Post script

It has been about one year since I stopped making regular posts to this blog. I am not an ardent blogger, nor am I a person who is committed to forging networked relationships through the World Wide Web. I am just a woman who had two objectives. One was for that stupid cow to give up being one of the Jamaica Observer's regular columnists. The other objective was to get sucked up to by that arsehole-slash-bigotry specialist. All I had to do was to persist in writing vitriol and all my dreams were fulfilled. The only regret I have was that the gay Jamaican blogger gave up his blog right after I stopped writing here. If I could take something back, it would be that one thing. If you don't approve of "homosexuals", please go and K-ef yourself.

Every story has a twist, and mine gets funnier when the see-you-next-Tuesday slash bun-connoisseur-for-hire becomes a public servant. Literally, she has become a person who "works for you", complete with fake pearls and a ponytail. I remember sitting on the desk in my study and saying those words to myself, "Lisa works for me". A few months later, the slogan was "Vote For Lisa She Will Work For You". How delicious! I don't live in Jamaica anymore so I cannot enjoy ignoring her in her role as advocate of the chicken farmer in the New Uric Atomosphere. It would be a perfect story line for season 3 of Ugly Betty. I could never have dreamed this up.

Don't get me wrong. I grew up on a farm with goats, cows, pigeons, doves, ducks and chickens, and I drank fresh cow or goat milk every morning. Now, I enjoy my life as a barefooted housewife and mother in the countryside, surrounded by a lush forest, a lake, mountains, insects from outer space, and kilometre after kilometre of impossibly green grass.

The point I make is that we must never forget that if this woman could have achieved her objectives in life by whoring her way up a (real or imaginary) ladder of social power and public visibility (and try she did), we would never have seen her "distributing" chickens in the country. We would never have a belly laugh at her using rhetoric and lip gloss to distract the viewing public from her New Uric Plight. She would have been getting her bushy eyebrows plucked at Jencare Skin Farm at this very moment, giving indiscreet customers her look, you know, the one with a tone that says, "Who the raasclaat are you looking at, Bitch?!"

I envisioned a scenario in which the former Prime Minister assured her the Obeah Man's prophecies would come to fruition. Of course, it was an irresistible proposal, given that her own mother had taught her a little Obeah when she was growing up. Did she make sure to clarify that she would become "Member of Parliament in the administration of [the former Prime Minister]"?

Or, maybe she did some metaphysical backstabbing because she really needed the extra income and she knew that she would get a guaranteed paycheck every month regardless of whomever was in power, if she won a parliamentary seat. When times get tough, the upper cursed will take up chicken farming (or dog breeding as the case may be). No matter what I say about her choices, this woman has achieved her aims. And that is what I call a flawless victory. Congratulations. And thank goodness for Revlon foundation.

See you next Tuesday!!!

P.S. Dear Bruce, stop walking around with that juvenile grin on your face. This is not about you and the fulfillment of your quest for leadership. You've got a country to run, and at some point, you actually have to do it. You can't fake being a good leader, just as how your predecessor could not fake not being vulgar. There are a thousand jackasses out there who are willing to frig up and they would happily take your place. Remember all the things you said you wanted to change, all those years ago, when I was in high school? Well, you've got the power. Don't be a chicken.

P.P.S. Did anyone think it was funny how two guys who screwed Imani Duncan in the same calendar year were sitting at the same table, side by side?!! Notice the ring flashing on the husband's hand. The ex-boyfriend has the husband sitting on his right side, which means that he has control over the rapport between them. This is just as well, considering that the ex-boyfriend has put food on their tables. Lawks missis. I'm still a skeptic because if I know Jamaicans as well as I do, the proverbial shoe and its impeccably polished twin will self destruct in 5 seconds. Hark! I hear horgasms.

Here. Piggy. Piggy.

The 2007 election results are final. So, don't quit your day job, bitch. And I say that in Dave Chappelle's tone of voice. But seriously, though, how does it feel to have gone down with the sinking ship of yet another Jamaican dictator?

