Angel From Montgomery

Po boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

The Ides Of March

Or

Angel From Montgomery

“And Spring arose on the garden fair,

Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;

And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast

Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.”

However, you pick up your March Where Y’at and it seems that this month’s festivities are starting as slow as the Saints defense. Well, you’re not imagining things.

As a city that’s founded on a Catholic menu (with liberal side dishes of lascivious licensing), we tend to lay a little low after Mardi Gras to atone for our rambunctiousness during Carnival--- however--- when we can taste the end of Lenten season, our hormones and pheromones chafe at the bit.  Consequently, long about the middle of March, the sassy and smartass celebratory locomotive begins its chuga-chug-chug (the little engine that could…… and does).

Starting with Buku Music and Art on the 13^th, we slide into Mardi Gras Indians Super Sunday, St. Joseph’s, St. Patrick’s, Congo Square New World Rhythm, New Orleans Food, Tennessee Williams Literary, Spring Equinox, International Beer, Hogs for a Cause, and Louisiana Oyster Jubilee Festivals. March-- in like a lamb and out like a lion--especially because, in the interim, there will be second lines, crawfish killings, birthdays, deadlines, wanderings, wooings and someone getting a fat check back from Uncle Sam.

It’s said ‘there’s nothing as constant as change’ and the new influx of residents—from hospital workers to Hispanic laborers; forward thinking teachers to the struggling upwardly mobile  ---  change demographics. New Orleans continues to be painted with a wide brush, and you’d be a fool not to love the colors and a traitor if you didn’t wish that things would remain the same. You can play the “I remember when….” game all you like; but, one thing for sure about spring 2015, there’s eddies in the wash, cosmically and cosmetically.

The French Quarter has turned into a Disney-esque  caricature, the Marigny has become the new French Quarter, upper Bywater has become the New Marigny, lower Bywater has turned into Brooklyn and less affluent folks are being pushed (again) into ‘the Nine’ (upper and lower). What was once a viable downtown is now hotels, office buildings and parking lots.  Affordable housing for retirees and missions for the homeless share zip codes with churches, schools, nursing homes and product driven facilities which now are either condominiums or hulking shells.

Meanwhile, a gleaming steel and concrete city on the hill will have arisen smack dab it the middle of River City where a neighborhood once stood. Likewise the Lafitte Greenway will be nearly complete, they’ll still be talking about tearing down that affront of an interstate along Claiborne, the last of the projects will have fallen, and possibly a decision will be made about the old Charity Hospital.

Question: what are you gonna do? Answer: whatever you can. Pray for a good landlord and a reasonable rent, throw caution to the wind and watch your back.

There’s no sense in even considering a move to another city/town. That would only become a stigma on the polish of your impeccable personality; face it, once you’ve drank the New Orleans cool aid you’re doomed, spoiled, cursed and infected with a love/hate relationship with the best damn city in the nation. No one who has ever lived in New Orleans will consider anywhere else in this country their true home. There, I’ve said it and I’ll swear by it. Hell, maybe I’ll run for Mayor.

At one time I believed that the only place to live in New Orleans would be in the French Quarter and it’s true; kinda. The Quarter’s 24/7 sensory overloaded me (at some point most tenants will know when it’s time to leave the party); and, I found another neighborhood complete with kids, trees, squirrels, neighborhood pubs, coffee houses, restaurants and groceries.

Perversely, there are tracts of housing area that have only convenience stores and the occasional wild chickens. With luck there’s a washateria, filling station, Dollar store, Kentucky Mac Bell and/or bus stop close by; regrettably (and still), some folks are not that lucky. Historically, we are a city of haves and have-nots. We’ll make do. It’s the foundation of our culture, food, music and it’s in our blood--that’s not denigration--it’s the way it is.

Back to Spring (March 21^st); in Italian it’s Prima Vera, meaning the First Truth, the true end of the past year and beginning of the new. Our juices flow. We do some ‘Spring’ cleaning. We decide to ‘get in shape’. Our young fancies have returned to love and our appetite for life reawakens. We become more critical, wistful, energized, keen; you know: “out with the old….”  The First Truth in New Orleans is that we will never be any better than what we are, but probably not any worse; so, spring forward (!), dust off your dancing shoes, suit up and prepare to shake your money maker!

