GIRL ON GIRL = Entertain Me

Its been one of those nights, the kind that leave you wobbly in the morning, filled with eighty percent smiles, ten percent regret and another ten percent of stuff you’ll realize later down. I’m at the GIANT food store in Columbia Heights, and my mini shopping cart reminds me that I’m not really that aware of what I’m doing. A quick peek into my basket would reveal a bag of Tostitos, shredded cheese, oatmeal cookies, Raisin Bran and some spaghetti. My head is throbbing a bit—Fridays will do that to you—and I realize I’m hobbling around with a post-inebriated gait. Ignoring the occasional glimpse I get from people (they must be wondering why the dude in the really cool jacket is walking so funny) I gather my things and prepare to leave, when I run into a friend of mine. He gives me a once over.

I don’t live in Columbia Heights. He does.

I’m sharply dressed doing afternoon shopping. He is in a hooded sweater with jeans and dirty sneakers. I save him from having to ask any questions.

“I’m still drunk.” I say.

“Nice.” He replies.

I briefly run through the events of the night. Girls kissing girls, me getting entangled with one of the girls who was kissing a girl, lots of drinking, hanging out with friends and eventually passing out on a couch.

“Nice.” He says again.

I notice that he has typical party material in his basket: Two cheap sodas, cups and some vodka. He tells me to come by his party later. I say “sure…” and wish him a good day. There are two parties slated for tonight. If I go, I won’t be drinking.

In the grocery line, I find myself staring at a place outside that says “Georgetown Valet” for what seems like an eternity, then I pay for my items and go. I sit on my bike, and my mind briefly flashes back my friend’s apartment. We were pre-gaming before heading to a bar (I was pre-gaming more heavily) and the conversation was about boys. It was me, Miss J and Miss M.

“So I met this guy.” Miss M says. “He is such a Jew… and you know I love Jews!”

She chirps a cute laugh.

“Yes, you are a Jew lover. But you know his mother will never let you marry him because you are Italian.” Miss J replies.

“Ah… my Jew boys, I love them.”

“What’s his name?” Miss J asks.

“Eli.” She replies.

I raise an eyebrow. Well it could be a Jewish name.

“Hrm, is he as Jewish as you know, Jesus?”

(she pronounces ‘Jesus’ as “Hey-soose”)

“No, no, no, “miss M replies. “He isn’t Mexican.”

I laugh to myself, watching the drunk conversation. We are almost ready to head out, and Miss M explains her rationale for the guys she dates. Apparently, as an Italian, she wanted to rebel against her parents by dating more Anglo-esque guys.

“I like pale, freckly boys with no hair. “ she says, flashing me a quick smile.

“No hair… you mean bald?” I ask.

“No, I meant no body hair.”

I laugh again, I really am a guy. She continues.

“Yes, every boy I’ve brought home my parents don’t like. All these blue-eyed hairless boys.”

She we go through a series of discussions about body hair, including information on how hairy her father is, which I find hilarious. She also mentions that her parents are “probably totally racist”. She said that when she told her mother she supported Barack Obama, her mother replied. “You know he’s black right?” Miss M says she then said: “Oh, he’s half-black mom.” To which her mother replied. “That’s half too much.” She then tells me a brief story about New Jersey and the migration of blacks into certain communities which threatened jobs and such. The information comes out in a stream—I drink all the while she tells me this—and for some reason I keep thinking about the Sopranos while she’s talking.

Miss J returns from her bedroom and sits on the counter of her kitchen sink.

“Don’t you rebel Marcus?”

I think about it for a second while the girls discuss another friend of theirs.

“You know,” Miss M says, “That friend of mine, in high school she had a black boyfriend, that was her rebellion.”

Miss J tosses the question back at me.

“Are you rebelling against your parents by dating white girls?” she says.

“Well I can’t say I’m rebelling per se.” I reply.

“I’ve always been an equal-opportunist, and I think who you date sometimes depend on who you hang out with the most.”

I make mention of my “Asian period” when I hung with a ton of Japanese people pretty heavily, a pleasant side-effect was a number of Asian girlfriends.

“So I think its relative…. But I must admit I probably shy away from some things that remind me of Jamaica. So in a way, socially I guess we all rebel in one way or another.”

By this point I’ve had two glasses of wine and three beers in the space of ten minutes.

HOME : I think about the conversation briefly as I carry my bike inside. Then I think about the bar.

BAR: The hours that followed after the pre-gaming session were a blur. All I know is that I think I was grossly overcharged for my tab (I had three Guinness’s and a PBR….wait I think my tab was right!) and then my friends bought me a few more drinks. I touched the hair of a bartender I know. It was normally blonde and it was an interesting brown colour. Kind of hot. People buy me drink while I do the same, which creates a nice sprialling effect for the next few hours which—

I’m in the Bar standing near the wall with my friend. We talk about the usual stuff, the week, work, life etcetera. I’m surveying the room, thinking of who, if anyone I feel like approaching. I approach anyone I want to generally, and with my growing buzz (which would lead me to certain ruin) my confidence was much higher than normal.

“I’ll be back.” I say to my friend, and head to the bar.

At the bar, I meet a girl named Erin, and accidentally call her cheap. (Note: Do not ask a girl if she works at a non-profit after she tells you she is buying the drinks because they cost much less money. )

I run into Liz, a girl I’ve been seeing at this very spot once a week. She gives me a perfunctory smile as I walk by. I run into miss J and miss M, who are hanging with this guy named Dave. Dave is wearing a full khaki suit, which I find interesting. The conversation lags a bit, then I return to my friend. The conversation goes into BS some more, then I’m ready.

A set of girls are in front of me, one or two of them give me a little smile. Suddenly, the crowd erupts into a roar of cheering and whooping. Apparently its someone’s birthday—and my buddy and I exchange confused looks.

“What’s going on?” I say to the group directly in front of me. A short girl who reminds me of an Elf replies.

“Its Beth’s birthday!” she says.

In seconds Beth arrives. I wish her happy birthday and she extends a hand to shake mine.

“I don’t shake people’s hands when its their birthday. Come here!” I give her a warm hug and chit-chat with her and her friends for a few. After that last Guinness, the night gets a little blurry. At some point during the night, a hand touches me on my back. It is Sam, a cute girl I met at a REALLY wack party last week.

“Marcus!” she says, giving me a hug.

“Sam!” I reply with equal gusto.

Another body floats by us almost a little too fast, its Tara, another girl I met at the same party. She’s Sam’s friend. I squeeze the muscle behind her forearm gently. Always gets attention.

