Jazz Fest 2024 second weekend

 

Po-Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Fair Grounds

Or

Bust

 

“Fear in the air, tensions everywhere, unemployment’s rising fast, The Beatles new record’s a gas; and the only safe place to live is on an Indian reservation! And the band played on.” (Temptations: Ball of Confusion)

       

 

        Hey, don’t complain just because it’s only a third of the way through the year and you’re ready to curl up and go fetal; because, if you think that the ass kicking 2024 has given you so far is bad, fasten your seatbelts, ‘cause you ain’t seen nuthin’ yet (the psychic columnist strikes again!).

        All around you, you see war, hunger, homelessness, carjacking, murders, muggings, rapes and senseless politics; not to mention greed, dishonesty and inhumanity. Getting a dog or cat, close family ties or cutting your bangs may assuage your plight but it will not eliminate it. Face it, from the beginning until the end, life will work your nerves; “the girl by the whirlpool is lookin’ for a new fool; don’t follow leaders; watch the parking meters” (Bob Dylan) However…..

        Okay, so you think that just because you’re playing your part with honor, integrity and value it’s gonna get you a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card from life, you are sorely mistaken; I know, it’s what I used to think. Take it from me, from here on out it’s about to get Think or Thwim Time and the water’s rising fast. But soft, do I hear the Sirens call of the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage festival? Ah yes, the Sirens: half bird and half woman seductresses of Greek mythology that sang sailors to….; yes, I hear them over by the race track calling me (and you).

        2023 was bad, badder than the years before and here come 2024 like the Dire Wolf (600 pounds of sin); cost of living went up 10% and your raise was only 3. Rent, groceries, gasoline, your dentist, and your dealer have all increased their fees and don’t get me started on the electric bills meteoric rise; the car needs tires, baby needs shoes and, I don’t know about you but, I need a break. Hell I could do with a dose of amnesia!

         Hey, take my hand. Life is short no matter how long you live. Close your eyes. Open your hand; feel this slip of paper? It’s a ticket to The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival week two. On me. No it’s not for the Rolling Stones Day (I’m not that magnanimous).

        What? It cost as much as a day’s pay? Well, the way I consider it, when I spend a day’s pay to go to the Jazz Fest, I’m actually giving myself a day off with pay to go have a most wonderful time. Believe me, I save up all year to give myself this ‘stay-cation’; I deserve this. I deserve to be able to take every day of Jazz Fest off from work and responsibility to render myself immune to the days cares and concerns; I know that my life, as it is, will be waiting for me when I exit and I’ll face what I have to face and ignore everything else that I can that is waiting to work my patience, emotions, understanding and ken.

        But I need this. I need this respite, this time off and out; that’s what it is: I’m giving myself a ‘time out’ and going to the corner of Sauvage and Fortin Streets or 1751 Gentilly Ave, through those gates and off the grid.

        I get a giddy feeling as I stand in line with the other folks eager to be the first in; I go through the line like a greasy butter knife, carrying so very little (a towel, sunscreen, cash and a big grin); I’ve got on comfortable closed toe shoes; clothing in just enough layers for the weather and eyewear to protect me from the sun.

        I pass the Gospel Tent and look in on Jesus; pass the Blues Tent and look in on a poster of B.B. King and over to the WWOZ Jazz Tent where I deposit Debbie because that’s where she likes to spend her days and then I’m off!

        I’m not saying that I’m old; but, my experiences with and at music and art festivals get me so high that I cannot sit still for very long. I’ve got to be out there; I’ve got to see everything, be everywhere and poke my nose into everybody’s business. I am nonstop for hours and I’m electrified by the energy of the Fest; I’m movin’ and groovin’; I’ve got gut in my strut; glide in my stride and no shame in my game. Amazingly, I don’t want to talk to many people, I seldom interact; if you know me, I’m perfectly more than capable of enjoying and amusing myself without outside help or influences.