Well, the "sinking ship" analogy was made by your opponent Peter Fakhourie. I thought that it was vulgar of Peter to call you a “fool, ediat, duppy, punk”. I mean, I don't think you're stupid at all, just misguided (if not desperate) in your attempt to find a new, reliable source of income that doesn't require you to go outdoors unless you really really want to.

Or, heaven forbid, you were trying to upstage your ex-husband/the mother of your ex-husband's new child by gaining a position of political power?

You must know that any action taken from a negative position has counterproductive results, because you project the emotional tone of the negative situation you're presently trying to avoid into all your future activities.

And here is the evidence of this fundamental philosophy of life, played out for the world to see.

Upstaged again, and in a much more profound manner, than the tribulations you were trying to overcome in the first place. The past 3 months have overshadowed the combined scandals of your airport fight, divorce, custody battle and subsequent steel hamburger concubineship. It's still 2007. I'm amazed that you've managed to destroy what's left of your dignity in such a short space of time.

Notice all those words that have been written about you. Check the adjectives, nouns and verbs written around your name. What are the connotations, and how can you make them go away? You'll have to perform one hundred good, press-worthy acts, and pray that bloggers out there will take notice, and write about your many good deeds. That may force these pages into oblivion.

It seems that you'll be handing out some chickens in South East St. Ann after all, and with minimum press attention. Maybe you'll finally learn that giving away something for nothing is what an altruistic spirit is supposed to embody.

This has been quite the reversal of fortune, I would say. If you hadn't jumped into this sinking ship, looking for a junior ministership to top up your monthly grooming/wardrobe expenses, you would have had a 3-month head start in finding the last man alive stupid enough to sign over his personal fortune to you in a pre-nuptial agreement.

Alright, I was reaching there, but you can hardly blame me for wanting to capitalise on your misfortunes.

You should try going offshore to further your personal and career ambitions (something tells me there's an overlap with these two). Oh, but you've thought of that already. You may have to trade being on Jamaican telly with living comfortably in obscurity.

How about a change of method? Let's remove the automatic press coverage you get thanks to your 14-year-old pageant title. Do you stand out on your own personal merits if you are some place where no-one recognises you?

If you can't think of anything, try moving to Mauritania. Wrap yourself from head to toe in black chiffon and cotton. Live in a commune with other women. Share a shower and toilet. Eat couscous and rice with your fingers. Prepare meals for men who are building real schools. Learn a language other than English. Stay there for an indefinite period. Get people to trust you, and like you for who you are. It might help you to build what us non-socialite folk call "character".

Who knows, your Prince might just find you.

Who knocked up Miss Jamaica 2006?

Who's that man rubbing his crotch against Sara Lawrence's butt at the 2007 Air Jamaica Jazz and Blues Festival? These photos were published on Watever.com less than three months before the pregnancy was announced. (Is it just me, or is the sight of Sara's right breast just about to fall out of her top a bit gross?)

The ugly man with dark patches around his eyes is "John", a bank teller/band member. I was dubious at first when I got the links to these photos in my e-mail. After all, this guy could be Sara's therapist, her cousin, or even a brother. But apparently, the Jamaica Star spoke with Tina, John's girlfriend/the woman scorned.

I don't know what's worse, that Sara stooped so low as to steal Tina's ugly boyfriend (she might have done you a favour, girl) or that there may be more than one possible father of Sara's child.

"Tina, petite, beautiful, 33, but looks like 25, was involved with John, 29, bank teller by day, and member of a band by night, for about a year before she was aware that Sara was in the picture. The women were introduced and she was told by John at the time that Sara was his 'long-time friend.' The saga began last year in December. At that time, Tina was informed by John, her boyfriend at the time, that he had 'cheated on' her with Sara. He asked her to let them 'work it out' and she agreed. By the end of January, she claims she was informed by John, that the beauty queen was pregnant with his child. The nature of their 'friendship' was also made clear by photos she found on the Internet with the two together at Air Jamaica Jazz and Blues Festival."

