It was a dark and stormy night… Ok, actually there were clear skies and the moon was almost full. It was a Friday and I had worked almost a full shift at Chumley’s… Ok, so Chum asked me to watch the bar for him while he ran to Wal-Mart for “30 minutes” and the next thing I knew it was 1am; this happens frequently, so I wasn’t surprised. I got home and found that Gemi was still awake; she was rubbing her belly and complaining that her back hurt, but that’s what 9-month-pregnant women do so I was sympathetic. I told her that if she sat backwards in the chair I would give her a back rub (actually, my insensitive ass suggested that she lay on the bed first; forgetting all about the baby belly getting in the way, but I’m a man, so sue me!) She told me that she had to pay a visit to the bathroom (pregnant women do a lot of that too) and then she just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. I was all about that because I had worked all day and was dog tired.  I fluffed the pillows, pulled up the blankets and crawled into comfort. Within seconds I could feel my consciousness slipping away. Sleep would come easy tonight.

“Marcus!”

She said my name in a way that was neither loud, nor soft, but somehow had an intensity that could cut through the dimensional barriers so that it could be heard by all forms of consciousness nearby.  The fish came to the edge of the tank. Voltron and Mega’s ears perked up. Everything in the vicinity took heed for a split second… Except for Kimmy, she can sleep through a nuclear war.

“My water just broke…!”

There’s something about those words that can turn the coolest, calmest, most collected, macho man into an over-excitable puddle of little-bitchdom. My eyes popped open and I think that I squealed like a Sorority girl for a second. I was all ready to start running around the room like a crazy person, then I looked into Gemi’s eyes. I realized that those words have a startling effect on a first-time mom as well. The emotional mixture of glee, fear, and joyous confusion in her eyes calmed me in a way that I have never been calmed before. I collected myself in a split second and said, “Well, I guess we’re having a baby, then.”

I collected Dee and Kim and started to load the car while Gemi collected herself. Dee was concerned that we weren’t moving fast enough but I reassured her that we had multiple hours before baby was going to be born. She calmed down and got some sort of twinkle in her eye, which meant that she was up to something, then disappeared into the bathroom with Gemi. On another occasion I would have pursued, but I had things to do. The car was finally packed and Kimmy was in her seat when Dee and Gemi emerged. My Gemi was in full make up, hair in a pony tail, dressed nicely; but comfortably, in a nutshell, she looked gooood. All I could do was laugh though. “What?” She said, “I’m not gonna bring our son into the world looking tore up.” I replied, “I give that ponytail 2 hours before it has to come out.” She just looked at me and got into the car.

When we got to Holmes Regional they didn’t have a room ready so we had to sit in the lobby. I would have been fine with that except for the contractions. The last thing in the world that you want to have staring you in the face is an unhappy woman who has just gone into labor. She wanted to lie down, she wanted to settle in, and she wanted it now. The main problem was the varying intensity of the contractions. There would be a long, mild one; then a short, intense one. It kept Gemi on her toes, and pregnant women don’t want to be on their toes, they want to be on their backs. The lady at the front desk must have been de-sensitized to pain, having seen so many pregnant women in her line of work. She told us to be patient. One thing that a woman in labor is NOT is patient. Due to a combination of stress and a particularly violent contraction, Gemi moaned and tossed her cookies into the nearest garbage can. She thought that this was embarrassing but it was to our advantage. Within minutes after that we were on our way to the birthing room.

The room was more of a suite. It had a comfortable bed that converts into a birthing table, a pull-out loveseat for daddy to sleep in while mommy is going through the hardest few hours of her life to date, a flat screen television where you can watch all the Lifetime programming that you can stand, and a full-sized bathroom. It was swank.  Gemi settled into the bed, Kim and D settled onto the loveseat, I sat in the chair. We put on the television, played some MSI, and talked a bit. I held Gemi’s hand through her contractions, which seemed to subside a little bit now that she was comfortable. After an hour it was evident that this was going to be a longer night than D and Kim had anticipated. They thought that they were going to be able to stay up and help Gemi through this ordeal, but they were fading fast. It was 3am and the sandman seemed to be sprinkling his sleep sands into the air ducts. We all felt the effects simultaneously. Kimmy was the first to fall. D was close behind. Realizing that Kim and D had taken the daddy bed I saw that my fate was intertwined with this green desk chair that I was sitting in. I turned it backwards and sat Fonzie style because that way I could lean forward on the backrest and pretend that it was a pillow. Gemi and I tried to talk. We talked about how great it was going to be when we had a son. We surmised about whose features he would get on what parts of his body. We guessed at how tall he was going to be. But, of course, our conversations were stippled by moans and groans of pain every 10 minutes.

