Mighty Afroditee

Economic Downturn

2009-04-23T16:10:00.004-05:00

I was waiting patiently for the arrival of my food at a local restaurant, when two ladies entered and proceeded to vociferously greet each other.

I initially marveled at their sense of sisterhood, then proceeded to eavesdrop shamelessly on their somewhat bawdy (and shamelessy loud) conversation.

Sissy, is weh yu' did deh?

Misses…recession lick me!

Yu' lie! Wha’pen to Peetah?

Bloodclaat….‘im lose ‘im wuk and gaan back a ‘im wife, an' fi ‘ar pum-pum nah sweet like fi mi!

Lawd, sah. A wah yu a go do now?

[Sighs] Mi nevah ‘affi do nuttin’ wen ‘im did deh-deh, now, cho! mi nah know sah!

Yu a go look wuk?

[Heaves in righteous indignation] No sah! Mi affi go fin’ nadda boops! Dat deh wuk a' fi mi wuk!

[Bawdy laughter. Back slapping. Gold teeth and tonsils flash from both parties]

It ruff sah…but wid fi yu sweet pum-pum, it nah go tek long!

[Laughter continues...parties exit...crickets chirp as restaurant occupants recover from the dialogue]

I was scintillated. So many questions: What was the yard stick used for Sissy’s measurement of the sweetness of her pum-pum, and how did her friend know to be able to comment on said sweetness? Is the sweetness a well known fact, or was she just being a supportive friend? Did Sissy have a set methodology to find a new boops? Was her pum-pum her CV? Would she register as unemployed with the Employment Relations Office? What were Sissy's boops benefits and for what period were they terminated? Was she on a work permit? Why would Peetah’s wife take him back? Could Petah's wife now effectively be called his ‘boops’ as he in turn recovered from the economic downturn???

The wenches shamelessly tossed out little scintillating facts, and jus’ leave people hanging!

An on that disgruntled note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Ironic Ire

2009-03-18T17:51:00.004-05:00

One hand hung from the car window, clutching a glowing cigarette, periodically bringing it to her blood red lips to take a desperate puff. Her other had clutched the cell phone desperately to her ear as she laughed raucously during her conversation, to the detriment of the other drivers on the road.

I vaguely admired her ability to multi-task, though her distraction was potentially to my detriment.

See, but for my driver’s license that has been expired for the past four years, I am a law abiding citizen. I really could not bear the potential embarrassment or the potential pain and inconvenience of being involved in a traffic accident during rush hour traffic. Of course, I would have to get into stuttered explanations to the police during the accident inquest as to my aversion to going to the Department of Motor Vehicles, and the fact that I would not be returning to pay the government license tax until they developed a drive through service. Something tells me that they would not understand my little boycott, and I was not prepared to deal with their unreasonableness and lack of understanding, all of which would be due to this dyam woman’s distraction by her cigarette and cell phone. I worked out the entire scene in my mind.

As her car continued to veer to my side of the road, I delicately honked my horn to advise her of the pending dire straights, whilst grumbling to myself that the heifer really should concentrate on the road.

To my consternation another hand appeared from the inner recesses of her body to flip me the bird (her nail was blood red like her lips), all with a sneer of her moustached upper lip, which I must say was quite unattractive, and very unladylike (her behaviour and the moustache). Then, as our vehicles crossed paths, she lowered the cell phone and the cigarette, sneered, “Stupid Bitch!”, and drove off in a huff, leaving me to inhale the fumes from the toxic vehicle carrying the toxic personality. My gasp of outrage sputtered and died a dismal death in her wake.

Interrupting my conversation, I flung down my cell phone, prepared to bellow an indignant response, but realized that it would indeed be futile. She was gone. She had won. The stinkin’ heifer! Where were the cops when you needed them???

I then picked up my cell phone, and resumed my conversation, getting into a passionate diatribe on how drivers no longer concentrated on the road. People are so easily distracted!

And on that ironic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Froggle Rock

2009-03-10T16:49:00.003-05:00

I hot-stepped it out of the house at 9:00 AM, rushing to make it to work for 8:30 AM, feeling absolutely fabulous and groovy. My car was nice and shiny from the wash and polish the day before, and I took a moment to admire the sheen before I opened the door, and plopped by backside on the seat before distractedly closing the car door.

Then, I felt it. A splat of moisture running across my face, down my clothes, as I looked around in puzzlement wondering what the hell had just happened. Then, my peripheral vision caught a movement from the corner of the car door.

There was now a pair of slimy, scrawny, Kermit-esque amphibian legs protruding from the door, squished to a pulp during my distracted morning musings. I had slammed a frog to its death with the door.

Now, mind you, I have always been a vocal and passionate advocate for the death and dismemberment of all things amphibian, but never in the general proximity of my person whereby the blood spatter (my CSI term) and what may have been frog piss could catch me in its cross hairs. I am after all, an innocent victim in this war that I have declared against their kind.

My body eventually summarized what my mind was now telling me, as my fight or flee instincts went into overdrive. Having dived headfirst across the centre console, cutting a great gaping hole in my neck with my still fastened seatbelt (for I am a law abiding citizen), managing to open the passenger door to crawl hands first, bawling as if the frogs of hell were chasing me as I made the escape from Kermit’s dead relative, I now look back on the entire episode with a great sense of ‘ick’, general nastiness, disgust and other like synonyms. I am now convinced that the sons of bitches are stalking me and want to see me dead.

I relive the scene every morning, noon or night that I should close my car door. Never again will I have that naïve feeling of fabulousness, distracted and lost in my morning musings. I now have a sense of hatred and disgust for my car, who aided and abetted my trauma. Doors are now cautiously opened every morning, I now petrified of what I may find waiting for me.

There was a morning when there was a family of four nesting comfortably within the inner recesses of the door jamb, ready to wreak their havoc on my nerves, as my brother was summarily summoned to dispatch them with vicious haste.

He and I almost resorted to fisticuffs when my bellowed demands from the house that he “Kill the [*expletive*] rat bastards!” were ignominiously ignored, he choosing to release them into the ‘wild’ for they were ‘just babies’ and ‘would not do me anything’. He looking on in embarrassed resignation as I took bleach from the house and splashed it indiscriminately into the general vicinity of the area where he released the sons of bitches; I killing the surrounding flora in the hopes of capturing a certain kind of fauna within the widely cast net of my killing spree, all whilst cussin’ him for his [*expletive*] PETA antics, and tellin’ him that West Indian people don’t behave so, and how he does be watching too much North American TV, for he obviously don’t remember how the spider did come back for the man in Arachnophobia, and how he was being a friggin’ namby pamby wimp, and how I don’t ask him to do nuttin’ fi me but to kill four measly frogs, and not even that he cudda do propa!

Anyhow, I digress.

Now, I am relegated to spraying the door jamb of the car with bleach each night before I retire. Car advocates have advised that this will ‘ruin the paint’, as they obviously give no care to the fact that should a frog jump on me whilst I am driving, that may ruin mine or another persons life, for I would surely crash and dead, if not from the accident, then from the trauma. They never seem to see my point when I break it down for them so. And I know that the stinkin’ amphibian would just hop away from the stinkin’ scene to go forth and create more flickin’ tadpoles, and seek to ruin someone else’s life.

Death to them all, I say. Screw that circle of life bullshit!

And on that anti-ecological note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

She's Royal

2009-02-18T16:00:00.006-05:00

He made his approach and I automatically resigned myself for a potential confrontation. He looked shifty, and obviously careless in the way that he had put himself together, walking with a cocky strut that screamed to one and all that he owned the sidewalk.

I clutched my illegal mace tighter in my hand, eyes surreptitiously surveying the darkened walkway, and wondered if I should casually saunter across the parking lot, out of his general purview. Would this potentially irritate him further? Should my pride come before my safety?

I resigned myself to standing my ground as I trudged along the sidewalk, facing my potential doom, as my imagination covered his face with a Jason-esque hockey mask, and knowing full well that there was a knife in his pocket, waiting to plunge betwixt my heaving bosom, or even worse, a thorny disease ridden penis waiting to thrust callously between my protesting legs.

Sweat dripped from my armpits as we drew closer. I stared aggressively ahead, brows furrowed aggressively as I made eye contact, aptly demonstrating that I was not the prey. I was indeed the predator. My finger tightened on the trigger as I mentally calibrated the wind direction and sheer, prepared to angle my body in the most advantageous position, prepared to attack, or to launch my defense.

His beady eyes and mine made four, as he nodded his head casually, and said, “My Queen,” walking along his merry way. Poor thing was unaware of his near miss. He almost received a savage beat-down from my contraband canister, as supplemented by my hands of steel (as I don a Bruce Lee pose).

I listened carefully to his retreating footsteps, as I hastened along to my car, puzzled and somehow let down from the abrupt surge of adrenaline.

Ever since she was murdered, my entire sense of security has been messed up as we all learned that we can no longer dwell in naïve complacency on our little rock.

But, I felt terrible. Horribly guilty. Here was a man expressing his admiration for my Queen-dom (as well he should), and I had him automatically pegged as a vicious killer. I mean, what if I had maced the man and beat him down good and proper as I launched my defensive offensive?

Yet, could it have been my steely predatory glare that stayed his hand? After all, even a Queen can be assassinated…

And on that regal note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Bitchy Interlude...

2009-01-30T22:32:00.005-05:00

I gave a grumpy internal sigh when I realized that our paths were about to cross.

I spotted him from twenty feet away as he made his approach, my inner demon giving an inaudible snicker coupled with a sigh of pleasure as I took his measure and realized that the years had not been good to him. He was now a stubby looking fellow, sporting an unseemly gait, all coupled with a hairline that was aggressively racing to the back of his head. I somehow felt vindicated, though I pondered, would that be the extent of the punishment that fate would mete out to the rat bastard?

I could tell when he realized that it was me.

He stuttered in his steps, and looked around with obvious panic for a quick escape. The wimp. But alas, there was no escape in sight. No supermarket aisle for a quick u-turn, no hedge to dive into. Other than turning around and retracing his steps, he would have to bite the bullet, man up, and walk right by me. He took a deep fortifying breath (nearly popping a button), as he stepped up to face the music, all whilst I strutted along, maintaining an impassive look on my face, sunglasses hiding the general direction of my eyes.

I decided to change the tactics that I had employed for the past fourteen years.

“Hello, D.E,” I said, slowing to look at him with conversational expectation as we were shoulder to shoulder. He braked to an awkward stop, and whipped around to look at me in shock, then peered around to see if I was talking to him.
“Err...Ahh…Hi! Ahmmm…how are you!”
“Why, I am great thanks. How’s the family?” He started to sweat profusely.
“They are great! Thank you! And yours!” For some reason, he spoke in explanation marks.
“They are all terrific. I will be sure to give them your regards.” My face hurt from the force of maintaining my implacable pseudo-genuine-interested smile.
“You look terrific!” He exclaimed, taking my measure. Smarmy bastard stopped for a millisecond at my boobs.
“Why thank you. Have you been ill?”
“Why, no! Why do you ask!”
“No reason,” I donned a fake look of consternation. “Well, you take care now, okay?” I made a regal exit, feeling the pressure of his puzzled gaze piercing into my back.

As I bent the corner, he was still standing there, gazing into my wake, a look of stupefaction on his face. It was then that my demonic smile made its presence known, and I placed a quirky spring into my step.

My day was now complete. I couldn’t wait until our paths would cross again, as I planned the method with which I would leave him hanging in embarrassment as his expectant and confident greeting would be met with stony disdain, and a sneer of my upper lip. I shivered with devious glee.

A body has to take their entertainment as it comes.

On that spiteful note, I shall now exit.

'Fro.

The Vagina Monologues

2008-11-19T16:54:00.003-05:00

"Can I talk to you now?" He asked facetiously, a smirk emblazoned across his face. "After all, it’s been more than three years."

"No!" I responded firmly, glaring at him through the hills created by my stirruped legs. "Look Star, just get on with it!"

That is an extract from a snarly conversation that I had with my gynecologist today.

Though I had given him my explicit rules when we initiated our relationship more than three years ago, I cannot begin to fathom why he would erroneously conclude that time would mellow my requirements as to how he is to administer my check up. I figured that he is getting complacent as our relationship has progressed, and as such, he had to be set firmly in his place. I also wanted to launch a well placed kick from the confines of a stirrup, when I realized that my response did not faze him one bit, as he had emitted an unrepentant chuckle.

The man seems to find some source of amusement at my discomfort, as evidenced by his ridiculous whistling as he pokes and prods. I just want to slap him. And then, he has the nerve to initiate conversation today! Two slaps!

Call it my own brand of insecurity (though I call it plain common sense), but why the heck would I want to engage in casual banter with the man as he delves between my nether regions with metallic weapons of crotch destruction, and nary a bit of pleasure am I to get from it?

There layeth I: legs hoisted in metallic stirrups, gazing resignedly at the ceiling, working to find my Zen-like happy place through the mechanism of counting the moldy ceiling tiles as I ponder: is mine like everyone else’s? Is it too big? Too small? Well maintained? Has he seen better or worst? Has he ever been blown away by its extraordinary quality? Is there a significant improvement from last year? Does his wife benefit sexually from his medical expertise? Is one just like the other?

Prior to each visit, paranoia, pride and insecurity will always drive me to ensure that it is well groomed. I even try to refrain from peeing before he has a chance to look at it, for I don’t know the impact that my pee and required wiping may have on its aesthetics.

I was in the supermarket the other day, contemplating the purchase of fresh vegetables which will eventually rot in the confines of my refrigerator, when I looked up, and his and mine eyes made four. I paled, panicked, and fled.

There was I, dressed and feeling all prissy and dainty, and this man who had and will see me nekkid every year; he who has assessed the inner workings of my unmentionables; he who knows the ins and outs of my cycle; he who felt and knew of the sensitivities of my boobs, and asked questions that not even my significant other would be privy to, could never engage me in casual conversation or even a greeting over fresh broccoli. Oh, hell no!

And on that decidedly prudish note, I shall now exit.

'Fro.

Our Loss, Heaven's Gain...

2008-10-12T12:50:00.011-05:00

We always try to employ all forms of reasoning in an often futile attempt to understand the travesties that we as human beings can mete out on one another, as means of coping with loss.

Some immerse themselves in the realm of television and other forms of escapism, trying to find that happy ending where ever they can, cynically knowing that the odds are stacked against them in the true drama that is real life. Those peaceful periods of time, fraught with "happily ever afters", where notions of eternal love reign supreme, and final credits roll to the tune of whimsical theme songs; us leaving theatres with happy sighs and smiles, when all mysteries are solved to our satisfaction, and the nefarious villain ultimately named. "Who", "why", "what", "where" and "when", all rolled together into a neat little package.

Here I sit, knowing that there will never be "happily ever after", as I ponder our islands’ recent loss, feeling somewhat numb; thinking about her family, and we that will forever be affected by a tragic void that can never be filled. Knowing that the semblance of peace and idealism that has been an integral aspect of our small island lifestyle, has forever been shatterd, as we alter our thinking to look at our neighbours with wary suspicion, and speculation reigns supreme, as we attempt to rationalise these events, as a means of bringing about closure.

Coupled with my own sense of loss, and whilst the saying “…there, but for the grace of god, goes I…” resounds in my head, I remain ever so proud of her. She who has left an indelible legacy for one so young, making her mark via the mechanisms of her activism; her effervescent personality; her spirit, and through those that she loved, and we who in turn loved her.

Though her murderer(s) took her life, they can never take that away from her, or from us. Never one to take a spiritual bent on things, I thought the title of this post most appropriate. I need to feel that she is in a better place as my own personal coping mechanism.

I don't even know what note to exit on.

'Fro.

And The Lamb Shall Lead Them...

2008-10-01T14:28:00.003-05:00

My big sis, the newly baptised lamb, has never forgiven me for what she deems my 'irrepressible behaviour' at one of the most important occasions of her life. Yes, she used the word 'irrepressible'. Is so she does talk.

It all started when she was insistent that her hair had to be done two days before the momentous occasion, which I still don't unn'erstand, for she was getting baptised. Why she goin' spend money to wash, curl, and blow dry hair, when the holy waters would jus' mess it up? Illogical.

But for the youngest and eldest of my siblings (the “mutants”), I and the remaining members of my family are all vertically challenged. The pas’on must not have realised that The Lamb was the shortest of his flock as he led them to the baptismal waters, for the 6 ft tall pastor inadvertently took her out too deep. She made an almost inaudible bleat of protest.

I, being the loving a caring sister, watched in snickered apprehension as he led her out further and further, and as alarm gradually entered the Lamb's eyes. But for the bleat, the little trooper uttered nary a word of protest, and docilely followed the pastor to the slau...err...out into the water.

I did indeed ponder if her gradual realisation and potential panic would interfere with her spiritual buzz at that point, as she mentally assessed how to swim in her spiritual robes. I surmised that the pa'son was prob'ly goin' kill her before he saved her.

The pa’son dipped The Lamb’s co-baptisees in a synchronized assembly line, I watching in pseudo-amusement as they all did the ‘Dip and Fall Back’. But, alas, when the diminutive Lamb stepped up to the plate (and gurgled a mouth full of water), she could not do the Dip and Fall Back like the rest of the flock, or she wudda drown.

So, the pa'son improvised, and lifted her off'a her feet 'til she was floating, and we could all see her chipped pedicure. I am still convinced that is only her forehead that got wet, but I have no tangible evidence with which to demonstrate the fact that the spiritual dip had indeed been botched.

The Lamb exited the baptismal waters, wearing her glow of accomplishment (who was I to disillusion her at this point?), walked towards me, looked furtively around, and asked me in panicked undertones: "Lawd, did my hair dye run?"

I nearly dead. This was the final crescendo leading into my ‘irrepressible behaviour’.

I would think that forgiveness would be high on The Lamb’s agenda since taking on her 'new personality', but she is still carrying a grudge. Evidence indeed that the pa'son never dipped her properly.

On that irreverent note, I shall now exit.

'Fro.

Evel Knievel Needs a Spanking!

2008-09-19T16:08:00.001-05:00

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...?

2008-09-08T22:25:00.006-05:00

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...!

2008-09-08T21:27:00.008-05:00

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?

2008-09-04T17:28:00.005-05:00

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

2008-09-02T17:52:00.003-05:00

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.

Gustav: From The Battle Trenches!

2008-08-30T01:50:00.009-05:00

Well, so far all is well, in my neck of the woods.

I am currently tuned in to my faithful radio station, Radio Cayman, for which I must also confess that I only listen Radio Cayman in times of a hurricane crises. Lawd, they were irreplaceable during the passage of Hurricane Ivan!

Just now, I listened and snickerd as a lady called in to the radio to relate the fact that at 250 pounds, the wind almost lift her up and carry her away. That is a strong breeze indeed, and gives new meaning to the concept of flying debris!

Gussy has now been upgraded to a Category 2 hurricane, and is currently pounding Grand Cayman and the Sister Islands. I am bored as hell, for I have been cooped up in my trench, armed and ready, from the time that we completed our hurricane preparations. As such, I think that I am suffering from cabin fever. I have poked my head out on the porch tentatively a couple of times just to watch a few trees blow, and was surprised to note that there was hardly any rainfall.

At this point, I have decided to stop watching the weather channel, especially after they reported that the entire Cayman Islands were without power. Had a good laugh at that bit of irony. Further, though they report that Gustav is battering the Cayman Islands, this apparently does not count as ‘landfall’. Landfall only counts when it hits the US.

Well, ol' ghastly Gussy does not have a visa, and as such, the jerk will soon be rolled over.

On that note, I shall now exit, in the hopes that I do not lose power and water.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Life In The Tropics...June to November...

2008-08-28T23:22:00.004-05:00

“The boards were hung by the windows with care, in the hopes that Gustav, would never be here…!”

So, have prepared as far as I can, lifting, lugging, cussin’, fighting and fussin’ at home, the hardware store, the grocery store, all with eagle eyes and ears pressed to the weather channel, praying for Gussing Gus to shift, even at the risk of his tormenting some other plot of land. Don’t come in my backyard, I say. Mek him go and torment someone else!

But, as we sit with abated breath, enjoying the last remnants of the electricity, water, and basic amenities, praying for the best, but prepared for the worst…Gussin’ Gus makes his way forward, anxiety and uncertainty preceding his unwanted visit, and all I can say is…well shit! I am flicking fed up of this hurricane business. My back can’t take much more.

And on that irritated now, I shall now exit.

Shit!

'Fro.

If You Live In An Old House...

2008-08-24T21:45:00.001-05:00

As a spry youth, I was raised in an old Caymanian House that embarrassed me to no end. No, not the one pictured!

Made of wattle and daub, the house stood on wooden stilts, that gave us access to her seedy underbelly, providing us with wonderful hiding places when I, my brothers and sisters would play rendless games of hide and go seek, as well as to provide a wonderful nesting ground for the births of numerous kittens and puppies from the menagerie of dogs, cats and one goat that called her yard home.

The house had an attic that we would access by scaling well placed furniture and doors. The attic was a treasure trove of historical wonders for us to explore, but not appreciate. We perfected the art of scaling up to the attic like monkeys, and have nary a broken bone to speak of.

I really hated that house. The house affected my ‘cool’ factor. No kiddie parties complete with clowns and ponies could be hosted for me in that old house. It was not a modern, cement house like my friends’ had. There were no beautifully landscaped lawns, as the breadfruit, mango, plum and papaya trees’ leaves would fall on a gravel and dirt ground that us chillun had to take turns raking every Sunday. I never did understand why we had to rake gravel and dirt, but when my mother placed us on leaf patrol, she loved to see the rake marks in the yard. She felt it made the yard look neat. What a weirdo.

I really hated that house. Whilst I was relegated to rake duty every Sunday, my sissified sisters were given polish duty. They were responsible for getting the coconut husks and polishing the cherry wood flooring to a ridiculous shine, using specific hand motions just like Daniel-san: Wax on…wax off.

I really hated Sundays. Sundays were full of cupboards noisily banging in the kitchen, an indication that us chillun were to wake up and start the house chores, whether we liked it or not. There was no use faking debilitating illnesses, for Mom could read right through it, and would whip out the vile castor oil as her cure all. She was a wicked ‘oman.

Some Saturday’s ago, Sonny and I participated in the ‘en plein air’ painting and drawing session, as an initiative to save Miss Lassie’s House (pictured), an old Caymanian wattle and daub house, which is over one hundred years old. This house has stood the test of time through tropical storms and vicious hurricanes, including the Rat Bastard, Ivan.