“I sent you an e-mail this evening.’ I say to her.

“Ah, no way man! Nice try!” she says, and walks off.

The truth is, I did send her an e-mail. Regardless, my buddy decides to leave and I realize that I’m getting drunk. At this point I know I cannot safely ride my bike home, creaky and non-functional as it is. I touch miss J, letting her know that I’ll be crashing at her place. In the next thirty minutes, not only do I hit on Miss J, prompting her to say “If we do that, we won’t be friends anymore,” I hit on the girlfriend of a guy I know in a very roundabout way. She reminds me of an Actress on TV and I always remind her of it. I went just a bit too much this time. Then shortly before I left, a lot of girls started to kiss one another. (This tends to happen a lot at 2 a.m I realize). This time I wasn’t going to be left out. On of the really friendly ladies is Liz. With alcohol fueling me, I try to initiate a three way kiss with the girls, but the friend isn’t’ having it. She smiles at me then darts across the room and begins kissing another girl. I settle for Liz.

Soon afterwards, Sam tells me I should totally go for Tara and try to kiss her. I repeat this statement to Tara verbatim. She reminds me about the e-mail while grabbing her coat. I laugh. At this point I THINK I got a girl’s number… but for the life of me I can’t remember. I think I remember saying “So yeah, we should hang out.” But everything else is fuzzy. By the time I reach back to miss J’s place, (they almost left me) I’m hit full-on by the effects of drinking twelve or so dense beers in the space of an hour. What follows isn’t worth typing.

HOME – I’m drinking water and preparing to watch an episode of Stargate Atlantis. Two parties tonight? Hrm… can anyone say, “Rock n’ Roll?”

Stuffy Girls + Mavado = Merry Bloodcl**t Christmas

www.I'm looking around, and I don't know where I am.


My friends and I are rolling around the neighbourhood of Norbrook in St. Andrew, Jamaica. We are on a quest, similar to that of Frodo Baggin's in his quest to deliver the rings to the volcanic mountain in the heart of Mordor. We are looking for a place called Cedar Grove, which could fit any number of LOTR situations. "There ye go," says a bush that can speak. "When you walk through the green fields of Manor Park, pass by the Norbrook Creek and you'll find Cedar Grove a few paces through an enclave of trees." Sadly, there was no talking tree to help us find this place, but a pizza man making a delivery at a housing complex would. Armed with our knowledge, we proceeded to drive the wrong way yet again.

We turn on a road called Park Drive and see many cars parked, but hear no music. I immediatley know this is a "big man" party. (i.e, businessman/doctor/lawyer drinkup). A few individuals confirm this. They don't know where the mysterious Cedar Grove is either, because they probably live up in Gordon town somewhere...near Mordor.

We eventually find the party and we laugh. Cedar grove is one street away from the house of a friend of mine... if only she had been in the country when we were on our quest to find the house...

We reach extremely early and get eyeballed by a few guys as we come in. Its a bottle-party, and for the uninitiated, it works on the BYOB rule. (Bring Your Own Bottle). Our bottles are stashed in the car, but I'm more interested in seeing if this party will be a flop or not. My friend goes to chit-chat with a few guys standing near the pool and I talk to the guy who lives on the premises.
"Its not a problem," he says. "Have a drink with us. Drink!". His eyes are a little glassy for 8 p.m, then I realize those guys have been drinking for a while.

This party will become an example of the strangeness of certain aspects of Jamaican society i've grown used to. My friend has been telling me for over a week that the guest list is filled with really hot girls and it should be a good event. For me, these parties are 50/50. It is usually an assortment of people from similar backgrounds who all know each other, who stand up, talk and pose. They occassionally use the bathroom, walk back to thier spot, and pose some more. It is a very boring, but extremely common. Just wait until you pay five grand for a party and see everyone do the same thing, THEN it will blow your mind.

I like to talk to people, and I like to interact with people I've never met before. But if you say "What's up?" to a guy standing beside you, then he looks you dead in the face and walks away, then you are in a really tough crowd. Luckily for me, I learned this little tidbit through my friend. "Even the guys are giving attitude?" he lamented. It was funny.

This is a version of the small town effect. If people don't really know you, they won't say hello, or otherwise interact in a manner that is past what I call "ATM behaviour". At an ATM, a person might look at you, give you a vapid nod and then walk away as quickly as possible. This party was similar, but the area was small. The Vapid nods ran abound, but there wasn't much space to walk briskly away to.

This party was the usual representation of this area of Jamaica; a smattering of ambiguously racial individuals, all of a similar hue, most of whom are well off. The split between the racial groups became quickly apparently. Near the pool where the speakers were, you saw more dark-skinned people in groups standing up, moving to the music. Near to the front by the entrance were all the ambiguously racial kids drinking up and chit-chatting.

Luckily for myself and my cousin, we left the party for about an hour to rendezvous with my sister at the airport. On the way there, we laughed to ourselves as my friend send me a text:
"Boy...tough crowd star."

I could see why. But this wasn't the first and last place I've seen this type of behaviour. It is a very encapsulated, anti-social behaviour i've observed for as long as I can remember, but now I'm more like Jane Goodall when I watch these people interact, than an annoyed socialite.

I test my theory about how stuffy these girls are by chatting to a girl standing near to me. She looks at me in the same way a lifeless mannequin would, trying to avert her eyes. I chose her for one reason: She has been standing in a small group of girls at the mid-point of the pool crowd and the entrance crowd for most of the party. As far as I could tell, not ONE guy approached her, tried to dance with, or even speak with her. Her friends all seemed to be content to stand where they were and not talk to anyone. So I said to myself, "Ah, let's see if these girls REALLY got dressed, left their houses, drove up here, all in an extreme effort to completely isolate themselves and NOT talk to anyone."

Sadly, I was right. I asked her a cute question about her age and I got about as much response as a mosquito biting the ass of a Rhino. Eventually I ended up telling her something to the effect of" Oh? That's how you always talk to people? hrm... I ABSOLUTELY CAN'T talk to a girl like you! Ciao."

Not that the statement really meant anything, but hopefully at least one ice-chip fell of her heart. So the night progressed in the same fashion, with my entourage getting mostly drunk, me chatting to a few of the more social girls in the party and trying not to drink too much myself.

High point of the night : Strolling in, being taller than most company present, sporting bottles of Vanilla Vodka, opening said bottles and doing shots while pointing at girls and telling them "If you want a drink, you'll have to tip me baby!"