The nurse showed up and asked us how we were and offered Gemi drugs to help with the pain. She refused, saying that her mom did it naturally and she would too. The nurse looked at Gemi and then turned to me. I shrugged as if to say “I gots nuthin to do with this.” The nurse shot me a “good luck” look, dimmed the lights, and walked out. Gemi turned to me and said, “These contractions are making me want to pull my hair out.” (Did I mention that the ponytail was long gone? I won that bet handily, but that’s not the kind of thing that you throw in the face of someone who is about to pop a kid out, knowwhatimean?). I gripped her hand, kissed her forehead and said, “Good. You’ll know that you’re ready when you want to claw your eyes out.” Gemi gave me a look that would have killed me instantly if a contraction hadn’t taken her death gaze powers away from her at that very moment.

An hour later Gemi , who was still refusing medication, did an amazing thing… She fell asleep. But the contractions were still coming so she would fall asleep for 7 minutes or so. Then she would wake up, breathe through the pain, and fall back into unconsciousness. I no longer had anyone to talk to, so I turned my attention to the television. There was a Ronco infomercial playing: he was selling knives. I didn’t want to watch this drivel so I went for the remote. The problem was that the remote was on the other side of Gemi and every time I attempted to let go of Gemi’s hand she would squeeze it really tight. So I found myself immobile. It seemed that Ron Popiel and I were destined to get acquainted tonight. After 20 minutes of slicing shoes in half and cutting various forms of currency I went for the remote again. To no avail, Gemi’s reflexes kicked in again and I was glued to my seat. This time, though, I heard a chuckle from the loveseat. At least Kimmy would be subjected to the same hellish sales pitches that I would.

**** These next few paragraphs are not for the faint of heart. If you have never seen a baby being birthed, or you have a weak stomach please leave the room or have your garbage pail near ****

At about 7am Gemi said that she needed to go to the bathroom. So I unraveled my sleepy ass from my chair and got to the other side of the bed where I helped her up and we made our way to the lavatory. When a woman is in labor she leaks a bit… OK, a lot. She had been “sleeping” for a couple of hours so her bed pad was pretty red. I made a mental note to tell the nurse to change if before I let Gemi lay back down. Also, when a woman in labor gets vertical and gravity takes over, she tends to leak onto the floor. Think of it as a natural way to track your pregnant mate down if she tries to run from you; they are little red bread crumbs that can lead her back into the bed. With every step she dropped a red crumb, all the way to the toilet.

A wise man once said that he always finds inspiration on the toilet… OK, that was Eminem, but you get the idea. Something magical happened on that throne. Gemi had a contraction of an immense magnitude. After it was over she exhaled and attempted to get up when another one hit her. We got through that one and she told me that she felt the urge to push. I thought that it was just because of the position that she was in. Gravity was taking its toll on her uterus so she thought that the baby was coming. I told her that we just needed to get back to the bed and then she would feel much better. We slowly made our way back to the birthing bed and Gemi got in.

She was assaulted by another violent contraction, and she told me to get the doctor. At this point I was sure that she was simply going to the next stage of contractions, you know, the stage where you want to rip your eyes out but you still have 16 more hours of labor. But then I looked behind me.

I saw a trail of small red dots leading into the bathroom. Then I saw another trail of larger, redder, almot chunky splotches leading out of the bathroom. I peered into the door and I saw a deep red, definitely chunky puddle of fluid that corresponded with the exact spot where Gemi and I lingered next to the toilet before going back to the bed. Later, when D saw the bathroom, she said: and I quote, “It looks like somebody murdered a midget in there!” Upon seeing that, I thought to myself, “Maybe I should go get the doctor.”

The nurse came in first and she was as skeptical as I was (probably because she hadn’t looked into the bathroom yet), besides, who goes into labor and has a baby 6 hours later? After Gemi yelled loud enough to make D stir the nurse decided that it was best to check anyway… 10cm, she was ready.