Conversely, the house also sits on a prime piece of beach front real estate, at the junction of South Church Street and Walker’s Road, and was for sale to the tune of US$1.6 million dollars. It is only logical to presume that the house would have been immediately razed on completion of the sale, to make room for a modern, elaborate mansion, and again, we would have lost a valuable piece of history. So, the National Gallery, National Museum, Cayman National Cultural Foundation and the National Trust, have all joined forces like the Super Friends, in an initiative to purchase the house, and to eventually restore it to its former glory.

Now, after having the pleasure of sitting in Miss Lassie’s yard on a beautiful Saturday morning, expressing my artistic vision, I became nostalgic for that old house that I hated so much, and which my Dad eventually converted into a modern structure. I miss the old structure, as it stood regally on its high heeled-stilts, and played a wonderful tune when rain would fall on her zinc roof. To this day, there is no more soothing sound, than that of the rain falling on a zinc roof. I miss the teeming fruit trees in the yard; me polishing floors, and raking the yard on a Sunday morning.

Of course, growing up and having been through my ordeals with my mother, I miss the fact that I can never do the same for my Sonny, that is, vexedly banging cupboards and waking him up on a Sunday morning, so that he could get his backside outside, to rake the yard. That legacy is gone, and Sonny will not be exposed to that house’s history, quaintness, and plethora of memories.

On that nostalgic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Birthday Diva: The Aftermath

2008-08-17T21:08:00.000-05:00

Scene: My yaad, somewhere in the Cayman Islands. Morning time. Sun bright. Birds chirping…

’Fro awakes…Opens blurry, red rimmed eyes and screeches…

‘Fro: Oh Lawd Gad! I am dying! [Nudges DV] DV!! I am dying! Oh, dear Lord!
DV: [Grunts, rolls over, snuffles…resumes sleep]
‘Fro: [Hissing] Star, I am deadin’! My head is going to explode.

DV: Hush.

'Fro: Call an ambulance. I ain't know what is wrong with me!
DV: It’s called a hangover honey. Go back to sleep.

Sigh…the dangers of excess.

And on that philosophical note, I shall now exit.

Toodles....

'Fro.

Birthday Diva

2008-08-16T18:18:00.003-05:00

So, today’s my birthday, as I turn 35 years young.

Hmmm…I no longer hyperventilate when I think about that number, or commit it to paper.

That being said, you may now sing songs in my praise; write poetic odes, and create detailed dissertations in my honour. Gifts are optional, though highly suggested.

And on the note, I shall now exit.

Toodles....

'Fro.

Kiss Mi Neck...!!

2008-08-07T16:37:00.007-05:00

So, sometimes when the mood or an alcoholic beverage hits me, I can engage in provoking shit talk with the best of them, primarily with a view to harassing a body, or putting something in the works to cause some form of dissension or strife. Is jus' so me stay.

On one particular psuedo inebriated occasion, in the midst of harassing DV, I engaged a perfect stranger to assist me in my endeavors. She seemed to be a cool gyal, and the sort who would join in for a good laugh. Nothing about she got my instincts buzzing at the time, and after that particular occasion, she became my big fren’. Whenever we would periodically cross paths after the fact, we would greet each other with huge grins and a hug like we were long lost sistrens. To this day, I ain’t know she name or nuttin'. Is jus’ so mi stay.

But, as time went on, I noticed that DV was not included in her vociferous greetings, and something about the gyal made me start to dress back and to reassess. I expressed my concerns and observations to DV, telling him that something ‘bout she was mekkin’ me nervous. DV would only grin and smirk, which made me even more nervous, for DV is a man that does know nuff t’ings, but rarely does he choose to share. What did he know? What was he holding back? Why was he smirking? Did I miss a joke? It started to make me extremely paranoid. To make matters worse, every time that we went out, should he be the first to see her, he would enthusiastically point her out to me, smirk well emblazoned across his face. Something was just not right.

And then, it happened.

One night as we were out celebrating some irrelevant occasion, I buck up the gyal. She come over, gave me a hug in greeting (not paying DV any mind), and asked me if I wanted a drink (invitation not extended to DV). I refused, after which, she hugged me as she departed, and…gave me a kiss on my neck. To backside. The gyal kiss mi neck. Is then I realize seh de gyal did a give off a courting vibe, and she did a look pan mi wid a twinkle in she y’eye.

Needless to say, for all mi big chat and what not, I was scared shitless. Did she just...?? Was she...?? Did she think...? Gasp!!

Mi ain’t know wha’ fi do, so, I ran. I hot foot it over to DV so fast, I aint care who mi lick down. Then, proceeded to wrap up and rub up pan the man like a hussy for the duration of the night, proclaiming my hetero status to one and all, and as a deterrent for she who may have possibly just hit on me. If it wudda work, I would even have told him to piss on me to mark me as his territory, but luckily, it did not come to that. I became vigilant for the duration of the night. My eyes remained peeled to my surroundings like a warrior. Never again would she invade my three feet of personal space.

To make matters worse, DV laff me to scorn. He cudda warn a body.

Now, I does see she all the time, and needless to say, no more shit talk fi me. She is relegated to a big wave from across the room, after which, I make sure that I hot step it ‘bout my business. Yes, I run like a t’ief. I ain’t shame. She effectively kissed me goodbye.

And on the note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Bend It Like Mommy

2008-08-06T19:35:00.004-05:00

So, I am a failure as a mother. Yep. There are no redeeming qualities in my attempt to adequately fulfill this very important role, and I don’t know if I should call social services at this point and just concede. Mek them come and tek the chil’ from me now.

This morning, as Sonny was getting ready to go to camp, I was at the end of my rope. He did absolutely nothing that he was supposed to do, and made me shout, snap, snarl, and repeat myself continually, as his procrastination was making me late for work. Albeit, I am late for work every morning but on my own volition, and it frustrated me to no end that this young upstart was interfering with my morning schedule.

Then, horrors of horrors, after tossing a particularly acerbic reprimand in his general direction, accompanied by a particularly heinous threat, he stalked off, and my keen sense of hearing picked up the following muttered words “Old peoples’ home…so miserable…”.

Now, I have no idea what the intermittent phrases were and the rage and smoke coming out of my ears hindered all other audible measures. My gasp of outrage must have given him some clue as to the clear and present danger, for the obnoxious little twit turned around swiftly, with a look of panicked astonishment on his face, and took off.

I now recollect the entire episode in slow motion. As I moved, he disappeared in a cloud of panic. The expensive high heeled shoe somehow appeared in my hand, as he bent the corner, and I released after taking angered aim at his head. I then stood back in smug expectation and waited…and waited…and watched in stunned awe as my shoe hit the wall, and fell lifelessly to the floor. Nothing. My jaw dropped, and from then on, my entire day was shot. I almost keeled over on the floor in tears, as a dry wail built up within my throat, begging for release. Sonny’s smug little snicker at having escaped did not help matters any.

See, as a chil’, I can remember many an episode when mi mudda would launch a projectile at me, my bruddas or sisters, her aim and rage to such an extent that the projectiles would bend corners. We were slippery little buggers, yet, my brothers still bears scars on the back of their heads, and let’s not mention the time that one stopped smugly around the corner to gloat, and the shoe subsequently followed to chop him in his forehead. As a bratty younger sister, I still recall that episode in gleeful satisfaction.

As a mother, I have perfected the required parenting phrases:

“…Because I said so!”
“Don’t let me come up there!”
“Shut up you mouth and eat your food!”

Many of the above have been bawled to my chagrin, as subsequently I realized that I was turning into mi mudda, sans the menopause and gray hairs. At least, not yet.

And now, this essential rite of passage for the Caribbean mother…the proverbial “Bend It Like Mummy” and I have failed miserably. I am such a loser! How can my Sonny recount the episodes to his own kin about the times that his Mudda shoe bent the corner to lace him good and proper?

I mean, my grandparents and parents alike have all passed down these sagas that are legendary to their respective tribes, and now, I have nothing. The one grandchild in my family, and I have essentially killed a critical family skill. My son will have no bend-corner-pop-head stories to relay. And don’t tell me that I should try again. I am scarred.

And on that pathetic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Perceptions

2008-08-04T17:14:00.001-05:00

I would pass her in the halls as we traversed the hallowed walkways of life, me doling out the rudimentary courtesy nods of acknowledgement time after time. She, paying me not a mind, which made me start to rethink my continued acts of blessing her with my nods or pseudo smiles of acknowledgement. Stinkin’ rude heifer!

The first fifty times of non-acknowledgement on her part, I surmised that maybe (i) she did not see me (ii) she was unaware of the requirements for courteous interaction, and so I would persevere with a view to teaching her this rudimentary concept, that I called manners.

Now, do not get me wrong, for I am by no means a nice person. I hoped to shame her into courteous behavior, with my sarcastic smiles, and somewhat terse hellos. I was sure to always speak to her directly, elucidating my words with clarity on the off-chance that she was hearing impaired. Yet, she would still pay me no mind at all. Stinkin’ heifer.

Then, there is the matter of her hubby. That nice, unassuming man who was always sure to give me a bright smile accompanied by his enthusiastic wave. I wondered how a nice man like him could end up with such a horrid, rude and bitter individual such as she. He could do so much better.

Eventually, I gave up. She was not worthy of my acknowledgements, and I categorised her as non-existent in my grand scheme of things. When we rarely did cross paths, I would not even bother to fart in her general direction. No more. She won. I was done. Stinkin’ heifer!

Then, she showed up with her black and blue eye, and became the talk of the town.

Turns out, Ms. Ma’am is a very sad individual, whose hubby (the “nice man”), will often take issue with the natural shape and color of her eyes, and would periodically decorate them with his fists. This was well known to everyone but me. Her paychecks are handed over to him with no regard for her hard work and dedication, to be doled out to the licensed establishments and wenches that he should choose to share them with. She is then cast aside to take comfort in prayer, and the comfort of her children. I now understand the cloud of sadness and depression that hangs gloomily over her head.

Well, I am back at it again. Doling out my regal, courtesy nods, and have even gone as far as to attempt painful small talk. You have no idea how much I hate small talk. She still ain’t paying me no mind, but, that’s all right.

Though she is still rude in my estimation, its all right. I am not giving up on her.

And on that note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Discarded Divas

2008-07-30T21:02:00.001-05:00

So, I went to a wedding the other day, and I watched as the geriatric father of the bride pranced around with his sullen, young second wife, whilst the still single, fabulous looking mother of the bride, pranced around with her best friend, no male escort in sight. She was a beautiful, tall, stately woman, obviously in her prime. I could recount the story of how Pops left her years ago for the young hussy, but, I will not bother. You get the gist.

This then got me to thinking about the number of women that are in the Diva's particular position. Women, who have built lives with men like Pops from the ground up, elevate these men to their current status, and at the end of the day, are cast aside when they get a little bit of rust on their mufflers. My mother also falls into what I call the “Discarded Diva” category.

This adds a new element to the so-called dating scene in the Cayman Islands, for, if you break down the dynamics, men of the same age and stature as the Discarded Divas are either related, married; separated; divorcing, or are just like Pops, and looking for a newer rust-free model. The men that are 'available' may also come with a cargo load of baggage that no sane human should ever claim. Should a Discarded Diva turn a blind eye to these matters, strictly to find someone with whom to grow old, regardless of the stress and strife that they may bring into the Diva's life? Me thinkest not!

Another option for the Discarded Divas would be to pull a Demi / Ashton scenario, but, alas, exactly how is this conceivable? Personally, I, my brothers and sisters would have a fit should some young stalwart stallion attempt to court our fabulous matriarch. Visions of disease, money grubbing and other Lifetime network movie-ending nefarious scenarios would soil any romanticised notions of a happily n-ever after.

And then, there is the social scene for these Divas, or lack thereof. I, personally, have lamented in the past about feeling old in the club, and the Islands' social scene in general, so exactly how would the Discarded Divas feel? It is just not feasible for a Discarded Diva to prance around in the club, going down low-low-low and showing her “Apple Bottom Jeans”. The whole club would be looking at her all right, then I would be barraged with hundreds of text messages regaling me with how mi mudda brukkin' out in the club. Lawd, mi heart jus' doh beat right when mi t'ink 'bout the notion. That just nah right, on any level.

Previous attempts on the island to establish ‘mature’ clubs have been unsuccessful, for the Discarded Divas do not stay out until all hours, nor do they drink themselves into the ground in order to allow a club owner to make a profit, and to keep their establishments thriving. Eventually, profitability being the key, the age requirement is always lifted to grant entrance to the young, nubile ‘gents’ and ‘ladies’.

Not everything has a happy ending, like the First Wives Club, so, I ponder, where exactly does this leave the Discarded Divas? To stay home and mull about as my Discarded Diva currently does?

On that contemplative note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Sex, Lies, Videotape...and Email

2008-07-24T14:56:00.015-05:00

So, I received a scandalous and scintillating email the other day, which contained pictures of a loving group of people, possibly resident on Island, engaged in lewd and licentious acts that are illegal in most countries.

The pics featured girl on girl action; guy on girls; guy on girl; girls on girls, and randomly sprawled body parts prominently featured as head-liners for the circus presentation (pun intended!).

I viewed the pics with curious objectivity whilst trying to get an accurate account of the parties involved in the ménage-ten, as well as to try to figure out the hows and whereforths of the camera operation. Who took the pics? Did they draw straws? Did each volunteer to take a turn as photographer out of a sense of fair play? Kudos to them! What team spirit!

I eventually gave up, for the time and effort that it was taking to figure out the fornicating human puzzle was actually making me cross eyed.

An acquaintance of mine was recently caught up in this new sex-pic hoopla, when she and she fellow decided to take some pics to commemorate a sexual interlude. Turns out that she was a good girl who made very poor decisions in her choice of men and artistic medium, for the fellow then turn ‘round and uploaded the pics to the internet in a fit of spite. Reminds me of that age old adage: “…when your friends become your foe, out into the world your secrets go…”

When she and I now cross paths, the conversation is…awkward. She thinking: “Does she know?” Me thinking: “Yeah, I know. Do I acknowledge, and say that it’s okay?” Feet scuffling awkwardly, smiles and conversation stilted, we are both very glad to part ways.

This entire trend has gots me pondering as to why in this technological and scandalous age, people involved in bedroom peccadilloes feel the need to document the process. Scintillating thrill? Not only must this require a great deal of trust (or stupidity), but are there not other factors to consider, such as a lost or stolen phone, camera or computer? Circumstances could allow strangers to be all up in your business, circulating intimate pics, intended to be private.

Lawd, suppose you dead and gone, and yu’ fambily sorting out yu belongings, and come across yu scandalous sex pics? I can see it now, Sonny looking at his mommy nekkid, and getting a bird’s eye view as to how he was possibly conceived. Lawd, I would be responsible for pushin’ mi pickney into an early grave, whilst turnin’ over in mine!

That being said, due to the proliferation of this particular trend, I have done some research, and collated the following tips (in no particular order) for anyone who should decide to engage:

One: Do not show your face

Two: Do not show any distinguishing features, or marks, such as tattoos, scars, tooth decay, piercings, moles… remember, the mole issue worked out in R. Kelly’s favour.

Three: After the scintillating thrill has passed, whilst ruminating in post-coital bliss, sit together and delete the photos. Delete the SIM card if necessary. Mash up the phone/camera as well, if this will give you further comfort. I could even take this further to suggest death and dismemberment, but, I will leave this here.

Four: Make sure that the picture-taking is reciprocal. He and she, not just of 'she' or vice versa. (If the parties involved are 'he and he', or 'she and she', that’s all ya' business, but, you get the gist.)

Five: Women, further to point four, in the event that he does betray you, please note that you are now in a position to air brush the pics in your possession, diminishing his girth and width, and forwarding to relevant parties as desired, with the title “Pee Wee”. You could even superimpose a sheep or other farm animal into the picture if need be. (Please note that this is just a suggestion. The author does not condone such behaviour.)

Six: In the event that you should get caught up with the bedroom paparazzo, and chose to discard points 1 through 5, please ensure that you suck in your stomach, and that your ‘sex face’ does not look like Leona Helmsley or Tammy Fay Baker. This would not photograph well. In the event that your sex pics does circulate whether by accident or design, you do not want to be made to look like a laughing stock.

On that very helpful note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Curvaceous

2008-07-21T14:32:00.001-05:00

So, throughout my relatively short life, I have always been a cell phone fanatic, switching my cell phones to accessorize my outfits, and to reflect my mercurial moods.

I would always gravitate to the small, delicate, cutesy l’il phones, for I somehow felt that they would compensate for my huge personality. I switched phones every day of the week, and the telecoms' marketing geniuses, who made them more colorful, smaller and with more options, were always guaranteed a sale from this shallow little wench.

…Until, DV gave me a Blackberry Curve for my birthday last year.

My life has never been the same since! Through all of my birthdays of birthdays (and again, there has not been that much!), this has been one of the most functional, and well used gifts ever! I am incomplete without my Curve, and I rue the day, if I should ever have to part with it!

I have not even had an inclination to yearn for the smaller Blackberry Pearl, which, in my estimation, is too small to be functional, and the tiny little keys affect the response times for my frequent instant messages, emails and my text messages. I feel so popular, now that I have consolidated all of my communications on this one magnificent device, even when I am left to delete a spam message from my inbox in aggravation. A message is a message when it hits my Curve! No one else has to know!

On leaving the house, it is guaranteed that I will always have my car keys, my wallet and my Curve. It has never failed me yet! Draft poems, and draft blog posts are jotted in the little note book thingy, and transferred to my computer at a later date. The camera phone is clear and easy to use, and I can snap photos at a moments notice. In the midst of an argument on some irrelevant fact, Google is on hand through my internet connection to resolve the dispute at a moments notice, me crowing with glee when I am right, and lying through my teeth when and if I am wrong.

My Curve has born witness to mine and DV’s arguments and reconciliations (always his fault, I might add!). My trusty Curve forwards my hotmail and yahoo emails to my immediate attention, to the point that I neglect to check my email from my ‘puta anymore!

Back in the day, I used to frown and scowl if my cell phone was too popular, always wanting to have one of a kind. Now, my eagle eyes are always on the look out for Blackberry cohorts, me wanting and fiending to add new Blackberry contacts to my Curve’s instant message contact list. Not that I actually contact them, but it’s the principle of the thing! I just love to see the long list.

So, join me as I now pay homage to my Curve, the bestest and longest cell phone that I have ever possessed, as we approach our one year anniversary together.

On that note, I must now exit. Gotta check my messages.

Ta ta…

'Fro.

Floetry

2008-07-17T17:10:00.002-05:00

So, last night DV and I packed up we’selves (me enthusiastically, he reluctantly) and went to a poetry session called “Floetry”, hosted by a local bookshop.

Now, I did nearly piss me’ self with glee when I heard about the session, for I don’t get this kinda thing often on my island rock, and maybe I did work myself up to thinking it would be like the performances on HBO’s Def Poetry with people aggressively spitting words of political and revolutionary poetic rhetoric into a mike, but, alas, it turned out to be a much tamer poetic night.

During the readings, it was just as interesting to gauge the audience’s reactions to the poems, as it was to listen to the poems themselves.

I watched the face of a perplexed young lady whom I deemed to be an ‘expat’, when Big J (fully adorned in camouflage) read his piece alluding to the island being raped by foreigners. She did not appear to be impressed by Big J’s topic of choice, and had a constipated expression on her face. Regardless, for such a controversial political piece, Big J did not deliver with passion and confidence, and was distracted by the obvious discomfort from the audience, who obviously had mixed emotions about his message, and maybe, the appropriateness of the subject matter.

Then, there was the dub poet who spit a piece that was fraught with sexual innuendo so cleverly guised, as he recited with passionate vigor and a twinkle in his eye. To me, he was the best of the night. He recited from memory; he was energetic and captivating, and he worked the audience well. At least, those who could understand Jamaican Dub poetry.

And then, there were the class of poems that I personally call, the “Lifetime Network” poems. You know those kinda poems that talk about the transition from love to hate, self-fulfillment and growth after a broken heart and what not? Yeah, those. Nice to read now and again, but, can’t say that they are fantastic to sit down and listen to without wanting to slit your wrists. But, that is just the cynical inner me talking.

Loved the poems. Loved the sharing. Loved the bravery of the poets who gallantly stood up and shared their worked, while I remained seated on my backside.

When I read about the event, I searched through my anthology of poems for an appropriate poem to spit, and realized with shock and dismay, that I am indeed potty mouthed poet.

All of my ‘spoken word’ or performance poems are fraught with cuss words, deliberately injected for dramatic effect or shock value, and I could not amend them to a PG rating in time for the event.

I hate the fact that I have to edit them at all, for does this not affect my poetic artistic expression???

Oh well. Oh well, next time.

Therefore, Books and Books, my kudos to you for hosting such a wonderful event, and for acknowledging poetry’s literary artistry. I don’t like the layout and format of your bookstore, but this is indeed a wonderful marketing gimmick to gather more susceptible people into your store’s monstrous space.

And on that note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro

Urban = Ghetto

2008-07-11T21:09:00.010-05:00

So, with the fro well tamed, feeling fabulous and quite diva-esque, I stepped into a licensed establishment, and proceeded to take a seat to await the arrival of my friends.

Our eyes met across the bar.

I watched in resignation and trepidation as he shored up his courage, took a deep breath, and tottered his way over. He would never have done it under normal circumstances, but I feel that the alcohol had given him some Dutch courage.

His introduction was shady, and though my annoyance and dismissive attitude was very clear, Dude persevered, until eventually, he engaged me in a manner that I just could not ignore.

Dude: You know, you have always worn your hair very urban.

‘Fro: [Eyebrow raised enquiringly] Urban? And what, pray tell do you mean by “urban”?

Dude: You know, urban; kinda…ghetto.

‘Fro: [Taking a deep breath, and deciding to engage] You know, in all my years, you are the first person to have ever referred to me as ghetto.

Dude: Oh, no, nah you, nah you! I doh mean you, I just mean…you wear your hair very urban.

‘Fro: And your definition of urban is ‘ghetto’? Have you ran this by Webster or Oxford, before you go about using words that you don’t know the meaning of?

Dude: [Scratching his head] No man, you doh understand wha’ I mean;

‘Fro: So, riddle me this, Batman, as a black woman, wearing my hair au natural, that automatically makes me ghetto?

Dude: [Shifting from foot to foot] Dah nah wha' I mean, and urban nah'a bad t’ing you know.

‘Fro: I see. So, if I should relax my hair, or get a weave down to my backside, what would that make me?