December 2014 musings

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

ZuZu’s Petals

Or

Three-sixty-five Hero

            Whiskers the cat waits at Jefferson Feed out on the highway for a forever home. Whiskers isn’t young, her chances are slim. At her last home, where she didn’t ask for a baby to be born, a toddler who decided to pick her up be the tail got scratched, now there’s a sign on her cage that says “Sweet and gentle, best for a home without children” Today the store is dark and lonely, closed for a holiday.  Whiskers doesn’t know what she did wrong to deserve desertion by the couple that she loved and loved her in return. She cries.

            Marcie, a single mother of two, takes a taxi to work; buses are on holiday schedule and she would be either an hour early or an hour late for her shift. ‘Keep Christ in Christmas’ she reads on a passing billboard; “yeah right” she mutters to herself as they speed through cold and empty streets. She prays that she’ll make enough waiting on strangers to cover her expenses for the day. Her holiday won’t start until the afternoon, her kids will spend Christmas morning with the neighbors.

Malcolm (Mal), the taxi driver, is as quiet and introspective as Marcie on the way across town---Christmas quiet—reflecting on his life such as it is (a universal tendency during any holiday season). He should be home but he’d rather be out here; his Old Lady’s back is out again, his daughter’s run off with some no account and his boy is on his fourth tour—getting shot at--- in some Third World country. Mal didn’t figure that growing old would be like this and has the suspicion that this is as good as it’s going to get.

Winston is picking up an extra shift this week and that’s okay with him. Winston is ‘retired’, meaning that the world thinks that he’s too old to employ and he can only pick up work part-time: buffet tender, roast carver, food runner or--- in today’s case—omelet maker. So, Christmas for Winston will be spent standing in the dining room with a frying pan and a grin, he has no family to speak of, so it’s all the same to him.

Sophia was dropped off at the pound one Christmas day. She was pregnant, had heartworms and someone had felt it necessary to dock her tail. She went into kennel shock and if it hadn’t been for someone at the shelter recognizing that she was a sweet, special dog, she would have gotten a dose of gas for the Holidays.  Sophie doesn’t really remember that time; she’s got a good home now and to her a holiday is when everyone is at home and lovin’ on her and each other.  

Junior sits in Orleans Parish Prison this holiday season. Everything about it sucks: the food, the wardrobe and the company that he’s forced to keep.If he’s guilty of mayhem, mischief, murder, maliciousness, mistaken identity or merely WWB (walking while black), that will be up to the authorities to decide after their days off. Meanwhile he marks time; neither Junior or his family can make his bail, especially this time of year, and to them Santa is just some fat white dude who favors other people’s children. Oh well, maybe they’ll put some cranberry on his baloney sandwich and have some kind of Christian service on Christmas day. Thank you, Lord.

“Della and Jim live in a shabby flat and they are poor. But they love each other. He sells his watch to buy combs for her beautiful long hair, while she sells her tresses to buy him an elegant chain for his time piece. Gift of the Magi; yadda, yadda, yadda.

Somewhere in Norman Rockwell’s world a nuclear family (mother, father, 2.5 children) sits down to a wonderful holiday dinner. Their rescue puppy and adopted tortoiseshell feline lie snoozing by the fire. Or, Grandma’s clasping her hands with joy at the front door as that GM station wagon full of children and grandchildren pulls up for a ‘real’ holiday with the ‘folks’, complete with snow on the ground, stockings hung by the chimney with care  and presents under the tree. It’s possibly your life, but…

Somewhere at an urban mission the homeless shuffle in line for a hot meal before spending the night at some cardboard condominium under the overpass. There’s no fire and visions of being rousted by the local screws disturb their dreams.

There are a million stories of holiday miseries and miracles. Miracles being in short supply these days, we’ve got to accept that no matter what our tribulations are, there are those that are less fortunate, ofttimes much less fortunate. Be at peace knowing that we’re all doing the best we can from our beginnings to our ends with the tools that we have been provided and that a modicum of empathy for our fellow creatures can go a very long way.

This holiday season, think about taking a little time out to ring a bell to give an angel its wings. Happy Holidays.

Is that all there is?

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Kitty's Knickers

Or

Someone Else's Problem

Lassitude: Noun:

 1. Weariness of body or mind from strain, oppressive climate, etc.: lack of energy.

2. A condition of indolent indifference.

Not me! Heck, it's carnival Time! I don't care who won the last election or if the voter turnout was less than 40% , y'all deserve whoever you didn't vote for! lol. All I care about is if the weather on Krewe du Vieux parade night will be warmer and drier than years past.