        I eat, I drink (non alcoholic beverages), I bring Debbie beignets and coffee as well as other gifts of refreshment and I observe. And when someone afterward asks me who I saw, I smile and say “everyone!”

        So, here’s your ticket; go forth and soak up the magic. Find all the secret, sacred corners, routes, and avenues through the myriad of Jazz Fest brethren and if you don’t enjoy yourself… it’s your own fault.

        Oh, if you see me and I seem to not recognize you… just let me go on my way. I’m in a world of my own and I call it heaven.

         

Jazz Fest 2024 first weekend

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Truckin’

Or

42

“’Cause every hand’s a winner; and every hand’s a loser, and the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep” (The Gambler: Kenny Rogers)

        Now, lemme get this straight: you’re born, you live and you die; in the meantime, between the light and the darkness, you’re not given a bed of roses. From childhood, you are a dependent who is basically told what is good for them and how to behave; what to believe; how to think, speak and pray; you learn to use currency, cunning and charisma to get what you want and then, with your hormones at full throttle, you are thrust out on your own into the reality that you so hoped would be your salvation… and you’re met with the cold fact that life is unforgiving and unfair.

        Getting older, you learn (or don’t) how to manage your health and welfare; you’re also held responsible for your actions, finances and future; in short, it ain’t downhill coasting whoever you may be or wherever you are. It’s a headache and a pain in the ass. And then there’s The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival (Jazz Fest).

        Life can be a bitch, karma can be a kick in the ass; you may get everything you deserve or nothing at all. You’ll get what you pay for and then you’ll pay for what you get. Finagle’s Law will dog you: ‘anything that can go wrong, will go wrong at the worst possible moment’ (or not). Clowns to the left of you; Jokers to the right and there you are stuck in the middle.

        There are simple but demoralizing afflictions like asthma, rashes, moles, hair loss, leaky bladders, blood pressure, cholesterol, migraines, weight gain or loss, coughs, colds and sore holes to contend with. Or the big devastating ones: cancer, diabetes, psoriasis, Parkinson’s, cystinosis, heart disease, cirrhosis and later on you can look forward to a cases of dementia and Alzheimer’s that can cut you down like sugar cane. AND, your body will be growing wisps of gray hair in the strangest of places; you’ll also start to fall apart and be rendered less active and weaker than you ever were or thought you would be. Period.  And then there’s Jazz Fest.

        Oh, while we’re at it; how about, financial setbacks; loss of friends and jobs, love, attraction, loneliness and heartache. You can choose your medicine -- do the best you can and find solace in sex, drugs and Rock ‘n Roll or booze and pills and powders. Everything from Acetylsalicylic to Lysergic Acid. Bring children into the world? Good luck.

        From Advil to Zoloft; you’ll see the commercials for dozens of afflictions with ‘Doctor Recommended’ cures that include side effects like lung disease, kidney infections, shortness of breath, diarrhea, pancreatitis -and sometimes the cure “can, in some cases, cause fatalities”. And then there’s Jazz Fest! (see where I’m goin’ with this?).

        Of course you do what you can. You stop smoking, limit excessive (if any) drinking, exercise regularly, adopt healthy diet practices, worship yoga,  God (or goddesses) and/or deities; none of that will save you (no matter how long you live) when it’s time for the final curtain to fall.

        Now, walk with me. C’mon, let’s take a break; if you’re not hooked on Jazz Fest thus far consider this, on April 25^th (which is a Thursday) locals like you or the one that you corral, can get in to Jazz Fest for fifty bucks, two tickets each is possible. Take the day off; call in well; arrive early and stay late. The half C note will get you in and if you leave you cannot get back in without paying again. Held hostage by a good time? You bet.

        You only need a towel (for multiple purposes), sunscreen and some walking around money for food. You can/should even leave your phone at home unless you use it to take photographs. Anything else is superfluous, unnecessary and a waste of energy to keep up with.

        You don’t need alcohol to have a great time there; don’t go looking to get laid and nobody you know wants to get a text from you saying “I’m having a blast sucker!” You will meet lots of wonderful folks out there who are just like you, looking to have a great day of music, food and tomfoolery.

