amble across your path as you see another road signer asking for spare change (God Bless/Anything Helps) and you look up and witness a sign that reads End School Zone and you know for all the Looney Tunes around you that there’s gonna be a seventy-five dollar ticket arriving in your mailbox this week.

It’s true I have an old car, a big old car; an old big heavy iron car that other drivers should give as much respect to as if they could see a bumper sticker on it proclaiming: “my insurance covers nothing and it’s your car that will get damaged not mine”; but they don’t: a YIELD sign means nothing, they’re going through it; a No Left Turn sign (?) no problem, they take it anyway; a yellow light means ‘Speed Up and try to make it before the light turns’: they speed up, crossing my path, and go through the red light anyway. Sheesh.

Debbie always acts as my copilot when we drive and alerts me to dangers that I may miss; there are plenty, and she is aware of my driving shortcomings, she knows that if I turn my head to the right to look off road, the car will start to veer to the right (same goes if I glance to my left). She sees the bicyclist that’s coming from my right when I’m turning left into one way traffic. She reminds me to fasten my seat belt. We stop when the light is yellow for more than ten seconds. The other crazy drivers get angry at me. So what, it’s our asses that I’m saving.

Advice: It’s important that you have a good mechanic for your car as well as knowing where the salvage yard is that has spare parts for your vehicle. It’s important to have a ‘tire guy’ that knows you and what your needs may be. Renew your AAA religiously.  It’s also important to be up on your registration, insurance, brake tag and driver’s license just in case. In case what? In case Wile E. Coyote decides to blaze through the stop sign, T-bone you and say that you’re in the wrong.

My car, The Duchess, in town, drinks gas likes a fish. I’d love to go electric but my finances are so tight that if money were dynamite, I couldn’t blow my nose; as it is, I have to save some dough every year to get my shock absorbers changed from the damage stemming from the conditions of New Orleans streets; The Duchess has a propensity for finding all hidden potholes.

I keep The Duchess gassed, tuned and ready to roll in the case of evacuation or escape even though there’s always a chance that she won’t fire up when the key is turned; you see, with any vehicle, I’ve found that you’re really at their mercy as well as being at the mercy of other drivers.

To stay safe on our streets nowadays, the best advice is to be paranoid: they ARE out to get you.

 

American Pie

 

       Po Boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

American Pie

Or

Beginner’s Luck

        Chutzpah: a Yiddish term for ‘audacity for good or for bad’ as in “Imagine the chutzpah he had to make that kind of journey.” For me that word describes anyone who would pack up their family and belongings leave a possible generational homeland and travel to a strange country (likely not even knowing the language and/or customs) for a better life. The words that come to mind are: immigrant, refugee, expatriate and, they come in two tiers: the first are the ones that come without knowing anything; they settle, take the bad with the good and are literally pioneers. The second are the ones that follow, those sent for: wives, family, betrothed or necessarily abandoned.

        There are also those that come indentured: Asians, Europeans and most notably Africans. They come; they’re brought; they’re sent for; they endure. I’m second generation American, so this seed has not fallen far from the tree; all four of my grandparents were not born here. They came for a better life, they came to escape poverty, violence and oppressive politics. One of my grandmothers was sent for as a child bride. They brought their stories, customs, food and languages; they had children and their children had children.

        The pioneer that crosses the plains in a covered wagon is not much different than the refugee who travels in the bowels of a tramp steamer, crosses from the Caribbean in an inflatable raft, or trudges through the southern dessert to Laredo, Texas. They ‘pays their money and they takes their chances’. They endure; they endure because they have to or they’ll perish. The generational endurance of the people that were kidnapped and enslaved is legendary and ongoing. The pioneers and the persecuted endure hardship, hunger, haranguing, hatred and exploitation; they’re cat-called with racial and ethnic slurs: Kikes, Rag Heads, Beaners, Greasers, Chinks, Slope heads, Spics and that N-word that we’re not allowed to say or print. My own people were called Micks, Krauts and Wops (Without Papers).