The party begins to get dull and we leave and head to our favourite after spot, the infamous Wally's for some Jerk Chicken. Immediately a battle ensues. Our first statement to wally is, "Yeah man, Wally run the BIGGEST piece of chicken!"
To this statement my friend immeidately protests, saying that I am using my role as the driver to squeeze favourable opinion. I see Wally toss a massive piece of chicken on the chopping block and give it a few decisive whacks with a large meat cleaver. I grab the ends of the foil the chicken lies on.
"You lose." I say with a chuckle. My friend begins the protest again and then a dark grey SUV pulls up. A man with a shaved head and dark eyes looks directly at me. The car comes to a stop no less than a foot from where i'm standing. My cousin, who was in the background touched me.
"Yo, that's Mavado in there."
"Really?" I reply.

Sure enough, I glance into the car and see the Gangsta for life staring back at me. Contrary to popular belief, his myspace picture doesn't do him justice, he looks MUCH rougher in person. I felt like saying hello, or even raising a fist to salute him, but I felt an odd fear course through my system. After all this is the guy who talked about murdering infants and doing certain things twice a day.
"Yow, we want some fowl fast!" Mavado barks at Wally.

For the second time that night we are relegated to lower status. First by prissy chicks who like to dress up and not talk to anyone, and then by the Gangsta for Life. We couldn't help but laugh.
Wally forgets my chicken and immediatley starts to work on Mavado's order. Our eyes widen as we see Wally pull out two of the largest pieces of chicken I have even seen.

"Damn, " I say. "Wally, you give the man di "Real McKoy" piece of chicken!" My friend adds,
"Damn Wally, you have the Mavado stash waiting in the back!"
We all start laughing and then I look nervously to my left, hoping Mavado isn't pointing a gun at me as I say this.

Thankfully he isn't.

Wally chops up the two large pieces in record time and starts tossing Ketchup and pepper on the chicken. He puts back the pepper bottle and them Mavado speaks for the second time.
"Yow! Put more BLOODCLAT peppa pon di chicken! You tink a gyal you a serve?!"

Wally froze for a moment. He is always smiling, and I felt that he himself would erupt into laughter, but feared being shot as well. He put a few more sprinkles of hot sauce on the chicken and handed it to Mavado and his driver. Mavadao gave us a quick glance.
"Yeah, stand up you dun know!"

The SUV pulled off with a roar. The three of us pause for second and then start chatting excitedly. "Yeah, stand up, you dun know" is the equivalent of Mavado wishing us a "Merry Bloodclaat Christmas" or something to that effect.

The night in brief review:

We came from an event with some stush chicks, got trumped by Mavado in the chicken line at Wally's, and it was great. For the next few days, anything myself and my cousins were eating would be predicated by the statement:

"Yow! Put more BLOODCLAT peppa pon di chicken! You tink a gyal you a serve?!"

Christmas in Jamaica is awesome.

LTD and the attack of the Superpants!

It's a Wednesday, and I'm feeling limber. The week has been pretty slow, and I can easily imagine myself doing something other than sprawling in my room in my underwear, watching Television and feeling sorry for myself. I can easily to that elsewhere, spend some money and get the same result. On Monday, my cool bartender friend Jen recommended that I pass through a special event at the club she works, at Club Five, because some drum and bass gods, (LTD) would be there.

Dupont is Dc's gay central. This is an undisputed fact. However, whenever I go out, I wear my 'superpants', a slick pair of French Connection designer jeans. These are the closest to tight pants I have. In Jamaica we'd say they are borderline, white guys might say they are normal, and most African-Americans would say they are tight. Regardless, when I wear the superpants, my confidence boosts by a factor of maybe 10%. Something about feeling snug in my garments gives me a sense of power, like maybe how Leonidas feels wearing his mask, or having Spartan-esque sex with his supermodel wife. I'm heading to Dupont in these pants, and no doubt most hetero men might look at me with a raised eyebrow, but whatever.

I have a quiz in the morning, and I print out a small sheet of facts to study while I take the bus to Dupont. As nerdy as this sounds, if I didn't do this, I most likely would stay at home, studying while i'm sprawling about in my underwear feeling sorry for myself. Once I get on the bus, I don't feel so bad, (but as the night progresses this feeling would vanish) and I read my factoids until I know all about the origins of Radio.

When we reach Dupont, I pass by a small restaurant called Japone, where a friend of mine works. Two cute Asian girls tell me he left work early to head to Five. "Five is having a really big night," they said. "Everyone is going there!" I told them that's where I was going as well. "Ah, so we'll see you there." I think one's name was Jess, and one was Bess. Or only one was Bess.

I walk past a band of kids playing melancholy music near the Dupont Metro station and snap a few pictures. Then I head to five. The guy at the door tells me my name is not on the list. I sigh inwardly for a moment, because I saw him let not one or two, but FIVE girls in for free. I tell him I know Jen, try and schmooze a bit, but he says there's nothing he can do. Eventually I get Jen to come down, and I pay my reduced price of ten bucks to get in.

I love drum and bass. The way the bass kicks and the variations of the sounds layered over these beats always makes me zone out. It also makes me relatively anti-social. Even though i'm wearing my superpants and a shirt that looks fresh out of Ricky Martin's 2001 wardrobe, I'm not feeling that confident. There are two modes I'm generally in when I go out:
(1) Meet girls mode (2) Observational super-existential mode

I realize after two minutes that i'm in mood number 2. When i'm in this frame of mind I feel like a sponge. I suck in all the details, and the little nuances of everything around me, figuring out how well it would sound typewritten. The club isn't very big, but it has a sort of bat-cave vibe to it, with a massive screen hanging precariously over the DJ area, with funny lighting that makes everything look like its covered in flowers. The first thing I notice about the drum and bass crowd, (as I always do) is the number of really cute girls of 'other' races with white guys. I'm not sure what the reasons are, but whenever I head to these events, I tend to see very hot black/asian/indian/mixed girls with pretty average white guys. I stand in the middle of the dance floor for a few minutes with my hands tucked into my pockets. I close my eyes and feel the bass make my ears tingle. A guy steps on my foot--this happens at least twenty times for the night--and apologizes to me. I barely nod in response. He seems really out of sorts that he stepped on my year and a half old Aldos. "Hey, is this LTD?" he said. I nod in agreement. He seems a little put off by my indifference to his upbeat attitude. A strikingly attractive brunette sipping on what appears to be champagne is holding his hand and eyeing him lovingly.

I dont' feel sorry for him.