As you know, Valentine's Day comes right in the heat of Carnival and I'm just kinda over that by now, aren't you (?); you know, been there done that, got the tee shirt. We don't want to hear (again) how grand love is. This year it's all about the substantial stimulating of superficial senses or lack thereof. I don't want to think anymore. Party on!

Yep, I'm ready for some street walkin' and jive talkin' and if the governor refused money so that all of Louisianans could have health care....so what. I've worked without health benefits for years; what did I do? I didn't get sick, and if I did and lost my job.... well. As that last president pointed out “that's why we have Emergency Rooms”. Listen, I have a friend and when he got mugged, he received the best care in the world. What's all this about 'preventative care'? Shoot, take care of it when it happens and stop being such babies!

So, I've got some costuming to get together big time and some parading to get my fill of, should I be worrying about equal pay for women or marriage equality for the LGBT community or that 1% of the population controls 43% of this country's wealth; pass me another funny colored drink.

What about my smoking? I've got a right to kill myself if I want to; sure I know it will eventually. And, so I flip my butts into the street, they're biodegradable ain't they? Besides, we have street sweepers out here from four in the morning until ten at night; give 'em something to do, I say.

Recycle? Too much trouble. Pick up my dog's sh*t? What do you take me for, a garbage man? I have enough to do getting a good seat in time for the game. And then there's mischief to be up to and that hottie that waits on tables (I think she digs me); I've got to look my best; text me and we'll hook up. Hey, did you see that that chick with the PETA petition? You want to talk pork chops, Honey? Haw, Haw, Haw! I'm not against animal rights or anything (they do have some, don't they?) heck, I've never met a fried chicken that I didn't like.

Now, what do you know? Education just took a badass cut from the people who give money to the oil industry; ah, what the hell, you don't need much learnin' if you're gonna push a broom, eh?

I've been told to watch my diet, get exercise, cut down on my drinking and pay attention to my blood pressure and cholesterol intake; but you know, later Gator, we're here to have a good time, you know? February in New Orleans is the best, not too hot and hopefully not too cold and it's five o'clock somewhere! Whoo hoo!

Personally, I've had enough about caring what other people do or don't do; if you want things to get better, if you want love, equality, understanding and/or justice to prevail.... go ahead, make it happen. The world is not changing for the better and you know it; I know it. Babies are born, loved ones die, people suffer, hearts are broken and mended. Or not. This season it's all about me and the King Cake baby! I’ve been hitting my head against, what is clearly, a stone wall defending right over might; and what has it gotten me? Lumps.

And while we're on the subject; I don't want to know about another of our people in uniform getting hurt in a war that's all about some fat cat's greed. Or another politician who's been caught with his pants down, his hand in the till or up somebody's skirt. I don't want to hear about another home invasion, police brutality, homelessness or your pothole riddled streets. Planned parenthood is on the ropes? Your fault, not mine. I'm taking this year off from caring. I've had enough, you need help? Try the Lone Ranger. I'm out on the town! Gone pecan!

If your car runs like an old tin can, your wife ran off with another man, you've sprained a muscle in you fishin' hand and your income tax is due; don't tell me, it's carnival time and I'm going to have a light heart and a cheerful countenance or know the reason why not. Come Lent I may repent but right now, I'm goin' for comfortably numb.

New Year's 2015

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Willin’

Or

The Idiot and The Odyssey

            Back in the day, January would annually be celebrated as the month that sanity finally returned to the grownups in my family and collaterally, to us children. In December each year we were surrounded by raving full blown bat guano crazy maniac adults that we happened to be subjected, related, and forced to live in close proximity to. Mercifully, this was when I was younger, but I feel that it became instrumental as a specific reason why I no longer live any closer than a thousand miles from my nearest relative. My life: my sanity.