        Those that have been here for a few generations forget the fact their people once were immigrants and discourage this country from taking in ‘foreigners’ (many ‘foreigners’ want to come here); from places like Korea, Syria, Afghanistan, Haiti, Ethiopia, China, Nigeria, Cuba, Somalia and parts of Eastern Europe; the big one these days is Latinos from South and Central America and, of course, those pesky Mexicans. They all want a piece of the American Pie; a shot at redemption; a photo opportunity.

         We hear: “The nerve of these people! They’ll take our jobs, our women, our language and our way of life. Our last president called them “murderers and rapists”. Look out! They’re coming across the border from the Middle East, Asia, Guatemala, and hey, I hear that there are even some Canadians that want in; well not on my watch! I’ll build a wall, a physical, social and cultural wall. I’ll build an economic wall against hiring in any but the lowest forms of employment: fruit pickers, factory workers, domestic workers, sweat shop workers. What(?) we’ve already done that? Whew, good, I’m safe now. I can sleep easier knowing that if those tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free; the wretched refuse from those teaming shores, tries to get into Little Tommy’s play school or get a job in my local bank as anything but a janitor……”

         In 1868, Africans that were brought here as slaves were granted citizenship; June 2, 1924, President Calvin Coolidge signed into law the Indian Citizen Act which gave the people that had been here for millennium the right of American Citizenship; 1935, my grandparents became American citizens. Did that make their lives any easier? Ask them. The walls we built still stand.

        It tears our hearts to see ragged malnourished kids, maimed puppies or beaten horses. We cry for missing children, abandoned kittens, abused women or those trafficked for pleasure or gain. As long as they don’t move into our back yard. Tendency wants us to say: “I don’t want a homeless shelter built in my neighborhood. I don’t want anyone panhandling in front of that restaurant that I frequent. Make them all just go away. I’ll feel sorry from a distance; I’ll even donate. I know that we’re all brothers, but I don’t want my brother sleeping in that doorway, it’s gross to look at; what will the children think?”

        The secure have a tendency to get smug; not withstanding my White Privilege, my people pulled themselves up by their bootstraps (we say), not realizing that some of our ‘Brothers’ have no bootstraps with which to pull.  They’re sitting at the border waiting for a shot at asylum eating donated food and dirt.

        I say: let them all in; borders are imaginary lines in a global sandbox and it’s usually the biggest bully that gets the best corner. I say we adopt the world and let all those that have less share our abundances. Put them to work, give them educations, healthcare and fair housing (you know, stuff that we are not making available to all of our own citizens).

        The argument against that is “we’ll go into debt; our children will go into debt; our grandchildren will have to pay this off.” That is the argument that comes from the financially secure politicians that already have comprehensive healthcare, paid holiday vacations and free tuition for their children.

        If you adopted a person or even a critter and they needed care and assistance, wouldn’t you, out of love, go into debt? I would, and because of those types of Golden Rule values, I would pass that debt as well as that value to my children and my grandchildren. I would.

        After all, if we happen to accrue debt helping those less fortunate, by letting them in to the American Dreamland, wouldn’t we be passing that shared debt to their children and grandchildren? Think about that when you stop by that taco truck for a Carne Asada Burrito and ice cold Fanta; prepared by a future fellow citizen.   

       

          

 

 

Beach Bar

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Bar None

Or

Bottoms Up

        My step father had a bar when I was growing up; it was called The Beach Bar and Grill although there wasn’t a beach within ten miles; in fact, it was on the border of Greenwich Village in New York City, across from a trucking company in a blue collar neighborhood awash with the salt of the earth.

        This is how it was. The bar was open from 8:00 AM until 4:00 AM seven days (Sunday bar openings were 1:00 PM by law allowing for church). It was closed on whims and election days. The space was about 25’x 75’ with a galley kitchen in the back and the bar itself running from about six feet in, on the left side, for approximately 35’ there were minimal barstools (reserved for dames); most men imbibed while standing. There was a juke box that took coins and you could watch records spin; Bing Crosby’s Happy Birthday was on ALL juke boxes in those days, just in case. There were a few tables (deuces) that sat two people, bathrooms center right and booths along the right wall and in the small dining area in the back.

