Santa's Not Everybody's "Baby"...

charitable, discriminating or apathetic? apparent disregard for those to whom he should be more sympathetic; inappropriately disseminating his so called altruistic power though still revered for spreading goodwill to the good boys and girls at christmas’ midnight hour, considering notions such as class, race, social and political upbringing whilst dispensing his paltry charitable offerings the discriminating bastard requires a more common sense approach; yet, society has placed this icon above reproach, who has yet to consider the substitution of food for toys, to impoverished little girls and boys; temporary easing the pain in their swollen bellies, or the hunger of their rancid luck; all of which cannot be appeased by cheap, lead-ridden tonka trucks! wondering why cynical girls and boys would be inclined to rob and pillage, should his sleigh ever visit their misbegotten village; accompanied by an inability to blindly believe that their fate could be granted a temporary reprieve; but santa indirectly exhibits his abject fear by ne’er traversing their homes with his rabid reindeer, who are likely to be skinned, and roasted over spits, to satiate the hungered, misplaced youths who could never exhibit elements of a normal social conscience especially when judged by society with scorn and abhorrence; further disregarded, abused and now… devoid of santa’s seeming benevolence! “ho! ho! ho…” he chants ever so merrily, belly full, and ever so fuckin’ jolly; mocking and berating children whose parents actively swap sex for money, they who are unable to understand what he can find so fuckin’ funny, where disease and abuse are a family’s occupational hazards, the life and death struggle, its only reward; devoid of workmen’s compensation, structured foundations, or lifetime pensions, all mocked and berated through the methodology of his robust laughter echoing throughout white suburbia’s gated rafters… santa does not really give a shit, indifferent to the children whose parent’s have crack habits, the young and innocent victims of his disregard famines, death, decay and hunger their just reward, no lumps of coals, placed discreetly in children’s stockings, placed above a fireplace with the home fires burning, but rather environments that are dismal, and somber, and conveniently, santa does not know their household number. the bastard no longer keeps accurate book and records, utilising elfin slave labour rather than any personal effort, no checking of his records once… or twice, irrespective of the children who have been naughty or nice; children caught in the ravages of war torn lands, children molested and killed by adulterated hands children weeping, children stealing, children dealing, children…. santa needs to (re)assess his fuckin’ priorities utilize his resources to positively affect social adversity, dispense his so-called charitable obligations to children in dire need, in each and every nation... **** Belated Season's Greetings, people. And on that note, I shall now exit.

The True Joy of Motherhood

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

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

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

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...?

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)

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