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!

   

Shoe Whore

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Sole Search

Or

Shoe Whore

        I read a book when I was much younger (actually, I’ve read many books throughout my life as well as when I was much younger); this one was about a boy my age, at the time, eleven or twelve, who had run away from a cruel orphanage and went and (not surprisingly) joined up with a circus!

        Well….the orphanage wants the boy back for further nefarious and malicious endeavors on his psyche, spirit and fragile physique and they send some goons out to find him. Big, mean, hulking, slobbering knuckle draggers wearing military storm boots and ill fitting beige woolen suits, employed by the sinister reprobates that run the facility; they want the kid back. So they send out these thugs to find him, search for him until they do and drag him back by the scruff of his neck or the heels of his feet, sadistically  bruised and battered if necessary (at least that’s how I remember it).

        Well, the boy is happy as a clam with his new circus family, a cute and smart boy just like I was at that age; here he is taking a rest under a picnic table after a morning of cage cleaning, scoping out the crowds passing on their way to the Big Top and analyzing people’s footwear: farmhands, schoolboys, fancy ladies and housewives; bankers, brokers, clodhoppers and kids from the boondocks. And then he spots a pair of those prison guard boots walking by and he knows that the carefree days of cleaning up elephant poop and breakfasting with the clowns and high wire dames in tight clothing is in danger of coming to an abrupt end. A wild and wacky adventure ensues (naturally with a happy ending) and I’m left with a future of checking out what people wear on their feet as a past time and a habit in case someday some goons might come after me.

        Everybody’s gotta have shoes; when I was younger there were gum chewing girls in Oxfords, penny loafers or patent leather Mary Jane’s; bluster boys with tasseled slip-on’s, Buster Browns, Chuck Taylors or heavy leather Florsheims with cleats nailed on the heels to make arrogant sparks on the concrete outside the pool hall as they slouched by. Nurses in white polished sensible shoes, risky teenage girls in high heels; Moms in mules around the house; father’s go-to work shoes, my go-to school shoes (hand me downs) and our Easter Sunday new ‘go-to church’ shoes. I remember taking shoes to the cobbler for heels and soles (Cat’s Paw brand); my mother’s high heels for ‘lifts’; the smell of the glue and the pounding of nails into leather. There was a time when you could tell an American abroad on vacation by their shoes (running shoes) and now when you see someone wearing Nike slip-ons in public, you know that they’re garnering ‘Street Cred’. Older guys with Velcro shoes mean that they cannot bend over; scruffy youngsters in hundred dollar Birkenstocks, CT’s are still a hit and Shoes for Crews de rigueur for restaurant workers. Sensible shoes on blue collar workers and durable boots on construction guys. Did I forget Doc Martins? Introduce me to someone and I will invariably and quite naturally look to see what they wear on their feet. As Forest Gump says “you can tell a lot about a person by their shoes--- where they’re goin’, where they’ve been”. I was attracted once to a woman because of her thigh high black boots (and admittedly, her reputation of what she did in them). Shoes carry a stigma of class; the rich kids have fancy shoes and the poor kids go without. 1916 movie; a girl trades her virginity for a pair. And on and on and on.

Here I will reveal that I am a shoe whore. I am aware of my footwear wherever I am; fuzzy slippers in the house and a closet that has talking shoe personalities: my high tops want to go for a stroll; my huaraches want to go to the beach; my Topsiders want to go to sea; my Capezios want to tango and my Tony Lamas are ready to line dance. I have tan work boots and Kung Foo slip ons; Birkenstocks, Vans, two-tone Zydeco dancers and shined Cole Hann’s that are ready for an interview. In my past I have unashamedly housed a variety of twenty plus pairs, again, unashamedly, and there’s more that beckon me.

        I learned to ‘spit shine’ shoes in the Navy and I keep black, brown and neutral cans of Kiwi polish with a rag and brushes; also a bottle of that liquid stuff in case of an emergency. Pumps, flats, courts or thongs, everybody needs shoes; ever worn Tom McCanns or Keds? Ever fantasized about finding a Princess with a glass slipper (or being one)? Do you know the story of the Red Shoes? Puss in Boots? Wizard of OZ? Maxwell Smart?

        I wonder why you never see what shoes someone is wearing in their casket (that’s weird, I know); but, there’s an old gospel song that ends with “when I get to Heaven, gonna put on my shoes, gonna walk all over God’s Heaven” that’s not a bad visual for me, I’ll just have to specify in my will which shoes I’ll wear on that final journey.

