Working title #234

Irrefutably!!!

Bmobile Dance Off! has to be the best thing to hit Trinidad & Tobago since we learned to screw in the light bulb and open the door at the same time. Words could not express my delight when I learned that we were to have a local dance show again (Party Time anybody?).

Now, I wouldn't exactly call myself a champion bubbler, but Iz a gyul could buss a lil two-step when it called for. De most important thing is that I have an appreciation for all kinds of dance; there is nothing better than being able to jerk and twist your body in a series of livley movements without somebody freaking out and calling St. Anns for yuh ass. More on that at a later date. Needless to say, I does live for this show.

For those of you who aren't hip to it, this isn't just your average talent show... oh no no, Trinidad gets to decide the winner, by texting in their votes. Now, while this is a lovely idea... people forget where we is. I know that if I went up on dat show, I coulda do a one-legged hop for the entire season and win... cuz my tantee an dem votin for me no matter what... multiple times. Plus I buyin phone cards for all my friends to vote for me too. Seeing that the judges know a bit more about dance, I think they should have a little more sway in the decision, they should have 50% of the vote. It prevents people who have humongous families from taking over de show with their mediocrity (yes I'm bitter). Even so, the show is quite rigorous, with contestants being challenged to perform various styles of dance running the gamut from Hip Hop to Classical Indian. They are also challenged to include different steps from various styles into their original pieces (a nice little twist).

Seriously, when Bmobile issued its call to the citizens of Trinidad and Tobago, boy did we come out in droves. I feel it hadda do something with the $100 000 prize dey offerin, because while it had some undiscovered talent in dey... boy, it had some people who I know never perform, practice... much less dance infront dey own mirror before dey reach dat stage. But, study how is dem people I give real props to, because for you to perform your bedroom mirror dance for the whole nation to see, you hadda have de heart of a lion (not to be confused with the grace of a swan). Take for instance, mih gyul here:


Ah love it! Homie gets an A+ in my book for resolve and self assurance.



On a real, it have much love for de show. I know people who does have Dance Off! lime an ting, where brethren gather in front the telly with beers and snacks and does be arguin wit de screen for dey favorite contestants and all. Speaking of which:


All I wanna know is where homeboy holdin classes. The only belly dance I know of is de one where I run and it still jigglin long after I come to a complete stop.

At this time, I just wanna big up all the contestants and crews who still in the mix, on this, the best talent show we have seen since Mastana Bahar. I will be an avid viewer on Tuesday evening at nine-ish (Trinidad again). Check your local listings.

I leave you with the wicked stylings of one of the breakout stars of Bmobile Dance Off! Winner of the Most Persistent-est Contestant, take it away Sunil!!

Labels: Bmobile, Dance, Dancehall, nepotism, self esteem, talent, Trinidad

¹pressha /pre sh æ/ noun : A coloquial term which denotes the burden of distress or difficulty in a person's life; The physical force required to transport water along a pipe, the likes of which are absent in the Diego Desert at least 3 nights a week.

I had promised myself that this blog would contain all the fun and wonder of life that I could squeeze out of my head, but I must depart from this overarching philosophy for a moment. Chalk this one up to it being a Monday, the start of the work week, traditionally a day of high brain function... and low tolerance.

Just imagine that all over the tiny hamlet of Diego Martin, a densely populated suburb of the capital city Port of Spain, people return from work and look forward to a peaceful evening at home. After braving the heat of the day and general sweat of industriousness, road weary travelers trudge back to their humble abodes to recoup. They dispense with their soiled garments, a reminder of today's exertion, and step into their bathrooms... to rinse their entire body with a teacup of water.

Wha kinda cruelty WASA doin we here? Now, you might think I jes workin up myself for no reason, "Of course yuh does loose water every once in a while, dey fixin de pipes, or upgrading the systems or hit the wrong valve control while dey was scratching dey bumsee in the pumping station and forget to turn it back on."

Nah!... the whole of Diego does be smellin green on the evenings of Monday, Wednesday and Friday EVERY WEEK without fail. How does my esteemed and most honourable Prime Minister expect our country to attain the status of a developed nation by the year 2020 and people cyah even wash dey skwegs properly? I remember my mother tellin me that is de little tings in life dat does get to you. And while dis may be a trivial matter to some, I really eh tryin to be liming on a Friday night wit ah kinda stale fry-bake finish and some lysol jes throw under mih arm. You could imagine them poor school chirren who went football trainin, or Tae Kwondo class, or car jacking, or whatever the kids are doing for fun these days, and reach home only to have to stew in dey juices (Uh Geeeed). I believe that this can be construed as cruelty to minors, and our children shouldn't have to deal with conditions like these. With this distinction, I say we could take the matter to the U.N. and claim that our government has disregarded our human rights. If dey doin dat kinda injustice, at least I want ah credit on my WASA bill, chargin me all dat money on top of bad service is jes addin insult to injury.