Dude: [Shifting nervously, and thinking] Errr….Suburban?

Now fair gentlepeople, this is where ya’ll have to give me props. I never told said dude about his ass; I remained calm, cool and collected, and frankly, I gave him up as a lost cause.

Some people just can’t be edumacated, and I don’t believe in wasting my time and energy on lost causes anymore.

This entire conversation was disturbing on so many levels, starting with Dude’s basic lack of common sense, which more and more I have realised, is indeed not common.

And on that note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro

Remote (Un)Controlled

2008-07-07T21:25:00.008-05:00

So, I have realized that I have lost all control of my remote control.

I mean, I have heard about women fussing and griping about this malady from the year of one, and arrogant me, never thought that there would come the day when I would fall victim, cast among the desolate remoteless ranks.

I sat back in resignation the other day, and watched as DV stepped into my abode, made himself comfortable, and picked up my remote control and automatically changed the channel to ESPN. I mean, he did not even give it a thought. He was just an automaton with a glazed TV-viewing look in his eyes, the testosterone actively pulling his stings, as apparently, he could not have been comfortable in the vicinity of a television, and not have the remote in his hand.

Has anyone given this some form of scientific study? Is there a cure that I should attempt to find to appease the women of the world, and give them some say as to the channel rendezvous points? I know that there is a bag of money to be made should a cure be discovered.

In attempting to garner some control of my control, I have tried reason: “Why don’t you find something that we both can watch?” Painfully guising my impatience, and clenched teeth.

I have tried cajoling: “Pllleeeaaasee! I was watching that!” Painfully gnashing my clenched teeth.

I have tried the feminine wiles: “You don’t wanna watch this ol’ thing, now do you, Pumpkin?” Struttin’ and sauntering in front of the TV, deceptive alluring smile guising clenched teeth and fists.

I have tried tactless fact: “Star, this is my TV!” Parting my lips and emitting intimidating growls, displaying my clenched teeth, getting even more incensed at his raucous dismissive laughter.

I have tried violence: “Gimme the flicking thing or I goin’ t’ump you!” Then, would unclench my teeth and fists, jump on him, and start to t’ump him and bite him; getting even more irate as he snickers and holds the remote above his head, well out of my reach.

I have tried theft. But, learned the hard way that when I stole the remote and ran out of the room crowing with victory, that I needed to be in the room for it to work. Eventually, I would have to go back in and face the music. Crap.

And of course, I would mix and match: cajoling and violence; feminine wiles, reason, cajoling and violence; violence in isolation; tactless fact and violence, etc.

Now, I just give up and pray that he falls asleep so that I can change the channel, but, as fate would have it, I am always the first to sleep. I just accredit this to the fact that ESPN bores me to death. I have sat through football season, and prayed for the end of the torture with the Super bowl. Then, I had to suffer through basketball season, where I learned about well placed screens, and flagrant fouls. Go Celtics.

Now, it scares me that throughout all of my suffering and newfound resignation that I would never again sit and watch a program of my choice, somehow, something has been sinking in. Crap. I am being programmed subliminally.

His revolution is indeed televised. Dyam remote hog!

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro

Iguana-Gate

2008-07-03T13:17:00.006-05:00

I tried to ignore it. Pay it no mind. Turn mi head, chill, and walk the other day…to no avail. The blasted thing keeps slapping me in the face, to the point that it done leave hand prints all over my flicking face, with the blasted thumb now jukkin’ me in the eye.

From a previous post, I have made my blatant disdain for all things reptilian and amphibian quite clear, and it is with no regret that I tell all ya that I rolled my eyes and moved right along after reading about the wanton ‘murder’ of the Blue Iguanas. Shame on the alleged perpetrators. But at the end of the day, those lizards don’t affect me one way or the other, for they don’t pay my bills.

I read the editorials, the letters and the general societal outrage that was launched after Iguana-gate, which even spilled down to the school children. What a way to get the society involved!

Posters circulated via email with the dead carcasses (shock value?), proudly listing the increasing amounts of the reward for information leading to the capture of the demonic perpetrators. On seeing the reward, I even contemplated framing a friend or family member to collect the money, but alas, I refrained. One outraged member of the community called the travesty the “worst crime to happen on Cayman shores”. Now, I aint know which ‘shore’ they does be talking ‘bout, because nuff nuff things happen on this little rock that I deem to be worst that some ol’ lizards getting killed, and I am sure that there is more yet to come.

After the ‘murders’, a co-worker came around with hat in hand, begging for donations to supplement the lizard reward. I nearly tell she ‘bout she parts. Here I am, struggling to find gas; pay bills, and just live like the high maintenance Diva that I am, and I going be stupid enough to donate money for blasted lizard reward??? I don’t think so! Especially since a stupid green lizard had crept into my house previously to terrorize me. I spray that sucker with bleach, and nearly tear down the house to kill the monster. Nearly flicking well killed myself in the process.

Now, I feel like kicking rocks when I see all of the good natured organizations coming out of the woodworks to raise funds for the dead lizards and the breeding program, the likes of which was never seen when Brian Rankin-Carter was murdered, and his naked body callously discarded.

I read with trepidation the recent story of Boy, 14, who is walking a fine line of future criminality, and the prosecutors’ suggestion to send him off to Tranquility Bay, in Jamaica, because Cayman's Eagle House does not suit his needs. I now wonder if organizations will step up to the plate to help this human chil’. Maybe the unclaimed CI$11,000.00 can go toward the upkeep and maintenance of this young man and others like him, and maybe stave off the possibility that one day, they too might engage in a wanton act of murder of the human kind. Everyone came up with the lizard money real quick, so it would be nice to see donation emails circulating for this chil’ as well, and others just like him. Talk about flicking priorities.

But, it is obvious that I am biased. The dyam lizards look like dinosaurs. The nasty green ones are bad enough, much less the blue. Prettier notional colour, but still a repugnant reptile. And, when you pelt them, they don’t run from you either (not that I am confessing to anything)! Dyam reptiles! Yuck!! If only immigration could roll them over!

Like the adoption of the Chinese babies when there are also a whole heap of nappy haired African babies mullin’ ‘bout the place, Iguana-gate is now the ‘in’ cause. Ironically, in my not so humble opinion, these 'murders' may have been the best thing to ever happen to the breeding program.

On that laconic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro

Once A (Wo)Man...Twice a Child...

2008-07-02T12:34:00.002-05:00

So, my sister and her mate are currently faced with the issue of dealing with an octogenarian god-mother, who is apparently senile, with traces of what I can only conclude is undiagnosed Alzheimer’s disease.

Love, appreciation, (guilt?) and respect for the Lady has made them reluctant to admit her to a senior care facility, but the alternative is to deal with issues which could possibly have far reaching repercussions on their relationship, social life, and finances.

Having witnessed their situation, it just makes me….sad, as it is very depressing. Lady has now reverted to the mental faculties of a child. She is prone to depression, fits of crying, which I deem to be her frustration manifesting itself; and has to be scolded for actions that are possibly detrimental to her health, and the health and welfare of those around her. She wears adult diapers that must be monitored and changed She wants to engage in her regular day to day activities, and after over seventy years of cooking, how do you tell the home maker within her that she can no longer operate the stove, for fear that she will cause a fire? Or the fact that she no longer knows how to dress herself properly, and could possibly walk out of the house wearing only a hat?

I just find it…awkward. It is strange to be in a position to scold a grown woman and knowing that the she will not learn from the lessons imparted, tapered with the need to maintain that level of respect for the socialite, and loving mother figure that she once was….

Which leaves one to wonder…what of the required care for my parents when they in turn must revert to their childhood? Recently, I can see the gradual effects of age, wearing on my parent’s – new ailments, mellower dispositions, and the need to defer to the children for important decisions that will impact the family as a whole. But, alas, plans will have to be put in place for the folks when their second childhood approaches, and as I get older, and the old bones creak from wear and tear, it is a topic that seems to hit me in the face constantly.

In my regard, I need to start working on my Sonny, to make sure that he will in turn care for his dear ol’ Mama when plastic surgery and medical miracles can no longer disguise the effects of her age. I just hope that he and his wife (the harlot!) will love me enough to change my Depends.

On that depressing note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta…

Tipping Off...

2008-06-23T21:53:00.004-05:00

So, I remember reading the newspaper the other day, and came across a letter to the editor where a couple from overseas griped about the fact that as they were settling their bill at a local restaurant, the waiter had bellowed: “Would you like your change?”

In their estimation, this equated to a form of extortion as the waiter was effectively demanding an additional tip on top of the 15% gratuity included in their bill. And, the waiter (the bastard!) had the audacity to shout this across the restaurant (gasp!), and placed the complaining couple into a very embarrassing and uncomfortable position.

Now, apparently the complaining couple, who had been visiting the Cayman Islands often throughout the years, was so negatively affected by this transgression that they went back to their North American abode, and decided to write a letter to bitch about it. They viewed this as the ultimate sign of the denigration of our fair isles, and (gasp!) had the potential to affect them to a point where they may never return!

I know that I would not be shame to shout “Hell yes. Gi’mme me change,” to the waiter across the restaurant and make a graceful exit, so I really cannot understand how this could have been their biggest irritation point. Not the murders, traffic, the road deaths, or the burglaries which feature so prominently in the Caymanian press nowadays. Or, even if they had bitched about the flicking forced 15% gratuity included in the bill, I would stand up and say ‘hallelujah!’ I mean, why is a restaurant forcing me to pay gratuity, especially if the service is crappy??? Now that pisses me off. I can clearly remember quibbling with the waiter and management of a local restaurant once after I had decided to deduct the 15% grats, because the service was crap. Talk about a close encounter. By the time our…ahem…”debate” was finished, they wanted to call the police, and I wanted to call the restaurant association. I had never been back to the establishment since, and would like to think that I played an active part when it closed down. I dunno if that is the case, but it does my heart and ego good to think so.

All I know is, by the time I finished reading the stoopid letter, I just rolled my eyes in disgust. So many other things they could have griped about the islands which is evident to the nekkid eye, and they goin’ bitch ‘bout this little ditty. I mean, why not say something to the waiter? Management? Instead, you’re going home and write about it…what a load of crap. Get a grip and get your priorities straight.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Toodles...

The True Joy of Motherhood

2007-09-17T13:27:00.001-05:00

So, after spending a bag of money to recreate my Sonny’s baby pics that I had lost during Hurricane Ivan (the Rat Bastard!!), I stumbled across this little gem, and decided to share.

Having this picture in my posession once again evoked so many powerful emotions, as I looked at my Sonny-Wonny, engaged in peacful slumber.....

Tears welled up in my eyes as I became nostalgic, and marveled at the way that my baby has grown into a long, and lanky little dude. I felt such a sense of loss, as my baby is now becoming a man. I felt a deep sense of yearning, as I wished that he was back from Barbados, and mulling about the house so that I could harass him. I felt a sense of wonder, as to how such a seemingly sweet little cherub, has evolved into such a lippy and obnoxious little twit! But, more importantly, as I dealt with the sappy, sissy emotions and mopped up the tears, I had a deep rooted sense of satisfaction as I looked at my baby, and realized that I was an evil and scheming mother, in spite of all the sappified emotions. I then gloried in the wonder of this feeling!

I had always taken pictures of my Sonny to catalog the ‘wonder years’, but also, with an innate sense of amusement and scheming for things to come. I mean, there is the so-called glory of parenthood (in addition to the paranoia), but is it so wrong of me to want to derive something else from the entire process? Something with which to torture the child when he gets older, maybe as a form of vengeance meted out for the stretch marks, and stress that he has (and will!!) put me through? I don’t think that this is asking too much!

So, therefore and hence, I have taken the obligatory photos of my Sonny on the faux bear skin rug, with his hair in plaits; Sonny wearing the lederhosen Viking suit, complete with the helmet; Sonny in the superman costume and the viking helmet (my "Nordic Superman"). The passport photo of Sonny in the ‘bunny rabbit suit’, complete with the carrot decal; I have taken the bathtub photos and the preschool photos. I have been as relentless as the Paparazzi stalking their prey, all with a view to collate seemingly scandalous and cutesie photos with which to torture the child with embarrassment, later in life.

I can so clearly envision the 16th birthday party, when I break out the projector for the slide show. I can envision the small ad that I will run in the newspaper for the day that he goes off to college (or jail, God forbid!!). Every milestone in his life will have a photo accompaniment in the Compass, as his ever loving mother celebrates his life, her love for him, and her morbid sense of amusement at his expense. I can’t wait for the day that some brave wench knocks on my door with a view to courting my Sonny, and I get to break out the photo album!

I can so recall once chasing Sonny down in Wal-Mart, holding a set of Teletubby underpants aloft, and loudly pleading with him to try them on. He was ten years old at the time. Having had enough, he looked at me in aggravation and stated: “YOU, are THE most embarrassing Mom, EVER!” Sigh. It was one of my proudest moments.

Tee hee….He ain’t seen nuttin yet! Sigh, sometimes in life, we may not have much to look forward to, but it’s the little things that are going to get us through every time. This is one of mine.

All ya goin’ call Social Services on me?

On that note, I shall now exit.

Rat Race

2007-09-12T07:07:00.000-05:00

Running, spinning, panting, and wheezing actively,
“Who Moved My Cheese?” they also ponder haltingly,
Unaware that rabid insecurity oft impedes their journeys.
Daily rigors, attended to so very righteously,
Ostentatious rituals imposed to relieve societal scrutiny,
Fucking Mrs. Material to attain a sense of normalcy,
(Mercurial, adulterous wench, with no sense of common decency).
Monitoring ascension of stocks and bonds appreciatively,
Whilst disregarding moral values that decline decisively.
Plague infested vermin abounding numerously,
Traversing life’s often perilous roads confidently,
Whilst donning professional attire so becomingly:
Life’s bulletproof vest, engulfing protectively,
Wielding briefcase in hand so symbolically,
Essential tools for the arrogant promotion of the “scholarly”,
(Unaware of their own hallowed interiors - assuredly).
Immersed in the deceptive trap of life -unknowingly,
Needing to subjugate and to dominate economically,
Uncaring of the spinning wheel churning repetitively,
Sniffing, nibbling, scurrying and breeding so very selfishly;
Institutions programming and churning out constantly,
Experimental clones fabricated to benefit politically,
Valedictorians speaking to the masses assertively,
Glass ceilings to be shattered by those of the sorority,
Subdued, patronized and harassed by members of the fraternity,
All stretching beyond nine to five, at the sacrifice of family;
Experimental maze: wrenching and destroying emotionally,
Needing spiritual pesticides to evoke forms of emotional stability.

***

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Fro

Stuck On A Rock And A Hard Place

2007-09-10T18:46:00.000-05:00

So, having given them the benefit of the doubt time and time again, I had finally given up on Air Jamaica. I flipped them the proverbial finger, and verbally told the airline to kiss kitty’s left nut. The straw that bruk my back occurred when I boarded my flight, en route to Grand Cayman, after a long and harrowing day of traveling. I stored my luggage in the overhead compartment; buckled up; shook off my slippers; took out my novel and eased back, well prepared for my flight to depart. Then, the announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, this flight has been cancelled”.

No explanations, no apologies, and I was stuck in Montego Bay for seven hours, as the airline worked to get their shit in order. Despite having the more convenient flights for my travels in and out of Barbados, I decided that I would now deal exclusively with Caribbean Airlines and Cayman Airways. I would show them!

Having now implemented my self imposed boycott for my recent journey, I was relatively pleased with the Cayman-Jamaica-Barbados leg of my trip, and am able to praise the level of service that I received with Caribbean Airlines. ‘Twas not perfect, as there is always room for improvement, but I found them to be efficient, pleasant, and apologies were rendered if and when a hic-cup occurred. Sometimes, as the recipient of customer service, all that is required is a simple explanation and acknowledgement of things gone wrong, and a ‘thank you’ for our patience and perseverance. It all comes down to manners and common sense.

Then, I encountered the Cayman Airways check in counter in Jamaica. In all my years, never have I encountered such a customer service travesty! I was frothing at the mouth, and eventually resorted to the common denominator by flinging a few bad-wuds in the general direction of the Customer Service Agents, accompanied by the relevant explanatory hand gestures. This seemed to be the only language that they could understand, as rational behavior and reasoning obviously eluded them. Now, I ain’t proud, but I ain’t shame either. I am just VEX!

It is a fact of life that not everyone is suitable for customer facing jobs, having regard to a person’s disposition. Having said that, I cannot begin to fathom which end of a jackass’s backside Cayman Airways dug those cretins up from! It appears as if they outsourced the management of the Cayman Airways desk to another agency, and even if this is the case, someone must be accountable. The agents were rude, unapologetic, dismissive and uncaring of the passengers' feelings and / or comfort. For example, a matter was elevated by a passenger to the supervisor on duty, and the supervisor’s body language said it all. She rolled her eyes, and sighed in disgust and frustration at the bother, all evident for the passenger to see. It was obvious from the outset that she would in no way empathise nor sympathise with the passenger’s issue. She, and her subordinates as a whole, entertained and supported disorder, and offered no customer focused solutions to problems that were created, but for aggression and agitation.

As I fumed in the line, staring daggers, bullets, and fecal matter at a particular screw-faced agent’s head, face, neck and general arteries, I also looked yearningly at the Air Jamaica ticket counter and remembered my self imposed boycott. I then sighed with disgust, as I am now left to wonder: am I truly stuck on the Island? Must I resort to chartering a boat or building a raft to get to the Eastern Caribbean? Should I not support my Caribbean airlines and resort to the more expensive North American carriers? Is there no possible recourse for me?

Those agents acted as if I was forced to take their level of service, or leave it, and there could be nor would be no possible repercussions for their actions and / or inaction! I will be sure to elevate my level of complaint to the Minister or Tourism if necessary, for this is plainly unacceptable! I am a paying passenger, and I will not be dismissed!

As of this morning, I have contacted the airline providing them with a synopsis of my issue. I will wait to see if I they return my call and advise you of the outcome. This will assess if this is an isolated incident, or reflective of the airline as a whole. I want to sit in on the meeting whereby those flicking cretins lose their jobs if necessary. Be careful of who you piss off, for one day it may come back to bite you in the arse!

On that pissed off note, I shall now exit.

'Fro

Caribbean Film Festival

2007-08-30T00:54:00.000-05:00

I was ecstatic when I received the schedule of events via email, as these opportunities so rarely come our way. I feel culturally starved. I am referring to the Caribbean Film Festival, now on at the Harquail Theatre, with offerings from Cuba, Haiti, Jamaica, Cayman, Trinidad, and St. Lucia. I take any opportunity that I can to take in an event at the Harquail. Such a lovely treasure for the Islands, and yet, in my humble opinion, so inefficiently utilised. I always feel like a creature of the arts when at the theatre, often wishing that I am able to sip on some rum or wine whilst comfortably seated and taking in a production of choice.

Anyway, I digress.

The film Festival was postponed after the passage of Hurricane Dean, and unfortunately, two weeks of movie and / or documentaries from around the Caribbean region are now condensed into one week, with two shows per night. Each night, I am therefore forced to make a difficult movie choice, when I would love to see them all.

Last night DV and I went to see the sub-titled Haitian film, “The President Is Dead”, a two hour jaunt into the lives and love of Dao, a superstar Haitian musician, and Nina, the independent and strong willed woman who tamed him and allowed him to confront his lifestyle choices and the disease that was rapidly eating away at his mind and body. The show hinted at some of the issues impacting Haiti - poverty; corruption; voodoo and the AIDS crises, all without a documentary feel, focusing instead on the continuation of the film’s plot, by incorporating twists and turns along the way.

Tonight, we went to view the Jamaican documentary, Life and Debt. This film made me really wish that I could have sipped on some rum or wine whilst taking in some powerful food for thought. The film documents the impact of globalisation on the Jamaican economy, and the methods by which the United States and other superpowers affect(ed) everyday life in Jamaica, with an abundance of information from which to gorge within one hour and ten minutes. These include the dictatorship of the IMF; the Jamaican Free Zone (or what I call the “Sweat Shop”), and forms of Economics 101. When the credits rolled, I wanted to stand up in the theatre, raise my middle finger on high, and scream “Viva La Revolution” whilst grabbing a machete. But, alas, my revolution would not be televised as my Sonny was present. Therefore, I will continue with the underground movement. Join me?

Tomorrow, I look forward to taking in the Cayman Islands’ offerings, “Swallow”, directed Frank E. Flowers, and “Galore”, directed by Tim Kelly. For once, I don’t have that isolated feeling associated with being at a Calypso concert where every other island gets a shout out in song, but mine. We are fully into the mix this time, and I am going out to support my bredrens!

Tragically, each night there has been such lackluster attendance for such a wonderful event celebrating the lives and talents of we Caribbean people. Ironically, as I leave the Harquail on closing and drive pass the Cinema, I can only sigh as I take in the saturated parking lot and the long lines at the ticket window. This in itself speaks of the impact of globalisation and our continued lack of support for our own.

So, peoples, if you are based on the island, free up some time and go check it out, nah? Call the CNCF for the film schedule and general synopsis of each film, to aid with your movie choice. Shows are 7:00pm each night at the Harquail, adults $5.00, $3.00 for children.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Toodles…

How's The Weather Up There...?

2007-08-16T18:16:00.000-05:00

An air of expectation hangs over the island, as worry furrows the brows of those bent on preparation. Ivan (the "Rat Bastard") has left his mark. Even if I have some sense that Dean may be a passing silent fart, (all things being relative), my expectations hang in the balance, as I know that I am, and will always be, subject to Mother Nature’s whims. She can be a real mercurial bitch when she is ready. Here I am, living it up in the month of August, falling back into my sense of complacency that the Rat Bastard had disrupted when he passed through my life, and then, Madame decided to humble me with the threat of Dean. She has dispatched another one of her Enforcers to remind me of her far reaching capabilities, especially since my kind have abused and neglected her in so many ways. She is now bent on vengeance.

Yet, as I track each breath of movement from this probable usurper; as I battle my way through the lines of the supermarkets, and coordinate the purchase of items for me to batten down the hatches, and to live in relative comfort should I need to take refuge, I know that I am not alone. Dean and his whereabouts dominate the topic of all conversation, as we all get ourselves into a state of preparedness. Supermarkets are packed; cars are moved to higher ground; information is being disseminated like wildfire; plywood and shutters are being off loaded and inspected at individual residences…and it all gives me a strange sense of detached pride for my island and its peoples. Ivan was a hard lesson learned but, we learned our lesson. No one wants to be caught off guard again.