        Don’t like crowds? Don’t get in them. You can skirt the field and see whoever is playing or who you want from different vantage points. Bathrooms bother you? Find the indoor ones and, for goodness sake, don’t wait ‘til your about to wet your pants before getting in line. Like the food? Stand in line like everyone else and talk to the person in front of you (or behind you): ask them where they’re from, who they saw or are coming to see; find out what they’ve eaten so far. And anticipating that you might still be hungrier or thirstier, go stand in another line. It’s fun!

        Fer Chrissake don’t go thinking that it’s friggin’ Woodstock or a drunkin’ throw down; remember it’s about the vibe and the safety, security and comfort away from the world and all of its challenges OUTSIDE the gate; you are free of encumbrances and responsibilities to anyone for this day. You can dance like no one is watching, because they’re not.

        You have absolutely nothing to lose by taking the day off and commiserating with likeminded folks; you’ll be free to sing off key, find Jesus, Jazz and joy and I actually would like to live there. The worst day that I’ve ever had at Jazz Fest is still better than the best day I’ve had anywhere else (and that’s saying something). Have one of your own.

Restaurant Issue Summer 2024

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Oh Thrill

Or

Kitchen Brigades

        “What a thrill--my thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone except for a sort of hinge of skin, a flap like a hat. Dead white. Then that red plush.” (Sylvia Plath: Cut)

        Ah yes, the slip of a knife whist working: an everyday possibility in any cook’s life; albeit, a day to day occupational occurrence to avoid for the professional culinarian living the Cook’s Life. The (professional) Cook’s Life is another one of those hard working-dog occupations in the USA (and around the globe) that trajectories toward the reward of a glorious culmination of years of dedication, talent, ambition and loyalty: namely, A Chef’s Life. (There are 936,526 cooks and 285,785 Chefs in the USA (Census.gov)

        The Chef’s Life: another one of those hard working-dog occupations in the USA heading for that glorious culmination of simply getting things done right for a number of years and retiring to Costa Rica (on the beach, of course). Neither occupation is a terribly lucrative job; unless you become famous and then you become something else. Or you may become a restaurant owner and/or celebrity, and that’s really another shade of steed; you’re no longer a cook OR Chef, and possibly not even prosperous, celebrated, wealthy and/or even well liked.

        Ah, yes, (he said again) here comes The Summer Restaurant Issue where we get to tell you who is doing what to tickle your taste buds and stroke your fancy while extracting your hard earned with a smile. Your dining experience might be nineteenth century high society Paris; however, I’m telling you, behind those swinging kitchen doors the atmosphere is solar systems away.

        The professional kitchen may be a strict military like atmosphere, an archaic mental asylum, a street fight free for all, a garage band on major hallucinogens or an armed forces drill team; whichever variation (or combinations) of those scenarios it might be, you can be sure that there are ‘the cooks’ (all of them) and there is ‘The Chef’ (the One).

        The good cook is one who gladly (sometimes reluctantly) “wake up; get up; suit up; show up and shut up”---there are not an over abundance of good cooks. It’s hard work; hot work, exacting work; dangerous work; demanding work and an often times thankless work. Mostly, even after some formal schooling, it’s an ever learning, sometimes overly repetitious; often temper testing and most times competitive profession. Many drop out; few stick it out; some become addicted and develop a passion for the work; a few will rise to be in charge of this controlled mayhem. A number will be brought down by inner demons: sex, drugs, Rock and Roll and/or scandal.

        Cuts, bruises, burns, spills and falls are not uncommon. Family life is not conducive and neither is every day nine-five/Monday-Friday schedules. Kitchen work includes weekends, holidays and the ever unpopular Sunday Brunch shift. The health plan is generally “don’t get sick”. Meals are eaten standing up and breaks are not part of the equation. Why would anyone choose this as a life?