Dr. Tammany came in and, with a 1980’s Hasbro motion, transformed the bed into a fully functional birthing table complete with moveable headpiece, stirrups, and a small compartment in the back where daddies can pass out when it gets too intense. The doctor and I both knew that this was the home stretch, but it still wasn’t a short run. Gemi pushed with every contraction for almost 20 minutes. During the time between the doctor and I discussed why he’s a Yankees fan and why I disagree. Gemi is also a Yankees fan, but every time she tried to put in her opinion the baby decided to voice his. A small time later we saw the head. (I guess it didn’t help that I was wearing my Cubs shirt). Ten minutes after that, at 8:14am during a really big contraction that went with a really big push, Logan sprang into the world so quickly that Dr. Tammany had to catch him.

He was a wrinkled little blood covered alien baby with a huge noggin. He cried like a banshee. He was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen in my life and his cries were as melodic as Luther Vandross’s love songs.

I cut the cord myself, and consequently shot umbilical fluid into Dr. Tammany’s face. They cleaned baby up and handed him to mommy.

 

 

Then to daddy.

Trinidad, home of the steel pan, jewel of the West Indies, and all-around the most interesting island that I’ve ever been to.  

Every time I’ve been to a tropical island like this it’s been the same. Reggae listening, rasta looking tourist traps geared mostly towards Americans. Trinidad is a lot different. There is an obvious influence from a multitude of cultures. Of course, the accent is serious islandese; everyone sounds like Damian Marley. But there is a lot of Spanish influence, probably because of the close proximity to South America.  But there is also an Asian flavor to the food, an Indian hint to the dress, an African way of life, as well as an annoying bit of Britain that I’ll get to later. This tiny island is almost as diverse as America.

Speaking of America, there is a huge American presence in Trini culture, but it’s different than Jamaica or the Bahamas. I’m used to seeing the culture cater to Americans for the purpose of tourism. Here, they have integrated pieces of America and call them their own. The purpose isn’t profit; it’s a choice by the people. One of the most popular eateries is KFC. That’s right, Kentucky Fried Chicken in the West Indies. (Though I was not impressed when I tried it, and they don’t even serve potato wedges!). While walking through the neighborhoods I heard American 80’s music: Kool and the Gang, 3^rd Bass, and The Outfield (I know, who listens to The Outfield anymore?). Of course, there was reggae of all indistinguishable forms as well, but I didn’t expect to hear Wang Chung. (But at least Soundproof 151 got great reviews when I let people hear it).

The most interesting thing that I’ve done here is gone to the market. It’s open air, flea market in Kenya style. People get there at the crack of dawn to peddle their freshly harvested goods. You can get everything that you need in this place.  Freshly picked spinach, fresh ground spices of all types, newly slaughtered meats, fish that was netted this morning. Even fresh bok choi (who knew that you could find snow cabbage on a tropical island?). And all of it is at rock bottom prices.  Wal-Mart, eat your heart out! And if the prices weren’t cheap enough already, you can barter with people and jew them down a peg. I witnessed it with my own eyes, and Gemi’s mom is a master. But perhaps the most intriguing thing about the market is the presence of the “market scalper” or as I like to call him, O’aka. He is an older gentleman, looks to be homeless, and he cruises the market early in the morning to find the best prices on goods. Once he finds the best he searches for the worst. Then he buys cheap and sells very close to the highest. I was able to pick up on his tactics after watching him for 10 minutes, but nobody else in the market seemed to notice because he was selling his wares like crazy. I would think that everybody would realize that if he’s selling something for $6 you can find it around the corner for $3, but O’aka left the market with a mint that day. I guess convenience tax is universal.

The British influence is prevalent mostly on the roads. They drive on the wrong side of the street. I have no real problem with that as long as I’m not driving. But my main fear is that I’m gonna get hit while trying to cross the street; I naturally look the wrong way when I’m watching for cars. I just know that every day there is a potential for me to get smacked in the back by a bus or a Maxi Taxi (which is a mini-van that drives faster than light and stops on a dime). But the influence is alive in other facets that are less annoying, but kinda interesting. The toilet flusher is on the wrong side. The hot and cold valves on the faucet are reversed. Most of the doors open from the left. And there were no dentist’s offices in sight! But all in all it wasn’t too backwards.