And, more humorously, everyone is a weatherman. We can discuss vectors, air currents, projected paths, latitude and longitude, and Caribbean geography better than the crappy reporters on the weather channel, with a Caribbean flair. Weather is watched more vigorously during the season, than a pervert watches porn. Everyone has a story to tell as to how the Rat Bastard has impacted their lives, some with an entertaining and dramatic flair. We now wait to see what Dean does.

And on that note, I shall now exit. Happy flicking birthday to me!

Toodles.

The Songbird (Sonnet)

2007-08-11T18:18:00.000-05:00

Larynx versed to emit soothing cadence,
Poised and isolated from the daily rigors,
Music the sultry solace from savage ambivalence,
The songbird croons with passionate vigor.
Feathers supposedly unruffled by life’s torrential gusts,
Chorus to blend harmoniously with the howling pitch,
Immune to despair, dismay, distress and disgust,
Sensuous duet, only Mother Nature can exhibit.
Perched perilously - vulnerable, fighting tumultuous odds,
Crooning copyrighted lyrics for public consumption,
True representative for the call of the Gods,
Timbre resonating soulfully as Deity’s articulation;
Morosely, eventually defiled as pollutants erode its core,
Wheezing, critically out of sync, the Songbird will sing no more.

...and on that note, I shall now exit.

Toodles.

'Fro

L, M, N, O, Pee...!

2007-08-06T19:16:00.000-05:00

So, during my recent sojourn to the Club with DV, whilst sipping elegantly on the aforementioned Cosmo (my 3rd) and ruing my pending bathroom break, I was disgusted by the fact that the seemingly dainty, well clad, sweet young ‘ladies’ were in reality, a herd of nasty heifers! It was astounding! They were perfumed, made up and elegantly garbed, and yet, they left fecal matter in toilets, stuffed sanitary napkins in the toilets, did not flush, randomly dropped tissue on the floor, and left faucets running until water overflowed! Backside (pun intended)! You leave your yaad for a couple of hours and you have to dump, so???

Sadly, this issue is not limited to the female restroom at this particular club, but the sad fact is that this is often the scenario with female restrooms in general. Even at my place of employ, so called professional women must be reminded via signage, not to flush sanitary napkins, a lesson that was imparted from grade school. This is the norm, and not the exception, as these signs are evident in restrooms in bars, malls, restaurants, and other office buildings.

I was once asked what I would do if I could spend one day as a man. My sophisticated response:

1) I would be the recipient of fellatio 2) I would pee standing up.

I would pee in corners. I would pee in bushes. I would pee on light poles. I would pee out my car window. I would loosen my wanker (and I am positive that I would be well endowed) and piss all over the place, STANDING! I would have conversations while I peed. I would water gardens with my pee, all for the glory of peeing where and when I wanted to, and not being relegated to the prison of a nasty public toilet, and needing to wipe when I was through. Shake and go. Sigh. The scars that live with me from playing mass during Carnival, and no toilets were in sight! The scars that live with me after being at a concert or fete, and having to use a a public restroom or, God forbid, a port-a-loo! I need therapy!!

My Mom had always theorized that women were either divided into toilet-squatters, or toilet-sitters. I am not sure if there are associated psychological assessments to the squatter / sitter personality, but, at least she indicated that there was a division. The aforementioned toilet psychologist had always trained me to be a squatter, regaling me with tales of germs infesting my ‘poony’ or my ‘tush’. To this day, rabid fear keeps me well perched over the alien toilet, as there would be hell to pay should I ever sit (or collapse). One positive result from this has been the development of very strong leg muscles, though squatting has become very difficult with the onset of my arthritic knees. Nor did I ever believe in the sitters’ concept of lining the seat with tissue either, as 1) the tissue also has rancid public germs 2) the rancid public germs will infest the entire tissue, from the time that it is layered on the seat and seep into my backside. My mother’s lesson lives on.

So, fellas, the moral of the story is that the next time that you are out at a social event, looking for viable candidates from whom you are to obtain potential notches to your bed posts or possible wife, girlfriend or ‘other’ material, go and take a peek into the ladies’ restroom at the end of the night. Review each stall. Interview your potential candidates as to their toilet etiquette (or lack thereof). Maybe this will give you with some valuable insight as to the caliber of women that are frequenting said event, and whom you are taking to your yaad.

Though, of course, should you ever see an elegant seductress adorned with a big afro puff, elegantly sipping a Cosmo, she is, of course, excluded from this sweeping assessment .

And, on that facetious note, I shall now exit.

Toodles.

Changing Of The Guard

2007-07-30T23:06:00.000-05:00

So, I had oft heard my Mudda lament that there was nothing on the island for her to do, no form of entertainment where mature women of her age could get all dressed up, look real fine, and go out to shake their tail feathers in a venue fraught with mature and well behaved peoples. The isolated ‘Oldies’ concert did not count, as her peers did not want to be repetitively slapped in the face by a form of entertainment whose primary marketing ploy was geared around the fact that they were catering specifically to the ol’ people.

During the times that Mum would hem and haw about this tragic fact, I never paid she any min’. I of course, was frequenting the clubs, liming and enjoying the fetes where my friends and I would all meet up, have a rollicking good time, then go back to mi yaad, where more often than not, I would often find mi Mudda sitting on the porch, or up reading a book when I would arrive home in the wee hours of the morning. Additionally, if she went out, who would I get to baby sit?? (Lawd, if she eva knew that I said so! One of the joys of anonymity!)

Anyway, after a seemingly long hiatus, I went to the club with DV on Friday night, and for the first time, I now know what mi Mudda was talking about. Whilst sipping a cosmopolitan (elegantly, I might add) an’ taking an objective look around the club, I came to realize that I was probably the eldest person there. The girls were so young and willowy, they almost looked as if they were just entering puberty, and I wondered if they were carded at the door. My peers no longer frequent these establishments. They are married, divorced, getting married, getting divorced, or bogged down with chillum. There has been a changing of the guard, so to speak. Lawd, I felt old. I no longer recognized or understood the music, and I really knew that it was time for me to make my exit when I discreetly assessed the fire exits, and pondered possible violations of fire safety laws. Sigh. Things rough. When DV left me to get a drink, I was approached by an enterprising young man, who called me his “Baby Love”. When he smiled, he had an amazing set of grills that blinded me when the disco lights hit them. They were either grills, or a really bad case of plaque.

Early into the night, the DJ gave me a frikking false sense of security: he played six consecutive calypso songs. I wuk’d up with JOY, and sang loudly and clearly, thinking that all would be well. Then, I realized that said DJ’s nefarious scheme consisted of playing the ‘old’ stuff that I could identify early into the night, and proceeded to leave the ‘good’ or ‘young’ stuff for the wee hours for the enjoyment of the freaky young whippersnappers, when the arrived en mass at the stroke of midnight. When the clock struck midnight (and I believe that there was a full moon) Mr. Man started to play some bag a’ noise that was full of mere treble, and yet the young populous could all fill in the DJ’s strategically placed blanks! There were rap additives, and lawd, the reggae almost killed me! What the hell is going on with reggae music nowadays??? It almost seems to be fused with a form of heavy metal / pseudo rock, and all I could think about was Red Plastic Bag’s song “Ragga Ragga”. Sigh. It has all come to pass.

So, after such a tragic and somewhat depressing occurrence, I would ordinarily lament at the fact that I am getting old, because I was sleepy and was home by 1:30pm, and a form of fear that I would soon be joining mi Mudda on the porch. But, alas, with maturity, comes truth, or certain factual realizations.

The young whippersnappers are living it up now, but when they reach my age, those young Nubian princesses that are only now only now sprouting boobs and partying all night long – that shit is going to sag and go waaayyy south to their no bony l’il knees. Those smooth and young innocent looking faces are eventually going to be lined and haggard from the cigarette smoke and hard drinking, unhampered by any form of exercise. Ya’ll watch. You read it here first.

Though, when the young Playas’ ripped abdominals are soon overtaken by the solitary barreled keg, unfortunate as it is, they will still get women, only now they will no longer pant after the young nubile princesses (now the battered hags), but will rather yearn for the elder women, or pant after the new flock of princesses, soon to hit eighteen. They will get them too. Thus is the circle of life.

This summarizes my Caymanian sociological study. My contemplation in a nutshell.

On that note, I shall now exit. You will note that there was no apology for the long absence. I was just toooo lazy to blog. I ain’t shame.

Ta ta...

The Nappy-Headed Sonnet

2007-05-10T17:55:00.000-05:00

Flowing, soft, billowing waves - crown does not possess,
Gleam the apex coroneted with a kinky, matted, billowed ‘Fro;
Rebelling against synthetically induced soft sheen tresses,
Untamed definitive knotted curls, is the way of its growth;
Skeletal remains of broken combs, strewn amongst defeated hair products,
Destroying commercial promises to soften, moisturize, develop and enhance;
Bristling curly coiffure, despite corporate marketers’ denoted ‘perfect locks’,
Contrary terrorist decision, initiating the first step of resistance;
Symbolic of the resilient nature of my people, the ‘Fro will dominate,
Refusing to be brushed aside, controlled and pressed into subservience;
Methodology of the radical’s need to beleaguer those that legislate,
Exemplification for those who should relax in abject silence;
The stubborn non-conformist ‘Fro. Voluminous and regal throughout life,
Unmoved despite harrowing winds, chemical warfare and hair-raising strife.

****

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Fro

Naughy Nefarious Nemesis!

2007-04-07T07:42:00.000-05:00

So, whilst catching up on my very outdated blog reading last night, I took my usual jaunt over to the page of my arch nemesis, the evil villain and obnoxious spammer, Trouble (Insert evil theme song here), prepared to read with a sneer of the upper lip, and to render some insightful and thought provoking comments to his posts.

Whilst there, I encountered the following ditty, composed by the man himself:

Ode to da Fro

Outspoken soul-sista
you had me at “Hell no!”
ranting raving misbehaving
I wax inquisitive,and need to know.
Are you au natural?
A ’60’s kinky curly girl,
Cicely or Pam Grier.
Hendrixonian heteroclite…
Heckler in hedonistic herecy,
with Oxy-cleaning action
you brillo-pad the world,
scrubbing crusty bullshit,
until freshly sparkling,
appears the truth.
Dark and sultry sage,
you are Yin to my Yang…
Not to mention how,
you augment my wang.
Anomalous Momos,
Where were you when
I was making the mistakes of youth.
In my penchant for noodging pixies,
and beer swilling sensualists,
I would have ‘picked’ you Fro.

“’Picked’ you Fro”…Lawd mi’ gut!! Get it!!! "Pick"???

As I continued to guffaw, tittering and wheezing, I automatically started to compose my poetic retaliation to his arrogant assumptions and presumptions (sneer of the upper lip continues), then realised that such an action could possibly ignite a turf war the likes of which Biggie/Tupac, Paris/Lindsay had never seen. Therefore, for the sake of peace and tranquility in Blogland, I stood down. Hmprh. {Flashing my gang symbol here}. All innocent by-standers, saved by my sacrifice, you may convey your thanks.

Leon, not offended at all. Here is an episode where I can use the metaphoric brillo pad to scrub the crusty and entertaining poetic bullshit, the likes of which can only be coined by such a Trouble-maker. Can you imagine if he was inclined to use his nefarious powers for good???

For those of who are more inclined to prose, and are of a non-poetic bent, check out the hilarious Cliff-Note break down of the Ode here.

On that note, I shall now exit. Sonny has returned home for the Easter hols, and it has been at least fifteen minutes since I harassed him. I need to make up for lost time.

Toodles…

Gaea - Goddess of the Earth

2007-03-26T22:48:00.000-05:00

Gaea cries, raped and abused,
Forceful penetration impeding her foliage,
Invasive marauders thrusting and pumping,
Emitting lusty, guttural moans as Gaea is used.
No artful foreplay for her pleasure,
Gaea screams - cries remain unanswered,
Her pain disregarded and irrelevant,
As her rapists affirm their existence,
Spewing filth and ejaculating cancerous pollutants,
Seeping through Gaea’s vaginal core,
Decaying and corroding Gaea’s mantle,
Deteriorating her outer crust
Embodying itself through her wounds.
Evident contusions and discolorations
Unrestrained throughout her being,
Gaea’s abrasions and cries for help evident:
Stunted growth and lack of fruition;
Depleted, infertile famine ridden planes -
Charred remnants of her beauty,
Congealing among barren landscapes,
Chaos igniting amidst her foundation
Annihilating Gaea’s peaceful existence,
Depleting her oxygen - the root of her growth,
Eroding and wilting her terrain.
Waste and rot - Gaea’s colourless existence,
Limbs razed for inanimate structures,
As Gaea remains trodden, stampeded,
Scarred, embittered and under siege.
Vengeful, Gaea vows to unleash her wrath,
Dormant power misconstrued and misunderstood,
Rage prominent through her psyche,
Overwhelming emotions to spite invasive species,
As caustic and scarred, she cries.
Gaea cries torrential, monsoon waters,
Breathing, gusting hurricane forced winds,
Quaking and writhing disastrously,
Prepared to reap destruction in her wake.
Gaea cries, emitting torrential gusts
Stabbing and freezing her abusers in their tracks;
Gaea cries until, dehydrated,
Gaea can cry no more –
Barren, arid and desolate emotional drought;
Unforgiving Gaea; abused Gaea;
Emotionally unable to recover from her
Physical and emotional defilement.

**********
‘Fro / March 14th, 2007

Handicapped Facilities

2007-03-22T23:17:00.000-05:00

So, I read this article in the Cayman Net News today, which evoked a sneer of the lip and a flip of the finger in the general direction of the so-called powers that be. And it was not my pinky.

I laud the paper for trying to highlight the plight of the handicapped on our Islands, though they should not limit this outcry to those who are unable to walk, but extend this study and / or commentary to the blind, deaf, and other disabilities. I will keep a skeptical eye out for follow up articles detailing the completion and nature of the improvements, but I will not hold my breath.

When my family realized that my big Sis was slowly losing her ability to hear, we searched high and low for resources that could provide us with sign language classes. I was flabbergasted to note that this was an almost futile endeavor. Begs me to wonder where and what the Islands do with the handicapped, but for the required token handicapped restroom and parking space, especially for those like my big Sis, who were affected later in life. She is not in a position to attend the Lighthouse School to learn the ABC’s of sign with the primary aged kids. There are no TTY telephones for us to communicate immediately via phone, and it seems as if the telecoms companies are not even giving these a second thought, as they are not marketable and expensive to implement. And of course, there is the public sensitivity (or lack thereof) that is also to be dealt with.

I once watched with revulsion as a sales clerk spoke harshly to a patron that could not speak, when she could not understand what the patron wanted. I have watched with disgust as able bodied people have parked in designated handicap parking, running to do their errands with no shame. I can remember back in the day when Caymanian families hid their handicapped relatives away like a shameful secret. I have witnessed more than one occasion when individuals have spoken impatiently and aggressively to my sister when she was unable to hear them, and asked them to repeat their statements. You know that the I and I was not going to tolerate such disrespect to my Sis!!! Hmprh! I am vex again just thinking about it!! We also need to sensitise our children from they are in the womb not to stare and point when they see someone who is different than they are.

Needless to say, my environment needs further education and enlightenment as to the sensitivity and the plight of the handicapped. The fact of the matter is if buildings and sidewalks are not properly outfitted for handicap access (and this includes Braille signage) then we are taking away the ability of those with special needs to be independent. This would do nothing to erase societal misconceptions and prejudices as to the abilities and intelligence of those with special needs.

“We would encourage occupiers of older buildings to modify them to accommodate disabled people,” says the good Minister. What the fcuk??? “Encourage”??? Who the hell wants to voluntarily spend money to outfit a building for those in the minority?? I would think that the government would see fit to provide the occupier of the older business with a mandate to update their facilities within a giving time frame, as a matter of public policy!!! But, I won’t get too stressed, as it is evident that common sense is indeed not common.

Lets see if said government is quick to update the handicapped facilities on the waterfront based on the complaints, interviews and special needs of the transient cruise ship passengers on the waterfront, as opposed to setting island wide standards that will ultimately benefit their people. I wait with abated breath.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Toodles.

‘Fro

The Evil Stepmother

2007-03-19T22:30:00.000-05:00

[Excerpt from phone call to Sonny in Barbados]

‘Fro: Your Granddad is getting married
Sonny: [Shocked] Really??? To who???
‘Fro: His girlfriend, I guess.
Sonny: Wow! I didn’t know that ol' people were even attracted to each other!
‘Fro: [Brekking up wid laffter] Wha’??? Wha’ kind of thing is that to say???
Sonny: I didn’t mean it like that, Mom!! I jus’ thought they saw each other as we see them, you know, ol’ and wrinkly and stuff…

From the mouths of (obnoxious) babes.

So, my old fart of a father, pushing seventy if there ever is a day, is getting hitched to a young hussy who is more than twenty years his junior. I guess it sounds more scandalous when we mention the twenty year differential, but when I break it down to say that she is forty three, it does not sound as scandalous and illicit.

The news spread amongst his five chillun like wildfire, and immediately, a fambily caucus was convened at the closest house of choice. We had visions of a scantily clad wench donned in blood red lipstick, plotting to milk our father of his Trump-esque fortune, which drove us to immediately research and assess the nature and legalities regarding said holdings. It was so jokey, especially when we realized that the status quo will remain: there are no holdings. But it was the principle of the thing, and the drama was quite exciting.

Anyway, after meeting with Daddy, and organizing a sit down with the hussy…who was not really a hussy after all, but a well meaning woman who is apparently in love with the old fart, I have come to realize how this can now complicate my once relatively uncomplicated life. She is another dynamic that we chillun must now consider, because much as we would like to deny it, she will now become a part of our lives, distant though it may be. I had never factored a possible third party interloper affecting the matriarchal and / or patriarchal standing in my fambily. Us against the world, spearheaded by my divorced parents. Now, another individual has the potential to affect policy and procedures within my family, as they also have access to my Daddy. Sigh.

But, from general observation, it does seem as if the conventional family is almost extinct. Sonny has a stepmother and a ‘half’ sister, and (god forbid!) should I marry and have a child / more children, he will in effect have two families. Sigh. Shifting social conventions and the redefinition of societal norms. A sociological debate that is well served with a cold beer.

Anyway, Dads is getting married in Jamaica next month, and the gang a we is all flying out to wish him our continual love and support, as good chillun do. Coincidentally, the chillun (but for the newly baptized lamb) can also get on wild and wassy and take in some Jamaica carnival festivities. I just hope that I can suitably remove the hangover, mud and paint from J’ouvert, to be able to pull myself together to look suitably dainty and delicate for the wedding. No one should ever critique my ability to multi-task.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Toodles

'Fro

The Ten Commandments

2007-03-11T18:59:00.001-05:00

So, I was doing my Sunday reading of Friday's Caymanian Compass, when I came across a small classified ad, listing the Ten Commandments. My initial reaction on seeing the ad was a sneer of the upper lip, and I proceeded to turn the page. Then, intrigued, I paused and made a conscious decision to read, absorb and break down the Commandments from my cynical societal perspective. I wanted to assess each Commandment symbolically, taking into account my relatively limited scope of many of the horrors and evils that pervade many societies, in addition to the positive and wonderful things that happen today that are never worthy of sensationalist press. Now, as an additional disclaimer, it should be noted that formal practiced religion and the concept of blind faith and I have a very distant and pessimistic relationship, but I have a lot of respect for biblical writings and interpretations, and am open to teachings of almost any denomination and faith. I’m just cool like that. I will also write on the premise that the Commandments are still applicable, as some denominations have deemed that they were ‘revoked’ by God, because of the murder of his son.

Now, hereby lies the Ten Commandments as broken down by ‘Fro, standard life teachings - moral and common sense - as taken from Exodus 20:1-7 (drum roll here).

1. Thou shall have no other gods before me.
Note the lower case reference to ‘gods’? This notion in itself is practically non-existent, as money, status and power appears to be the ultimate god, ruling and controlling mans interaction with man. On this note, will later reference the powerful impact that the money god, has on the practice of all other Commandments. Additionally, as we move towards globalisation and there is more interaction with other cultures and religion, societies are continually faced with conflict and confusion surrounding this Commandment. Hinduism, Sikhism, Wicca, Buddhism (some traditions), Agnosticism, Atheism, Humanism, etc. These religions worship many Gods, a different single God, two deities or no God.

2. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in the heaven above (edited for content – look it up yourself)
So, what does this say for all the posters and debates raging about the blond haired, blue eyed Jesus; black Jesus, Jim Caviezel, pictures of Jesus on the Cross, etc? What of the religious bookstores that sell and profit from these items, (tying this back to Commandment #1)?

3. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.
Scrap this one as it applies, as blasphemy is the order of the day. Society has reduced this to a ‘lesser evil’ in the grand scheme of things, something that appears to not even be noteworthy. I can remember as a child, taking the Lord’s name in vain was a HUGE playground transgression, whereby other kids would tattle or threaten to tattle on you if you did. We did not understand the origin or nature of this transgression at all times, but we knew that it was something baaadddd……

There are some things that I just do not mess with, out of some deep internal fear, and respect. I have a co-worker, that continually bellows "Jesus Christ!" each time that she is upset, and I cringe each and every time that she does.

4. Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy
Which one? Religions are in conflict if it should be Saturday or Sunday. The Cayman Islands have enforced a drinking and dancing law and a Sunday trading law that prohibits dancing on Sundays, as a measure of the powers-that-be enforcing Commandment #4 on its society. At 11:45pm each Saturday night, all clubs and bars are to cease and desist with the sale of alcoholic beverages, and all patrons must exit posthaste: Sunday is coming. Therefore, we ensure that we get as many drinks in as possible, when we hear the infamous “Last call to the bar”. Get drunk, drive home, and wake up to go to church on Sunday. On Sundays, we island natives can go to a local bar, and drink to our hearts’ content, to the tune of ‘soft’ background music, which must be played at a certain decibel, so as not to reduce the possibility of conversations while we sip or gulp on our drinks. It is illegal to dance in said establishment. Supermarkets are also closed on Sundays. Therefore, we cannot take or drunken selves to the grocery store after we leave the bar. Go figure.

5. Honor they father and thy mother
But do our fathers and our mothers honour us? Absentee fathers; microwaved babies; baby used as a baseball bat; drowning children in bathtubs; giving toddlers marijuana; murder suicides; incest…and the cycle will perpetuate itself.

