Swine and Go Down and Sick

With two confirmed cases of swine flu in the island, the ministry of health is asking us to take extra precaution this crop over season.



Don't spread the flu. Leave the scarf at home.


For those who don't yet know- THIS is the safe way to wuk up.


THIS is not.



Not clear enough?

This is right.


And this is wrong.


And if you're still confused, you can always purchase a festive mask for the occasion.


But for heaven's sake leave your scarf at home.

Knocking B.C. Pires- into shape

For the last few weeks, I've been reading BC's Barbados in the NATION with bemused interest. I confess, the curiosity arose less from the content of the editorials themselves and more from the fact that he took over the Monday slot from Rob.

Rob didn't always write genius. Rob was a little pretentious and he has this haughty English way of throwing in all kinds of long-winded asides to show off his intellectual briliance. But Rob wrote spicy, like a naughty little school boy slipping in the smut and grinning behind his words for getting away with it. Frankly, that piece about the man who gave it to the horse was the first chunk of solid literary filth our paper's dared to print. I loved it.

But back to B.C.

In many ways that's what it feels like to read his articles. It's been over thirteen years that I landed "as a new resident...upon this rock". Beyond the fact that Mr. Pires uses way too many dashes- confusing his sentences with a lot of unnecessary bits of information to make him appear more (or less) charming, as though it could ever be charming to infer that Barbadians are tight-assed, micro-sized, humourless- certainly it's very funny indeed! to be referred to through a series of commas and hyphens- Hitlers- Mr. Pires and his play on Dick is just not funny, (but he does do a nice job of buttering bajan botsy as he bows and scrapes over his printing presser who incidentally, gets two-thirds more readership because IT is entirely 100% crap (Bajan or otherwise) and EXACTLY- what this country appreciates).

I'm of the opinion, that one needs to earn the right to disparage this hole. Crucifixion by Trident, so to speak. Dead sheep can't measure up to good ol' horse sense.

Dead burying with Dead

My heart bleeds for the family of Marion McPherson who watched in horror as soil technicians tossed second hand ribbons and wreathes unto the casket of Granny Mc-Phee at her burial on September 24th.
According to the Nation, when Mc-Phee's grandaughter confronted Canon Mayers about this gross act of desecration, he admitted that getting rid of the dead by burrying it with the dead was standard graveyard tidy-up practice.
McPhee-second generation- isn't to be hoodwinked by any dead bury dead Christian adage. She's taken it up with the Bishop.
Forget the notion of protocol. Why should she give the cleric she's hired an opportunity to account for his actions? Not when the precious memories of mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sister, aunt, cousin, second cousin, niece, sister in-law twice removed and friend Marion have been forever tarnished by old flowers being thrown on her new wooden box!
And how could Canon Mayers' apology be accepted as sincere? As tutor of pastoral counselling at Codrington College, he surely has no concept of empathy and is obviously a man who has never in his life, had a moment of experience in dealing with grief and mourning.
No. Karen Richards has no issues with her ego whatsover. And to prove it, she's on a mission to protect the rest of us who might find ourselves one day, being eaten by maggots with someone else's condolence card as company.
"Something like this" will never happen again, if she has anything to do about it.
So Karen Richards has forwarded her anti-litter letter right to the man upstairs. Not to God.
To the PM. (I know the halo makes it hard to differentiate)
If that fails, I suspect she'll take it straight to Lambeth.
Or join the People's Cathedral.

Do you see what I see?

Dear Mr. Cumberbatch,

Thank you for sharing your deep and perceptive understanding of God's works. Indeed, the circle around our Prime Minister's head on the front page of September 1st's Nation drew my attention as well.

I didn't think, however, that it was a watermark or a printing error. At first, I actually thought the photographer might just have taken a really lousy picture against a ridiculous background. But then! I realized, the facial expression of Mr. Thompson is so flattering that the photographer HAD be a pro. I mean common, he takes pictures for the NATION!

So then I started thinking about other pictures of Mr. T in the paper recently... Mr. T on a jet ski, Mr. T at a crop over fete, Mr. T rally racing... and I came to the conclusion that with a man so hippity hop, the orb surrouning his head could only be one thing- an afro puff.

Now that I've considered your assessment of the photo, I reckon you are indubitably right. There IS an "actual glow". Your informed letter and the brilliant picture has "confirmed" to me also, that the Prime Minister has a halo. Your visions, Mr. Cumberbatch, are inspirational. You need to talk to Harcourt about beatification right away.

You've also prompted me to draw upon my own mysticism and seek out futher divine messages that are coming to us via newsprint. HARK! There in the same paper on page 23, God has given me visual insight into the miraculous feat of Usain Bolt.
If you look just to the right of his (impressive) manhood, you will notice a gust of smoke which Usain is blowing away with his puckered lips, as though to cool it down. This "confirms" to me that God has blessed Bolt with an engine in his cock enabling him to reach super-human speeds. I'm sure when the Lord raises him up, he too will make quite the deliverer.



Thank God for our Caribbean men and thank you.

Sincerely,

BIM

Accentuating the Positives

I'd like to give a shout out to my mole. Wuz up?!!
I didn't consider that by coming back, you too, would return. Page 9A did not go unnoticed. TY. It's one of today's small pleasures that make it all ok.