I say, the residents should take matters into their own hands. We have a right to get on dutty in de streets (literally). Only when the whole of unwashed Diego Martin rises up and pours itself into de WASA office, will we change the system. Blastid WASA, they shall have their comeuppance, because who doh hear will SMELL!!!

Labels: bathing, health, hobbies, nightlife, social justice, WASA

I have decided to author a self-help book for women on sucessfully attracting the opposite sex. What... don't catholic priests counsel couples on marriage? The reason for my sudden desire to pen this work is that in my life, I have encountered a most curious phenomenon that I like to call "The Sauce".


Have you ever noticed a young lady of indiscriminate looks, less than ideal facial features and questionable fashion sense, who attracts men like flies to sweet syrup? This, my friends, is a chic who has "The Sauce". Now, don't mind you primp in front the mirror for hours, cake make up on like plaster of paris, and buy your clothes according to the most cutting edge style gurus; they will never flock to you like they flock to her. And that's because she has 'it' and you don't. Now, do not despair, iz nuh you, iz dem. Okay no, it's her.

According to some research done on women recently, it has been found that there is actually a confidence/ attractivness hormone called estradiol (literally... "The Sauce"). Women found with high levels of this hormone, are not only more attractive to men, but also more attractive to themselves, essentially bolstering their own confidence. And we've been told time and time again, that confidence is an aphrodesiac... move over horny goat weed. Now, when I discovered this little gem of an experiment, I was pumped. I was right about something for once. But now... since we nuh really tryin tuh be takin synthetic hormones and all kinda 'lah dee dah' to get no man, I had to figure out a cost effective way of acquiring "The Sauce".

So ahmmm.... buy my book and in five easy steps I will show you how to fake it to make it. Remember, if you can't do de sauce, you could at least put some gravy on it. Here's a little sneak peak of my Guide to a Saucier You:

Chapter 1: Who needs to tuck in their belly when they can just stick out their bumsee?


Chapter 2: All that glitters isn't gold, but shiny shit sure does make them look.

Chapter 3: The art of the lascivious eye.

Chapter 4: Get Your Shriek On: Mastering that coquettish giggle.

Believe me, this book will save your love life. Look for it in stores October 2020. And if you think I'm full of shit, just revisit Arthur Golden's Memoirs of a Geisha. The lessons are pretty much the same and look what she got... the sugar daddy of her dreams.


GUIDE TO A SAUCIER YOU by: Zigs $39.99...... In stores October 2020

Labels: beauty, confidence, health, self esteem, the sauce, Women

You heard me!

Alright, so maybe I should put this one into context, lest people think I'm a self-hating female or some kind of subservient wench or something. I haz a friend, we shall call her Madame "X". A well educated woman, gorgeous, eloquent, well read, somewhat capricious, compassionate and on her way to forging a most formidable career. She's been there, done that, and has put forward a most distressing theory, to which I have no argument.

In the realm of relationships, when it comes to men(or even other women), educated women are often reduced to the level of village idiots. I usually claim youth and naivete at once, although, it doesn't leave me completely out of the running. Why ladies, do our brains cease to function with regards to matters of the heart?

Now, Madame "X" has come to her conclusion by way of scientific method. She has taken a sample of subjects, created a hypothesis, observed, analyzed results and come to some sort of conclusion. Basically, birds of a feather flock together (or the village idiots will congregate), and so she is surrounded by other educated and intelligent females. NB. Not always one and de same. We have all been the shoulder to cry on and her data during these episodes, was piling up.

The horror stories are unimaginable. Who's been cheated on, who never know bout no marriage, who discover infidelity after a pickney appear, who get lash, who put sponge cake in front of corbeaux and the list goes on. But the trend is quite evident. These strong, intelligent women, tend to run back, begging for more. What the hell is it? In my opinion, the totee could never be that sweet. Yet there we are, running in droves to be illtreated by a grap of undeserving men.

Is it that we don't percieve strength in simplicity?
Is it that we think assholedness = fun and games?
We're into Masochism?
Oestrogen messes with proper brain function?
After a hard day's work of thinking and other stressful activites, when it comes to our personal lives we are all mentally taxed?
The totee is really that sweet?
We interact with other intelligent women so often that we think men will react just like we do?
We are dominant creatures who need some sort of subservient role in life, and since we have brains, that leaves our love lives?
The totee really is that sweet?

I doh know. I too have fallen victim to it on more than one occasion. And while I cannot posit another theory or even attempt an explanation; I can provide a solution.