6. Thou shalt not kill
Except: when fighting for oil; land; enforcement of religious doctrines; suffering from PMS; self defense; inheritance; eye for an eye. Societies have become so desensitised, that murder and death seems to be the order of the day, even manifesting itself in the games played by our children. Legislation and case law seem to be on a role for excusing every form of murder: they were abused; they are mentally incompetent; they are just children. We seldom weep and mourn, nor lobby and take to the streets for radical change and outcries against the atrocities that we commit against each other, except in the days of old when young and old, male and female used to gather in streets and yards to lynch black people for perceived wrongs, or when village inhabitants gather to stone young women for adultery or if they incited men to lust by showing their eyebrows. Sigh. Oh, for the good old days!

7. Thou shalt not commit adultery
Ha! This is the norm more than the exception! Wedding vows are transient at best, as interchangeable as our shoes or socks. I don’t even need to comment on this one anymore. Refer to Commandment #10.

8. Thou shall not steal
See comment on Commandment #6, and tie this back to Commandment #1 and the worship of money and status.

As a side note on white collar theft or embezzlement from organisations, I was also intrigued by the fact that most published convictions for embezzlement in the Cayman Islands seem to involve single mothers, between the ages of 25 and 35. I would think that this would be worthy of some form of impact study, in order to evidence the wheres and whys. This was further highlighted for me when a young lady was sentenced after embezzling funds to support her on-line gambling addiction (see commandment #10 to follow).

9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor
Except in instances of false identification, due to the fact that all black and Asian people look alike, or if thy neighbour is taking the fall for breaking commandments #8, 7 or 6; or if you cry out that a random black man car jacked you and drove off with your kids, inciting a possible public lynching of a random black man like in the god ol’ days. Refer to commandment #6.

10. Thou shalt not covet they neighbour’s house. Thou shalt not covet they neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is thy neighbour’s.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s oil, and incite war, terrorism and famine by baring false witness against thy neighbour, in a bid to obtain said oil.

Pertaining to the above, I was recently curious as to why gambling was deemed a ‘sin’ as it seemed to be self inflicted harm to the gambler and relatively harmless. I was intrigued to note that gambling was a form of coveting. I will not even mention church raffles at this point, and will have a little talk with DV when he gets back from Vegas next week.

So, in the grand scheme of things, this one can also be tossed out the window with the baby and the bathwater, because coveting is the norm, more than the exception. Newspapers, tabloids and MTV Cribs repeatedly punch us in the face with the fact that we are unworthy and poor in comparison to superstars and mega millionaires, driving us to implants, botox, liposuction, weaves, robbery and pillaging on a daily basis. Coveting thy neighbour’s wife’s ass has led to Commandment #’s 9, 8, 7, 6, 4, 3, and 1 being broken without a second thought.

In conclusion, for those of us with non-spiritual inclinations, even if we should take the religious aspect out of these life rules, they are wonderful guidelines under which we should live our lives. Maybe we should all reassess and reconstruct these moral teachings in order to live good lives and further strive to be good, happy and content human beings.

Therein lies my Sunday sermon. I shall now step down from my soap box, and exit on that note.

Toodles.

Excess Baggage

2007-03-05T21:46:00.000-05:00

So, I have been contemplating the concept of ‘baggage’ recently, and the extent to which we consider and assess the crap that has somehow managed to Velcro itself onto our souls from the ghosts of relationships past, as we traverse the rocky airports of life.

All we bitter and negative women who have been stepped on, trod upon, shit upon, shall we stand up and say aye? All ye bitter men who have been err….well…you know…whatever, you can stand up and say something too.

As I am contemplating my baggage and what it entails, it also begs me to consider those that I have baggaged against, that is, circumstances where I know myself to be someone else’s baggage. That ex-friend of eleven years who pissed me off in Barbados. The Ex-Boyfriend that I stopped calling and did not give my forwarding address when I did not know how to end it. The list can go on and on…

In order to appease my vapid inner ego, I would like to think that my relationship interactions would classify me as designer Louis Vuitton baggage, rather than a cheap Eastern Avenue suitcase, but, who knows? I have no intention of conducting confirmation research to assess my baggage worth, because the people that I have affected might not give me the answers that would make me feel better. That Ex-Boyfriend might want to bitch slap me right now, for all that I know.

But, as I am considering my inner designer baggage, I must humbly conclude that they might not be too extensive in the grand scheme of things, all things being relative. I may not be charged for over weight. Therefore, good boys and girls traversing this airport of life, the ultimate lesson to be learned is that we must take care in our interactions with one another, because when you step on my foot and I cuss you, we become each other's baggage, and for all that we know, this negative turbulence may result in cancelled flights.

On that note, I shall now exit...

To Barbados...And Beyond!!

2007-02-26T14:58:00.000-05:00

So, I just got back from a brief sojourn in Barbados, to look for my Sonny-Wonny. As his stint in Bim will soon be over, I have decided to insert brief visits between each term, which would make our separation seem shorter until he returns for the term holidays. Sigh. My baby is due to sit the Common Entrance exams in May, and he graduates in July. I can’t believe that the time has gone by so fast.

The boy is a joy. He is such a character. I am continually fascinated by the gradual transition of my baby boy to a little man. Or conversations are more adult, and I have learned not to shudder each time that he asks me an open question. For this trip, he gladly regaled me with the tale of his classmate bringing a pack of condoms to school. When I asked if he knew what they were for, he promptly responded, “…to prevent HIV/AIDS.” The discussion to follow was quite entertaining and amusing, but the long and short of it is, his head is on the right track.

I guess that I can no longer fear the so-called corruption of my youth, because I have realized that outside forces being what they are, I cannot insulate the child at all. The most that I can attempt as a parent, is the continuation of an open line of dialogue, in order to assess and cultivate his decision making process. Things seem to be looking good so far (fingers crossed), because I can honestly say that not only do I love my Sonny, but I genuinely LIKE him. I like his personality, his irreverent sense of humour, his penchant to be somewhat facetious and sarcastic, and the fact that he is a free thinker. He accepts nothing at face value.

Barbados was wonderful as always. When not hanging out with Sonny, I caught up with old friends, and fell in love with the Island all over again. I have always found Barbados to be the perfect compromise: Not too fast and not too slow. The Island is now set to host the finals of the ICC Cricket World Cup, and lawd, after a pass through the refurbished Kensington Oval, I was astonished! It is fabulous!!! (Of course, after the passage of the finals, it begs one to wonder what they are going to do to recoup the costs associated with the stadium. They are ready for the world, but what happens when the world leaves?) Nevertheless, it is fabulous! The beautification projects are well underway, and they are all geared up to aptly display Barbados on the world stage. I just hope that the customer service improves, because between Bim and Jamaica, I have met some of the sourest customer facing people ever! Lawd, the people dem miserable. The norm and not the exception. Would it kill to mumble a simple ‘hello’ when a customer walks into a store??? I do apologise for disturbing your newspaper reading in my attempt to provide you with some added REVENUE!!!

Anyway, that’s a rant for another day. Then, I may get into customer service and race issues in the Caribbean, and the difference that an accent can make when they realise that you are not from their native island.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta

'Fro

Born To Hang...Can't Drown...

2007-02-12T19:27:00.000-05:00

So, mi Mudda in her infinite wisdom (we will make no mention of her miserableness and contrary personality here), always seh: “If you born fi hang, yu cyaan drown.” Turns out this could apply to the poor Filipino security guard who was shot during the robbery of the Cayman National Bank last year.

The poor fellow, now apparently fully recovered from those wounds, was on duty at the Cayman Islands Port Authority, when some kind of container or crane (facts dependant on who you talk to) fell on the poor fellow and killed him dead. The rumour mill has the poor man split into two halves; decapitated and / or squashed but the only consistency that I can obtain from the stories, is that a shovel was somehow employed in cleaning up the mess. Of course, this could also mean that a shovel was nearby and somehow fell to the ground. But, who knows.

I was amazed at the power of the Caymanian rumour mill today, as I received three different telephone calls and seven emails about the demise of the poor fellow. By the time the Caymanian Compass is published tomorrow, the news will be stale. I must say, one of my first inclinations was to let out a morbid little giggle, as the entire thing immediately reminded me of the Final Destination series.

The man obviously never had good legal representation after the shooting, or maybe his employer had air tight indemnities built into his work contract, for I cannot begin to imagine why he was back at work and not sitting back at the Ritz Carlton sipping martinis and waiting for a big fat settlement, or claiming some kind of disability. Is this where I say "only in the USA"? I must ask my good pal RI if he ain’t been doing some ambulance chasing to drum up some business, cause I am sure that the prospective fees from the Filipino man’s lawsuit would have been a wonderful addition to his coffers.

Caymanian security guards or policemen are not allowed to carry guns, so they must have expect the poor man fi’ fling he baton or walkie talkie at the robbers, when he did see dem coming. It is a royal fool who will get shot or killed when guarding other people's property for a mere pittance per hour. I know if I were he and I saw the robbers coming, I would’a help them to collect and stuff the money from the Tellers in their get away bags should they become tired and need an extra hand. Those guns are very heavy after all, and I would hate for them to lighten the load by releasing bullets. The bank's gots lots more moneys. I only have one life. A coward man without a gun lives to flee another day.

Makes me wonder about the poor man’s last words when he did see the something falling on him. If I were he, I know that I would have some extra bargaining and begging to do with St. Peter when trying to negotiate my way though the Pearly Gates, cause “Oh Fuck…!!!” more than likely would be my final words.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

Hair Today...Gone Tomorrow

2007-02-06T19:16:00.000-05:00

So, the odda night, DV and I dress up in we finery and went out to celebrate the birthday of a mutual acquaintance. After a few Apple Martini’s (hic...hic) and a nice little buzz, we finished the night at a local pseudo-seedy hotspot. We did hol’ we self up in a little dark corner next to the dance floor, and while commencing some discrete bubbling and wukking up (on my part, cuz DV seh bad man doh dance), a heavy set, voluptuous Sistren wearing a little itty-bitty piece’ a some'ting decide she goin’ dominate the dance floor.

Now, from the way my Gal was gyrating and flinging she self ‘bout de place, it did cause me a moment of concern for she overall health and well-being but the I and I figure seh she mus’a know wha’ she was doin’. Foresight, intuition and common sense told me some’ting was goin’ to go bust (pun intended) at some point, ’cause the bikini top that she was sporting was under severe pressure from she Double-D’s, and there was no way that the laws of physics could allow for the itty-bitty piece’a cloth to restrain the busting bazoongas that could possibly hurt innocent by-standers when and if they did decide to blow. When I did see the pending explosion, I turn roun’ to mek a little side bet with DV as to the timing and nature of the explosion, but he nevah tek me on. Chicken.

Anyway, I digress.

So, my Sistren continue wid de gallivanting, and she drop to the groun’ on all fours, and start to rotate she head roun’ and roun’ like the woman from the Exorcist, or like she was in the midst of some kinda epileptic fit. All she needed was a spoon in she mout’ to mek sure seh she nevah bite off she tongue. I jus’ know seh I was quite worried about the state of the Sistren’s health, cuz I could envision the headline:

“Dutty Dancer Dominating Dance floor Dead! Spectator Traumatised By the Spectacle”

There would be far reaching consequences to her ill fated demise, as I am sure that I would be called in to testify and to provide witness accounts to the police. All because I was minding my own business, and the wench come an complicate my life by popping she neck and dropping dead at my feet. Yes suh. I considered all of this in a drunken stupor, as she writhed and contorted a few feet away from me.

Once again, I digress.

So, Missy there wukking she self into a frenzy, and I know seh drama comin’. This appealed to my morbid inner demon. But, alas, the entertainment did not take the form that I had predicted. In the throes of the Sistren’s seizure (lawd…mi gut…) she wig fly off she head and slide ‘cross the dance floor . Now, shame for she (and holding mi gut wid the laffter), I turn roun’ and hide mi face in DV’s chest. Being practical (and a coward), mi navah know if she wudda want to retaliate against those who should laff at her expense. Containin’ my mirth, I glance at she to see how she handle the shame, but…Alas! Ms. Ma’am still goin’ wild! She nah shame! After the departure of de wig from she head, she now bus’ the splits and gyrating same way! Some enterprising and helpful individual den pick the wig up (yuck!), beat she crotch wid it two times (I guess to tek out the dust) and fling it at she as she continued with her display, and she jus’ shift it outta she way, and continue wid de show!

What confidence! The show must go on!

Then, jus’ when I thought that it could not get any better, one stick man wid a big Afro (mus’ be her suitor) appeared and jump the Sistren, flinging she on she back on the dance floor, and spring himself between she legs, and start one piece’ a thrustin’ and grinding, wid she legs cock (no pun intended) straight up in de air! Before I could even tek it all in, DV cover my eyes, and said that I was too young to tek in such a display, and by the time I move he hand, I know for sure that I mussa miss something, like if de man did pull out a condom, and continue the safe sex demonstration. Choops!

Alas…it is not to end there!! When the sexcapade was finished, the Sistren pick she self up from the floor dus’ off she clothes, and THEN realized seh one saggy boob did pop out! Did she furtively tuck and attend to said boob? Did she discretely crouch, simper and blush whilst attending to her wardrobe malfunction? Hell No! My gal cup the boob in one hand and the wig in the odda hand, and strut off’ a the dance floor, head held high, nary to be seen again. She came (or did she?). She saw. She conquered.

We can all learn a lesson from this confident and stalwart young lady. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta

School Alone

2007-01-29T23:09:00.000-05:00

So, I read this article in the Caymanian Compass the other day, and am still disgruntled by it.

It constantly amazes me as to how some parents can be so clueless and careless with respect to their children, although during my conversation with one of the teachers at the school, she states that we should be somewhat thankful that the chill’un are attending in the first, even if the school and teachers are being used as a glorified babysitting service.

I cannot begin to fathom how a parent(s) can allow a child to remain at school until 7:00PM, and not take safety issues into consideration, coupled with the fact that the child must be tired, smelly and hungry. What about a set routine for a child, which includes bath, dinner, relaxing at home; quality time with family; homework, and an early bedtime in order rinse, lather and repeat? This can never happen if a child is left at school until 7:00PM, and what perturbs me even more, is the fact that there are repeat offenders. Had this been a habitual offender who’s child remained at the school until 7:00PM, Social Services should have been contacted, though I am not even certain how they could posibly this problem, or if the parent(s) would particularly care.

Everything being relative, there are instances of parents fighting with teachers; parents fighting with students; chill'un cussin’ teachers; ganja brownies in schools, and heaven only knows what else. I am too naive to consider the further possibilities. It would be interesting to cross reference the attendance, punctuality, behaviour and grades for the children that are habitually left at the school until the wee hours, in order to asses the possible social concerns that may potentially adversely affect the Islands in the future, and to decide if and when an intervention would be required.

It was also ironic to note that within the same newspaper publication, the Ministry of Health and Human Services announced that it would be hosting a planned symposium to review the points at which young people enter the Criminal Justice System, though the article reads as an extravagant homage to nothingness. There were a lot of words, though nothing was said. I just think that in terms of common sense, the so-called symposium attendees should draw from the Compass’ article about the school pick ups, and this may provide them with a starting point for their sociological, political and economic assessment as to how young people could possibly enter the Criminal Justice System.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

'Fro

Children, Race and Self Esteem

2007-01-25T18:36:00.000-05:00

Take a look at this video, and lets seriously contemplate the methods by which our children are socialised to feel racially inferior. This should serve as a gruesome wake up call.

It would be interesting to view the results of similar experiments in the Caribbean.

Please be sure to share it with all of your friends and family.

I need say no more.

'Ta

Arthritic Knees and Football Glory

2007-01-18T19:30:00.000-05:00

So, glutton for punishment that I am, after our glorious and renowned victory over the evil villains in the indoor five a side football finals, the Lady Lions have once again taken to the battlefield to defend our illustruous title.

Prior to each practice and game, my knees send shock waves through my body by emitting a series of cracks, creaks and aches, blatantly protesting the form of torture that will be meted out when I am running up and down the court seeking to deliver the little ball into the goal. I had previously pledged that 2007 would be the year that I would actually take care of my knees by doing the dreaded surgery, but my modus operandi at this point is to continue with my rabid denials in the hopes that if I should ignore it, the problem will go away . Miracles do happen.

Well, the Lady Lions are back, though I am sorry to say that the team is not the same. Last season we took the field with laughter, jokes, revelry, and an incomprehensible attitude of hope and joviality after each and every loss. Now, our team structure has changed, as some players have left, and new players have joined the roster. Winning seems to be the primary motivation, and the so-called “novice” players are taking a back seat to the more ‘elite’ and "world-cupesque" players. Last season, everyone played, and a good time was had by all. Now, there is cussing (each other and the referees), back door lobbying, sussing and they are all acting like...dare I say it…girls. Once again, I am reminded of why I had decided to discontinue team sports for all time, as I no longer have the patience nor the tact to deal with the foolishness and aggravation that accompanies the diverse personalities. I am just too old for that crap.

Additionally, games are scheduled for Friday nights, and by the time I finish playing, sweating, applying the Tiger Balm and icing the old knees, no dyam happy hour for me, and I am too mash up to go anywhere later! Stoopid season is interfering with my social life. Crap!

On that stinkin' note, I shall now exit.

'Ta

'Fro

Weeping For The Willows

2007-01-08T21:17:00.000-05:00

So, as I was driving along the coast of South Sound the other day, I was at a loss as to why the usual jaunt along what was one of the most beautiful pieces of coastal scenery on Grand Cayman did not provide me with my usual sense of peace and tranquility. As I snapped out of my revere, turned down my tunes and pulled over to the side of the road, I realized that South Sound as I once knew and loved was no more, and once again, the rabid environmentalist dwelling deep within the recesses of my heart let out an undignified roar for the loss of what was. (Well, sorta, though this sounds more dramatic).

My heart bleeds for the South Sound of old, fraught with the elegant statuesque weeping willows that engulfed the road and invariably hid the skyline from a pedestrian’s view, assisting with the receipt of cool onshore winds, as the needles of the willows made their eerie music whilst swaying in the wind. The flora and fauna of South Sound were abundant and raw, and I can always remember my brothers and I trudging through the boggy surf to go fishing and to get up to all kinds of childhood mischief. I can’t remember when this all changed.

As a child, I can remember driving through South Sound with my Granddad, knowing that he would mischievously turn off the car lights as we were engulfed in total darkness, unable to see our hands in front of our faces. I would squeal in abject terror and plead with him to turn the lights back on. Two minutes later, I would beg him to do it again. This was our game, and regardless of our destination, my Granddad would always make it a point to drive through South Sound, even if he had to go miles out of the way. I can’t remember when this all changed.

As a child, I can remember competing in road races that traversed through South Sound, running barefoot in the early mornings, at one with the winding road, counting trees as a distraction, hearing the wallowing surf breaking through the trees yet unable to see the beach from the road. I can’t remember when this all changed.

Today, I stare in resignation at the bulldozers that are lined up to further render the flora and fauna of South Sound, all in the name of progress and development. The South Sound as I knew it no longer exists. The weeping willows are gone, replaced by towering mansions competing for dominance along the coast, landscaped with imported palm trees strategically placed as a part of the ‘natural’ landscaping .

Today, property values along South Sound are sky high, and Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom, will further continue the developers’ work. The beach has receded after the passage of each tropical storm, and Hurricane Ivan has made it almost non-existent. Advantageous fishing spots are difficult to find without trespassing on private property, most of which are cordoned off by intricate fencing, keeping out the nappy haired people that look like me. Trees and shrubbery are almost non-existent, as the last of the weeping willows hang on pathetically in their solitude, with their roots stretching into the sea. Running through South Sound in the afternoons is a heat stroke induced nightmare, as the lack of any form of foliage provides no protection from the harsh rays of the sun, and the on-shore winds from the rolling surf offer no consolation from the vicious heat of the sun.

I weep for what once was.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

I Want My Baby Back...

2007-01-02T23:37:00.000-05:00

So, there are no electronic whirring, buzzes and kebangs resounding throughout the house, as cyber villains are shot, lambasted killed and/or maimed by a weapon of choice, be it karate chops, kicks, ray guns and other assorted weaponry.

There are no longer blasts from televisions throughout the house all constantly tuned to Cartoon Network, for which I dare not change the channel for fear of whiney repercussions and eventual squabbling and justifications of one being able to ‘multi-task’.

The house is clean and I am able to walk unimpeded from room to room without stepping on shoes, games, cartridges, underwear and other randonmly strewn unmentionables, now able to preserve the delicate nuances of my voice as I observe the cleanliness, remembering the bellows of aggravation from having to constantly supervise and monitor the clean up process, or shaking my head in resignation and leaving it alone.

I am able to dive into my bed for a good night’s sleep, without having to play the vicious game of dodge the bony elbows and knees randomly kicking in any direction, as a body is tossed any which way during peaceful, innocent exhausted slumber.

Sigh. Sonny has gone back to Bim and I miss him so much . Two more school terms are left before this aggravating separation will end.

On that note, I shall now exit, with the theme song from the Chili's restaurant chain commercial singing an annoying, repetitive refrain throughout my head: "I want my baby back, baby back, baby back...", and I doh mean ribs.

‘Ta.

'Fro

Family of Supermoggels...

2006-12-31T12:35:00.000-05:00

So, the odda night the entire fambily dress we’selves in we finery, and headed on down to the photo studio, to take pictures . My four brothers and sisters, my Mom and Dad, the one grandchild, and our significant others. We went all out. We mixed and matched the moggeling: Chillen only; chillen and parents; parents and grandchild; sisters; brothers; father and sons; father an' daughters…you get the point…

My parents have been separated for over 10 years, divorced for three, and they have never gotten along better. They actually posed for pictures together, as if all was well and hunky-dory. We had a great laugh abut this. My Mudda is gettin’ sexier in she ol' age, and Daddy is jus’ mellowing out. Now that I am older, I can see them for who and what they really are, with a view that is no longer tempered by childhood ideals and prejudices, nor fears of 'taking sides’. I can clearly see their flaws and weaknesses whilst appreciating them for their individuality and the sacrifices that they have made when raising us chillen. My mother is now my friend. She is annoying, aggravating and spoilt, but as I am now an adult and a mother to boot, I can call her on her behaviour. My Dad...well, our relationship is a bit more complex, but we have learned how to deal with each other. I can now dole out hugs and kisses to my Dad, and appreciate the fact that he is a very strong man, with many weaknesses.