I find it hard to believe that Sara would let John-the-bank-teller breed her. Apparently, the Jamaican public agrees. Here is what they're saying about Sara's vaginal pastimes:

At least 3 men were in Saras life in those few months of her reign, the last one who is also a big old married man, is apparantly the father. Now aint that something,


Saras baby father is a man she recently met, a married man with wife and children. Really for a role model, I find it all too disgusting!!


She was sleeping with [Micky Haughton-James] even during the contest, these prim and proper christian girls are the best!

An anonymous source (thank you very much!) sent me the links to the photos of John. It is alleged that this is the father of Sara's baby. However, from what I've been reading so far, just about any conscious, breathing, virile male could be the father. It's bizarre, don't you think?

At the time Sara announced her pregnancy, she was 12 weeks pregnant. Count back 12 weeks from March 15, 2007 and she just got pregnant a week or two before this photo was taken. Is it possible that Sara Lawrence, Miss Jamaica World, 2006, was sleeping with several men at the same time and doesn't know who her baby's father is?




















What does Tatler mean by " we're giving thanks that you- know-who is not the father. I mean third strike!!!" Who is "you-know-who"?

I hope everyone is satisfied with at least one face. It would be nice to see a few others, so we can have a shortlist of candidates and maybe a competition as to who is the most eligible to pay child support for the next 21 years.

NEXT!

Sara Lawrence - Got Milked? Another Jamaican Whodunnit

It seems that Sara Lawrence, Miss Jamaica World 2006 got exactly what she was looking for from the beauty pageant, albeit a little prematurely.

I wasn't there when she conceived the child, but I do know that contraceptives fail when you need them most. As a mother myself, who's had an extremely active sex life before marriage, I have to point out a few things:

1. Pregancies should be planned. This is so that the child is brought up in a loving environment by parents who are emotionally ready and financially capable of taking care of their children. Anything can go wrong in a pregnancy, and even well-prepared women end up spending a long time in post-natal care because of things that go wrong. I don't support the romantic notion of parents' struggle and hardship being good for the child in the long run. That's a load of BS.

2. Sara is an educated young woman so she should know that she doesn't need to have a baby to validate herself as a woman. Perhaps Charlotte Church's decision to announce her pregnancy (March 1, 2007) had some unexpected effects? Perhaps Sara felt that she would not receive a great deal of criticism from the public? Well, she is no Charlotte Church. Charlotte is a talented multi-millionaire, who is known for her rebellious, wild anti-role model behaviour. She was rich before she hit adolescence. She also has a career path laid out for her. Charlotte doesn't actually need a man to support her child. In fact, she doesn't need to go to school to get a good job to support a future family. Beauty pageants are about sexual competition among women. What are they competing for? A mate with the excellent combination of good looks and a never-ending stream of cash to support babies and a trophy wife's lifestyle. Obviously, her search for a good mate took priority over her own ability to support herself economically. (And, she found a virile one).

3. Age 22/23 is far too young for a woman to be having babies in our modern society. Unless Sara has a very very large trust fund, she should just enjoy delayed adulthood.

4. Sara is EXTREMELY lucky because whereas she got a baby, she might have been infected with a host of Sexually Transmitted Diseases, including HIV, instead. Why are young women so stupid?

5. I agree that she was irresponsible. Not because she got pregnant, but because of the timing and because she knew that she had obligations to fulfil. I don't think she would have planned for her pregnancy to coincide with her social and contractual obligations as a beauty queen. So, we assume that the pregnancy is not planned. If she was smart enough to put her studies at medical school on hold to fulfil the obligations of her reign, then she could have done the same for pregnancy. I don't see how winning a beauty pageant helps someone to graduate medical school. I doubt she would have had time for sex if she were busy cramming for exams.

6. I agree with Tamara Scott-Williams that the father of the child might be somewhat of a nincompoop. What kind of man allows his woman to face public criticism on her own? He doesn't need his privacy, although I'm sure that a lot of people know who he is. He needs to show that he is proud to be a father, enter the public view, and stand by her. This is one man who needs a plan. I hope he isn't "careless" or, god forbid, married.