        There was a local drunk that came in overnight to clean and mop. At eight in the morning the day barmaid came in to dispense the morning special ‘medicine’ to a waiting public: six ounces of straight gin for a dollar. No lunch was served; the ‘Grill’ part of Bar and Grill was added to allow patrons to bring their kids in, making it family friendly.

        Workers came over from the docks, meat packing district and day truckers for work breaks and possibly a bracer before heading home; they usually had whiskey with a short beer chaser called ‘a beer and a ball’. My step father, Larry (the Greek) came in about four and worked the bar and kitchen until closing; sometimes he would have a six o’clock barmaid on that shift (that’s how my Mom met him) and the evening cronies were local salts and their dames (wives or other). The oncoming six o’clock bartender would, by tradition, serve everyone a drink on the house and the night would take off from there; it was also tradition to buy each person their third drink, women more often than that, and it was also tradition for patrons to buy the bartender drinks. Everyone smoked cigarettes and bought drinks for each other. It was serious drinking and boozy good times, most often.

        There was always room for a little dancing, people sang along with the juke and sometimes there were fights; conversation rules were cemented in stone: talk was to exclude any references to sex, politics and/or religion. Period. Sometimes I’d get up in the morning and find Larry’s shirts in the bathtub with cold water to loosen bloodstains and knew that I would be sent to the apothecary for a leech for another black eye.

 There was one small television that was only turned on for boxing, horse racing and baseball World Series; there was always too much going on in the bar to keep the ‘boob tube’ on. If you were stuck for entertainment there was shuffleboard (with puck) in the back by the empty beer bottled cases that were picked up by the delivery guys. The ice man delivered ice. Guys drank whiskey and women drank mixed drinks called highballs. There were no cream, multi ingredient or blender drinks. Food was whatever Larry was cooking that night.

Sometimes Larry’s patrons would get him drunk, take his clothes off, lock him out of his own bar and drink his whiskey just for fun. The Beach Bar and Grill’s regulars were like a club and went on picnics and day trips together. There were usually six guys and their gals that ran together, most guys had seen action in ‘the war’ and were tough with each other and gentle with their wives, girlfriends and anyone’s kids; for us that was lucky because there were five kids in our family.

        Larry was always buying stuff that ‘fell off the back of a truck’; he would bring home stuff for us to sell to neighbors; belts, women’s stockings, work pants etc and usually he would score a ‘procured’ Sunday roast from one of the butchers. This was the world that I grew up in; my mother, a hash slinger; my missing father an itinerant cook; and this Greek guy, cook and bar owner. One Sunday morning I was awoken early because the cleaning guy was found passed out on the floor from drinking his way through Larry’s inventory and I was needed to clean and mop the joint that smelled of stale smoke, sweat, cheap perfume and booze; I was twelve and I mark that day as the first in my career in the service industry.

        In those days men walked in and laid a twenty on the bar and drank (and bought for others) until it was gone; drinking was a pastime like theater or shows and there was just as much dramatics to see or be seen. Bartenders knew customers by name, drink preferences, and usually had their drink ready by the time they bellied up; the bottle was left in front of the customer and drinks were poured from it: Cutty Sark, Four Roses, Fleishman’s, Seagram’s, Beefeater, Old Grand Dad, Dewar’s.

        There were bars like this on every other street when I was growing up; there’s few today and when you spot one it’s usually called ‘an old fart bar’. That’s where guys like me go with our dames to sit and talk about everything except politics, sex or religion. Cheers!

       

       

 

 

Jazz Fest October 2021

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Jazz Fest

Or

Bust

        Sure, like many folks, I was going to go to The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival (Jazz Fest 2021); in fact, we purchased every-day-tickets months and months before and wouldn’t have missed it for all the tea in Humboldt County. But, first I had to take a trip to the real Sin City.