        Okay, c’mon. Yeah I’m talking old school pirate ship, Bedlam, dinosaur, locker room mentality stuff, right? Surely no profession that expects a 5% growth rate (U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics) over the next ten years can exist in the so… so… unromantically vulgar extreme. Or can they?

        The current situation with Human Resourced oriented eateries will have us believe that the environment in the service industry as a whole includes fair pay, sane hours, paid breaks and a non-combative kumbaya brotherhood of disciplined and simplistic charismatic Trappist Monks and insinuates that, professionally speaking, we have entered into a twenty-first century Career Nirvana with open arms and left behind the Theodoric the Great mentality of a bloody invasion of psychic insanity complete with paranoia, immaturity, delusions of adequacy and contests of wills.

        The famous Anthony Bourdain’s love-letter-cum-horror-show confessional Kitchen Confidential should be required reading to everyone who ever feels the urge to take employment or even patronize an eating establishment. Let me put it quite simply for anyone that is about to set foot in the front or back door of a food venue in this glorious so called Mecca of gustatory delights:

        “You’re traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of the imagination; a land of both shadow and substance; of things and ideas. There’s the signpost up ahead--- you’ve just crossed over into The Dining Zone” (apologies to Rod Serling)

        Yes, while customers (and rightly so) might believe and act like they are the last vestiges of pampered royalty when they eat out; having someone opening doors, pulling out chairs, cooking, serving and cleaning up after them; and believing, (and rightly so) that they are responsible for judging the value of goods and services that are being rendered, the staffs of eating establishments views that ‘client’ through another lens.

        To the management the client is a ‘guest’ in their house; to the servers, that guest is asking to be treated (and rightly so) with respect and deference to the point of being spoiled by the dining ‘experience’; to that Chef, that patron’s happiness can make or break a career; but to the cook in the kitchen, that faceless customer, known only as the order that has been placed for them, represents their challenge to get the job done with professional accuracy and as efficiently as humanly possible so that they can get through the shift and go get a beer; and to the dishwasher, it’s just another dirty plate.

        Next time, let me tell you about the insanity surrounding being a $2.13 an hour (department of labor www.dol.gov) waiter, or being a minimum wage dishwasher working two jobs to support a family in upscale fancy pants gourmangeries. Bon Appétit!

 

Opie the cat

 

Po Boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Requiem

Or

Universality

        “It’s only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. All grownups were once children… but only few of them remember it.” The Little Prince

        “Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived on a planet hardly any bigger than he was, and who needed a friend”. The Little Prince by Antoine De Saint-Exupery is called a wise and enchanting fable; if the book doesn’t inspire you, then I believe that there is no hope for you.

        The book starts with a pilot that has crash-landed in the desert with little or no help available and out of seemingly nowhere comes a small visitor (picture David Bowie at eleven years of age). The boy is called a little prince, but as he is the only inhabitant of his planet (which is no bigger than a house) he has no competition. Little Prince is only what he is called by the pilot and the book, and that’s good enough for me (and should be for you).

        The boy has travelled far and wide and has had experiences on other small planets with a series of archetypical adult figures that when taken objectively; resemble many adults (grown-ups) around you now. The little guy asks the pilot to draw him a particular picture and the adventures, lessons, and wisdom begins. It is a classic example of ‘from the mouths of babes’.

        In other words, it’s life in its simplest form, and when life is seen in its simplest form, happiness is within reach; but also is heartbreak. Life is usually seen in its simplest form when someone has nothing left to lose.

        My veterinarian, ten years ago, found a newborn kitten on a rainy Moss Street roadway, nursed it to life and we got the pleasure of it sharing our lives with it. Debbie named him Opie because he looked like Ron Howard. His colors were what are called butterscotch. He grew with an appetite and a gentle lovingness unsurpassed. Before his illness he weighed about twenty pounds.