         

       

 

Udaipur or Woke (Imagine That)

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Woke

Or

Imagine That

            The difference between then and now; the difference between the haves and the had nots of yesterday and today; the repurposing of the real and of real estate. The entirety of the mad dash clash of past, present, future and the ones who move up and the ones that fall down. “They are the same people only further from home, on a freeway fifty lanes wide on a concrete continent spaced with bland billboards illustrating imbecile illusions of happiness” (Ferlinghetti).

            I’ve changed over the years of my lives, escaping from the projects and parents, side stepping prospects of prisons and poisons pursuing a profession and being always on the cusp of the finer positive points of prosperity; relying on personal progress for peace/a piece of my mind that is being continually blown by me the hungry gatherer constantly overtaken by the successful hunters.

            Folks my age, our experiences lost in the space of time and the lessons and larks that lead us from relative comfort to an eventual downsizing ‘retirement home’ abandonment with one foot in assisted living and the other avoiding the slippery slope of a six foot hole all the while hoping that the next one to go is not another one that we love or worse, us ourselves. You didn’t know me when I was a younger man and I won’t know you as an old person. So it goes.

            Million dollar condos and high priced essentials; shaving with a brush and a bar of soap while my taxes line the pockets of manic mansplainers telling me how good they have made life for me and mine; property values continue to become fatter and my pockets leaner; my spirit contentiously swimming against the undertow of historic mendacity concerning the salvation of my eternal soul, as if the promise of heaven will fill the bellies of hungry children while the rich donate to rebuild cathedrals dedicated to a carpenter’s son who died for their sins. The picture of the ragged man sitting on his milk crate at the intersection; his sign reading “Anything Helps, God Bless”.

            The rent for one month of an apartment two blocks from where I grew up would have paid our living expenses for almost five years and that would have been for a family of six. Where does the time go and where does that kind of money come from?

            The great recession of 2018 is coming to bite us in the behind as the bubble is busting while our credit cards get maxed out trying to rob Peter to pay Paul and finding out that Peter has been financially kicked to the curb; even the low spark of high heeled boys cannot escape the percentage we’re paying while we’re living beyond all our means because the man in the suit has just bought himself a golf course with the profits he’s made on our fears and our dreams. The sound in the distance is not a dog barking but the laughter of Anubis taking our coins for our ride with Charon.

            It matters not because we’re witnessing islands of plastic debris as mega companies use solar power to make frakking less expensive. They rape and we must pull up our pants and stumble on being the last generation to walk freely on this planet; the impotence of our good intentions paving the road to hell.

            I have a neighbor who walks to the bus stop once a week to go to Walmart; he rests on the stoop next door to us and happily explains how he’s looking forward to celebrating his ninety-fifth birthday. May we all be so fortunate; from our mouths to God’s ears; walking to the bus ride to Walmart amid the chaos confusion and detritus of a collapsed planet; walking to the bus ride to Walmart.

 

Writer's picks 5/21

 

Phil’s Picks

Best First Date Place

        So you want to know if they’re the one that you want to know; here’s the real test. Pull-A-Part 4401 Peters Rd. Harvey, La. 504-243-6660 Call it a salvage or a junk yard, I call it wonderful; you know you can always use some spare parts for your ride. They have vehicles laid out like a cemetery (one by one); they’re computerized for easy finding of your prey. Bring tools and patience and that new friend; believe me, if they pass this test, they’re worth holding on to. Worth the price of admission ($2.00) and you’ll get your picture taken.

Best Vegetarian Lunch Date

        Want to really score big on the vegetarian dating scene? Take them to Burger King  2727 Canal Street 504-681-9367 drive thru for a couple of Impossible (veggie) Whoppers and some shakes, go sit in the parking lot at Goodwill, 3400 Tulane Avenue 504-482-1046 eat your delicious lunch while chatting about this and that and then go do some light shopping ( you’ll always find something!). I guarantee this outing will bring a smile to any veggie’s face and if not, let them fade like denim from your life. Reward them with a PBR at Pal’s 949 N. Rendon 504-488-7257

Everyone Knows But You Best Local Meal

        Kebab 2313 St. Claude St. 504-383-4328 From ketchup to kebabs all made in house, fresh baked bread daily for sandwiches, hummus, couscous, pickles, beets and nine house made sauces (including the infamous Skhug, Coco-habenero and Harrisa), craft beers, cocktails in coconuts, Portobello po-boys with Spanish garlic sauce, falafel and friendly service. Eating in house, pick up, bicycle and Uber-eats delivery service. Tall towers of rotating pork and chicken turning slowly on spits and specials on weekends. A neighborhood place with high standards and local roots. Mention them to friends and they’ll say “Oh, I know that place, I love it”.