I have always been against the Jamaican Beauty Pageant scene as pure hypocrisy when it comes to sex, especially given the stories I've heard of Lesbians going into semi-retirement to secure their crowns. Or other contestants who demand thousands of dollars from men just to go out on one date (false hair, massage, nails, dress and shoes). I don't know what Sara's level of emotional maturity is, but this incident should show us that young Jamaican women need role models who have done well for themselves over the course of a career or lifespan.

Sara's parents apparently approved of her decision to participate in the pageant. So, they shouldn't be criticising her now. As parents what they said in their public statement about her was also irresponsible. This is no time to be creating a rift with their daughter, who is emotionally vulnerable. Or, maybe they were hoping for a more well-heeled suitor? If the baby's father were Bill Gates or the Sultan of Brunei, we wouldn't have heard a peep out of Sara's parents.

This "young role model" thing just doesn't work. Do we really want more Jamaican young women to agree to have unprotected sex with their lovers because Sara Lawrence did it? "It's not that bad. She didn't get AIDS". How do you know that? I don't think that Sara's decision to have her baby is bad or good. It's just her choice.

However, she dragged the Jamaican Public into a discussion of her sex life by publishing a statement about her pregnancy on the World Wide Web. How could we not comment on the issue?

Never over Tara, the Inner City People's Princess

After a long absence, Tara Abrahams-Clivio is back writing for the Jamaica Observer. I wonder if she's writing anything sensible? I would never put myself through the torture of trying to figure out what she's trying to say but I saw something that could not be ignored.

Recently, Mrs. Clivio wrote some poetry about the plight of inner city people. The title of her article should have been:

"A Vacca Foeda, on What she Thinks Life is Like in Jamaican Inner City Communities".

I wonder if she is planning to write anything else about the plight of innercity people? An epic text, detailing the grinding poverty of her compatriots. God knows they can't read or write to save themselves. Poor darlings, and they are so ambitious. The people of the inner city need Princess Tara, the Innercity People's Princess, to save them. Just one look at her pale skin will quench their thirst and satisfy their hunger. They will realise how poor and hopeless they are, and will stop wanting to leave the inner city where they don't deserve to be, but where they are anyway, sadly, because this is the only way Princess Tara can feel good about herself. I know she enjoyed her tour.

Here are some questions for you, Mrs. Clivio, to frame your epic text on the inner city:

1. Mrs. Clivio, have you ever sat down to have a talk with the 18-year-old girl who is living with her unemployed boyfriend in an inner city community, but who feels that she has no choice but to have unprotected sex with your white lawyer friend from foreign, on that day's issue of the Jamaica Gleaner, spread out on the floor of his office every evening after work so she can pay the rent? Would you offer her free coffee in your fancy uptown coffee shop? Or is it just a service you provide to potential clients who can afford it anyway?

2. Mrs. Clivio, have you ever used the facilities (bathroom, toilet, shower) in an inner city community home? No, not one in a Housing Trust housing scheme.

3. Mrs. Clivio, have you ever sat down in a poorly lit bar/restaurant in an inner city community and had yourself a lunch of fried chicken leg and white rice with ketchup gravy? Did you smell the stench of cigarrette smoke, Heinekin and rum? Did the sound of loud chatter and dominos clanging on the tables ring in your ears?

4. Mrs. Clivio, have you ever had a talented, educated young man living in the inner city make love to you, doggy style, on the bed he shares with his younger brother, with the roar of a rusted fan, the strong odor of cheap cologne, and music from Irie FM attacking your senses? Would you offer him a steak dinner if you heard his stomach growl after you rolled off the bed, with a wide grin on your face, exhausted from two back-to-back sessions of deep thrusting? It's a miracle that he has so much energy, you might think, because he's undernourished.

If you have never done any of the above things, Mrs. Clivio, you don't really know what life is like for people in the inner city. It means that when you write about the housing plight of people in the inner city, it is either out of embarrassment, or for lack of anything sensible to do with your time.