Earlier that evening, I met up with my cool Japanese friend and headed over to Andalu, a bar right beside Five. The music was jumping, but no one was there. I only followed him there because I realized that I most likely wouldn't be meeting anyone at Five, and I had school in the morning. We met up with Ania, a gorgeous Polish girl and headed inside. My superpants were losing their power... nothing was indicating this would be a good night. My 'Happy Mondays' theory seemed to be losing steam after two days. Ania and Mr. Japan talked excitedly amongst themselves for a while while I stood up surveying the bar. After a few minutes I headed back into Five by myself.

These outings are always interesting for me. It surprises me how lonely one can feel in a place filled with people. I thinks its a mental loneliness, mixed with the frustration that comes with people not really knowing you. Sure, I can stroll into the club like a penguin in five-inch heels, but that doesn't mean much if no one knows you. I found it sad that I was standing in a club thinking of ways to write about how I was standing in the club.

After a few minutes, Ania, my Japanese friend and the two cute Asian girls I met earlier at Japone are all lined up at the bar. They laugh and giggle amongst each other. I'm standing somewhere near the corner. A flash of sadness runs through my system as I see their beaming faces as everyone holds up shots and downs them. "Am I a social pariah?" my mind says to me.
"Nah." it replies, you are just having an off day.
More like an off life.
Before I saw them at the bar, I ran into them upstairs, following them mindlessly as they had fun. The only person that approached me was a drunk-looking blonde holding a white t-shirt and a permanent marker. "My friend is getting married, what would you say to her?" she asked. I thought about it for a moment, thinking of my torturous relationships and what I thought was neglected the most as it relates to me. I scrawled, "Always remember the small things." On the left sleeve. She beamed a smile, and dissappeared into the crowd.

LTD, the main act comes on at about 1:05 a.m to much fanfare. I move into the crowd for a few moments, then realize I have no desire to hop around and scream "Whoo!" for a group I've never heard of. They play good music, but my energy is too low to enjoy myself.
I float outside the club without telling anyone goodbye and walk towards the bus station. I'm having one of those moments, when everything seems dark and blurry and I feel as if i'm alone in the world. These moments usually come during Christmas, when i'm walking home and the wind is biting my ears and I can't feel anything other than pain in my toes and the stinging that frigid air causes with my skin. Tonight I feel like that, as if i'm in a weird void where i'm not really in the world, but existing around it. Observing but not participating. Its very disturbing.

I trot about in my superpants some more, looking dejectedly at the ground. I look at a large LCD display on the side of the road. It shows 81 degrees. I get a flashback of hanging out with my ex-girlfriend (before she was my Ex, or my girlfriend) during the winter in 2004. Back then, the panel said 13 degrees. "Fuck," I say to myself. "I can't escape."

I head to the bus stop, knowing no buses are coming and sit down. It is now Thursday morning in the middle of the week, and i'm sitting at a bus stop in my Superpants. I feel winded, but i'm not tired. My legs don't hurt, my mind is clear and I'm staring into the darkness of the DC cityscape. I watch cabs go by for twenty minutes, before I decide to stop one. The first cab I approach, the man hurriedly locks his doors and tells me he doesn't drive to 1st street, where I live. Just great I think. A black man in a shiny shirt and tight pants has a gun tucked in an unseen orfice, just itching to rob a random middle-eastern taxi driver. I am annoyed for fifteen seconds.

The next driver takes me home. On the way back, watching buildings flash by in a blur of light and sound, I still feel like i'm in a daze as if I never really went to Dupont or stood up in the presence of all those people. I felt like I was still in my room, projecting my thoughts and existing outside of myself. Nights like this I realize there is a deeper, darker sadness inside me that I must tackle. I'm on U street, fifteen or so blocks from my little apartment, and I think that there isn't much that gives me pure joy. For some people eating gives them pleasure, or the pursuit of a woman, watching a movie, cooking, helping people, even hurting animals or breaking glass. I still can't pinpoint my source. The last time I mentioned anything about Joy, it was to my ex-girlfriend. "You are one of the joys in my life." I had said.

famous last words.

Now I reach home, walking towards my door in my superpants. Its 2:00 a.m and I still have work to do for class tommorrow. I may not sleep, but I want to escape this mood i'm in, and awaken, a different person, with a different direction.

Jamaicans Writers Buss!

My aunt had recommended I read this article a year or so ago. The funny thing is, through my own contacts, I eventually met a very good friend of one of these Authors. I was rumaging through a box of mine, looking for cardstock paper of all things, when I saw the article. When I recognized the name of the Author, well published writer Colin Channer, I called him right away! I'd love some insights. Here's the article for your reading purposes its from the June 27 paper of the New York Times.

page 1 page 2



page 3

Endings are Introspective

I haven’t finished my book project “ Three Weeks and a Hurricane “ yet, but I think I’ve figured out an aspect of its ending. In my life, there are certain things I think that most people eventually want, something they discover within themselves that gives them a sense of self-worth. Something that makes them say, “Dammit, I DESERVE MORE!”. Whatever this “thing” is, be it a desire to have more respect from people, more income or just more food on the table, I think at some point people have that point they reach when they become aware of what they need. A lot of times when I’m writing, like most people I focus on the story, and I focus on the characters, the plot, the outline, the ins and outs of their lives and their perceptions. I feed those things into the characters to make them become more real, more alive. But in this project, its non-fiction. Its all about me, my thoughts, my views and expectations. In this story, I’m the protagonist, I’m the man with the plan. The situations are all mine, the pain real and whatever desires true. Its not a character sketch I did up in Word in fifteen minutes. It’s a representation of a person who’s been alive for twenty-five years. Its truth in its most pure form.
The ending to this story I believe is not just a search for meaning in my life as it relates to what I want to achieve, but how I want to be treated as well. I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories about models or actors or business people who are very successful talk about those time periods when people told them they couldn’t do it, or they wouldn’t make it. Everytime we see these interviews, or read about them in one of our magazines, we laugh, because we don’t believe it. But its true. Most people have to hear they can’t do it before they really try, or life breaks them in two. I think I desire that as well, for people to know who I am to some extent, to have a basic consideration that comes with being a person who’s alive and trying to do what’s right. This is probably writing more suited for the pages of some unwritten screenplay as the monologue of some jaded character, but it’s the prevailing thought in my mind right now. A large aspect of “Three Weeks” dealt with some personal challenges I was having at the time, and how I felt and reacted to them.
New situations can always stir up those past emotions, and pain and regret can flood your system constantly, but that's an aspect of writing that's the most powerful. These thoughts and feelings are the things that can lead us to the paper with pen in hand, or to the keyboard. Maybe some people have bad situations so they can write about it. Or maybe some people need to write about certain situations so they can move on. Who knows.Maybe in a later blog I’ll go into details. I can see what I want as clear as day, but its on the top of a mountain and I’m in the middle somewhere and I’m almost out of rope, but I’m smiling because I’m still hoping.
I shall return anon.