        The Little Prince teaches us that, if we look with our hearts, loving a person, place or thing makes it ours. Although there may be many persons, places and things seemingly alike to others, that cannot take away that that is not the one that WE love. WE, in loving the ones WE love, makes that ONE special and ours alone; one rose out of a thousand, if it is our rose, is, in its uniqueness, the only rose we truly can love with all of our being. All roses are beautiful; but, OUR rose will outshine them all. So too it is with a star that we choose, a piece of music, work of art, lover and/or a cat.  

        When we experience this sensibility, we become like children who love with all their hearts and all that they love, without reason or regret; without condition, becomes significant and personal.

        Opie was diagnosed with an incurable cancer and instead of subjecting him to the discomfort of debilitating procedures and medicines we had chosen to bring him home and spoil him and love on him until it was time for him to, as they say, cross that Rainbow Bridge. His tumor had grown too large for him to function normally now, growing to a twenty-six inch stomach circumference and he was fading. We took him back to the clinic today to begin his next life’s journey; his time here is at an end, and the quality of life we promised for him had become no longer an option.

        We feel that it is only fitting for our Vet who brought him into this world to be the person that takes him out. I would say that we are heartbroken, but heartbroken is too mild a term for how we feel; once again the Bureau of Happy Endings is not answering our calls or wishes.  

        You know the drill; every day there is an inhumanity against loved ones, yours or someone else’s. You put your faith in a higher being to guide and assist you and to offer succor and support. As it turns out, this higher being has plans of its own and you may say that this higher being is “moving in mysterious ways”. I differ to agree. I don’t think the mother f*cker cares a whit.

        I’ve had friends, lovers, family and critters that I’ve loved cross that frickin’ ‘Rainbow Bridge’ without knowledge or consent for this “Mysterious Way”. And I call foul.  I believe in the teaching that all religions that tell us to treat others as we would be treated; I take exception to the teachings that have the caveat that it means everyone except those that are not like us.

        Opie rallied today (of all days) and we took him in praying for a reprieve that did not come. I watched the light fade from his bright eyes and heard Dr. Nicole Larroque tell me that his heart had stopped.

        The Doc told us that the first shot took Opie’s spirit out of his body and the second shot (once his body had relaxed) took his body away from him. That means, to me, that Opie’s spirit is still out there and will find itself back to us.

        Call me what you will; but, if you should one day spy a little butterscotch asking for directions… please send him home. He’s my good friend and I miss him so very very much.                                      

 

Tennessee Williams Fest 2024

 

PoBoy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Ink Stains

Or

What Did Tennessee?

        “America has only three cities: New York, San Francisco and New Orleans. Everywhere else is Cleveland.” Tennessee Williams

        Thomas Lanier Williams (March 26, 1911- February 26, 1983) arrived in New Orleans from Saint Louis in 1938. He had been a sickly child (Diphtheria) and had, at an early age, turned inward, became a reader and eventually began writing stories. How he chose the name Tennessee is anyone’s guess but, given the options, I cannot think of another state to choose as a moniker. Be that as it may, he had his first break in 1944 with The Glass Menagerie and wrote a string of enormously mind blowing, emotionally gut wrenching and fabulously significant and hugely popular stage plays and films that starred the best of the best actors in his time.

        Writers, I believe, suffer from the insecurity of and need to have other people (possibly strangers) appreciate the written word especially as it is written by them. Writers believe that they have something to say that you should read and embrace the emotion that they have put into those words. Those words tell a story, make a point, defend an idea or are simply an attempt to make some money. Writers, journalists, poets, playwrights, and even that kid that spray paint scrawls the words “Fu*k You You lying lying SlutBitch!” on the cinder block wall outside of Rouses Super Market; they have something to say and they have the need to express it outside of themselves. Fact, fiction, fantasy or however that person on the receiving end of that SlutBitch’s lie is feeling, they want to get it out there, off their chest ( I guess that goes for columnists like myself also) and for you to know it; see it; feel it; be impressed by it or  be ignorant enough to ignore it.  