Turmoil would start on my birthday, which is December 1st, and for a long time I suspected that I was the cause of the madness that invaded the household.  In retrospect, I realized that the beginning of December was the time that the last welfare check came in before the horrid days of Christmas were upon us and the mad scramble for family holiday cred had to begin not only in earnest but with a high degree of alacrity. Large family; small income; pride; prejudice; pretense; competition and excessive focus on the importance of material significance all rolled up into the red eyed, fang gleaming, fire breathing, brimstone belching, mucus dripping, blood thirsty, razor clawed monster of impending failure to keep up appearances for the holiday season turning everyone around me from mild mannered Doctor (I’ll have another piece of pie) Thanksgiving Jekyll into Mister (cajones-in-a-vice-grip) Holiday Hyde. 

I’ll admit I wasn’t the sharpest tack, but it didn’t take a rocket surgeon to know that the grownups were having meltdowns in December more so than other months--   when they were merely irrational, unpredictable, illogical, and a lesson to the kids that growing up was something that should be avoided at all costs.

Of course, when the New Year finally rolled in, the miasma of impending doom had passed—for them. The threats of no presents, no tree, no Santa and even no Christmas dinner had fallen by the wayside—for them; but, as kids, young and green, disappointment was our devil. Our fantasies had been bedfellows that we had nestled with each night; sugar plum fairies that had danced in our heads as the holiday season came and stood poised to drop an avalanche of cosmic detritus on our hopes and dreams.

After Christmas, the realization of the finality of the experience set in for the adults with them congratulating themselves for a job well done. Us kids, deflated over not getting our ponies, pool tables, Madame Alexander’s and Thompson submachine guns resigned ourselves that we had just not been deserving enough.

And, with Christmas past and New Year’s looming, the grownups gave a collective sigh and started gearing up for that fabulous party to come, as if making it through the year alive was reward enough to warrant a colossal shindig; each one telling the other that it ‘hadn’t been such a bad year’ and ‘this one’ll be better’ (besides, the next check was in the mail).

Fast forward to 2015. Here we go with another New Year. Our holiday angst is fading, our resolutions are being formed and there are no other big expenditures for a while (except for birthdays, anniversaries, groceries, school supplies, doctors, dentists, the usual bills,  getting things fixed and gettin’ ‘er done).

I’ve come to the realization that it’s never going to get any easier; this year again, there will be gains and losses; babies will be born; loved ones will die and the rent will be a little late sometimes. The one thing that is certain about life is its uncertainty.

I’ll try to avoid accidents, missteps and the reliably unplanned ‘less-than-comfortable’ conclusions resulting from my actions (if I’m not paying attention to good and positive results); but, you know, stuff happens. Lessons will be learned or repeated. But, winter will turn to spring and there will be rain. Our best laid plans won’t always work out and there’ll be sweet surprises that transpire, magically and exactly when we need them, like the sun rising in the east over the west bank of the river every day.

We can get all maudlin about how the world is goin’ to hell in a hand basket or we can enjoy the ride; we can lose our minds and misplace our senses of humor or we can be like my weird and wonderful role models that congratulated themselves on squeaking out of yet another year and toasting each other into another year. Another chance to do the best they could with what they had.

So, I’ll keep reminding myself that I’m too blessed to be stressed and fortunate to have made it through another year myself; still standing,  bent but not broken.

 

Thanksgiving 2014

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Thanks A Lot

Or

Happy Bird Day

            The consensus is that I eat one meal a day. That meal starts when I wake up and continues until I brush my teeth with bacon flavored toothpaste before retiring; I’m joking about the toothpaste (creative license and all that), but you get the picture. My mother swore that my first word was related to food and that word was “MORE!” My Daughter says that I’ve a hunger of the soul. I say….” if eating was a crime, I would have to plead insanity; I’m crazy about food! “

            Perhaps that’s what led me into the food service industry and also perhaps why it was so easy to leave my last job when they stipulated that I’d have to work on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Christmas you can have, but what sort of Philistine would make a body leave hearth and home to feed a bunch of unfamiliar people dinner on Thanksgiving? People should have homes of their own and ought be there! I could see if you’re homeless and I’m all for putting in some hours feeding those less fortunate; but, to consciously venture forth for Thanksgiving dinner instead of cooking and eating at home? That’s just so wrong on so many levels. Besides, if you don’t want to go the distance, you can always find a pot luck in your hood or local pub or fellow workers houses (you know, the time honored ‘orphan’s Thanksgiving’ meal?).