Anyway, after we did tek the pics, the whole tribe a we swarmed on a nearby restaurant, where we mixed and mingled some more. My parents commenced with the telling of old childhood tales about us chillen, that we never tired of hearing. We drank wine and champagne, and competed for volume. We were loud and obnoxious, as this was the first time in a long time that we had all gathered, without someone being missing. It was also a tad poignant, as my eldest brother will be moving to Canada in January, so this was also our farewell party for him. Sigh. I am gonna miss him a lot. I am used to having my siblings around me all of the time, and other than college and vacations, we have never been apart like this before. Now, he gone and start a new trend! He will not even be on another Island where I can pop over for a weekend, but all the flicking way in Canada. Cho! Anyway, to put a positive spin on this, I am already planning mine and Sonny’s ski vacation next year, and I know that Caribana will not be missed by the I and I!!!

All and sundry, please have a happy and SAFE New Year! Hold your loved ones close, and treasure them always. My soda drinking days will officially end on January 1st 2007, so in the interim, I am now drinking an ice cold glass of Pepsi, my fifth for the morning. Hear my cyber belch.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

'Fro.

Snot Filled Christmas

2006-12-26T22:32:00.000-05:00

Merry stinking Christmas to me. Yippee. Here I sit on Boxing Day, stinky and yucky, sniffling, sneezing and with a nasty raucous cough that rolls out of me like a freight train and leaves a hallow and painful feeling in my chest . I have not showered or brushed my teeth all day, as movement in any form hurts. That, and I jus’ doh feel like it. I ain’t shame.

My Mother’s intricately prepared Christmas dinner was a loss to me, as the gourmet scents and samplings could not penetrate my stuffed up, booger ridden nose, and the dinner that was piled on my plate was tapered with menthol flavoured Halls. I only ate half a round of food, and could not even go back for seconds and thirds. I watched my family of vultures down my Moet champagne with rabid eagerness, and finish off my three bottles, supposedly in my honour, acting on the premise that I was ‘ill’ and could not drink alcohol with my medication. Cho. I missed the rounds of dominos, cards, scrabble and ludo, as sleep was my enemy. My numerous complaints about the noise from the family’s revelry went unheard, as they were obviously unsympathetic for my plight. Hmprh! They nevah had to slam the blasted dominos so hard !

Just know that I am vex and bitter . Not even my new Subwoofering entertainment thingy from Santa DV could appease my disgruntled status, cuz I jus’ vex and bitter (I reiterate). The noise from the woofering hurt my head and various other body parts. I also missed a great party last night, cuz I had to stay at home in my sick and pathetic state, whereas going out and spreading my germs would have made me feel somewhat better.

Oh, the pain. My head. My chest.

On that note, I shall now exit with a raucous snot ridden cough and sneeze .

Watch out for my cyber germs.

‘Ta.

‘Fro.

Pinky Spirit-Fingers...Yippee!!!

2006-12-21T22:18:00.000-05:00

Christmas Elf Name

My Christmas Elf Name is

Get your Christmas Elf Name at JokesUnlimited.com

A Christmas Letter To Santa...

2006-12-18T23:33:00.000-05:00

Dear Santa,

I know you probably wondering why I writing yuh one day after Christmas
but after opening mi present dem yestiday, I just had was to write yuh.
Santa, mi was a very good girl all year round. Mi listen to mi madda
when she talk to mi and mi help out wid di chores dem round de house. Mi
even help di neighba pickney dem do fi dem chores tuh. One day mi all
help out di old crasses Mr. George, the blind an cripple one, crass the
road when di odda children dem just ah watch him an dida tek gamble pon
what kind of cyar did ah go lick him dung. Santa, dem just lef him deh
fi dead, but mi help him out.

Santa mi studied real hard in school this year, so hard till mi all come
fuss inna di class. Mi mek it mi duty to be nice and not naughty Santa.
Mi was so good. Ah real good girl Santa. Santa when mi write mi
Christmas list to yuh dis year, mi ask yuh fi a Barbie princess doll, ah
Barbie kitchen, ah Dora the Explorer computer game, ah cyabbage patch
doll and ah monopoly game.

So Santa, how the blood claat after reading mi list yuh leave under di
Christmas tree ah phukking light up yo-yo, one plastic tea-cup set and
ah phukking no name dolly dat look like she have polio and ah dead from
AIDS?

Santa is either yuh blind or yuh cyah blood claat read!!! Every year mi
say mi woulda stop believing in yuh and like ah dyam fool mi always give
yuh ah next chance, but not ah phukking-gain, yuh hear mi Santa? Not a
bloodclaat. Yuh hear whe mi sah Santa? Yuh phukking fat red rass yuh.

Yuh see all nex year, yuh betta dont try squeeze yuh big fat batty thru
mi louvres dem, because Santa mi swear mi going phukk yuh up. It going
to be mi, yuh and dis sharp blood claat knife, so mi can jukk yuh inna
yuh belly.

Yuh hear mi sah? Mi ah go stab up yuh Bloodcaat.

Imagine, yuh give that likkle cock eye gyal Sally from crass di road
everything that she ax fah. So much so dat she all nuh have nuh room fi
walk round she house.

Yuh see all nex year Santa, mi will be back to mi good old self. Dat's
right Santa. Mi naar go giv mi madda nuh trouble or cause nuh havoc
roun'ere . And Santa, a goin wait pon you patiently.... mi goin wait pon
yuh paitently with ah big blood claat rock stone fi yuh backside.

And den when yuh and dem blasted reindeer dat favour some dyam
oversize goat wid tree branch ah grow otta dem head top, com ho-ho hoing

down pon I old rusty zinc nex Christmas..... BOOP!!!!! Is one rass lick inna yuh
blood claat head.

Santa mi goin' done yuh blood claat, Memba dat yuh hear Santa. Try Memba
dat!!

Love

Likkle Keisha

New Year Sacrifice

2006-12-17T21:35:00.000-05:00

So, December has been a trying and busy month for me, as I have donned my Social Butterfly guise, and have taken to the town more often than not for the completion of those items that are on my very busy social calendar.

I love the month of December. I can feel it looming when November brings on the Christmas Breeze that will cause all and sundry to don the so called winter garb of the Islands. For me, the month of December is all about closure, and the time to remember and cherish all that is important to me - family and friends. Mistakes and accomplishments can either be eroded or applauded in the month of December. January is coming, and with it the opportunity for renewal. We can either learn from our mistakes, or we can make them again and continue vicious cycles of regret.

Last year, I had undertaken to start each succeeding year of my life by making some form of personal sacrifice, which would have no particular form of content or context. I needed this to test my limits, restraint, willpower, and just to create some excitement from the monotony of my life. For January 2006, I gave up red meat. Now lemme tell ya, this was not easy. I still yearn for a nice and juicy home cooked hamburger , or a piping hot plate of beef lasagna…but I have managed to stay the course. My red meat hiatus should be easier or the next few years, as I have now committed to this lifestyle change.

My eldest sister was diagnosed and has suffered from Tinnitus for the past ten years. She has also experienced gradual hearing loss in both of her ears, to the tune of 21% loss in her left ear and 22% in her right. She has learned to live and adjust to the hearing loss, but her symptoms of Tinnitus results in a constant buzzing or vibration in her ears, which is akin to the constant roaring of a lawnmower or generator, the sound of which can increase or decrease, depending on certain factors. Caffeine, stress, loud noises and certain foods will increase the buzzing, and she will often take to her bed with migraine headaches due to the noise, and her inability to stop it.

She has had to give up a lot of the things that she loves while adjusting to the on set of tinnitus and her hearing loss, one of which is Soda. Yes, people try to sell that caffeine free junk, but it just ain’t the same. My Big Sis is not a coffee drinker, or a chocolate eater, but she did treasure a nice cold Pepsi with a Patty first thing in the morning on the way to work. Sigh. There just ain't nuttin else like it. The burning feeling of the caffeine when you inhale a huge gulp from that red and blue can with the ice cold condensation running down the sides, the consumption of which will result in a resounding belch that can shake the rafters of a house. Sigh.

Let it now be known to all and sundry, that for the new year January 2007 (Drum roll here), as a show of solidarity for my wonderful, awesome and magnificent Big Sis, I will no longer be drinking Sodas. Can you hear the mournful bagpipes and depressed violins wailing and weeping the loss through the Cyber Universe? This is a body that used to guzzle at least 2 six packs of Pepsi per day, and there is nothing better that an Appleton and Coke at a Carnival fete. I will now have to find a suitable replacement. All thee holding stock in Pepsi Cola, sell you shares before January 1st, 2007. I have spoken.

I love my Big Sis, and though I cannot ease her burden, I can try something to let her know that I support her in all that she does. I now goin’ send her a text and call her a Doofus . She will know what I mean.

On that sappy note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

Children, Sporting Events and Sportsmanship...

2006-12-04T22:27:00.000-05:00

So, I went to watch DV’s recreational basketball team play the other day, and as with many of the sporting events on the Island, I was rather perplexed and disgusted by the behaviour of some of the players and spectators. It caused me to step back to ponder about the state of that thing called sportsmanship, and whether the concept has been eroded from that thing called sports. Does the concept exist anymore? Is the concept akin to that thing we call ‘manners’ and ‘humility’? Does shaking hands at the start of a game mean anything anymore? When can we separate genuine celebration from bragging and posturing at the expense of the opponent?

It seems that on watching professional and recreational athletes, the concept of sportsmanship has become a myth as the behaviour of the fans, athletes and parents have deteriorated to an incomprehensible level. Potential sporting events must be thoroughly screened before I would even consider taking my child, and further, God forbid I should never have a babysitter when I go out to play, because I do not trust the athletes or spectators to comport themselves in a manner befitting the presence of a child. Profanity, fights and general inappropriate behaviour are abundant, and it seems as if raunchy behaviour is no longer adjusted when children are present. Whatever happened to the flicking village raising the child? When I am running the bases, is it that I must speed back to the dug out for fear of what might be said to further warp the mind of my child or random children? I can remember asking spectators at an event to refrain from using profanities in the presence of my child. This seemed to be a shocking and unnatural request, and at one point, I was belligerently advised that maybe I should have left my child home. Needless to say, in practicing what I preached, I did not cuss them in front of my pickney, but waited for a more suitable occasion.

I can vividly remember the football brawl which erupted during the finals of the five a side football tournament. Children of all ages were present, playing vdeo games and romping throughout the venue, when the brawl eventually spilled over onto the carpeted area. Spouses and significant others eventually joined the fracas, and it was disgraceful to note that not all parents grabbed their child / children and exited the venue. Fighting and cussing were their priorities at the time.

On watching the afrementioned recreational basketball teams compete, had parents taken their children out to watch, they would have been privy to disrespectful behaviour to officials; racist comments; and general profanity to a level that was downright embarrassing. It seems as if sporting events no longer cater for young and impressionable fans, nor do a lot of adults stand up and take notice, in order to ensure that said sporting events are conducted in a manner suitable for children.

Lawd’amercy. Have we gone mad? I could go on and on with this, but the I and I too tiyad. You get the point.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Molestee and Molester...

2006-11-28T17:47:00.000-05:00

So, the other day I popped into KFC for a bite to eat, when I spotted the father of one of my best friends from primary school days. He was looking kinda macheted and haggard, and I remembered my Mudda telling me that he had been severely ill with diabetes, but I had never found the time to pass ‘roun to their yard, to hail him up.

When Mr. Man saw me, he face did light up, and he rushed over to give me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Now, not being a touchy feely kinda person, it was a tad bit awkward, as I have a tendency to be very particular about those who invade my three feet of personal space, but, I stood there like a trooper, as he reminisced about old times, and how it was good to see me, all whilst hugging me. Until, his had slipped down and…shall we say…caressed my flicking posterior…!!

Now, have you ever had one of those moments where shock renders you immobile, and you continue to second guess yourself, and it is not until you come into yourself when the perpetrator has disappeared that you actually have an apt response for the episode in question, and two weeks lata you still cussin’?? Then, you turn so bitter, that you set yourself up for when next you see the perpetrator...Den you doh' see dem fi' months???

Well, I had one’a dem! I stood there, immobile stunned, and I lookin’ at the man to see if he hand did slip, or if he miscalculated the location of my back, due to our significant height differential, but alas it was not so. Mr. Man now looking at me with a smarmy look on he face, and now coming in for a’nudda hug. I dress back one time, and as I am known to be quite suspicious and calculating, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, though the ‘doubting’ aspect would not allow me to have him enter the sacred three feet territory again.

Then, to further aggravate me, when I went home and tell me Mudda, is then she choose to inform me seh he was a smarmy man from day one, and I must avoid him where possible. Had she warned me before hand, the man would’a nevah get to cop a feel! Damn pedophile!!

On the opposite end of the spectrum, the other night, I walking through the National Storytelling Festival, when I spotted a friend of Sonny’s . Seeing him gave me a bout of nostalgia cause I can remember when I used to pick him up and arrange play dates with Sonny, and I used to baby-sit him and smack him up the side of his head whenever he did become facetious.

Now, Mr. Man is six foot odd, and having all kinda Adam’s apple popping outta his neck, and he now speaks in a squeaky baritone, that has not yet perfected his range. Sigh. My Sonny goin’ reach there someday.

When Mr. Man saw me, he flew over and stooped down to give me a hug. Remember the aforementioned three feet business??? Note to self: I REALLY need to reinforce that rule more severely. Anyway, being happy to see Sonny’s pal, I hugged him back and prepared to engage in the patronizing adult to child talk, which was not really working out, considering the fact that he was over a foot taller than I am.

When Mr. Man look at me and seh: “Hey sexy…” with a lascivious sparkle in he eye, mi catch mi ‘fraid. What the fcuk?? Can you say Mary Kay Letourneau???

From one extreme to the other…molestee and the potential molester. Makes me wonder if I am at that age where I am neither old nor young, and people from both ends of the spectrum see me as fair game. One end potentially in need of Viagra, wanting a method of reliving their youth, and the young whippersnappers wanting to frolic with the older woman.

Sigh. What is a body to do? You jus’ haffi live.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Flipper In The Neighbourhood Pool

2006-11-21T23:40:00.000-05:00

So, when I was advised that they were advocating for the development of a park that would keep captive dolphins, it hurt the radical environmentalist dwelling deep within the deepest recesses of my heart. My family can remember fondly our tuna boycott, due to the fact that dolphins were being caught in the trawl net of fishermen.

I felt as if there was something fundamentally wrong with the notion of dolphins in captivity, especially on my little rock, and I joined the dissenters and petitioners who let out a rallying hue and cry against the importation of the same. As is often the case with these Islands (and dare I say the world), should there be political backing and money behind a proposal, it is rare for an action to be denied solely for the moral good, or simplistically, our conscience.

After signing the petitions, buying the T-Shirt and the bumper sticker to assist with the “Keep Dolphins Free” cause (though the sticker was not going on my new car), I noted that there seemed to be two powerful factions vying against each other, with the almighty tourism dollar seeming to be at the root of all that is evil. The advocates on both ends seem equally matched in terms of resources and political clout, though I know governments rarely side for what is right and what is good when individual representatives are wined and dined by powerful lobbyists with powerful friends and powerful dollars.

Forget the environmental studies; forget the moral and political implications; forget the fact that our Islands now seem desperate in having to resort to such garish and gaudy attractions; forget the fact that Grand Cayman has almost evolved to an unnatural concrete jungle and that there are almost no more aspects of nature tourism available for eager visitors who are not willing to dive the deep wall to find it; forget the fact that as a local, even if I were so inclined, I would have an all encompassing feeling that the park did not serve my best interests, nor can I afford it.

Needless to say, as the political rhetoric is spilled, and the debate continues, the Minister of Tourism confirmed that dolphins slated for the captive tank are ‘expected’ to die, as did six quarantined sharks who died due to a mechanical malfunction. A more cold and dismissive statement that I have never heard. Send in the first batch, and they will die until we get it right. They will be the martyrs for the cause. What a travesty and an embarrassment.

As I stand here on my personal soap box, preaching to one and all, let it be known that I and mine shall boycott said facilities (whether they like it or not!!). This boycott shall stand the test of time and the probable pollution of the North Sound, and further, as mere lowly peasants casting our ballots but once every four years, we are too poor to afford entry anyway!

We will show them! Viva La Revolution!!!

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Pirates' Week

2006-11-20T21:05:00.000-05:00

So, Pirates' Week has come and gone, and once again, I am confused.

Back in the day, I used to revel in the concept of Pirates' Week, and would eagerly anticipate the arrival of each district day. But, now that I have gotten older I have become somewhat disillusioned with the Festival, and the hypocrisies surrounding the celebration thereof. I see the need for the Festival, and will continue to support the endeavors in an attempt to refrain from being one who sits back and critiques the efforts of others, with no constructive assistance to offer. Note the use of the word 'attempt'.

Pirates' Week originated as a celebration of the cultural heritage of the Cayman Islands . Albeit, in my age old cynicism, I have always found it curious that the Islands have never actively acknowledged its slave history, though we do laud the raping and pillaging of the pirates. Needless to say, it is here, and it is mine, so I will keep it, inconsistencies and all.

For one week of every year, pirates invade Islands. They arrive in grand style on their schooners, amidst booming cannon fire, smoke, costumery and a wonderful display of swordplay to kidnap the Governor of the Cayman Islands at a scheduled time each year. You would think that the Governors would have learned by now, but…

As a child, I can always remember mi Mudda dressing up us chillun, all’a we donning some form or pirate costumery, and trooping into town to watch the landing. We would actively vie for a spot at the front of the barricades, petrified yet hoping to be noticed by the pirates as they aggressively swiped their broad swords on the road, and tossed beads and souvenirs to kids in the audience. If a kid was really lucky, a pirate would kidnap you and run down the street with you, while you kicked and bawled bloody murder. Then, you would brag about it to all of your friends the next day. Sigh. It was awesome. Later in the night, we would take off our shoes and run barefoot through town during the street dance, playing catch until our parents rounded us up, and marched us home.

As a teenaged Diva, I would eagerly await the start of the street dance, so that I could witness performances from the likes of Denise Plummer, Calypso Rose, Gabby, and Sparrow. Every heritage night would find my friends and I in the district of choice, hunting down lobster and shrimp dishes, and taking in the band. By the time the trial of the pirates would come around we would be exhausted from all of the activities, and could not wait until they were thrown off of the island!

In my old age, as I am walking through town, I really cannot begin to fathom what the so-called festival entails. As we breach the barricades and stroll past the Hard Rock Café, the screeching sound of a hard rock band pierced my ear, as the band proceeds to massacre some heavy metal tune or another. I must admit that I am somewhat embarrassed to put this into writing, but, them is the facts. Set up on another corner, is a cordoned off area for the ‘Teen Disco’ from which the sounds of hard core reggae is competing for dominance with the heavy metal music. Fifty meters down the road, the so-called Heritage Song Fest is in progress. I guess that the event organizers did not think that the metal heads and the teens would not be interested in the song contest, nor did they wish to give the entrants the possibility of a wider audience. Worst yet, a fricking plate of lobster cost $12.00, and is not enough to cut the hunger gnawing at your stomach!

Needless to say, by the time I hit the centre of town to set up my little spot to take in the featured band, I was confused. Sigh. What is a body to do. We jus’ have to live.

On that depressing note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

"Heritage" Song Fest

2006-11-19T12:05:00.000-05:00

So, after regaling in the probable joy of my long weekend, I must say that it was awesome. Kinda low key with some activities thrown in, providing me with sufficient entertainment and well as sufficient rest.

Last Friday, we went out the waterfront and took in the fireworks with champagne, after which DV and I went to take in the ‘Pirates Week Heritage Song Fest’. Sigh. It was a travesty. If ever there was a sign of the cultural confusion that makes up the Cayman Islands, it was blatantly apparent in the so called Heritage Song Fest. I was so irritated and disgusted, and embarrassed, that the dyam event jus’ mess up my champagne buzz!

First and foremost, I caught the “Windsor Park Wild Dogs” as they began their performance. Interesting to say the least. The young men proceeded to engage in a very telling rap tale and performance, worthy of the BET awards, lamenting about how people are chatting about them, and how they doh care. Yes. They rapped in the ‘Heritage’ songfest, regaling one and all about their disgust with all and sundry that envied their personal attributes. I know people does gossip real bad in the Islands, but for some reason, I jus’ did not get the link in the rap song. Maybe because they were bellowing and spitting so hard in the mike, I could not understand them.

The WPWB were followed by the eventual winner, spouting her original pop song, “Drop It”. Ms. Ma’am brought forth a performance worthy of Brittany Spears, complete with intricate choreography with her personal back up ‘professional’ dancer. Singing about how we must ‘drop it on the dance floor’. Yes. This was my ‘Heritage’ competion. I will not even bother to comment on the Canadian country music travesty. A sad state of affairs.

Needless to say, I placed this encounter behind me, and we trooped around town for the Street dance, liming and chatting. Eventually, we made our way to the band, and jumped and gyrated for a bit. DV didn’t though, cause his size 20 shoes were hurting him, and he say ‘bad man don’t dance’.

I vaguely recall somewhere amongst the drunken revelry that a pact to attend Trinidad Carnival was made. Dunno if I am up for that in my old age, but I will take it under consideration.

On that note, I shall now exit. Had a long week, and I tiyad.

Ta.

The Long Weekend!!! Yippeeeeeee...!!!!

2006-11-10T13:51:00.000-05:00

Well, Monday is a Bank Holiday in the Cayman Islands! I ain't sure exactly what the day signifies, but I tekkin it and I runnin' wid it, and thanking all those who have made the day possible.

This weekend, I am running away from home, and FG is going to pamper me and tek care of me until I get on she nerves. I am going to be the guest from hell. I packing up my suitcase, wine and champagne and going tek root in she living room with her remote, my 'puter and will sure to be free with my gasseous emissions. She will not kick me out as long a I supply her wid booze. If we run out, I goin' pop over to Zulu's place and raid his liquor cabinet. Tee hee. Then, DV has volunteered to cook us breakfast on Saturday, after which, I will find a way to harass him for the rest of the weekend. My devious mind shall plot and ponder ... !

Pirates Week festivities are pending, but I really not feeling it. I may go hunt up some food and a sidewalk lime, but I ain't sure. Will play it by ear.

As it has been a while since I have added some beefcake, Ladies take a look at the sultry pose and the deep penetrating eyes, and lets blatantly objectify this man, pick him apart and plant some insecurities deep within. Gimme a rating from one to ten, nuh?

On that note, I shall now exit. Ya'll be sure to have a wonderful and safe weekend. Peace and love.