I would like to see what you write about inner city people after you've chewed and swallowed the oppressive need for a better life, and then felt it seeping out through your pores. What will you say after chronic depression, fear, shame, and low self-esteem send shockwaves of orgasms through your body?

Maybe then you will have the proper perspective.

Horsebreeding Hamburgers and a "See you Next Tuesday" of Steel

This not a scandal, just a story.

I was amused to see the May-December romance between the gentleman and the young woman photographed in the press, and described as "blossoming". Seeing that I like older men myself, it should come as no surprise that I used to hang out with some close pals of his. Hang out, role-play, thorough "physical" examinations. To name a few delicious activities. Let me stop here.

Personal hygiene issues aside, the young woman was raised by a mother who studied metaphysics, and who used some of this esoteric knowledge to raise the young woman's social status. Good on you mother! It's not that the mother was money-hungry, it's just that she wanted the best for her daughter. I suggest that the rest of us dig up some of those metaphysical texts, and learn a thing or two.

Back to the young woman. It seems that metaphysical laws were not used effectively, or else she would have been able to keep her husband and child, and her dignity.

The cash prize must have run out a long time ago, and alimony payments may not be enough so, if her Beauty is the only marketable skill she can use to secure her future, and to care for her child, she should work hard to get her relationship legally endorsed.

I am saying this because even though I was in the abovementioned hook-ups for fun, they did offer to marry me within six months after we started fucking. Apparently, my blatant screwing around and my relative social "invisibility" didn't disqualify me for a ring. They were okay with it because, they said, they were too old to satisfy my monster libido anyway. I felt free enough to say "no" because my survivability didn't depend on marrying a man with loads of cash and an easily recognised name.

Given that I've "gone there" before, I'm offering the young woman some advice:

You've (reportedly) been with the gentleman since late 2005. For someone of your visibility, and his status, make sure that he is not still "romancing" you on the day of your first anniversary. You should be happily married. Older men don't "date" younger women. They fuck them, and then boast about it to their close friends, who clap them on the back with big chuckles, and then compare notes about the younger women they are also fucking. (Your toes would curl at what has been discussed in my presence).

You are a mother, so consider that if you are attached to someone who is old enough to be your father, then he knows that he is obliged to protect your highly public image and the welfare of your child by offering to marry you. It's a question of honour and respect for you as a person. I didn't mention "love" because I know that you're too practical for that.

He is aware of how his peers and your peers will see him, and you, and if by the end of 2006, you are not married, you should know that he doesn't hold you in high regard. I hope you are aware that no-one in Jamaica is as hypnotised by your physical beauty as you may think. You're not THAT pretty, and anyhow, being pretty can't immunise you from character assassination.

Every woman of class knows that the courtship is only legitimised by the announcement of an engagement. If you're going to show off your relationship to the public, it should be in reverse. You appear married, and then everyone learns about how you two hooked-up. No-one wants to see your relationships unfold in public. It's exhausting. Your marriage was exhausting, and the divorce was exhausting. We're forced to look at you in relation to "nothing special", and that's exhausting too.

As a self-styled expert in communication, you should know that attention to yourself is bad news for your clients, who might want discretion. Therefore, your professional competence is on display 24/7, in all aspects of your life. Look, you have already been blasted by people in Jamaica (Google yourself and your boyfriend in the same search string) who think that you are either:

(i) a well-dressed ornament,
(ii) a desperate and insecure old maid, or
(iii) a prostitute.

Now, if you can't manage your public image regarding your private affairs, how do you do your job? Potential clients will think your job is a joke when they read these opinions of you. As opposed to someone like Shaggy's Girl, whom readers are reluctant to recognise as being vile, ruthless, and whorish. There are people who, having read posts on my blog, are convinced that I've fabricated stories about my whorish behaviour to attack others. Take this as an example of how a Professional Communicator does her work.

As I said before, I do not have a moral position on prostitution, but I do believe that your public image is extremely important to you, and you would prefer for people to think that butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. That you're unapproachable.

For the record, prostitutes are the most guarded, and least approachable people on earth. This is because no-one dares to come near without displaying the proper credentials and an undertaking to PAY UP.