Organize Thy Writing

A chapter in that new book i'm reading talks about being very organized as a writer and man I'm feeling it. With my daily cartoon duties, film assignments and high-energy demands of long classes plus my extra-curricular activities, its pretty crazy. Balancing a full load at school and then organizing query submissions, entering competitions as well as researching Grad schools isn't easy, but so far my system that's worked somewhat has been.

(a) Set first a weekly goal on top of everything.

For me, my goal last week was to finish my current project, and write 30 pages. With all my computer issues and running all over DC I only ended up doing about 18 pages, but if I hadn't set the goal I might not have written anything.

(b) Relax, somehow.

I'm always buzzed and i'm pretty high energy. When the demands of everything are on your brain you want to write, excercise, play video games, read all at the same time. There has to be a balance unless you'll burnout. I'm not the best at this, but i've worked hard to relax ( I recently got a Yoga video )

(c) Organize all your tasks relating to things that MUST be done
Say you want to send ou 30 query letters. You need to have all 30 agents names and addresses ready. 30 envelopes and stamps ready and have the letters individually addressed to each of these people. A trick I did was to make an Excel file to track them all. So each time I dropped a letter in an envelope I added them to the database. This also helps you keep track of dates. I received a reply to a query I sent three months ago recently, but at least I can see who I sent it to, and see if I should query them again.

But the basic goal is to do what you can as soon as possible. Make a list, write it down and be active so you don't become overwhelmed.

(d) Read.

(e) Evaluate the goals.
Its easy to see your progress afte ryou set your goals. So if I sent out 30 queries and go zero responses. I probably need to change my query. Or if I sent them out six weeks ago (and they are all e-mail based) and i've gotten no reply, maybe I need a new agent list? I think its hard to see where you are going if you don't know where you are coming from. For example, I send out 24 letters for my first manuscript "Eden Speaks" and got 24 rejections. Alas, the world wasn't ready for a Jamaican novel in the U.S! But the point was, I sent out all 24 and got my replies and I ended up pushing another project. So I was at least able to say to myself that "maybe agents aren't ready for a book like this." It allowed me to gauge something. No point having your book in the drawer where you keep dirty magazines.

So If I plan A thing in B time frame, and I get C result, then I know what I can tweak and adjust to make sure i'm doing the best things possible.
That's about it for me. I'm trying to work on my organization seriously and I hope this helps someone else out there in la-la land.

The Computer Saga & The Jena 6

Wow... so I ended up scrapping my old machine, spending 300 bucks (which brings my grand total to 380 now...) and I bought a super fast machine from a friend. So for the moment it seems my computer problems are solved. *Crosses fingers*.

Now, today was a very interesting day, particulary in terms of race issues. i have a class, "Contemporary topics in mass communications" and I viewed a video called "ETHNIC NOTIONS".. it was VERY disturbiing. Particularly because it focused on older stereotypical images of African-Americans in the media ranging from the Antebellum period onward to the 20th century. It was hard for me to watch images of people being lynched and learn even more about the brutal past of America. Following this train of thought (coincidentally it seems) there was a rally regarding the Jena 6 on campus today. The Jena 6, for those who don't know, are those six unfortunate souls who are facing a combined 100 years or more in prison because of excessive charges. The basic story is, there is a tree which only white students sat at, at a certain school in Lousiana. One day a few black students sat at the tree, and the next day there were three NOOSES on the tree, a definite throwback to slavery days. Tensions escalated (a white student even drew a shotgun on some students) and then a fight started. So far, no white students have been charged, there were no witnesses brought to trial, yet sentencing was done in two days and several of the six were convicted of attempted murder, with one young man in particular facing 22 years in prison.

Its sad when I think of these things still happening in America. A hangman's noose? Why would a kid brought up on MTV, a society that is embracing more interracial couples, etcetera, put a NOOSE on a tree? That sounds like a throwback to something else. Either way, there was a rally on campus that I went to, but when I reached the venue it was filled to capacity, so the overflow of students outside had a insightful rally which was a mixture of spoken word, positive words from a few elders and thoughts about the future. As a Caribbean student, I thought it was necessary to remind people that if it wasn't for all the things that had taken place fifty years ago, I wouldn't be able to attend school in the states.

Just one of those days I guess. So I have a new computer, I'm somewhat enlightened and i'm ready to rock and roll with some projects.
ciao

Out with the Old, in with the New

Its been another long day, and i'm slightly dissappointed because the long weekend feels less like a nice break and more like a set of chore days. Either way, today has been a day of my nerdy side. My computer has had a host of issues that range from the usual ( runs slow, choppy data) to the strange, almost poltergeist-ish (makes funny noises at odd hours of the night).

My computer's case looks like something you'd find in a junkyard under a stack of old VCR's from the 1980's. Its a disorganized mass of wires and parts that look less like modern technology and more like Optimus' innards. I had to spend WAY too much money today to buy a new harddrive, a new external harddrive for backup purposes, and then I also found out my sweet Minolta SRT might have a functionality problem.

I installed the new drive ( a sleek 250 SATA drive) and reconnected both old harddrives and pulled off my of my important data. Both drives weren't working for reasons I couldnt' figure.

For a certain period of time I had to "jumpstart" my computer. Basically if I turned it off for over a day, it would take about 5 starts to go into windows. It would turn on hang up, and do that in progressive increments until it went all the way into windows. Then for a while the computer just went into Standby mode for reasons I couldnt' figure out. So I swapped the drives (the main was an older IDE 250 gig) with the older drive ( an NEC 120 gig ) and that seemed to work for a while. It was fun because I rediscovered a lot of old data like songs and text files on my other machine that I hadn't seen in a while. Either way, this system didn't last very long. Once or twice I tried reconnected the larger former drive as the main, but it wouldnt' even go into windows. A weird set of blue-green blocks resembling a Nintendo screen hangup would show up.

I eventually realized that my power supply wasn't working properly, and my theory was that the power supply was shorting out, and damaging the drives over time. It was either supplying too much, or too little power to the drives, which made them run hot and then burn out. When I returned from Jamaica not too long ago, both drives were dead. The computer woudnt' boot at all. (There was a brief moment two days ago when magically the NEC came back to life, but then it died after five minutes).