Ta.

Rally 'Roun the Future of the West Indies...

2006-11-02T23:14:00.000-05:00

So, hear ye! Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Knoweth all that ye have read it here first.

For the past year, my Sonny, the Creep, who I had previously described as a non-Athletic nerd (I say with a Mother's love) much to mine and his father's dismay, has gotten all caught up in the cricket fever. Yes. He is playing cricket.

When he first indicated his interest in cricket to his father, shock rendered Sonny's Dad speechless, and I was the same when the information was relayed to me. After getting over the initial shock, Sonny's Dad went to the nearest sporting goods store, and purchased the finest cricket gear that could be found on that side of the Caribbean. Sonny's Dad was as proud as a peacock because he could finally toss a ball around in the yard and talk cricket statistics in a manly manner with his son. In turn, I started to read up on cricket (yawn), and Sonny and I would watch tests on TV when he was in Cayman (yawn..yawn...). He would regale me with tales about his perfected 'Yorker'., and the style and technique used to perfect the same (Yawn...yawn...yawn!).

Sad fact is, we realised that Sonny had a decided lack of coordination, which made him ...well...terrible...though he participated with zest and vigour! And, he had the best gear on the cricket pitch! His cricket whites were continually fresh and crispy, and no one could attain Ducks when batting, with the style, grace and enthusiasm as my Sonny! So what if his team groaned and moaned when he was up to bat (Little Jerks!)?

Though he was all around...well...terrible at the game, my Sonny was very pragmatic about it. He would regale me with tales of his misses and Ducks with a form of optimism that...well...entertained...me like no other. His devious little mind went to work when he took his fancy cricket bat to school and advised his scholmates that they could not use his bat if he did not get to play. Yes. He used the old 'blackmail them with the equipment' technique! He manipulated and contrived and stuck to it. Of course, being the wonderful and loving mother that I am, I supported, encouraged and advised that all would be well (Please note this aspect for his future biography). But, I was still pragmatic enough to realise that my son would never be the supreme world class athlete that would support his mother in the method to which she is unaccustomed. Sigh. There would be no bling in my future.

But...stop the presses! Sonny has now informed me that he scored 49 runs in a match and he has taken all of five wickets during the current school term!!! Yes! From Ducks to 49, and now a world class bowler!!! One run away from a half century!!! Windies: Here comes your future new recruit!! Paltry records for the most runs scored will be broken in no time!!

Of course, I uttered the necessary loving platitudes and congratulations (yes, I was able to hide my shock), and I am ashamed to admit that I had to further verify the information with Sonny's Dad. I was afraid that Sonny had miscounted, or was counting the runs by tens. Sonny's Dad was as much shocked as I was, and sought to reassure me that all was well, and that Sonny had not jacked himself up on steroids, or had even employed a pinch batter.

After I got off of the phone, I of course circulated the news to the Cayman family, and this is the part where I became disgruntled on Sonny's behalf. All and sundry were doubtful of Sonny's runs, and someone even demanded an audit! Mi mudda ask me if Sonny cork he bat! I am sooo offended! Dem tek me son mek sport! Hmprh. No respect. Brings to mind the words of the great David Rudder:

"Michael should'a lef' long time,

I heard an angry brother call;

Caribbean man...that , that, that,

THAT is the root of our trouble!"

Well, once again knoweth all that ye have read it hear first. When Sonny becomes the first Caymanian to mek the Windies team, he (and I) will have the last laugh! Sonny has dual citizenship, but the Bajans got nuff players on the Windies' team, so we will use the Caymanian nationality. I have it all planned.

When I am sipping Mimosas in the grand stand in Pakistan...well maybe not - 'fraid'a terrorists, make it...Australia...yeah! When I am sipping Mimosa's in the grand stand in Australia, watching Sonny go up to bat, I will wave to the losers watching on TV at home in the wee hours of the morning! He may be my meal ticket after all!!

Early Retirement, here I come!! Yippee....!!!

On that note, I must now exit.

Ta.

Rass Mon!

2006-10-31T19:14:00.000-05:00

So, this story reported in the Caymanian Compass has been bugging me for some time, and begs the question: exactly when is a word obscene, and when is a word considered to be a part of the mainstream, inclusive of usage and context. My research indicates that "Rass" is actualy derived from "ass", though others use it as a general exclamation of frustration.

My personal yardstick has been the possible use of the word by my child (or children), and personally, should my son ever use the word 'rass' in my presence or otherwise, I will be sure to knock his teeth right down his throat. Same goes for 'damn'.

If one should read the article as linked, please note that I have no problem with the posting of the sign on someone's private property, and the owner's grievance is a legitimate one.

My problem lies with the element of hypocricy associated with the publication and quotaton of the sign's content in the newspaper, and the fact that it seems to have gone unnoticed by an Island that constantly flaunts its so-called Christian values. This I would expect from the Cayman Net News, but not the Caymanian Compass which often describes the Net News as the 'tabloid' newspaper. It is also widely rumoured that articles in the Compass are often subject to various forms of censorship. As the so-called Christian society that does not allow Sunday trading and for which we are subject to the embarrassing and hipocritical New Year's debacle, how can the Rass claat Compass and the powers that be justify the publication of "Rass" in the Newspaper article?

On that rass note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

'Fro.

Thong Man, & Retirees...

2006-10-29T21:40:00.000-05:00

So, I was invited to a Halloween Party at a local sporting venue, and there is only so much that I can say about said event. I donned my trusty Swiss Miss Costume, and came to the realization that I could not become a busty Viking wench, when there was no “busting” going on. After some rather discreet (and cheap) enhancements via two of SG’s bathroom rags, I was good to go! The rags also served a dual purpose cuz when I was hot in the fete, I whipped them out to wipe my sweaty brow.

The atmosphere, ambience and music at the event were all…ahem…err….white. When the DJ started to rock a Megadeath tune (I know this because he bellowed the group’s name when he started the track), this confirmed that I was out of my natural element. Five beers later, I was still sober, because the thrashing and non-rhythmical gyrating of the attendees were all rather fascinating. They appeared to be in the midst of some form of group epileptic seizure.

Then, there was the Thong Man. The Thong Man looked like Jack Black (size and features), and was sporting a black thong, semi pulled up, allowing us a wonderful view of his butt cleavage.

On reflection, some things in life should just be left alone, as they can possibly warp body for life. This was one of them. A fat man in a thong is a somewhat haunting and morbid experience, especially when his ensemble is accompanied by a pink bow tie. Thong Man was the life of the party. He posed and worked his wiles all night, and worked up quite a sweat with his antics. Then, he became a sweaty, smelly, grotesque, beer bellied man, wearing a thong and a pink bow tie. Enough said.

Saturday, I and several of my civic minded co-workers went to a local retirement home to complete some much needed repairs to the establishment. After my previous rant about the blatant apathy that has overtaken my life, the organization of this event appealed to me, but it also cemented several facts, as to why I had regressed to the level of apathy now evident in my life.

First and foremost, was my realization that a large group does operate as a herd, wanting every decision to be made and validated on their behalf, constantly questioning what I would deem to be the obvious. Lawd, they drove me crazy. My patience was continually tried and it was all that I could do to keep a level head as I calmly responded to their inane, mundane and often obvious line of questioning. Another factor that made itself known in some instances was the lack of initiative. Lawd. If something needs to be done just flicking well get it done! Fcuk!!!!

Now that I have dealt with my repressed feelings, on to the more positive aspects of the day.

This event was very fulfilling, on so many levels. All but one of the volunteers showed up, and their eagerness to work, to get down and dirty, warmed my heart. We gardened, painted mopped, swept, and at the end of the day, we were nasty, stink and dirty. It was wonderful! As we were there, a church group had showed up to sing and to preach the gospel, and a few of us took a brief intermission to socialize with the residents, and to take in some awesome gospel spirituals. I have now signed up to volunteer once per week with a resident reading program. Maybe this is the cause that I have been searching for.

There was something fundamentally sad about the residents, countered with the realisation that essentially, they are waiting to die. They live a routine existence, some of them are abandoned and have no other visitors, but for the nurses and domestics. We were awkward and stilted around them initially, not knowing how to deal with their frailness, yet not wanting to stomp on their pride and need for independence. Yet, all persevered, and when we left, the place was fresh, clean and somewhat revived from our efforts.

Next on our agenda will be our participation in the Meals on Wheels program. I will let you know how that turns out.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

‘Fro.

Dress Up and Poor

2006-10-23T22:18:00.000-05:00

So, dressed in my 3 piece suit and high heeled boots, en route to complete my errands during my lunch hour, I decided to stop at Wendy’s for a bite to eat. Blaming my voracious appetite on my increased metabolism rather than wanton greed, I placed a huge order, and I was quite looking forward to munching on my fries as I drove along in the car. Seems as if the fries can never make it to my ultimate destination, and when I reach, my belly full.

When I stepped into Wendy’s, I swallowed my sigh of disappointment and adopted a screw face when I saw the long line, which included several school kids that I felt were decidedly in need of a few disciplinary slaps, but I held my cool, and decided to brave the line.

Time progressed as I inched forward in the line at a snail’s pace, gradually watching my lunch hour slip away, all with the thought that I had so many errands to complete, and so little time. I trudged along like a good little soldier, shuffling along in the line, glaring at a schoolboy that bumped me as he was roughhousing, mentally cussing and fuming, but I had to suck it up, because I was hungry.

As I reached the top of the line, and the wonderful cashier yelled next, I dove to her station, already tasting the biggie fries. Knowing that my eyes were bigger than my stomach, I placed my large order and confidently handed over my debit card to settle my $11.00 bill, countenance more pleasant, as my plight was soon at an end. I even made some small talk with the nice cashier and the pleasant gentleman that was standing at the station next to me. He was a hottie.

Two minutes later, the nice cashier returned with my card, and advised that the transaction had failed. I know she never had to bellow the information so loud, as her statement resounded around the restaurant with the efficiency of a politician’s megaphone. The restaurant went silent as all and sundry gasped, and all heads turned to my general direction. The pleasant cashier was now an evil bitch.

Sirens went off at her announcement, and a disco ball appeared over my head. I was now wearing a Scarlet Letter on my chest, namely “D” for Debtor. Scandalised, I looked at the evil bitch, who now had a pitying somewhat sneering, superior look on her face, and told her to swipe the card again. The sandwich preparers and fries deliverers in the back all ceased and desisted with the preparation of my meal, as they awaited the outcome of the final swipe.

Cocking her eyebrow, as if she knew that it was a futile endeavor, she arrogantly sauntered over to the machine and swiped the card again. My armpits and my palms were sweating, and I now felt pale from the shame. The Hottie beside me was no longer speaking to me, and no longer made eye contact. The throbbing mob in line behind me were all about to riot from the long wait, as I was the only thing standing between them and their biggie fries. I listened in fear and humiliation as the muttering and sighing resounded in my ears. I prayed as I had never prayed before.

But, as I am cool and somewhat stalwart chick, I maintained a level head, staunching the flow of sweat from my armpits with a subtle squeeze, adopting a confident, arrogant and irate look, knowing this to be an error, and that good will ultimately prevail over evil. I’s gots monies. How dare they!

Needless to say, young miss returned with the evidentiary slip, marked “Exhibit A”, showing that my transaction had once again failed, and the servers in the back immediately began to rewind the preparation of my order. My fries were tossed back. My drink tossed in the disposable thingy, and they even dismantled my sandwich, and returned the lettuce to its container. My stomach grumbled in protest, as the oasis of food disappeared.

Donning the cloak of my pride, I delicately removed my card from the evil bitch’s grip, flipped my handbag over my shoulders in indignation and left the establishment with my Scarlet D flashing from my chest. I did hear something akin to snickering and giggles as I exited, but my pride refuses to dwell on this. I had a glamorous parting shot as I threatened to call the bank and give them a piece of my mind, but I know that this would not assuage my pride, the shame meted out in Wendy’s, and my hungry belly.

Turns out that I had closed my bank account from the week before, and my card was no longer valid. The bank had called me repeatedly to pick up my new card, but I never paid them any mind because they were just harassing a busy woman. Needless to say, shame drove me to the bank that very afternoon, and my new card is now in hand. I will require a six month hiatus until I can return to that branch of Wendy's, or until the evil bitch is rolled over by the Immigration Department, whichever comes first.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Death, Love and Family Pt. II

2006-10-18T20:06:00.000-05:00

So, keeping in mind the tragic loss as detailed in my previous post, feeling discontent and restless, I went home with an ultimate objective of letting my family know that I love them, and nothing could dissuade me from this course.

As is the usual practice, my brothers and sisters had gathered at my mother's house for food and conversation after work. Feeling that I would attend to the most important person first, I picked up the phone and called my son (the Creep) in Barbados:

'Fro: Hi Pumpkin!!! How are you?

Son: Fine. How are you Mom?

'Fro: I am great. I was just thinking about you, and I called to say that I love you.

Son: Mom, you are such a Dweeb.

'Fro: [Sappy bubble bursting] What?? Where is that called for???

Son: Well, its the truth!

'Fro: Oh Yeah??? Well, you're a Creep!!

Son: Oh Yeah!! I know you are, but what am I??

'Fro: A Creep!!!

Son: I know you are but what am I?

At an end to our squabble, twenty minutes later, feeling a tad perturbed at this turn of the conversation, I continued on the blasted love quest, and rejoined my family. Confidently interrupting the conversation in order to make my grand announcement, they became my eager congregation, awaiting my vociferous teachings.

'Fro: Ahem...My dear family, I just wanted to let you all know, that I love you all very much. You are all very important to me, and I do not know what I would do without you all.

[Stunned silence / stupefied looks]

Bro #1: I do' have any money to give you!

Bro#2: [Stares in stunned silence, then mimics violin playing]

Sis#1: Wha' wrong wid you? You went to the doctor today or wha'?

Mom: Cho. 'Top yu foolihness and go sit down.

Sis#2: [Newly baptised] Ohhh...that is so sweet for you to say that! Maybe you would like to go to church with...

'Fro: [Interrupting Sis #2] Aww shaddup. I ain't goin' no church wid you. Jus' tek the blasted love declaration and shut up. The rest'a ya'll can go jump in a lake. Mommy, that means you too!!!

[Fro Storms off in a huff, followed by raucous laughter, and smoochie noises]

Behind closed doors, indignant guise discarded, I smiled.

All is well in my little world.

On that note, I shall no exit.

Ta.

'Fro

Death, Love and Family

2006-10-16T17:49:00.000-05:00

So, I found out on the weekend that a family acquaintance had died under very tragic circumtances. Weird statement that, as I have never heard of anyone that had died under happy circumstances.

The news as it was, was shocking, and once again a tragic wake up call. He was at an after work happy-hour boat cruise, and fell overboard whislt roughhousing with friends. He apparently fell overboard and the circumstances as to whether he broke his neck or drowned are questionable and subject to rumour. He was a husband, a father, a brother and a son. He was no more then twenty four years old.

Life is so fleeting. One minute you are engaging in nice time, the next you are preparing to meet your demise. He left home that day, going about his usual routine, and in the afternoon, his wife and family are receiving that tragic telephone call.

I cannot begin to fathom my reaction on receiving one of those calls, or having to make such a call. I cannot begin imagine the pain and trauma experienced by those on the cruise - his friends and associates; those that were directly roughhousing with him. The guilt; the nightmares; constantly reliving the event.

I wish there was some magic wand that I could wave to take it all away. It has also enlightened me to the fact whether I like it or not, death will one day touch my family and friends, and I am not prepared to deal with it. I should never take them for granted. I think of his sisters and his mother, and my heart breaks. I do not know if I should leave them in peace to mourn and to finalise his arrangements, or if I should contact them to see if there is anything that I or my family can do.

I remember when my best friend's father passed away, and we were dealing with the business of the final arrangements. He spent more time consoling me than I did him. He looked at me and I bawled. He looked away from me, and I bawed. I bawled at the fact that I could not take away his pain. I bawled at the fact that I felt so helpless. I bawled at the fact that I had taken my own father for granted, and could not imagine how I would feel if I should lose him.

Sigh.

I am going to call my son, dad, brothers and sisters, and let him know that I love them. Then I am going to find my mom, curl up with her in bed, and harrass her. I had not been spending enough time with her. I going to tell her that I am sorry for griping about the cost of her romance novels that I had to pick up at the book store. I am going tell her that I am sorry for snapping at her when she called me at work to harrass me this morning. But, I can't get too sappy with her, because she may become suspicious, send me out for a random drug test, then have my brothers and sisters stage an intervention. So, I will filter it all out in small doses.

You all, be sure to do the same.

On that contemplative note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Ugly

2006-10-10T06:54:00.000-05:00

So, I was working out in the gym this morning, when a gal entered, who had singlehandedly provided me with one of the most disturbing experiences of my life, an experience that still affects me to this very day.

Ironically, she has no idea how she had affected me, as she prances along her merry way, going about that thing that she calls her life. I had no idea who she was when the incident occurred, where she was from, or why she picked me as her target. We had never had a reason to cross paths, and maybe if we did, I could rationalise her actions somewhat. But, it aint so.

I was playing in a local volleyball tournament, and prior to the start of my next game, I took a well needed bathroom break. As I was attending to my business, a group of girls entered the bathroom, giggiling and chatting in the way of females enjoying each others' company. I peeked under the stall, noting shoes and activity, making no effort to hide my presence, and they made no effort to subdue their conversation.

In the midst of their conversation, red-shoe girl made a comment as to how #10 for a local team was "sooooo ugly". Yes, she stressed the 'sooooo', as if this was an observaton that came from the heart, and she proceed to elaborate as to said ugliness.

My heart thumped in my chest and my pee dried up, as I realised that I was the #10 that played for said team. I remained trapped in the stall as they completed their primping and conversation, and eventually left.

I was devastated. The comments were so malicious, nonchalant and irrational, that they struck to the very core of my being. I can still remember the impact of those words, and it is a moment that I can never forget. Confronting the hags to shame or embarass them had not been an issue, at the time, as shock and hurt rendered me immobile.

Eventually, I exited the stall, almost robatic in my movements and returned to my tournament. I was eventually able to put a face to red-shoe girl, during the course of the tournament, and in my heart of hearts, I knew that she was the 'ugly' one, possessing a raw, vicious and wicked personality, but this still could not cure the wound to my inner core. One can rationalise and explain all or the variables, but this does not cure the impact to the heart. I discussed the episode with my best friends, and of course, they offered me the necessary plattitudes, were indignant on my behalf, etc etc, but I have never forgotten, and it still hurt.

After that day, I saw said young miss everywhere that I went. She was constantly in my face, affecting my psyche, building my resentment, and I knew that she had no notion of the impact that she had had on me. I doubted that she even remembered me. I vindictively plotted her demise - not physically, but mentally - as I wanted to teach her a lesson, on the care that should be taken, when using the spoken word. To this day, I know that this was an impossible undertaking, as she turned out to be an ignorant, shallow, skanky, war mongering hag, all of which I learned from my observations of her. This type of person could not be educated, nor can they ever see the error of their ways.

Since that fateful day, I have made a conscious effort to eradicate the word 'ugly' from my vocabulary, and use it only in the context of inanimate objects and disgusting personalities. This is also a lesson that I attempt to impart on my son, and I live in hope that the lesson will stick. I have made a conscious effort to take care when using the spoken word, always remembering the hurt that I felt when those words were directed at me. "Sticks and stones...etc...," that's a load of crap. Words can hurt ten times over. I do thank the little trollop for the lesson learned, and I know that I am a better person for it. My friends laugh and scoff at my inability to say the word withought cringing, or roll their eyes when I lecture them for being irresponsible when they making indiscriminate comments about a persons physical features, but this is something that I am adamant will not be changed.

On a more shallow note, the vindictive side of me has not been appeased, as I am happy to report that said miss is no longer the nubile, swanky diva; the life of the party; the non-selective man eater. She now mash up and haggard from a hard life of partying, drinking and bed hopping, and is bordering on obese. This appeals to the vindictive side of me, as we crossed paths in the gym, and a sinister smirk crossed my face. She actually offered me a tentative smile, knowing not that I wished her ill. Ha. Jus' wait 'til I strike up a conversation. I am going to systematically destroy her, all in the guise of 'aquaintanceship', and goodwill. I goin' cut her down with a smile, each word a sharp barb to pierce the very core of her being, all spoken in the name of friendship and jest.

I will use her as my own little morbid psychological experiment; the green petrie dish, as I catalog the innumerable insecurities that I will impart during casual conversation. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, even if they know not what they did.

This is my yin and yang - A spiteful, vindictive, tactful, diplomatic wench. Screw that turn the other cheek crap. Never said I was perfect.

Ending with an evil, raucous laugh, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Afro

My New Man...

2006-10-09T12:13:00.000-05:00

So, my Gynecologist and I have parted ways. We were just not working out anymore. We were no longer communicating, as I had felt a level of disinterest on his part, which increased my cynicism, and general discontent with the nature of our relationship.

Leading up to our separation, I often felt as if he were cheating on me, as he developed a habit of furtively accepting calls during my consultations, and rushing me from his office, though I had unanswered questions. This was unacceptable. We were ony meeting once per year, and he could not see fit to give me his undivided attention? What if he missed something?

When I questioned him about his penchant to multi-task during our sessions, he would develop what I deemed to be a condescending attitude, and attempted to reassure me that I was the only one. I knew this was not so, especially when I would wait patiently at our designated rendevous spot, and woman after woman would exit his office! He had started to double book!! Dates were cancelled at a short notice, and the trauma to end all traumas, he once interrupted my examination to answer his cell phone. This was the final straw for me, and I knew that I could no longer maintain such a self destructive relationship. I wanted it all or nothing.

How could he do this to me? We had been together for over ten years! He was there for the birth of my child! But, a woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do, and I have started to see someone else. I have moved on. This does not appear to be a rebound relationship, and I do have some hope that we will be together for the long term.

Now that I have a new man in my life, my Ex keeps calling, and he now wants to talk! It is too late! He was no longer there for me! He did not give me the attention that I was deserved! He had taken me for granted, and is now affected by my absence. Worst yet, he acts as if I am betraying him by seeing another man! Little does he know that I had experimented with a woman, thinking that she would be more empathetic to my needs, but I was not comfortable with such a notion. Therefore, I have reverted to what I deem to be the natural order, and was lucky enough to find my new man.