            I was Executive Chef of a large, urban hotel at one point in my career and not only had to work on holidays but also had to ride herd on an all you can eat fixed price Thanksgiving buffet for twelve to fifteen hundred people who ate like locusts, starving locusts. The buffet table was literally one hundred and twenty five feet long and food was put out along its entirety and replenished from eleven in the morning until nine in the evening. Talk about appetites. The people who come to Thanksgiving buffets are no less than professional eaters and I got to know and hate most of them.

Anyway, these are the people that go to special occasion buffets (Easter, Mother’s Day, Christmas) with one thought in mind: to get much more than their monies worth. They eat with abandon, going back to the trough for seconds, thirds and fourths; they are, generally, rude and demanding and, specifically, without a shred of couth. Ill tempered, ill mannered and lacking fashion sense; their ilk have followed me to other restaurants that I’ve been forced -under penalty of dismissal- to cook or serve on holidays that no American should venture forth from their domiciles to observe.

 I no longer work on Thanksgiving. I stay at home and cook for me and mine (all two of us).

And… guess what? We give the turkey the day off! It’s a tradition of ours not to eat turkey on Thanksgiving; it’s our way of not taking part in the wholesale slaughter of a species for economic masturbation. I’m not casting aspersions on the millions of households that gleefully take part in this mass carnage; I just wait until Old Tom is unsuspecting before my personal assassination occurs; it also helps that Girlfriend is vegetarian.

So I cook and cook and cook. Sweet potatoes with maple syrup, creamy mashed potatoes, sage dressing, mushroom gravy, roasted parsnips, turnips, rutabagas, baked acorn squash with sweet butter, baked apples with cinnamon, oven browned Brussels sprouts, gingered carrots and buttered green beans. Dinner rolls, sweet tea and a pie or cobbler for dessert. Girlfriend makes baked cheesy asparagus, ice cream, opens the cranberry sauce, sets the table, lights the candles and graces me with her presence (we compete for cleaning and putting up leftovers). We generally eat around two and again around six thirty (somewhere in between, there’s snacking, a nap or walk).

About the cranberry sauce. Be it known that I have made cranberry sauce from scratch, cranberry relish, cranberry chutney and cranberry compote; however, when it comes to our table nobody, but nobody, does it better than Ocean Spray. We buy a can of the whole berry and a can of jellied. Nothing compares to when you open the can carefully and slide that sucker out whole with those rings and everything; slice it and watch those ruby waves fall like silken dominos (you know what I mean!).

And leftovers, sweet wonderful leftovers; It be like: “well, for breakfast let’s have some dinner rolls and cranberry sauce with our coffee…. No, pie, pie, more pie!”

“Lessee, for lunch some dressing and sweet potatoes, gravy and cranberry sauce… maybe some green beans for color”.

Dinner: “YUM! Mashed ‘taters and gravy with some parsnips and carrots; hey, any more of that asparagus casserole? Ahem! Where’s the cranberry sauce?”

Later: “Y’all want some ice cream and sweet tea?”

Quite naturally we know what this holiday is all about and we do pause and reflect, not only of our great good fortune that fate has let us live and prosper for another year, but also for dear friends and family that, for one reason or another, cannot be with us: mostly because we didn’t invite them. Or they’ve moved too far away, bought the farm, are in jail or got a better deal going elsewhere. Whatever; it’s fine with—and more food for—us; were the type of couple that would rather be in eachother’s company than anywhere else, just ask our therapist.

I’m happy to note that one positive thing that we learned in counseling is that we’re two very different people who just happen to enjoy eachother’s company more than anyone else’s. No slight intended.

Hope you have someone that you can say the same about on this Happy Thanksgiving!

Anthropometaphorisms

Po-Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Anthropometaphorisms

Or

Swingin’ On A Star

                       

THIS: Anthropomorphic: “The attribution of a human form, human characteristics or human behavior to nonhuman things. PLUS:  Metaphor: figures of speech or symbolism that does not literally represent real things; implicit comparisons. EQUALS:  Anthropometaphoric.

We bipeds are forever Anthropometaphorisizing our and other’s attributudes; you know who you are, you old polecat. Hold your horses, you’re as crazy as a loon, blind as a bat, stubborn as a mule and as mean as a snake. Just for starters. Sly as a fox, slippery as an eel, brave as a lion and happy as a clam. Quick like a bunny, breeding like rabbits, pregnant as a goat, slow as a tortoise and still as happy as a pig in slop. Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if you ain’t been workin’ like a dog; you need to go take a cat nap. I smell a rat, be quiet as a mouse, we don’t want to come off cock sure, like some dumb ass. “she was the roughest toughest frail; but Minnie had a heart as big as a whale (hidee hidee hidee ho)”. Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. (We shan’t go into the different ways that we describe our sex lives------ we’ll just not go there.)