Today I went to the mall to get the new stuff and I dropped my harddrive in a ziplock bag in the fridge (I hear that helps if you want to pull off the data). When I came back everything started working...as a slave drive. The drives that were formerly known as --- EVIL suddenly behaved themselves very well when a new guy was in the building. However, i'm sure these drives are sending thousands of nasty packets to my new drives, so after I backup everything, they will be disconnected forever...ever....

I'll be catching up on a few movies I had planned to watch and a few series, like 'My name is Earl'. This should really boost my deplorable computer situation, because my laptop is dead as well. Its a nice paperweight on my desk. I can use it to protect my novels on windy days. I dont' like sitting at this computer and typing... I think I just don't like my room that much. But at the very least I have the option of doing that. So... like the name of the post says... out with old... in with the?

You got it.

The Wonderland Bug

I'm writing this post just in case I walk four blocks to the lab and its closed today. Wonderland is running through my mind yet again. This summer was pretty crazy and a good bit of it dealt with Wonderland. Its a bar in Columbia heights, only three blocks from the metro. Many college grads live in columbia heights and having a bar nearby is like a godsend. It has two floors and an outdoor area where they serve food until about ten o' clock. I like the place; the atmosphere is warm, the girls there are friendlier than say (Tom Tom in Adam's morgan...Christ) and the drinks aren't too expensive. Its on my mind this time because I went there last night and I got slightly drunk. This is also an aspect of the story that interests me. For me, I lose inhibitions when I go to wonderland. Its like a bubble in the middle of DC where I feel free for some strange reason. That realization led to the idea for a novel, which loosely features the actual Wonderland as a place where a few people meetup for drinks and food occassionally, but then the story delves into more about their personal lives. For them (in the story), Wonderland is a hub, a place they can connect to the social network for a few hours before they are tossed back into the data stream. I guess that's how it feels for me.

I started to write the book but I stopped after ten pages. I didn't have the characters fleshed out correctly. It was supposed to be three young men, coming of age. One was a college grad working at a non-profit who was becoming jaded with the real world, the second was a girl, also a college graduate, leaving the states for the first time to do Grad school in Europe and she goes buck wild during the summer and gets pregnant. The third guy is actually in college and spends most of his time drinking with friends and wasting time, waiting around for graduation. I started my current project "Three Weeks" on July 19th, the day after I came home for a month of vacation. The "Wonderland" concept is still alive and well, and last nigth reminded me exactly why I wanted to write it. There is a lot of material to be written in that story, but as they stay in writing, you can't force it. I couldnt' force the characters, or the storyline (even though i had a wealth of material to use to make the book extremely interesting). I was thinking of using Wonderland as my projectin the National Novel writing month, but then I realized you have to use a fresh project that you've never written anything about. So i'll figure it out. But the Wonderland bug is still swimiming around in my consciousness.... so who knows.

*epic music plays in background*

SRT 101 IN THE HOUSE!

Its been a long day. Particularly because I've traveled at least thirty miles via metro, and walked another five. I was up and down trying to get a few things accomplished. Mainly, buying a few new dress shirts (i'm preparing for winter) and I had to get an SLR for my Cinematography class. I checked Craigslist and found a popular older SLR, the Minolta SRT 101. It has been used to take some pretty awesome pictures over the years, I was hooked by how it looked. I love those rugged, ancient looking cameras that can be used as a blunt instrument of death in a fit of rage. Well not really, but I like a camera that represents a former zeitgeist. Lower functionality, more praciticality. When I hold this camera in my hands (its a whopping 1.5 pounds) I feel like I MUST go forth and document life. I'm eager to buy some film and take a few pictures, but I really have no idea how to use the camera. As a film student, I've learned a few of the basics about photography, including f-stops and footcandles, which are forms of light measurement... and apeture and that stuff. But I haven't done much hands on stuff. So in the selection of my SLR I wanted something almost beastly. A device so veneered by the photographic institutions that it would make me something I am not right now, A capable photographer.
The camera was used by Eugene Smith (a photography GOD ) to shoot photos of the Minamata situation which was a mercury poisoining situation in Japan a few decades ago. One of his pictures, (taken with MY camera!) is here. The picture is "Tomoko bathing with Mother", a very disturbing and beautiful photograph of an unharmed japanese mother bathing her 16 year old daughter who is crippled by mercury poisoning, blind and horribly deformed. Check out that picture here :
http://www.geocities.com/minoltaphotographyw/williameugenesmith.html
The picture disturbs me in a very genuine way. There is so much love in the eyes of the mother, and something else in the daughter's eyes I can't really sense... but I feel it, and it doesn't feel good.
In a little while I'll be looking for some online manuals, and reading up on the basic of photography. I know Howard has a lab that is free for use by students, so I might even try my hand at developing some of my photos. I'm heading off to Wonderland now (the title of an as yet unfinished novel ) to have a few drinks with friends. I'm tempted to bring the beast with me, but I doubt they'd let me in with it. They might think its a fire hazard or something.
My inner nerd is really smiling right now. :)

Bolex & Screenwriting days..

I'm a bit uneasy today. Not because i'm feeling strange.... well I am a little bit. Returning to school is like doing a school play when you've never acted before ( or at least that's howI fele right now). I'm going through the motions of attending my hellishly long classes ( two of them are over two hours) and trying to figure out which classes will be easy, versus hard. So far, it looks like I will have one easy class, because I took the professor before, but everything else seems like a ton of work.  I've just recently returned from my Cinematography class, where I fiddled with a bit with loading up a Bolex camera. The camera is sweet--it looks like something straight out of world war two, but its a standard issue semi-grade learning curve camera for basic film

students. 

The class looks like it will be both challenging and interestng. My teacher is from 
Europe but went to school in L.A so she has that mixture of L.A film-jaded sensibility and a hold-you-by the balls sort of dialogue. That's the best way I can describe a teacher who uses the word 'fuck' in the same sentence as 'Optimus Prime'. Profanity aside, things are really starting to shape up. After this semester i'll only have five really classes that i'll be doing, then its on to the big, wide world. I'm still thinking of grad school but i'm not sure what path to take. I really want to write, and film seems a bit... 'involved' as it were...but I'm reserving judgement. Today my screenwriting teacher seemed overly pleased to have a class of young black men doing screenwriting...which is weird because Howard is a black school...but I initially felt a little annoyed that I had to remove my hat.."You are men, " she told us. I dont' like that aspect of Howard...where certain professors put there own little philosophies on dress code and "what constitutes real manliness" upon the students. I live in an apartment, I pay thousands of dollars in tuition, I do NOT need a teacher telling me that I must take my hat off, or that if she heard 'bad things' about me that I must leave her class.