How dare he feel betrayed?? Is it so wrong of me to selfishly look out for my personal interests? To have the constant reassurance that my annual check ups will go smoothly? To liase with a man that is attuned to my needs, and the additional comfort that I require in order to complete an uncomfortable examination? How could he! He is even attempting to be vindictive, and has yet to transer my records to my new man! I am afraid to collect them, for fear of what he will say, and I really cannot deal with the begging and the crying. It is over! I never thought that it would come to this.

It will take me quite a while to break in my new man, to familiarise him with my needs, the primary of which is that there be absolutely NO SMALL TALK during my examinations, for reasons that should be obvious to all and sundry. It took him a while to grasp this concept, but we are now getting along fabulously. He treats me the way a woman should be treated. He is kind, sensitive, and gentle, and turns off his phone when we are together. He does not scoff at my list of questions or research materials, and he is quick to advise and to update me on health issues that are affecting women today. He talks to me and apreciates me. So what if money trades hands at the end of our sessions? Is this not a liberated society? I pay him to keep me happy, and in turn, I support his high maintenance lifestyle. He is my kept man.

Maybe I do feel a pang now and again for my Ex, but I know that this is the self destructive part of me that is feeling this yearning, and that it must not be realised. I know that I shold not give him another chance, for why would I want to return to an abusive relationship, which often left me feeling exposed and inadequate? I stayed because I was comfortable. We had built a rapport, and history was on his side. But, history inevitably paves the way for the future, and the only thing that is sure in life, is change.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Afro.

Dear Verdant Isle - Bim / August 1st, 1995

2006-10-08T21:07:00.000-05:00

Oh, wondrous island in the sun,
Proud, arogant pebble of the globe;
Status factors obvous to everyone,
Darker deception apparent when probed.

Sandy white beaches, critically acclaimed,
Beautiful, sunny gem of the sea;
Tourism and finance, for which it is famed,
Brings rapid development, and a drastic fee.

Prosperity apparent, our industry thrives
Tourists and financiers to be retained;
The expense of which history and culture dies,
When lost, never again to be attained.

False culture, hailed from the North,
Epitomised through music, travel, and T.V;
Crime and passion, negatively brought forth,
Waiting for the impressionable to see.

Confused youth, complacent with their fate,
Education inadequate to stimulate ambition;
Physical development surpassing the mental pace,
Problems which necessitate a difficult solution.

Oh, verdant land of soft fresh breeze,
Lauding the imperialist national anthem;
Darkness apparent when assets freeze,
Our shame to be sung as a requiem.

Oh, wondrous island, clinging to the crown,
Independence a repugnant and scornful thought;
Your position in the world assuredly renowned,
Disregarding reasons why revolutions are fought.

No comparable historical upheavals,
Or revolutions distinguished through time;
Relatively young and newly revealed,
No primary monuments to be shined.

Settled people, complacent with their slots,
Threatened when the melting pot boils;
Wanting the prosperity accorded their lots,
Despite which, they shun the vital toils.

Bim / August 1st, 1995

Afro

Time Off For Deviant Behaviour

2006-10-07T09:48:00.000-05:00

So, the other day, my friend gave me a hail up, and invited me to watch some indoor football with him, because one of his brothers was playing on a team. Having nuttin better to do, I agreed and figured that I could take some mental notes, in order to hone my skills for next season.

We arrived at the venue, and started to lime with all and sundry, preparing for the start of the match, when a group of fellas entered the arena, and started to participate in our lime. Now, I have come to realise that I am sometimes prone to blonde moments, or rather, I am often shocked into oblivion by the happenings around me, cuz to my shock and dismay, it took me a while to process the fact that the new attendees to said lime, appeared to all be inmates of Her Majesty's Northward Prison!!!

When the information did register, and logically, I am assessing if there was a prison break, my shock must have shown on my face, because my friend gave me a nudge with his elbow (WHICH HURT!!!), and I managed to snap out of my revere.

Now, as I am sitting there, taking in the happenings, some of the fellows hailed me up. "How you doin', 'Fro? Long time no see!" Turns out, I went to school with quite a bit of them and ironically, I am sure that my policeman brother would probably have had something to do with their incarceration, a state of affairs that made me quite nervous.

I smiled innanely, and proceeded to make small talk, all whilst inching myself away, and preparing to make an excuse for a discreet exit. But, as I am slowly makin my way out, I met up with my friend's brother, who I knew was still serving a fifteeen year term in prison, for robbery, assault, gun possession, and I do think that some form of attempted murder may have been in the mix, but I am not certain. On seeing me, he gave me an exuberant hug, and started to catch up on old times. He regaled me with stories of his incarceration, his pending appeal, why I had not come to visit him, etc, etc.

Little does he know that I do not even know where HMNP is, and I would like that state if affairs to continue.

On further enquiry, it turns out the HMNP had entered a team to the football tournament, and the prisoners were allowed a temporary supervised hiatus from the prison, for participation.

Now, I am an avid proponent for the retributory aspect of incarceration, tempered with elements of rehabilitaton, if possible, but I just cannot seem to identify the logic behind their participation to this program.

The gentlemen that I identified on the team are all career criminals (including my friend's brother), therefore, rehabilitation is out of the question. If rehabilitation did serve as the justification, why engage in such a program, and not a community oriented program? Send them to revamp the local retirement home; send them to clean litter off of the streets; have them engage in some invaluable community service, and not a football competition.

What galls me even further, is that the registration for this program is CI$1500.00, paid for by the Government! What a load of crock! Furthermore, they are reaping the additional benefits of being able to have relatively unsupervised visits with their friends, family, chillun, and baby muddas, all without having to formally log in at the prison! Is this not a slap in the face for their victims?

Last season, the indoor competition ended with a rolicking brawl, for which the participants were 'nice' 'wholesome' working boys. It was evident that the tournament organisers were ill prepared to deal with a brawl of that magnitude, which now leads me to wonder how they would expect to deal with prisoners that have nothing to lose.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Afro

Rolled Over

2006-10-05T19:49:00.000-05:00

So, my son's Nanny, care giver and family friend, SQ, who has been in the employ of my family in excess of eight years, and on island for tweve years, is being rolled over by the Cayman Islands Immigration Department.

Yep. They have unilaterally decided that SQ's services are not essential to me and my family and to the island as a whole, and therefore, she is to depart the island as she is no longer eligible for the grant of further work permits. Adios. По-русски. adeus. さようなら. Arrivederci. Auf Wiedersehen. Vaarwel. Au revoir.

Yep. Thems the licks.

Let me break down the notification scenario, and as I do, please pay careful attention to the dates as listed:

SQ's work permit application was submitted in December of 2005, for the renewal period December 13th, 2005 through December 31st, 2006. We had not heard anything on the status of our application for renewal, but were trudging along as normal, on the basis that all was well.

I have now received a letter dated September 16th, 2006 advising of the approval of her work permit application for the period December 13th 05 through December 31st 06, which further advises this was the final work permit grant for SQ, and that she is to return home as and when her work permit expires on December 31st, 2006.

It has taken them 9 months to approve an application, for a term that has almost expired!! Essentially, she now has 2 months to get her stuff in order, and to return home.

How cold and callous is that? This state of affairs has concerned me so much, as the dates highlighted above have aptly displayed the ineptitude of the Immgiration Department, and its possible impact on a person's life. This is unacceptable.

It is nasty and disgusting, and I was sure to call someone at the Department, to give them an earful, but the problem is, they really do not give two shits. The government is a Monopoly, the Department is inefficiant and littered with rude, uncaring civil servants that are unhappy with their lot and has no one to answer to, and their Supervisors are obviously leading by example.

I liked the concept of the Roll Over Policy, but had always felt that the government was ill prepared to implement the policy, as is now evident with my receipt of said letter. We may still blame all of our trial and tribulations on Hurricane Ivan (that Rat Bastard!!!), but it is obvious that the Immigration Department and the respective decision making Boards are still playing catch up, and are ill prepared to deal with an issue of this magnitude. Frankly, I am embarrassed and dismayed.

With the implementaton of this Roll Over Policy, I did have a problem with those who would be deemed 'essential staff', as I had visions of organisations amending their business staffing plans and job descriptions in order to bring certain individuals within this definition. Promotions for th sake of promotions, the allocation of sophisticated job titles, all in a bid to define a foreigner as 'essential'.

I had a vision of the face of Cayman changing even further, as Caucasians that dominate the legal and financial sectors, would quickly claw and manipulate their way into the 'essential' staff definition. They have the means, motive and the opportunities, and are not afraid to kis politicians asses as necessary.

The domestic helpers, construction workers, landscapers, and mechanics, all essential skills required to keep us functioning, would be sent home with inadequate warning and preparation. What of those who ask me that fundamntal question, "Do you want fries with that?"

Caymanians are surely not clamouring for those jobs.

Post Office boxes are now viewed with horror and trepidition, as many are afraid to clear their mail, for fear of what may await them. Sigh. The sad fact is, SQ's issue will be resolved, and can be explained as an adminitratve error. I can only begin to imagine how others that are impacted by this inefficient and uncaring administration would feel, having been tossed out at a moments notice.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Out.

Afro

Charles "The Killa" Whittaker

2006-10-03T21:41:00.000-05:00

So, Charles "The Killa" Whittaker has won some title boxing thingy or another, in an alleged exciting encounter somewhere on the island, this past weekend.

Now, not being a boxing afficianado, I really do not care one way or the other as to who has what, and the consequences thereof, nor do I know the said Mr. Whittaker, but I do know that when I saw the headlines, I remembered thinking: "Charles, I am proud of you."

Charles has been relentlessly pursuing his boxing dreams despite insurmountable odds, and I personally believe that his fist raised in victory and the placement of that gawdy, tacky belt, around his waist should be his personal vindication, and a feat that should silence all of his backyard critics. Today, I had to deal with one of those backyard critics, who has demonstrated the crabs in a bucket mentality by callously stating "He so ol', why he doh' go si' down."

Ignorant heifer. Needless to say, she will no longer vocalise such a thought in my presence. Come to think of it, she may not speak to me again, but I really do not give two shits. Please refer to previous post on "Schtupid People".

Anyway, I digress...

Charles has worked hard, and I am sure that he has made his own personal sacrifices in chase of his dream, all without proper facilities, and government and corporate sponsorship. It has been over fifteen years, but I will always remember reading periodic articles about his progress overseas, articles no doubt submitted by himself to the newspapers, as no one here was following his progress. Longevity in Caymanian athletes is very rare, as they are often distracted or diverted from their course, either because of the lack of support, proper facilities, training or funding.

Charles is another one of those Caymanian athletes for whom we should wonder "what if": What if he had received the necessary support, backing and training from an early age, where would he be now?

Now that Charles has reached the "ripe" old age of thirty two, and has attained a personal following, the government and private sector are crawling out of the woodwork like termites to claim him, to utilise him as Cayman's own PR machine, as a method of putting the Isands on the sportng map. I do hope that Chares now has the necessary savvy, to use the leeches to this advantage, as a measure of securing his nest egg for his inevitable retirement.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Afro

Jungle Fever

2006-10-02T20:49:00.000-05:00

So, a bredren of mine has now committed to a new relationship, after a one year hiatus. A really cool and down to earth gyal, if I must say so myself.

On receipt of this information, I started to rethink Mr. Man’s historical dating patterns and have come to realize once again, that all of his significant others have all been “Big Country” Caucasians, but for his high school sweetheart.

More power to him, one would say, but I am rather confused by the fact that he has always professed to love women of colour, but nary a one could be found in the mix. When I finally called him on it, he proceeded to expound on the fact that more often than not, he knew the sexual escapades of the ‘local’ girls, and more often than not the ‘local’ girls had historically been involved with a first, second or third cousin of his. Please note that ‘local’ is not limited to black.

Now, in meeting said Caucasian females, more often than not, Mr. Man’s meeting would result in an immediate overnight encounter (Notice my political correctness here? ). Anyway, after several of these encounters and hanging out, somehow a relationship would develop.

Now, this is where I am further confused.

If someone, male or female fell into bed with you immediately, human nature being what it is, would you not entertain the possibility of a trend on their part??? One may notice my use of "Big Country” above, as these women (as I have mentally listed those known) have been from Austrailia, the United States, Canada and Europe. There was even one from Africa!! He cannot even justify this choices on the basis that they have a Caribbean background, which he claims is important to him.

Is it not safer to know the sexual proclivities of your partner? Can you not make a more informed decision about a relationship on this basis? He prefers not to know, and though he claims to ‘wrap it up’, you can never be too careful!!!

Playing true to type, new gal is Caucasian, and once again, we engaged in a debate about my aforementioned observations. He has heatedly defended his choices, but I will not change my mind. I even went as far as to remind him of three wonderful local young ladies who were interested in him in the past, who did not have sordid reputations, for which he was nonchalant in his dismissal of them, though he was seeking companionship at the time.

I can also remember his being offended in the past when someone would make a comment that “He only likes White Girls”. Now, if it is a fact, and the numbers speak for themselves, why be offended? He does not even rationalize how people can arrive at this conclusion.

I have realized that choices are specific to an individual. For example, I do love a dark chocolate man.

If his preference is for a Caucasion female, more power to him. My problem lies in the fact that he tempers his preference with bullshit.

Do not say that you cannot find a nice local girl,
Do not regale me with the stories of a local girl’s sexual exploits, when you have engaged a one week fcuk-buddy who has the same propensities, if not worse, and the fcuk-buddy had evolved into your girlfriend.
Do not relegate with the defensive propaganda surrounding your choice, when the numbers speak for themselves;
Do not relegate me with tales of the difficulties of your significant other not understanding your culture or your family, as this arises because of your preference.

Just shut up and reap the consequences of your preference, such as they are, and acknowledge your hipocracy.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Out.

Amphibious Encounter

2006-10-01T12:15:00.002-05:00

So, I restin’ up good, good from my Friday Night trauma, elevating my still swollen knee, when I feel piece’a coldness on mi elbow. When mi look, mi and a frog eye mek four!!! Lawd’a’mercy, he stare me right in the eye, with that piece’a ting on he neck expanding and contracting as if he saying hello!!!

Lawd, mi throat still hurtin’ from the screech, an’ mek me tell ya, if he wha’ my prince, I sure as hell hope that he put me on he life insurance, cuz I can tell ya, we were just not meant to be!

That mo’fcuker is dead! D-E-A-D !! I upped and killed he dead, dead, dead!!!

In a fit o' vexation after the screech, I grabbed a shoe and squished he rass! ! Guts and entrails splat all over the floor. When I done wid dat, I grabbed the bleach and pour it ovah he carcass, jus' to mek sure! Only a likkle bit o’ bleach was left, so I had to use Tilex an' Sno Bol to mek up the difference!

Hmprh. If you goin’ do a killin’ mek sure you do it right. Not like dem horror movie thrillers, whey deh give the villain one wack, and den run screaming into the sunset, or run to hug and kiss. Idjits!!

When you smash a perpetrator, deliver a final run through, jus’ to mek sure! Shoot an extra bullet ; give an extra stab ! Den, poke ‘em in the eyeball to see if deh flinch!! There will not be a sequel for this som'bytch!!

Screw that chain of life / food chain bullshiit!! I say kill ‘em all!!!

I mindin’ my business and he have the audacity to place his slimy, cold, wart ridden, nasty self on me???? The unmitigated gall!!! The nerve!!! Death to ‘im and he kind!!! This means war with all those of the amphibious and reptilian families, who I know are all related to this mo’fcker!! I goin’ fix unnu! Armed with my bleach and ten foot radius squirt gun, I goin’ reign death and destruction on all a’ unnu! This is the final solution!

Den, I tell mi brudda ‘bout mi trauma, and Mr.Man have the nerve to laugh at me! He lucky that I'm a dainty, delicate, and sensitive creature, otherwise, I would’a use the same shoe and squish he rass too, and tell him two words when a'done ! Hmprh! I fix him, though!!! He had to get rid of the body! I know that he did look squeamish when he was scraping up the guts and gore! Dah wha’ he get! I would'a move before I touched that crap! I killin' 'em, but I ain't cleanin' up. Froggiecide! Lizardcide! (No Snakicide, cuz I jus’ not messin wid dem. I goin’ delegate that task!) Death to them all!!!!

Had to tek a bath an' bleach and scrub mi arm where the rat bastard did lan’.

On that note, I shall now exit. I feel like scrubbin' again. Rat Bastard!

Out.

Afro.

Lady Lions!!!

2006-10-01T01:53:00.000-05:00

So, the Lady Lions are now the division 2 champions for the indoor five a side football league!!!!

We had our big final on Friday night, and I must say, all week leading up to the big game, my stomach was cramping, and nerves were killing me. I was OK when the Lady Lions were consistently in last place, and the underdogs for the tournament, but all of a sudden, we are in the play-offs and fighting for a championship trophy!

How the hell that happened, we have no idea !!! We entered a team for the lime and beer, and next thing you know, we are in a championship match. Did we make it simple? Nooo, there had to be drama. I almost crapped my pants. Tied at one all at the end of the game, we went into overtime. With no victor declared at the end of the overtime round, we went into a penalty shoot out. Still tied at the end of the penalty shoot out, we went into sudden death. Lawd.

I had a really nasty thought about a girl that played for our opponents, prior to the game . I felt really bad for having such a thought, because it was rather petty me. But, I gotta share this because it is so scandalous!

Anyway she weighs about one hundred pounds soaking wet, is about 4’9” tall; she has a slight mouthstach and beard, and she has no breasts of female curves to speak of. When I saw her, I thought that maybe the Lady Lions should protest her ability to play in the female league, until her gender was confirmed . Yes, I did feel bad for the thought, especially after speaking to her and realising that she was really cool, and I was being petty. Need I mention her baritone, at this point?

So, during the game, whilst young miss was attempting to control a ball with her hip, the ball deflected from her groin area. Now since I have been playing, I had seen this move completed numerous times, but I had never seen a woman curl up in the fetal position, holding her crotch, after effecting this move!

Is that not highly suspicious??? My entire team stared in stupefaction as she writhed on the floor clutching her crotch, but the messages transmitted by our raised eyebrows were quite clear. Needless to say, as we assessed and sussed after the game, the common consensus is that some form of hermaphrodite thingy may be going on with the lad….errr…young miss. My apologies.

Needless to say, we won, and went out to celebrate in we stinky, sweaty clothes. It was wonderful. We worked our way to a local hang out that was hosting a Miami Carnival kick off function. They did not want to let us in because of some dress code crap. After negotiating with the Manager who caved when he saw the size of our entourage, we went inside. In hindsight, the place was lucky that we graced them with our presence, cuz we were the only people there!!! Idjit.

Lawd, I danced and pranced as I have never done since…since…since…well…in a long time. It was also relaxing to be out in a mature environment where I did not have to worry about schtupid young idjits fighting and mashing up other people’s nice time!

Anyway, that is all done now, and I am now reaping the after effects . I woke up to a huge headache , and my knee is so swollen, that I cannot walk. I used this as an excuse to stay in bed all day, sleeping, reading and watching the telly.

I think that the dancing and prancing mash me up more than the football game did.

Sigh. It was worth it!!!

On that note. I must now exit. Gotta refill the ice pack, and get some more Tiger Balm.

Out.

Afro

Schtupid People

2006-09-27T17:37:00.000-05:00

I am always somewhat shocked and dismayed by the social gaffes that people can commit, and often left in a state of confusion if people are really so schtupid and ignorant, or if it is all just an act, as they attempt to get a rise out of me.

I often hope for the latter, but realistically, I know that it is the former. Some people are just dyam schtupid!

Maybe if we all arrive at the same conclusion, life will be much simplier and there will be less confusion as to people's personalities and idiosyncracies. Of course, my conclusion does not explain all, but I do believe that it is a start.

Now, when someone says something Schtupid, I will no longer have the horrible ache from my jaw dropping in shock, but rather, can toss the comment over my shoulder, and simply categorise them as a Schtupid Person, and isolate myself accordingly. But, to clarify, please note that this does not necessarily apply to a Schtupid 'comment' but rather the Schtupid Person, who utters Schtupid comments without fail.

To continue my definition of the Schtupid Person, this does not denote the so-called 'uneducated', but rather someone who is just so daft, ignorant, oblivious and lacking in common sense, that they are totally incapable of redemption. There is no hope of them seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, as they are happy in their oblivion. We in turn repeatedly frustrate ourselves by continually attempting to argue, discuss or establish some form of understanding with said Schtupid Person, to no avail.

Case in point, statement (one of many!) from a former Human Resources Manager: "You would look so much better if you relaxed your hair. It is just not professional the way that you wear it."

Now, from this statement, I could have been a Schtupid Person, and focused on the complimentary aspect, the "look better" part. Does this mean that in some respects, I look OK? Or, should I have followed my natural inclination and told her about her ass, and all that it entailed? Of course, to tell her about her posterior would not have educated her in respect to her social gaffe, and I would have been conceived as ignorant. Therefore, I looked and assessed, and concluded that she was just Schtupid, and this was a final strike against her in my Schtupidity log. I would no longer interact with her on a personal level, as she would only frustrate and irritate me and I would inevitably tell her about her ass.

Therefore and hence, I patted her on the head, gave forth a condescending smile, and advised her that the little green men would soon complete their experiment with her brain. Now, I am convinced that she has logged me as a Schtupid Person in her own little pink Schtupidity book. Go Figure.

Now, where is all this coming from, you may ask? Well, today was a day fraught with schtupid comments from people that I surmised to be reasonably intelligent, and certain items have been logged against these perpetrators. It will be interesting to see if these individuals are eventually relegated to the Schtupid People category.

On that note, I shall no exit.

Out.

Afro

The War - Bim / July 26th, 1995

2006-09-26T23:28:00.000-05:00

Biblical fiction, we were called woman,
Scorned product from the rib;
Deliberately, they constantly forget,
Persecuted for what Eve allegedy did.

Endless reality, perpetrated through song,
They constantly forget our name;
Relegated to 'cunt', 'whore', 'pussy' or 'bitch',
Endearments utilised to bring us shame.

Repugnantly categorised via the external,
We suffer profoundly, knowing not our roles;
Social revoution's developing product,
Confused to the very depths of our souls.

Liberated, a claim alledged by many,
Despite which, the revolution will remain;
They ask if we will ever be satisfied,
Ironically, a final goal to be attained.

Education, the so-called regiment of freedom,
Soldiers donning weapons to wage the endless war;
Numerous casualties resulting from battle,
Results of which, advancement has been far.

They know not what we are fighing for,
My struggle ridiculed at every turn;
Equal opportunities, respect and honour,
Elements of a constitution that we will earn.

Afro

Bim / July 26th, 1997

Out.