My mother says that she and I harp too much on the negative and take the positive for granted. Easy to do in a place like this where the negative is so 'gobsmacking'.

I've been complaining all day and it's not JUST my PMS-

My car is sick.

As my car is the quintessence of my control- I feel mentally incontinent.

And it's addictive, this negativism... from the car to the cable to the service to the roads to the mess to my purse to politics two atoms smashing in a tunnel without My consent... How dare they steal My party tricks?

to to two is too much to flap off my wings so I thought- maybe I can immortalize today's little positives and use them to bake a new pie.

The wake-up call dripped with honey that stayed sweet through my sour, all day.
The lady from Callie's pharmacy personally delivered my newspaper.
The boss, a client and I had a group hug.
The guys at Trans-tech gave quality service.
The man who said "excuse me. Are you leaving?" by Scotia Bank, Wildey was very polite about wanting a parking spot.
and most importantly,
The boys are doshveta.

There are no accidents.

International Literacy Day

Today is International Literacy Day. I wouldn't have known it but for a notice from the Public Editor in today's Nation newspaper. Newspapers, according to the associate editor, promote reading and attempt to be "attractive to young children who may just like to know what's happening in their society." Well put! In fact, the other day when my son and I realized we didn't officially do the 15 minute prescribed reading he got for homework, I bought a Nation and he read it to me on the way to school. He reasoned that in his society, the government takes too long to fix bridges.

I think, to commemorate Literacy Day, I'll ask him again, to read the Nation on the way home. Why not the article right beside the one that trumpets how the Nation encourages our youth to read?...the guest column that asks 'are you smarter than your six year old'? I just know my seven year old will be attracted to that- he does love the game show, after all.

I'm so excited for him to come to the part about how "smart" his white mommy is for putting him into private school. After all, I'm prepared "to lie, cheat and commit adultery to get (my kid) into the right school." I'll take out a loan, take up a religion, sleep with his headmistress if I have to. Anything to get my son educated.

My middle class upbringing and my genetic whiteness give me the edge when it comes to thinking of the future and making the necessary sacrifices for my child. I know that even if I have to bump off a few kiddies to open up a space for my own or give a hand job to the chairman of the board, my actions will guarantee my son's smartness. He'll be cultured and erudite and through his vast reading, au courant "to what's happening in his society."

And who knows, through my uncompromising white efforts he may just "be interested in the profession of journalism" and write informative and inspiring articles like Pudding and Souse or Sanka Price. He may be promoted to editor and re-print such meaningful and relevant articles like the one we're going to read together this evening. Just think...if he gets a job for the Nation, he can attract countless children with his choice of quality literature! I can't hardly wait for his acceptance speech. "I couldn't have done it without you mommy!" A real heart-warming pay it forward story if there ever was.

I'm Back

I'm back.

You can thank or blame the Bajan Reporter for that. We bumped into each other stupidly and he charged me with not having written since "June 7, 07". He gave me that 'where's your homework look', I uttered some lame excuse, felt like a right naughty girl and privately reconsidered my position on the matter. Ok ok Mr. Bourne, I'll amuse you.

What better day to return to the public than my boy's first day back at school?

He's been excited about his return to institutionalization for atleast a month now. This morning as I blew kisses at the morning traffic, his only concern was where he needed to line up for his particular class. I told him not to worry, his school is so oraginized they've probably pre-flushed the toilets the exact amount of times they're going to be used throughout the day. Sure enough, as we drove in, the parking sentinels were at their posts and the lice pickers were rearing to go. I dropped his freight in the "epaulets only" breezeway, drew blood at the treasurer and left him hangin' wid de boyz.

So here I am- back in my self-made confessional while my son is being matriculated. I too, need to get back to studying, even if it's only studying my world. Sometimes, I wish I'd studied etymology. Take the word "matriculation": from the latin "matrix" meaning breeding animal and later referring to the womb ('mater' meaning mother, of course). Apt. Indeed, the first day of school does feel somewhat surgical as my child is ripped from my womb and placed into the care of another breeding animal between the hours of 8:15 to 2:15.

Sir Hillary didn't miss this truth in his matriculation ceremony. Welcoming the new flock into the fold he payed special attention to ensuring his womb was sufficiently masculine to make the y's feel at ease. His new initiatives "MACHO" and "SEED" effectively convey the kind of breeding he hopes to get out of our boys. Hell, with80% female graduates something must be done to remind our sons that academic intelligence is all about "having or showing characteristics conventionally regarded as male, especially physical strength and courage, aggressiveness, and (a) lack of emotional response"(Encarta N.A dictionary). In the Nation Prof Beckles, ever the role model, promises to pursue the propagative dreams of our sons "very aggressively". And as these young men come home to sleepless nights and the most pain they've ever faced, they'll realise how beautiful it is to get their bubble jet printed piece of paper that proves how manly they are.

I reflect back on my own son, sitting on the stairs, motioning me to get lost so that he can look cool in front of his little friends and I'm so proud of his epaulets. So long as he's encouraged by programs that remind him he has a penis, he's sure to graduate top of class from his alma mater.