Evel Knievel Needs a Spanking!

I watched the spry, diminutive daredevil, as he zipped fearlessly in and out of traffic on his little pre-school sized BMX bicycle, barefooted and dirty….

He rode his little bike with a form of street savvy that I envied…and somewhat feared. Where was he going? Where was he coming from? Was he accountable to someone?

He stopped at the traffic light ahead of me with a dirty little foot well placed on the ground for balance, impatiently awaiting his turn to join the free flowing traffic, when apparently, frustrated by the wait and feeling that he was not subject to traffic laws, he darted across the road, arrogantly popping a wheelie as he joined the flow of cars.

He executed the wheelie with daring precision, and I could not help but admire its longevity and the seeming casualness of his cycling maneuvers, which indicated that he was a veteran of the streets. He owned the road. All vehicles were subject to his will.

Then, as one disgruntled driver sat aggressively on his horn, having had to swerve in order to miss hitting little Evel Knievel, I watched in awe as he raised a grubby little middle figure in the general direction of the driver, all executed with a sneer of the upper lip.

My first inclination on seeing this act of defiance was to snicker...and then, I wanted to cry…What is to become of our children?

On that depressed note, I shall now exit.

'Fro.

Oedipus Complex...?

So, there was I, hot stepping it around the National Gallery, viewing the lovely and equally rancid artwork with my own brand of inept criticism, when I was approached by a young gentleman:

He: Pardon me, I am terribly sorry to interrupt you…
Me: [Looking suspicious, politely distant] Ahhh…sure…Yes...?
He: Well...I just wanted to tell you that…I love your hair.
Me: [Looks suspicious; cameras? squints eye; weirdo?] 'Scuse me…?
He: Your hair, I love the way that you wear your hair.....
Me: [Assesses sincerity; preens] Really? Well…ahh…thanks. Appreciate that.
He: No really, don’t ever change it. It is great!
Me: [Eyes twinkle; kicks dirt; pats hair] Well…, shucks, you are too kind.
He: [Sighs; reminisces] My mother used to wear her hair like that.
Me: [Wilts; jaw drops; ] Your mother…??? Well…errr… [Ego deflates]

End scene.

A body just cannot make this stuff up.

On that weirded out, disgruntled note, I shall now exit.

'Fro.

Turn off the lights, and light a candle...!

Turn off the lights, and light a candle…

Teddy knew what he was talking about when he was setting up his romantic scenario, though I now believe that not only was Teddy being the romantic, crooning, baritoned Lothario…, but Teddy must have also just been dyam cheap, and was actually conserving his water and electricity bills.

This is now the direction that I am heading. Fire hazard notwithstanding, I am going to start lighting my fancy-schmancy-decorative scented candles and place them strategically around the house. I just hope that this does not back-fire on me if inquisitive neighbours call the police to report I am working obeah in my living room.

See, my electric bills averages CI$200.00 per month, and have only ever increased to a maximum of CI$400.00 in the summer months when I run the air conditioner. With central air in the bedrooms only, and my AC being on a timer, I just cannot the understand the more than 100% increases in my bills during the summer months, and of course, my vociferous protests have gone ignored for the most part, but for the other consumers feeling my pain.

Today, being the ever efficient (and reluctant!) bill payer that I am, I went to pay my electricity bill, which was in excess of CI$600.00 for July’s usage. I, knowing about (and being a part of) the recent hue and (out)cries from the anti-CUC Caymanian John Q. Public, and, knowing that I had no particular choice, went to pay the flicking bill, well equipped with my screw-face and disgruntled mumblings. Then, to further my general pissed-offedness, the customer service representative (hereafter referred to as “the Gyal”) tells me that my usage for August is in excess of CI$700.00!

Now, this is enough to make a body launch all kind’a cuss words and what not, for I want to know how my flicking electricity bill goin’ now equate to car, house and land payment!

Then, when I ask the Gyal for an explanation of the charges, she started a dialogue fraught with all kinds of impressive “kilowatt”, “megahertz” and pocket-hertz spiel intricately interwoven, and proceeded to look irritated when I interrupted, and tell her to start speaking English, for I don’t talk ‘lectricity.

The only thing that I unnerstand from what she say, is that CI$500.00 from the new bill, is for fuel charges! They want me to spend CI$500.00 for gas! And, would this then mean that only CI$200.00 from this new bill was actually going to line CUC’s coffers?

So, reasonable person that I am, after interrupting the Gyal’s programmed ‘lectricity rhetoric, I asked her to provide me with an explanation as to the kind of fuel that was being purchased and the purchase locale. If I am paying for it, I want to know what I am buying, and to have a better understanding as to what I am paying for.

Does CUC buy this high-class fuel from Texaco or Esso? Regular or unleaded? Can diesel work? Is it jet or rocket fuel? Can't they just add water? Did they comparison shop? Can I buy the gas from my favourite gas station and tell them to use that instead? I mean, I can get a coupon from the gas station, so this is actually my preference. My money can then work for me!

Then, because I interrupted her programmed customer service rhetoric with my thought provoking enquiries, the Gyal starts to st…st…stutter….and tell me that she can’t answer my questions. Everyone has to pay these charges across the board.

Well, I am fed up. As I now realize that I have the potential to turn into my father, walking irately throughout the house, turning off lights and bellowing “Lawd…’un’nu min’ de light bill!”, I need to take preemptive action.