It's kind of sad that after entering the public eye so many years ago with such promise, that this young woman would sell herself short like this. I am really disappointed, and in a way, I feel I must take back some of the things I have said about her before.

I said that her life would be full of guarantees and promise, but now I realise that her position is precarious because of the artificial and transient pathway to success that she herself has taken. I bet she wishes she had stayed with that humble, ordinary nobody guy who was besotted with her. A true woman of class knows that she builds an enduring Empire from scratch, and chooses her partner wisely.

I pray that her acting classes in America have been put to good use in showing a brave face when the Horsebreeding Hamburger mounts her "See you Next Tuesday", one more time, in the usual manner. Ahh, the luxuries that Steel can afford a man in his twilight years.

At the end of the day, let this example teach us that women are worth more than our bodies. Let this post serve as congratulations to all the men who refuse to be manipulated by our bodies, but who are willing to embrace our Mind in love.

Spoilt pigs make tastier pork

I found the answer to the question: "What will 2006 bring?"

The answer is: "Moving forward".

I got my wishes for 2005. Two of them relate to my purposes for writing this blog.

The third wish is the one I'll talk about here.

It has to do with the last piece of advice I received before I left Jamaica.

It was the statement that has more or less crippled me for the better part of a decade:

"If I introduced you to the people who played in my bridge club, they would be shocked to hear you speak, as a dark-skinned person. They have no concept that a black person can speak English".

Was this bullshit, or did I spend 20+ years living and studying in Jamaica only to be told that I had just hit my ceiling? Not a day passes when I don't remember this statement, which was meant as a 'compliment'.

I'm not angry with myself anymore for listening to that bigoted gatekeeping asshole. Now I think, "does it matter?" Let him keep it.

Of course, I've screamed at quite a few people on this blog on the way to drawing that conclusion.

I thought that it would be useless writing about perceived injustices in our society because writing wouldn't help them to repair. I've seen some of the subtle changes, though. The changes were made in my mind, in a perspective I never thought I would have ever achieved.

I've seen childhood heroes crash and burn, and social outcasts step out into the limelight. But I do not wish to keep on blogging a bonfire about the fallen heroes and heroines.

I believe that I've made my point with this blog, which is that our society has manufactured "mentors" for us. "Mentors" represent ideals that each of us supposedly can never reach. No matter who we are, our society has created a symbol of perfection for us that we can never attain.

Isn't it time to vandalise the social order? It's not working for us. Is now a good time to take a sledgehammer to the wall of falsehoods that have separated us from ourselves?

This is not necessarily me giving up blogging. After my last two-year break, I came back feistier than when I first started. Will I come back? And why?

I realised that I needed a shift_ in_my_perception. I got that, and now I'm using it as a tool for mapping a different version of my life. Life as if...

Closing doors is something I've always been too good at doing. This time, I'm opening the door. The posts archived on this blog represent the process of my perception shift.

Blessings, peace and love be unto everyone.

Too late for antifreeze, Jesu

Alright...it's 2006. Tonight I stood dazed in my living room, shivering from the cold. Around my feet were chunks of ice that I tracked from the front door, and which were also falling off my trousers.

I channel-hopped for a few seconds and cursed at the fact that there was nothing on telly. Out of nowhere, the notion that "the world is still spinning", popped into my head. I acknowledged the thought with a mixture of nonchalance and trepidation. I decided that music would be a better choice. I went with the power of Snap!, and muted the TV so the Berlin Philarmonic Orchestra looked like they were playing "Rhythm is a Dancer".

I'm rambling. Hypothermia + Antihistamines do that.

To my recollection, this is the first year that I didn't prepare a set of resolutions. When I left university, I had mapped my entire life up until the time I would turn 26. Somehow, I expected (or vaguely hoped) that the universe would implode on itself after I'd worked through my "list of things to do before I turn 30".

When I was going to church an eternity ago, they promised that the world was going to end soon. The plan didn't work, so I made some new wishes. Those came true. This was too easy.

The universe still hasn't imploded, and I'm in quite a pickle.