Claiborne overpassass

 

Po Boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Claiborne Confusion

Or

Junction Misfunction

        Okay, I’m no personage of importance, knowledge or authority; in fact, the older I get, the less that people want my opinion or wisdom of experience. I also only know the basics of history, but I do possess degrees in sensitivity and logic from the School of Hard Knocks. So be it. Here goes and I’ll say this in bold:

“DO NOT TEAR DOWN THE CLAIBORNE OVERPASS!!!”

        The back story of that two and a half mile carbuncle is that over fifty years ago big government was giving away butt loads of money to cities to promote roads and bridge construction and New Orleans wanted their share of the booty. At that time a plan for a highway connection for our interstate had its proposal resurrected, in fact, there were two plans; one plan had an overpass hugging the river, going through the historic French Quarter, the other would dissect the historic Treme neighborhood. This was way before we had our first black mayor (Ernest ‘Dutch’ Morial 1978-1986).

        In 1965-6 we made a deal with the devil; while the African Americans of the Treme neighborhood were focusing on civil rights, the white “historic preservationalists” surreptitiously argued against ruining the Quarter with construction which would take up to three years. In fact, I’m told that at one time both plans were floated to occur but one had to be decided on and guess which one did? The residents of the Treme had no idea of their screwing until the first bulldozers appeared to plow down the hundred year old oaks that lined the street. While the French Quarter remained sacrosanct the Treme was eviscerated, cut in two like a grill cheese sandwich. Needless to say the Quarter flourished while Claiborne Avenue in all its history, commerce and traditions faded like denim.

        Now big government is giving away more money and we have contractors and construction companies salivating at the thought of getting some of that booty. Well I say:

TURN IT INTO GREEN SPACE!

        Why not? Think of how long, how much of a mess and how much environmental impact tearing that monster down will have on that area; look at the examples of the Napoleon and Louisiana Avenue digs that took years. Look how it took about a year and a half for us to get one body from the Hard Rock site and then more months to tear THAT sucker down. Look at the conditions of our existing streets and tell me if that money couldn’t be spent better on your block.

        Now, think of how bike paths, greenery, walkways, mini-theaters, playgrounds, music venues, food kiosks (above AND below) and access for Indians and second lines to really parade could impact that panoramic structure; think of the greenery that it would encourage. For every dismissal of this idea there is a positive rebuttal and the nay saying falls flat when answered with

“WHY NOT?”

        Hard to get to? No, we have overpasses that challenge bike riders as much (consider the access to Crescent Park, the bridge climbs on Wisner and/or Broad St.). Hasn’t been done? New York City’s High Line is an example and Google cites eighteen urban projects like that: Chicago, Atlanta Toronto, Rotterdam and damn Paris even! Is the space too wide? How about some tennis courts, exercise fields or children learning agriculture projects?

        I was in San Francisco when the highway running along the waterfront was torn down; it took years and destroyed businesses and housing and I foresee that it will do the same here. I predict a failure of marketable real estate only to be replaced by a repurposing that will put the final nail into the coffin of America’s first African American community. What do you suppose will happen to Circle Foods or the Mother In Law Lounge or other businesses and housing for the Black community that have weathered the gas fumes and noise? And where are you gonna put all that damn debris? Landfill it?

        Once again, I’m no expert on these types of things; however, don’t you think that instead of putting our people to work destroying and hauling two and a half miles of construction detritus to the dump that we employ them as gardeners and builders of an elevated green space to be enjoyed by residents and visitors alike? Community groups would love a chance to put a thumb print on this newer, saner, alternative to the chaos and noise of demolition; wouldn’t you?

        So, what can we do? How can we work this? How about this: call 311 and/or City Hall and tell the Mayor that you are for the Claiborne Green Space plan and then get (at least) two more people to do the same. Tell these two (or more) people to each get two more people to call and tell two more people etc. etc. With this geometrical sequence in two weeks we would have 32,768 callers and that might get some attention and all we have to do is each get two people to call. I mean, if this isn’t an infrastructure project then what is and why not?

        And if we don’t, we abet a graveyard instead of a playground. Think about it. Talk about it. Share and expand.