Should I run a swamp-esque lake through my backyard, and harness water and wind energy? What about rigging up my own kind of solar energy thingy, for I sure as hell cannot afford for anyone to come and install any solar powered thingamabobs in my house. Maybe I should build my own personal wind mill in the back yard, or get back to the ol’ kerosene lamp days.

I am fed up with the CUC monopoly. We need to heighten the call for competition. Maybe then, as it was with Cable and Wireless, we can get all forms of energy-usage plans: residential, corporate and small business; maybe implement frequent kilowatt usage miles? What about energy usage circles like Sprint has? Maybe dole out bonus kilo wattage points to ‘loyal’ customers who stay with CUC’s draconian services at the introduction of competition. Implement fridge plug-in wattage discounts? Free CUC shares for excess usage, with the application of the dividends to outstanding bills?

I hope their marketing people are taking notes!

All this to alleviate my having to take some of the corned beef from my hurricane supplies, because my grocery money now has to pay the ‘lectric bill.

On that pissed off note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Sonny Von Gogh?

So, remember the en plein aire event that I had told you about? Well again, this was a joint fundraising venture to raise funds for the purchase of Miss Lassie’s house by our fair isle’s grand cultural quartet.

The fundraising premise involved extending invites to all calibers of artists, to sit in various degrees of dress and / or undress, all with a view to paint, draw, mold or etch-a-sketch, their rendition of Miss Lassie’s house, after which, the artistic renditions would be donated to the National Gallery and subsequently auctioned. The funds would then be used for the ultimate purchase and restoration of the house.

This being a wonderful and noble cause, I dragged Sonny out of bed at 8:00 on a Saturday morning, for us to go and lend our artistry to this endeavor, and it is to my chagrin that I admit that Sonny’s work was actually quite palat-able, for I could actually see the house and all of its offerings in his work. It quite irritated me when the obnoxious little snot proceeded to brag and preen as to the nature of his so-called artistry, and laughed and jeered at my humble attempts. My art was just misunderstood, and was very abstract in nature.

That being said, today I have received an invitation to an Art Outreach Exhibit at the National Gallery, all with a view to see if Sonny’s work will be featured, and possibly sold, or sits in a moldy closet somewhere.

Just know, if his work is indeed featured and auctioned for a bag of money, call Social Services right away.

To hell wid puttin’ the chil’ through school. I goin’ lock him up into a dark, dank, dungen-esque room with a strict directive to “Paint, chil’! Paint!” Even if he has to sever an ear for the realization of his artistic expression, all with a view to support his ever loving Mudda, and maintain her in a manner to which she is unaccustomed.

I done know seh the chil’ will never be the sporting superstar, and so I am still searching for alternate methods by which he can support me in my octogenarian years. He is my grand retirement plan.

And on that optimistic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

The Yard

If it is one thing that I detest with a passion, it is rubberneckers. Those who slow down an’ crane their necks to take in accidents or anything that could possibly resemble forms of suss.

Yet, when it comes to this particular yard, I am a hypocrite.

I slow down and crane my neck to unnatural angles just to get a good look at The Yard’s happenings, for there are always all kinds of excitement going on in The Yard.

See, it all started years ago, when I was stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on my way to work. I took an idle glance at The Yard, and noticed several occupants engaged in a raucous game of dominoes - at 8:30 in the morning.

There was I, stuck, bitter and depressed at the fact that I had to drag my sleep deprived body to work, and they seemed so …happy; so…relaxed; so….unemployed. And there was pathetic I…adhering to society’s regimented requirement that I go to work to pay bills.

Since then, I have been conducting my own sociological study of The Yard, surreptitiously observing the comings and goings of the ever changing occupants at the domino table. Pondering if truant officers ever went to roun’ up the little pickneys, who always seem to increase in number whenever I pass, and are always scampering around in their bare, calloused feet, irrespective of the season. I, observing the pregnant mamas cantering flirtatiously around The Yard, unimpeded by their big bellies, eventually noticing when svelte figures would reappear, and newborn babies then given to the care of she whom I deem to be The Yard’s Matriarch, who always has an infant snuggled against her voluptuous bosom.

The Matriarch is always sporting her worn house dress and curlers, with breasts hanging to her knees. She is the ruler of all she surveys, as she sits regally in her strategically positioned chair, observing The Yard’s happenings, and doling out a slap now and again to a recalcitrant urchin as they pass her by. The newborns seem to grow up overnight, to join the herd of pickneys that are always romping in The Yard, all of whom are absolutely fearless, some even darting into traffic as they play daring games of catch, or on the way to the store to run an errand for the Matriarch. Woe is onto he or she who should ever hit one of those little daredevils!

Today, I watched in bemusement as Two Foot Tall urchin violently expressed his vexation at his five foot tall counterpart. They punched, bit, and flung expletives at each other, all whilst being cheered and jeered by the other occupants of The Yard. Mr. Two Foot was uncaring as to the size differential between he and his rival, though eventually, after being subdued by a WWF headlock, he escaped to eventually return and pelt a rock-stone and run. Sigh…a man after my own heart.

Need I mention that he pelt the rock-stone in the direction of traffic and nearly broke my car window? I took it as a sign from the Lord to mind my own business.

Needless to say, had Mr. Two Foot’s act of defiance broken my car window, one has to choose their battles very wisely. This is not the kind of Yard where I could act out in righteous indignation and demand financial restitution and / or repairs from the relevant parties. Matriarch and her gang of pickneys, would pro'ly jump up and kick my backside, right there in the middle of town. The shame would’a kill me more than the beating.

And on that cowardly note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.