The people in Trinidad are interesting. They are an extremely proud people. Confident; secure in their earned respect among the Caribbean Isles. And they will find any excuse to take a break from work and start a party. Drinking and lounging are ways of life down there. Everyone you pass has a smile on and half of them have a Stag in their hand (and this is at 1 in the afternoon). But something sinister happens when they go to work; they instantly turn into unfeeling assholes. I have never seen customer service so shitty on such a consistent basis. Even the woman at customs, whose job it is to welcome people into the country, had the personality of a damp towel. Gemi and I went to a local bakery for currant rolls (phenomenal, by the way) and the ladies behind the counter seemed completely uninterested in serving us. I wanted to walk out but Gemi assured me that it would be worth it to sink my teeth into the beautifully beberried pastry (and she was right). It’s amazing that any businesses stay alive, but I guess that this has been going on for so long that the Trini people have gotten used to it.

Ok, so, knowing who I am, I’m sure that you all have been waiting for the food and alcohol review, well, here it is. First the food… OMG! Unlike their Jamaican neighbors to the north who like to jerk everything, the Trinis like to curry everything; a much more delicate skill, and they do it well. I gotz one word for you: Doubles. Two discs of roti slathered in a garbanzo based paste and perfectly balanced Trinidadian pepper. It’s messier than a sloppy joe and 20 times better. But, as I said before, there is a serious multicultural influence, so the Asian food is great and the Indian is even better. There’s nothing that you can’t get there… Except I didn’t see a McDonalds, but I wasn’t too disappointed by that. Then there’s the beer and liquor. Trinis like is sweet. Their rum is among the best in the world; Angostura has been winning awards since the 60’s and I tasted why. Great molasses complimented with brown sugar and pure cane results in a great dark rum that you don’t even want to mix with anything. I had to bring a bottle home. But the beer was the star. Carib is the national favorite and I found that a fresh Carib brewed down the street and bottled yesterday is a thing of beauty. Stag is the “man’s beer” but it tastes like Heineken, so I wasn’t a fan. But the star of the show, by far, is the Royal Extra Stout. It’s like Guinness, 3 times thicker, more alcohol content and it tastes like heaven. If I could get it in the states I’d have a new favorite beer. But I was very disappointed in the Guinness. They only have it in bottles, and it’s sweet. Like someone decided to run stout through sugar cane and bottle it. I have never refused a Guinness in my life, but I couldn’t drink it in Trinidad… It’s a good thing that there was always a Royal in arms reach.

All in all, a great trip to a great place. I can respect an urban sprawl where you can get fresh coconuts on the side of the road. The beach is never more than an hour away and the mountains are always in view. I would recommend Trinidad to anyone who wants to enjoy a tropical paradise. I’m definitely going back as soon as I can and as many times as I can. But next time I’m bringing a fan, it’s hotter than a virgin on prom night down there!

Sadly, though, I never found the hashers…….

Miami airport was strange as always. I swear, no matter where you park, you end up at the wrong door. In fact, I don’t think that I’ve ever entered on the correct floor. This time a deity must have been on my side, since I was running a bit late. I just so happened to enter through the most correct incorrect door that I possibly could. I went in and the baggage claim was staring me in the face. That would be great if I was coming, but I was going. Luckily, I found an elevator. It led me to the correct floor; where I found 6 identical American Airlines counters, none of them marked, if I have to go counter to counter, standing in each of those long lines, I would surely miss my flight. Luckily, the counter right in front of me was the right one.

After a brief stint at the counter and through security, I found my gate and found the nearest eatery. One Caesar salad and 12 dollars later I was not quite full and not at all fulfilled. Why must everything in an airport be so ridiculously overpriced and under-portioned?

Ok, so the plane. It’s a 747-400, big sumbitch. And the best part of all is that there was no one sitting next to me. All that room, and it’s all mine. Good thing too, because I’m about to get some well deserved shuteye, and I don’t want to end up on some dude’s lap. (Though, right now I’m too tired to care). Onward to dreamland, and San Juan.

The landing was so smooth that I almost didn’t wake up. I sat quietly in my seat and waited for everyone else to vacate the plane because I had a 4-hour layover to look forward to, so I was made of time. I had it all planned out in my head: find my gate, find a bar, and find out if there is any liquor or beer in Puerto Rico that is worthwhile. Here’s where the trip took a turn for the interesting.