        Tennessee had a lot to say: Night of the Iguana, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Suddenly Last Summer, the big one, set right here, Streetcar Named Desire (and more) and although some people consider anything that he wrote after 1961 to be pure crapola, gems of his other works are being rediscovered, reevaluated, unearthed and performed with alacrity, enthusiasm and vigor continually.

        Who was Tennessee Williams? He was a five foot six gay man who worked on a chicken ranch, a shoe factory and as an usher in theaters before being able to make enough money to live on his writing abilities. He was fiercely loyal and somewhat promiscuous in his love life and enjoyed the down low lush life. He used eye drops and wrote incessantly and oft-times very well. He was a big fan (who isn’t) of Meryl Streep and often lied about his age. He smoked, he drank, caroused and sometimes crawled on his belly like a reptile (okay, I made that last one up). He was a model of persistence, stick-to-itiveness and drive, however lazy he may have appeared. He was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Go figure.

                If you are literate at all, you are aware of his major works; if you are a maven of literature, you have coal mined into his life, times and if you know nothing of him, well, shame on you; however, all is not lost. You can, as a vehicle to your ever-loving albeit limited awareness look into the 2024 Tennessee Williams & New Orleans Literary Festival; it’s a genuine really March midmonth wordgeek three ringed J. K. Rowling  Potteresque style circus. March 20-24 (5 days) in the French Quarter in its 37^th year and it is a sight to behold if you’re astute enough to witness and possibly partake in it.

        Picture it, you’re on your rounds around the Quarter on a springy spring weekend day and from the peripheral vision of your awareness there are some folks hurrying past you in different directions (and indifferent of you) with programs and notepads and books tucked under their arms and possibly munching a sandwich or snack with the attitude of the White Rabbit in Alice Through The Looking Glass. They’re going to writers’ panels, author interviews, theater events, culinary and cocktail events and if you happen to be in Jackson Square on that Sunday and see a bunch of kooks shouting “Stella!!” at a Pontalba balcony you might be taken aback but possibly curious. But, before you know it it’s over and you’ve missed the whole thing as if it were the Midnight Circus by Erin Morgenstern.

        And you’re left there in the dust asking “what; where; when; who? It was? Shit! well, next year I promise!” Well, this is your heads up; your wakeup call; your ‘get a clue phone’ ringing. RING RING! It’s time to knit your brow just a little bit higher and go get you some literary couth!

        I’ve met people from around the country and around the world at these get-togethers. Well, I really haven’t met them, nobody really talks to each other, they’re mostly at this thing to absorb the vibe and learn shit, me included. Be there or literally be square.

        Oh, you know Tennessee’s eye drops? Well, he used to pull the cap off the bottle with his teeth to use them and one day while administering those drops, something surprising happened to startle him and as a result he inhaled the cap which got stuck in his throat causing him to choke and die. Let that be a lesson to you. Be careful with those things.  See you at the Fest.

 

 

New Years 2024

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Happy New Year

Or

Other People

        “Well, sometimes you have to moan, when nuthin’ seems to suit-cha; but, nevertheless you know, you’re locked toward the future” (Cat Stevens: On The Road To Find Out)

        Ask Uncle Charlie (Dickens) for the illustration from A Christmas Carol. Ebenezer Scrooge sits, just like you and me, getting hipped to the fact that where he was, led him to where he is, and will determine where he will be if he maintains the trajectory of his behavior and existence. His moral compass and the consequences of his actions will reap what has been ‘sowed and growed’. The Butterfly Effect; The Chaos Theory, will remain unchanged unless a change in course is made. I believe, in our hearts, that we all want to change for the better; that’s why we make New Year’s Resolutions, eh?

        Rush hour Thursday evening; traveling Poydras Street; three lanes up and three lanes down traveling at the speed of hope-to-get-the-f*ck-home. Like frantic captives tortured by their terrorist employers, the cars, SUVs, vans and pick-ups are escaping, racing away from all the misery their occupations heaped on their souls and spirits that day and into life’s personal beating that awaits them at home: spouses, offspring, rents, mortgages and the grass that is dying in the draught; hoping Margaret Orr will predict some rain and wondering why the home team got their asses kicked again. The cool taste of that first beer that goes down so easily.