Either way, that aside, the rest of the class was intersting. We'll be doing a 30 page treatment of a movie idea we have, as the goal for the semester. As a guy who's written 37 pages in one day, that seems like a cakewalk. I'm glad to have the opportunity to get inside knowledge on the technical side of the writing, and it gives me an excuse to pen this really cool  movie idea I have.
Now i'm thinking of heading to this place called Bus Boys and Poets. They do poetry on Tuesday nights...I think, and I feel like checking it out. Therefore, I am out.

p.s
I went to the lab and wrote four more pages of "Three weeks and ahurricane". I plan to finish the book in the next week and a half. I'm losing the vibe that comes with writing a new project, and its harder since i'm in the states and the book is based in Jamaica. I dont' want to get mentally warped by school before I finish the proj.

First day of school: Return of the Mac (again)

Its the first day of school and as usual, I wake up feeling more tired that I really should, even though I made sure to get a solid eight hours of sleep in preparation for today's classes. It looks like i'll be taking 18 credits, which seems daunting to most... but two of my classes are only once a week, so I think it should be pretty manageable. My first cartoon of the semester was published in today's paper. I do the editorial cartoons, and the topic for today's essay was "Welcome to HU, let the games begin". I drew a guy jumping into the air shouting "Freedom! hahah!". I'm not sure what the reaction to that cartoon will be, but hopefully it makes the incoming freshmen feel good about having that artificial freedom that college life provides.

The most interesting thing that has happened to me today, which I ABSOLUTELY can't ignore, is the return of my ex... again. I've mentioned before that my book, "3 weeks and a hurricane" speaks about my attempt to pick a path for myself for the near future. Then, as I wrote about my perceptions of life, (Jamaica being a huge basis), I found out that I was writing a lot about my ex girlfriend as well. (In the book, she's called "Mac"). It wasn't easy writing some parts of the book, because I was writing the book in real time, and there were some things that happened that wrenched my heart around a bit... some dodging here and there, and a few strange e-mails and restless nights. But today, I went to my first class, Telecommunications Policy and I was shocked.

My teacher looks EXACTLY like my ex-girlfriend. Well, not so dead on, but everything was there, from the skin tone, the characteristic sloping of the nose and eyes, and then the catch: Her hair. A few years ago, Mac cut off all her hair, and sported a Mohawk for a little while( I write about this fondly in my book by the way), and then, as her hair was growing back, it was a boyish fluff of brownish hair that looked a certain way. Today in class, my teacher has that exact same hair...down to the colour of the hair and the style. It was weird watching her speak, because even her body type is similar to Mac's. She was tall, with a slim figure, slightly wide hips. I couldn't tell off the bat, but she seemed as if she was of mixed ethnicity too.

There was a moment in class she spoke about teaching at a certain school in Pennslyvania, and mentioned that it was a school filled with "Rich white kids." I don't normally hear a white person say "rich white kids" so for now i'll assume she's mixed. Then, she went on to describe her career thus far, and its like seeing a future Mac sitting in front of me. She went to Africa a few times (like Mac), did research in Europe (as did Mac) and she now specializes in Telecommunications Policies that affect developing countries.

After I left the class, I headed to the school lab to type this blog... I'm not sure what to think. Is the universe trying to tell me something? Is this some weird sign that I should contact Mac? Or is the universe trying to torture me mentally, showing me that in the future Mac will be an attractive, accomplished woman who ends up teaching at a college? Oh, and here's the catch ladies and gentlemen, her husband is JAMAICAN.

I kid you not. During the whole "let's get to know each other" period which happens in every new class, when I said I was from Jamaica she smiled in a very comfortable way. "Good man." she said, "My husband's Jamaican." Then she asked me if I had dined at a certain restaurant because they serve the best Ackee and Saltfish in Dc. (Ackee and Saltfish is Jamaica's national dish). I was a little shocked. If anyone has seen "The Secret" this is a super-freaking Secret moment if there ever was one.

So let's review : She looks like an older version of my ex, down to skin tone, facial features and hair type. She likes traveling and is interesting in the development of third world nations, sorta like my ex. Then, she marries a Jamaican guy.... and the creepiest factoid of all... my ex's initials are "M P", hers are "P M"....

*twilight zone music plays in background*.

All I can say for sure is that when I looked at her, I actually felt a good feeling wash through me. It was almost like a glimpse into the future, or some distorted version of it anyways. I'm not sure what this means, so I guess I'll ignore it for now. The real Mac is in New York somewhere, having fun and living it up. My teacher's similarity to her reminds me of the nature of a phantom, it is fleeting and ghostlike...something you rarely see that probably never existed in the first place. So that's what my teacher is... a phantom.

Not real.

Mood Swings + Inspiration

I have very achey feet. (or is that 'achy'?). For a few years I didn't realize that I had been wearing the same shoes day in day out. As time passed, and my feet hurt more ( and then my back) I assumed it was mostly stress... for some odd reason, and relegated myself to a regime of deep breathing mixed with listening to introspective audios. After a while, I figured out it was my horribly flat shoes (complimented by my horribly flat feet) that was causing a significant portion of my back and foot pain. So today, TWO years after realizing this fact, I went to the DSW to buy some shoes. I wasn't sure which DSW to travel to. There is the one is Silver Spring( a place laced with memories of me and my ex), or I could go to Pentagon City (uglier shoes, other stores to browse through). I decided to go to Silver Spring, because I wanted to pass by Border's book and see what they had on screenwriting.

Walking to the metro, I realized my mood was already changing since I had come back from Jamaica. The Washington DC landscape is a sprawling mass of land connected loosely by highways, smaller roads and a metro system. The more time I spend here, the less like an individual I feel. I'm one of the American collective, a series of drones that walk around shopping and eating Chipotle every alternate Tuesday. But there is a sense of individuality here( yes, i am sounding a tad contradictory). I think America is a place that truly promotes individuality in the sense that you really have to fight to get a spot in the social circuit. Not to say that breaking in to Jamaica's social scene is any easier, but the task sometimes seems a bit overwhelming. There are so many millions of people walking around, all with their own agenda, all trying to have fun, work and build famillies, as a young student from another country I realize I float between feeling glad to have the opportunity to be in the states, and then frightened at how alone I can feel sometimes. Sure I know people, and I have family in a few scattered states, but its the walking around, looking at large groups of friends, people who are so unlike me culturally its scary. Racial perceptions, fashion, capitalistic ventures and a bunch of other cultural norms are also things that can swat a foreigner in the face a few times.