“Always follow trail, never follow people.” That’s a good piece of hashing advice that I never tend to follow. (In fact, I’m usually the person to lead all of my fellow hashers astray). Well, I got off the plane and tried to find my connecting flight on the video screens, and none of them were working. So, I decided to follow everybody else… and I ended up at the baggage claim… oops, I can’t get to my gate from here.  I guess I used all my luck on the airport in Miami, because the elevator that would take me back to where I came from was broken. I went from one end to the other and I couldn’t find a way up. I finally asked the door attendants and they told me that I had to go outside to get back upstairs. Great… So I went out, trekked about 200 yards past 3 doors that said “do not enter”, found a concrete ramp, went up it, passed 3 more do not enter doors, went inside, looked at a security checkpoint that was closed, plodded along for another couple football fields, and concluded that I was officially lost. The problem was that there was nobody around to ask, so I had to continue to wander.

Apparently I had wandered into a part of the airport that was under renovation (which explained the inoperable monitors) because I turned a corner and the next hallway was bustling with life. I had found my way, but I had to go through security again. On the bright side, I got a Puerto Rico stamp on my passport. On the ironic side, I was merely a left turn and 50 feet away from where I disembarked. On the brighter side, I had eaten up 45 minutes of my layover on my pointless tour of Puerto Rico airport.

On to the bar! I had to try the local beer first: Medalla Light. Florida tap water has more flavor. So I switched to the rum. I know that Bacardi sucks but I figured that Don Q would be better quality closer to home. Wrong again. For the second time today I walked out of an airport establishment over charged and under-satisfied. I opted for laptop games. After significant success at Luxor 2, it was time to board the plane at gate… damn; they moved my gate on me while I was preoccupied with video games! Luckily, it was only 3 gates down and the plane was far from full. I checked in with no problem and stood in the archway for 15 minutes. Then we went down the stairs and boarded a 2-engine prop plane. I was about to go over an ocean on a clodhopper. I’m all about new experiences, but this one is a little scary.

At least I wasn’t sitting next to anyone this time either. I like sitting alone because I don’t have to be bothered with the randomness of the person that you’re gonna get. But sometimes you want some advice on a crossword answer… What was the name of that one Matthew McAbdomen movie? It’s 11 letters and pissing me off! Even without help, I managed to burn through 5 puzzles.

3 hours later I was in Trinidad. It was raining and I remembered that I had forgotten my hat, damn. Oh well, it’s supposed to be the dry season, so this may be the only rain that I see while I’m here. Trinidad airport is really small, but extremely nice. But, as always, they find a way to make you walk the entire length of the thing and back again to get from the gate to customs. Still it was relatively painless, but the girl at the customs counter had the personality of a wall hanging. You would think that the person whose job it is to welcome you to their country could at least be pleasant. She made me want to turn around and go back to the states where people are… oh yeah, we ain’t nice neither.

So, I made it across the pond one more time. My adventure in the air had come to a close, thus begins my adventure on the ground.

More to come very soon…

History shows again and again
How nature points out the folly of men

And my folly is that I talk too damn much. I hate it when I'm right. It always ends up biting me in the ass.

Tropical Storm Fay did its worst to Brevard county today. It dropped a lot of rain and the only things that it destroyed were days off for people in the education field.

But an ironic fate befell me in particular. The last sentence of my last blog stated that I was not going to let any measley storm keep me from putting on my karaoke show or get in the way of me having a few beers with my pals. But now I sit here alone (of course I have a beer in my hand) in my house. I am not in the bar, I am not doing karaoke, I did not pass go, I did not collect $200. Why, you ask? Because Fay decided to flood my neighborhood. Just because I decided to open my big cyber-mouth. This storm took a sharp turn east, headed right for me, and then sat on top of me; dropping 200 million gallons of water on my front porch.

I remember complaining a few months ago about the construction crew that blocked up my street for moths at a time. They were working on an improved drainage system so that the flooding that happened in 2004 would never happen again. They failed.

So, now I am stuck on the shores of Lake Roxbury, alone. And it's all because I had to mouth off at nature. But I did get some good pics