Ladies, we should all migrate to the hills and find a good farmer who will take care of us, call us his queen and only ask that we help him plant peas every once in a while.

Labels: abuse, education, estrogen, infidelity, men, relationships, Women

Once Upon a Time...
My behind was excited by the radio ads that were being shoved down my throat by the urban radio stations on this fair isle. I haven't a clue as to why I was that hyped, but I was very interested in seeing Bounty Killa and Vybz Kartel on the same stage. I wanted to be there to witness the fire ceasing, or ceasing of fires or firing ceases. (wait what?)

Cease Fire promised to be the biggest concert that Trinidad had seen in a while, and the promoters, Jacho Entertainment, spared no expense promoting the event. I use this word loosely because other than the radio, which I am forced to listen to in the car, any evidence of promotion seemed to come directly from other people, who hear from so-and-so that whatshisface goin an be dey and which part to pick up de hottest gears to look bess in de concert.

Right well... I stake my claim, because I have this strange fascination with Jamaican performers. There must be some kind of juju they work on the rest of the world, because they often sport faces only mothers would love, speak in tongues, and have some of the most vile and illogical lyrics the world has ever known. Yet, trust de "I"... go in any club, nay the streets even, and you will find any Trini between the ages of 13 - 30 mouthing the words and twitching their waists to the most recent of the spate of "chunes" imported directly from yard. (ummmm.... yuh gyul included)

Anywho, I look to rally my squad and by the time the dust settled there was not one bredrin in sight. Their words still ringin in my ears though:

"But what a nice little gyul like you want to go dat guntafest for?"

"Make sure to take yuh bullet proof vest eh."

And my personal favorite from my sig. oth. "You think is a joke, a gyul like you in dey, I go hadda be beating men offa your back wid a stick."

If there is anything to be said about me, I shall never be detered from my goals. (Also known as pigheadedness)

FLASH FORWARD to the night of the concert. I had been banned from wearing short pants, but I compensated by wearing skin-tight everything. Now, yuh gyul was already in a sour mood, because Trinidad and Tobago immigration refused to let the Killa in. Prior arrests, drug importation? What? What? Come to find out that the promoter didn't organize the proper work-visa, or somebody bad mind or some shit so. (Strike one)

So via radio updates, we discovered that we would be getting an impotent version of something that was supposed to be a clash. Dais like Muhummad Ali supposed to fight Joe Frazier, but Frazier eh make it, so is Ali in de ring by he self, floatin like a butterfly... but he eh have no target, so he nuh really stingin like no bee. Dais arright, I guh take Kartel in all he glory. De man preety... oooooo eeeee, if he only sing to me in a room (lights off eh) dais it, ah get slaughter. I digress.

Sour wasn't really sour because all of a sudden, I hear dat Anthony B get added to the ticket. And I'ma gyul love ah Anthony B. Although, something wasn't right wid dat move eh Jacho, because I know Anthony doh really war wit no one.

Anyways... backstage passes, so we run through the backstage entrance. Well considering the demographic of the concert, imagine my shock and horror when I see one security guard wit a wand givin de fellas a cursory swipe, and winkin at de gyuls as dey pass through wid not even a lil feel up. Dem doh know ooman does hol dey man weapon fuh dem and hand it over when dey inside de place? (strike two)

Well up to now I doh even know which part backstage was, VIP was or general admission was, because it had gates connecting all three areas and nobody manning them. I doh understand de distinction, because I eh get no preferred parkin, nutting to wet my throat... my only consolation was the knowledge that if I did push my way through the wall of mampies surrounding de stage, I coulda get some ah de sweat offa Kartel balls. Cuz he pants did buss in front, some time during his 15 minute performance. Yeah, you heard me... FIFTEEN MINUTES. After which, Anthony B was no where to be found. As for the representatives of the Gully side, who had promised to represent even though the warlord wasn't there (Future Fambo, Einstein) we saw of them neither hide, nor hair. (strike three... we're out)

I was so hurt. If I had pay money... Ah woulda wanted it back.

Dregs? Maka Diamond is positive proof that money could really buy beauty, and bless to the local performers who came out, including KMC who did mash up de place. I real glad I didn't buy a new kit, or get the hair did for this purported guntafest. Actually it was kinda gunta-less. Quite frankly, I wasn't harassed by anyone and I was actually HOPING for a riot after all dat bad treatment the patrons received.

And in conclusion, I think we should really keep the faith, and hope that Trinidadians ain'treally followin some people who live on a rock in the northern Caribee, yet claim to know what it's like to live in the highly contested strip of land between Israel and Palestine, which has seen hundreds of years of war and devastation, brought about by a feud of Biblical proportions.

Labels: Bounty Killa, Concert, Dancehall, Gaza, Gully, Gunta, Trinidad, Vybez Kartel