In Jamaica I feel content and sometimes even powerful. I know the areas to go, I know a lot of the people and i'm familiar enough with the odd racial tensions there to feel comfortable in my socializations. After seven years up here, I'm getting somewhat used to the system, but its a mixture of race, money and status. The obviousness of classism in America is probably one thing I can say that leaps out at me when I walk up and down sometimes. If I enter a richer area, say Georgetown, I immediatley see a see of people in Khakis and Polos, big cars everywhere and the place is cleaner and more well-maintained. Shoot twenty blocks Northwest and you reach where I live, which isn't "seedy" but its not as clean and the fashion, the momentum of everything is very different.

Anyhoo, its a thought that can affect one's mood. Here I'm more displaced, more uncertain, especially since I'm nearing the end of my tenure in the states. Mix that in with nothing to "hold on to" (i.e a serious girlfriend, or a job-offer) and the world becomes one's oyster. Now all I can truly focus on is the near future and the goals i've set. To make myself reach somewhere, I must use my natural abilites of writing and being creative.

HURRICANE DAY

I'm sitting in my computer room, looking outside at sheets of rain that are rippling in the air like wind blowing a towel in the breeze. Its Sunday, August19, and right now I'm waiting on the arrival of Hurricane Dean. So far, I haven't been watching the weather channel, because they seem to be on a scare campaign worse than the U.S. They keep making references to "Katrina" and Dean, as well as projecting several worst case scenarios. When posted yesterday, I didn't have any fear in my system, until I saw that should the storm fall and grow into a category 5, then we'd be in BIG trouble. Category 5 storms eat homes and people for breakfast. Yesterday, the Prime Minister issued a nationwide message, noting that power would be shut off in the entire Ilsand by 10 a.m (soon!) and then water would be cut off soon after. So i'm here, hoping for the best, but that's probably all wishful thinking. We work on a system of phone credit here in Jamaica, and I checked my balance today. In the usual message that pops up on screen, which has the balance of my account, they also have a message. "Prepare for Hurricane Dean and move to higher ground

if necessary."

You know a storm is bad when the phone company starts wishing you well. My mother informs me the hurricane is moving south, meaning the eye is probably not going to pass over the island. Its still going to be bad, she says, and I think about when the Eye of a hurricane passes over and island. Its like the anteater pushing his snout into a terminte colony.

The storm is supposed to hit this afternoon, and i'm typing nervously, more so because the power is supposed to go any second, but I have a nice novel lined up. I made a lot of phone calls last night, and I'm waiting for the power to go out. I wanted a hug yesterday but now I don't know...I think I need something else, something I can't have: Security. My mother asks me to take out some garbage. I smile briefly. Even in the face of an impending disaster, life goes on.

See you after the storm.

Hurricane's Suck.... Hug Me

Wow.

I haven't been in a Hurricane since 1988, when Hurricane Gilbert hit the island. It hit on September 12, 1988 as a Category 4 hurricane on the Saffir-Simpson scale. I was young then, and I remember hearing the winds howling over head, and bits and pieces of my house flying away like so many trees and pieces of Zinc fences. The last major hurrican to hit Jamaica was hurrican Ivan.... and I heard the horror stories. My sister told me how the house was flooded and they were marooned in a particular section of the house, having to stay there for no less than two months because of water accumulation everywhere else. Bad roofing caused leaks and even more flooding in other parts of the house, and it was a nightmare. I was at school in the states when Ivan hit in 2004 and now, three days before my scheduled flight to leave the Island i'm smack dab in the path of an oncoming monster. Only four days ago it was a tropical storm, but now its churning up the seas and gearing up to becoming a category five if its strength holds. Regardless of what happens, such hurricans are quite devastating and very dangerous. My father is going out to buy some books to read, food and various other supplies to deal with the aftermath of the storm. (i.e No power, limited transportation, no gas, no internet, no nothing!).

My take on the whole thing? I mean, it sucks that I have to be here when it happens of course, but there isn't anything I can do. A hurricane doesn't sit and watch Airline schedules or reads horoscopes with the hopes that it coincides with your month of bad luck. Anthropomorphism aside, I'll be in the blackness of radio silence for at least a few days, probably more, so I wanted to put this post up before the storm hits. Today is a beautiful day. There isn' t a cloud in the sky. Its a shimmering blue ceiling of nothingness, with bright sun rays shining down on everything especially bright. To most it would seem like any other day, but to me right now it seems like a warning, scary and foreboding. I hope it all works out.


My basic plan of operation is to grab a few books to pass the time. Possibly a personal flashlight and some candy for those long dark nights. I'm going to charge up my Ipod (a paltry 16 hour behemoth) and watch a few movies before Monday. I'll stock up on some of my favourite snacks, like Bun & Cheese and a lot of Ting soda and then prepare myself mentally by doing some deep breathing. I have no idea if I'll be going out tonight. In preparation for my departure back to school, I've been going out almost every night, and i'm sure the streets will be packed with people trying to get in one last drink or a dutty wine before their houses are awash with water and leaves, but i'll probably be holed up in my house, watching the sky.

A day go a friend of mine told me to look on the bright side, "At least", she said, "I'll be able to get some great pictures." I chuckled when I heard this at first (I like a lot of people, still though the storm was on its way elsewhere) but when I saw her again the day before the storm, there was on more laughter in her eyes. A storm of this magnitude is real. It rips trees from their roots, sends them hurtling through the air and it takes lives. The Electoral process will have to be postponed indefinitely, the fragile technological and economic infrastructure will be turned upside down for a few weeks, and productivity will come to a screeching halt for a while. Its a sad state of affairs when these things happen, but such is life they say. After hearing about this storm I'm realizing a few things. The first thing is that i'm guessing most of my friends don't know a Hurricane is going to hit Jamaica, because I haven't had a flurry of facebook messages telling me to "pack up some food" and "be safe", etcetera. My friends are probably chilling in the states, drinking and watching reruns of the Colbert Report on Youtube. It doesn't matter.

The second thing I realize is that its pointless to even want well wishes in the face of an inevitability. Its just try and get as comfortable as possible, prepare for extreme radio silence and the disappearance of all things technological, and figure out how to call American Airlines when all the phone lines and cell towers are down. Like this post said, Hurricanes suck, and I need a hug.