        I was gonna take the beginning of the first week (pre-Fest), board a giant silver bird at an ungodly morning hour, and land in Las Vegas when the sun is blazing over Death Valley and the neon lights were shining just as bright. It’s to be a gathering of myself and my four siblings to celebrate my sister’s birthday in the manner in which she wishes: gambling, drinking and king crab legs from some hotel all-you-can-eat buffet line. Jazz fest is off; the trip is still on.

        Vegas will not be an Ocean’s Eleven hit and split; more like five geezers rolling into town with an eleven o’clock curfew in madras shorts and Birkenstocks with socks affair. The days of partying like it’s 1999 were over, well, in 1999, which we relive only in memories, fantasies and arthritis; oh, the party is still on, it’s just toned down to a dull roar.

        Their mother (we all refer to her as ‘your mother’ and not as our own) had five kids and they all carry a part of her whether they like it or not; all of us together make up one of the woman that we called Mom. The birthday girl is the Gambler; my brother, (the non-Italian) the Musician; the oldest girl, the Actress; the youngest, the Poet and I am the Cook. When we get together (whether we want to or not) we talk about her, the woman that was Big Red. At least four of us have different fathers.

        Once upon a time I worked in Las Vegas. I hitchhiked into town broke, busted and with a woman and young child. I got a job cooking biscuits and gravy for truckers, dug myself out of a hole and eventually, eventually made it back to New Orleans. Another story/time.

        I’ll take a deep psychic breath as I leave here and will only exhale when upon my return. I count New Orleans as my home, physically, mentally and spiritually; Attending Jazz Fest is my equivalent of church.  Jazz Fest would’ve been my reward for completing a calling of the clan; my heaven/haven. I picture myself at Jazz Fest: my head is clear, I’m palpably brighter and my smile cherubic; there’ll be glide in my slide and gut in my strut. I’ll be waving a handkerchief, chewing a praline filled beignet, buck jumpin’ and havin’ fun! Nothing, nothing compares with Jazz Fest. Nothing.

        I’m fortunate in that I only live two blocks from the gate; from the construction to the breaking down, and every minute of show time, the sounds coming from the racetrack form the soundtrack of my life. My senses are tuned to the energy and activity that’s going on within me and without me. My neighborhood becomes a hive with the comings and goings before, during and after the gates open; a veritable county fair affair. Not this year though.

        What can I say about Jazz Fest that hasn’t been said before? How about this (?): it’s crowded, hot, rainy, expensive, restrictive and a tasteless sensory overload. I think that’s true for someone who has never been, doesn’t go or is there for the first time and leaves before the Kool-Aid takes effect. I attend with every fiber of my being and all the love in my heart, you see, Jazz Fest to me is like a drug that I am addicted to and can never get enough of: “hello, my name is Phil and I am a JazzFestaholic “(hello Phil!).

        Many of my friends are JazzFestaholics as well; I run with a dangerous crowd. We’re packing sun screen, performance programs, a little something to sit on and plenty of cash. We know the lay of the land. We peer over peoples shoulders to see what they’ve been eating; we talk to strangers, take snap shots; we stand in long lines; we tip. We’re so addicted that we show up early (every day) to be in the gate as soon as we can and we don’t ever want to go home. Some folks will say that we’ll never grow up and we don’t dispute them. The worst day at Jazz Fest is better than the best day anywhere else.

        Not this year (or last); I’m going through withdrawals and a trip to Las Vegas isn’t going to help. Las Vegas was very good to me, as was Santa Fe, San Francisco, Denver, Saint Louis, New York City, San Diego or a dozen other places that I’ve lived; but they’re not New Orleans. Attending concerts and festivals in those places are good, but they’re not New Orleans.

        New Orleans is where women call me ‘Honey’ and men call me ‘Baby’ and we have the Saints football team, gumbo, humidity, mosquitoes, feral chickens, second lines and folks stooping in the shade asking ‘how y’all doin’?” as you pass by on your way to get a cold one from a shadow street vendor heading for the Jazz Fest gates of your mind. Be patient. Next year we’ll meet again.