            We’re as strong as an ox/bull, as weak as kittens, can swim like fish and the world is our oyster. Our hackles are up. We’ve had our shoulder to the wheel, nose to the grindstone, panties in a wad and we’re up to our asses in alligators. We’ve gone bananas, laughing like hyenas, crying crocodile tears; busy as bees and mad as hornets. We’re either swimming against the tide or up a creek without a paddle, cornered like rats, got us up against the ropes and the shoe is on the other foot, (waiting for the other shoe to drop); it’s like banging your head against a wall; whadya want, blood? Don’t give me the third degree, don’t make a Federal Case out of it; get off my back!!! She eats like a bird.

            Make hay while the Sun shines; grab the brass ring, scream like banshees and fight like demons or the devil to keep your head above water; well, whadya want, an egg in yer beer? You’re drunk as a skunk, high as a kite, quit horsing around you clown; come down from that ivory tower or pick up your marbles and go home. Fish or cut bait, jump into the fire. “Like an eagle protects its nest, for you I’ll do my best; stand by you like a tree and dare anybody to try and move me.”

            Sweet as Tupelo honey, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, swears like a sailor, drinks like a fish, squirrels away money, industrious as an ant, come up for air…. Take a hike!

            She’s the bee’s knees, flat as a board, legs from hell to breakfast; damn straight! Full as a tick, one olive short of a Greek Salad; dumb as a sack of hammers. Can I get fries with that shake? Cat got your tongue? Hen pecked, take a powder, pull a Houdini, don’t get caught with your pants down, like a bump on a log. Pigeon toed, bow legged,  salt of the earth, hot as a two dollar pistol or firecracker, mad as a Hatter, pure as the driven snow, honest as the day is long. “She walks, she talks; she crawls on her belly like a reptile” Hard as a rock.

            Nutty as a fruitcake, queer as a three dollar bill with a heart as black as the ace of spades, stupid as s**t, like a fly in a spider’s web, trophy wife, pond scum, a real honey or eye candy. Like a chicken with its head cut off. Cat on a hot tin roof.

We have the patience of a saint, we cocoon with our families or ‘nest’, we sequester ourselves like a gopher or badger, draw into ourselves like a turtle, or put our head in the sand like an ostrich.   “I am a rock, I am an island”. Straight ahead and steady as Gibraltar.  Puts her on a pedestal, on her like a cheap suit, off like dirty underwear, mad as a wet hen. The balls of a brass monkey, cackling like geese, hen party. “SAY CHEESE!!!”

            We’re green with envy, yellow cowards (yellow bellied sap sucker; chicken); we see red when we’re overtly angry and purple when we suck that anger up. My mood is black or I can be feeling blue, I may be having a gray day and orange you glad to see me (kidding)? “You ain’t been blue ‘til you’ve had that mood indigo….”

            Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch. What’s your number sweet cucumber? “If you don’t want my peaches, don’t shake my tree” My boy Lollipop. Sweet as Cherry Pie. Give Mama some sugar; give Daddy some of that sweet Jelly Roll. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

            Healthy as a horse, crooked as a snake, forked tongue, Indian giver, beating around the bush, a**hole, doormat, wet blanket, all day sucker. It’s dog eat dog in that rat race, big fish eating little’ns. Top dog. Bottom feeder. Packed like sardines, honest as the day is long, cow eyes, cat eyes, bedroom eyes, like a deer in the headlights. Shrinking violet, poison ivy, pretty as a daisy, swat you like a fly. “I’ll hit you so hard, your head will ring like a ten penny nail hit with a greasy ball peen hammer!” Skinny as a rail, toothpick, string bean; thick as thieves, slow as molasses, dead as a doornail, done to a turn, it’s down to the wire: say goodnight, Gracie.

“Goodnight Gracie.”

.

You Know You're From New Orleans...

The “WE” Word

Or

Proud To Call It

You know you’re from New Orleans when a joke about lawyers will bore you to tears but mention ‘the one about the nun and the horny monkey’ and your attention becomes as focused as a sniper. Other indications abound.