        I’m hugging the right lane going up towards Galvez Street and I spy the vehicles veering out from the center lane going left and right at forty miles an hour avoiding something. The something that they are avoiding is an old man in a wheelchair stopped in center lane like a Grateful Dead set: no way forward and no way back. And no one is stopping to aid his plight… or even slowing down.

        Except some guy (me) in a beat up ’97 Lincoln Towncar who pulls over (still in traffic) turns on his flashers and jumps into traffic for a stranger in need of help.  

        I’m still in my cook’s whites, waving my arms like a sailor at a semaphore convention and getting to him, ask ludicrously “do you need help?” Of course he does! At this point I don’t know which direction he’s heading and when I find out… here we go crossing 5 lanes of rush hour traffic! When I’m in I’m in.

        “Did you just--leave your car?” He asks “you shouldn’ta done that” “I’m goin’ right there; okay, thank you I can take it from here; ya got a couple of dollahs you can spare?” He points to the Super Dome and tells me “there used to be a grocery store, right there.” I inform him that that grocery store ain’t there no more and off he goes. End of story. How do I feel? I’m frickin’ livid!

         I’m mad as a wet hen; cursing even, not at him, but at the entire race of humans that cannot, will not, for one brief miniscule heartbeat consider another’s dilemma that may at best be temporary and at worst life threatening. And now, I consider that incident an allegory for the state of the world. Listen: with any luck at all you have three blessings.

1. You wake up in the morning.

2. You’re kinda in your right mind and health and

 3. You have options.

        You can consider, like old Ebenezer that where you were--and where you are--is leading you to a very predictable future if you but stay your course, direction and pace.  It sounds so simple. 1 and 2 are biggies and are really important to pay attention to; 3 requires consideration or not. Ignore 3 and you will get to where you’re already headed.

        Now, you can consider that the world and its challenges and problems; its destructions and die-ings; its equities and inequities did not just start today or yesterday but are a series of steps and missteps that are in essence already set in a motion and movement (centuries ago) that some say are undoubtedly leading the world to its imminent demise. Some say that it’s too late to change course; that things already are out of anyone’s control. I say that it’s a mindset and conditioning brought on by media, politics and religion that at best has to be overhauled from the ground up like an existential rebirth/epiphany and I don’t see that as happening… ever in my lifetime (or yours). The Prince of Peace is not returning; Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today, Madam.

        It’s too late to be an example to others. It’s too late to fight the greed compounded by mendacity that is ruling the planet and our lives; souls hang on by a thread with a prayer and a song. “We were talking about the love we all could share; when we find it, to try our best to hold it there. With our love, with our love, we could save the world; if they only knew” (George Harrison: Within You Without You).

        I don’t know what to say. Happy New Year? This year will be better? Our lives are predetermined; led by coincidence? Is there such thing as free will? Can we unstick the mind f*ck? Maybe and maybe not (probably not). Certainly we can only find peace in ourselves ourselves. Certainly we can only practice compassion, empathy and kindness in ourselves until it becomes our natural behavior. Certainly it is only we that can change our behavior for the better. We have to see that as where we’re going. Or not.

        There’s an old man in a wheelchair sitting in six lanes of fast traveling vehicles.    

  

 

Mardi Gras 2024

 

PO Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Party On!

Or

Not

        “Hello, my name is Phil and I’m and alcoholic and a binge drinker.” And I should add “Carnival, and especially Mardi Gras Day, is my time to shine; I’m in my element; it’s my jam and I’m right at home with all the drunks, amateur or professional; newbie or seasoned. I’m there. I drink and I love to drink”. Unfortunately, I’m not really good at it.