Negative Capability

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Objective Reality

Or

Negative Capability

        Sitting outside Old Road Coffee Shop on a not too frequent visit, waiting for Deb, smiling as a woman at the next table snaps a photograph of my car with the mannequin in the back seat. I’ve already avoided a morning drunk that just wants to “ask me a question”, Deb arrives and who should emerge from another car to get a cup but the former mayor; conversation ensues. Wellman the artist arrives, down on his luck as usual (pieces in the Smithsonian and the Ogden); I slip him a fin and he asks for a ride but we’re going the opposite way. Meg the barista comes out to grab a smoke and we ask after her pup and remark how much better her eye looks after that bee sting.

        All morning I’d been contemplating life, the universe and everything, including the camera traffic ticket I received in the mail (that’ll cost a day’s wages); everything recently encourages a WTF conundrum in my psyche and I wonder if, in fact, I AM living in the end of days. Life is orphic, mysterious, entrancing and beyond my understanding. It seemed simpler when I was younger and the older generation was making all the mistakes; we swore we would never make them, and in fact we believed that we could correct them: war; hunger; inequality; prejudice and a disregard for the future of the planet, and then a cup of coffee rings the ‘get a clue’ phone: I still don’t know what’s going on and there is nothing that I can do to change the mindset of the idiots that are continually f**king EVERYTHING up. Meet the enemy: they are us; no longer the warrior, the most I can hope for is Negative Capability.

As I see it (although the poet Keats said it better), Negative Capability is nothing more than admitting that it’s okay with not knowing or understanding what is going on but having the ability to function within those parameters nonetheless – welcome to -- life in New Orleans.

        Anyone living here will rightfully tell you that it takes a level of genius to actually enjoy New Orleans on a deeper than superficial level; to be able to dive deep and not worry about coming up for air, experiencing her like a lover that you want to wake up with and not just a tramp that you picked up in a bar on a weekend pass. More than merely falling in love, being willing to call yourself a New Orleanian is more like having egg on your face and not minding who sees it; wanting a third helping of Thanksgiving dinner; smiling as you take a pie in the kisser and/or taking a warm bubble bath with a martini, a snake and the radio perched on the side of the tub as your new BFF appears and wants to join you.

        Demographics are a gray and mysterious concept here. We call it the ‘Checkerboard System’: white folks living next door to black folks next to brown folk, yellow folk and white folks; we do know that the ‘haves’ live in a different area than the ‘have-nots’ and across the board, everyone pays too much rent. Some of us believe that there’s ‘different strokes for different folks’ and others opine that ‘there’s different ways on different days’ and it’s pretty much all right with all of us; savoir faire is everywhere.

        But New Orleans is not the world and just as I’m getting complacent in my New Orleans state of mind some yahoo decides to remind me of the fires, floods, tornados, hurricanes and earthquakes wrecking the earth; the riots around the globe that are proof of universal indignities that occur regularly; the wars that annihilate populations; the religious persecution, misogyny, intolerance, sickness, pollution and famine that are commonplace in the world we live in. If I hear another: “a gunman opened fire on a crowd in downtown killing…” It’s gonna drive me bats.

        The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse have come down with a case of Seven Deadly Sins and are taking them on a world tour, as a group, calling themselves The Objective Realities, spreading greed and power to the ruthless; the world is the audience and tickets are free. It’s a given that the weather is predicted to rain on your parade.

        Around my neighborhood there’re guys of all stripes that gather in parks, neutral grounds and sidewalks in the afternoon and evenings for libations and commiseration. There may be dominoes to be played; some horseshoes to be pitched; a game of Cornhole and some beverages in brown bags. Old R&B music is their soundtrack and they have a time every day, I’m sure, not listening to the cacophonies of worldwide gloom and doom-- maybe I should be more like them—but, as everyone knows, there’s no such thing as objective reality because all reality is subjective. Theirs is a subjective reality that I admire.

        I love New Orleans mostly because I can handle her dysfunction; I rejoice in her music; I’m sated by her cooking and I take comfort in the celebration of life that is a constant. We may be a lot of things here; and one morning at a coffee shop with my old lady, running into a photographer, a drunk, an ex-mayor and an artist gives me reason to feel a level of optimistic clarity. Back at it biaches; we can still change the world!