New Orleans is neat because we can bike anywhere in the city and never consider that some bikes have gears.

We can discuss gumbo at length, have at least ten ‘favorite places’ to eat, know that going to Galatoire’s is not about the food and that a woman should never be expected to wear stockings unless she’s in a burlesque show. We know that the four seasons are food groups not weather patterns, that alligator is ‘the other white meat’ and that we can get locally baked po boy bread, but baguettes and ciabatta have to be imported from California. We regard ‘Slow Food’ as something we’ve been doing here since 1718. We start our red beans to soak on Sunday night, don’t consider it a special occasion when we eat beignets and haven’t had a Lucky Dog since playing tour guide to inebriated relatives years ago.

There’s no question in our minds that all politicians will tell you what you want to hear and then go where the money tells them. We know that when you call 911 they might not respond at all unless you say “Shots Fired!” and maybe not even then, with any sense of urgency. We know that when we call an ambulance it will be accompanied by a fire truck and a huge bill for the ride which is why when we’re hurt it’s cheaper to call a cab or have a friend drop you off at the emergency room.

None of us understand why Charity Hospital stayed closed, why the 610 overpass has not been torn down or why we aren’t allowed to drink in our cars anymore. We don’t want our IDs checked in bars; we’re all older than we look. We don’t give money to tap dancers, know where we got our shoes and suspect that those folks with signs that say “Homeless/AnythingHelps/GodBless” are making more money than us.

 We’re not surprised to see crops growing from potholes in our streets, waiters rubbing elbows with judges at art openings, men in red dresses, women dressed as pirates and/or just plain painted gold or silver. We would rather get our health care from our veterinarian because we trust them more than doctors. We shy away from adult beverages that come in colors not found in nature. We are nonplussed when greeted “good morning” but shy away when a stranger wants to shake our hand or “just ask you something”.    

We’ll pin money on a birthday shirt or blouse, support WWOZ rather than PBS, feed stray cats, brake for crossing chickens, consider going to Chalmette a road trip and  avoid Bourbon St.

We believe Paul Prudhomme and Susan Spicer are saints and we believe our Saints will pull it off this year. We wonder why some people think that football pools are illegal. We don’t consider ourselves part of American South, more like Caribbean North. We don’t drink Sweet Tea. We know what we mean when we say” Lagniappe”, “Red Gravy”, “Making Groceries” and “Ya Momma and Dem”. We dance every day, on any occasion, for any reason or none at all. We dress our sandwiches.

We don’t give direction by compass points, everything to us is either Uptown, Downtown, River Side or Lake Side. We use our favorite Bars as MapQuest.

Just as New Yorkers believe about their bagels and Californians believe about their morning coffee, no New Orleanian doubts that it is the water here that makes our food so tasty.  We believe that the words “Last Call” are an abomination before God and man. We wonder why visitors seem surprised that we have ghosts. We have no ‘Role Models’. We don’t know whether money can buy happiness because we’ve never had any (money) and we’re already happy. We think cold weather is just “Stupid”.

We all have our own ways of dealing with fleas, ticks, roaches and termites. We’re stung by mosquitoes, caterpillars, spiders and we have insects here that haven’t even been named. Our cats hunt Palmetto Bugs in our houses. We think Monk Parrots and cicadas make music not noise. We’re not surprised to discover raccoons, possums or rats at our compost. There are alligators and snakes loose in our parks. We run the gamut of birdlife here. We have only one degree of separation. We have opinions about everything but know better than to talk about sex, politics or religion in bars.

We love the Krewe Du Vieux, Muses and the Society of Saint Ann.  We know that a second line trumps traffic, there’s always some kind of festival going on and your bike is about to be stolen no matter what kind of lock you use. We wear socks in winter and when we have to go to work. We know when a friend is on a diet of caffeine, nicotine and alcohol that there’s a heartbreak going on. We ‘get’ Confederacy of Dunces. We all have worked in the service industry at some point, know musicians or are one (probably both) and find it funny that when the bridge toll was cut out, ferry prices cut in. We wonder why the streetcar tracks haven’t been finished in nine years and the Super Dome was up and running in six months.  

We believe that it’s a blessed day when we wake up in the morning, more so when we haven’t missed a meal and especially so when the conversation at mealtime is centered on our plans for the next meal. Our city flower is a balloon.