        I’ve been to Carnival and Mardi Gras for decades and although I have refined my behavior, the result is overwhelmingly constant, I get drunk, plastered, inebriated, snockered, intoxicated and tipsier than tipsy; so much so, that I frighten the neighbors, traffic, pedestrians and wind up pissing off those close to me. I’m not a gentleman drunk. I used to vomit but not in recent years, sometimes I used to pass out and wet myself, but not in recent years. I am neither proud nor ashamed.

        Two conditions that contribute to the perpetuation of my affliction: I enjoy the feeling and I don’t have hangovers; sometimes I run into things, trip and maybe fall. Those times are rarer and rarer because I hope to control my drinking so that I may continue into my older years bent but not broken.

        I come from a family of drinkers; it was common among my elders to consider a night at a bar drinking as family entertainment and in my days it was not uncommon for adults to spend four or five hours at a local tavern drinking, gossiping, communing and even singing (en masse) favorite songs. True. And I grew up with that as role models of behavior. The only tenets were that, in public, it was bad form to converse (especially in pubs) about sex, politics or religion. Behavior that I hold sacrosanct to this day.

        New Orleans, and the French Quarter in particular, felt immediately like home when I first arrived many years ago. Drinking in public; twenty-four hours a day, at more than reasonable prices for strong libations suited me fine; my first Carnivals had me toting a gallon jug of heady concoctions as I joined the fray on Bourbon Street. Nightly. And still making it back to work the next day like all the rest of the slow burning trash I caroused with.

        Mardi Gras the day, has always been extra special to me. I don’t enjoy parades but that doesn’t stop me from becoming one, much to the chagrin of those around me. Me, in costume, weaving my way on the streets cluttered with the detritus of bodies, boobs and beads is a sight to behold, and I don’t recommend anyone following in my footsteps. Not only am I a hard act to follow but you really don’t want to live the lush life that I have; there’s no future in it.

        Three things happen to me under the influence: I get happily quiet, I get philosophical, and at extremes I get maudlin. I am not loud, aggressive or mean unless provoked. I generally just want to be left alone in a semi-comatose revelry. I feel the quiet of finally being able to shut the world out and not have the awareness of daily life and responsibilities; the world’s problems drop away and I am at peace in my cocoon of alcoholic miasma. Comfortably numb.

        I’ve gotten better in recent years and I am now allowed the freedom of venturing out unsupervised and the expectations of moderate behavior are met and appreciated. I find it better to be appreciated for my sense of control than to be subjected to the ire, anger and sometimes pity by losing it. I’ve learned that because of my weak personality, in drinking, once I begin, be it seven in the morning or seven at night, I don’t want to stop and usually don’t until bedtime. Overcoming temptation has never been a strong suit of mine. Two drinks and I’m off and running, and, there is no such thing as one drink.

        I generally go out without credit cards and a limited amount of cash, say twenty dollars. I go out on foot and that makes me aware that any trip out will have to be followed by that same amount covered back, upright and ambulatory. I like to believe that I can get a contact high being out and in recent years have come to be more reflective of Carnivals past and these days the high spirits of those around me make me smile in their simple and naïve interpretation of celebrations that include childlike behavior and puppy-like antics. I reflect that in my day, there were big dogs on the loose and now, out there, it seems so civilized that my self control has become a reward rather than an affliction. 

        I save myself for home to toast the day and know that on Wednesday I will start a period of complete sobriety; Debbie says that it’s to give our livers a break and that’s good enough for me.

        Growing up in the projects with five children from four fathers (that we know of) and a strapping one hundred and eighty pound nearly six foot tall redheaded mother that drank a case of beer a day and adults that ruled by violent eruptions rather than abstemious reasoning is a reflection sobering enough and gives me pause when I wake up in the morning with the realization that I probably didn’t need that last drink.

        My other challenges are that my damn doctors consistently reassure me of my great health conditions although they would like me to cut down on my juicing. My great inspiration is my partner who keeps reminding me that if, in fact, I believe in my immortality that I shouldn’t mess with the fate of all drinkers: stupid behavior, bad liver and broken hearts. Fun fact: you alienate more good people with drinking than you attract.