The suspension from Parliament yesterday of Basdeo Panday, Trinidad and Tobago’s leader of the Opposition, for unauthorised laptop use, has left me feeling me terribly confused. Please help me resolve some of the issues surrounding the matter by taking this poll:

*in June 2006, US Senator Stevens famously referred to the internet as “a series of tubes“

UPDATE: The Trinidad and Tobago Computer Society blog has a listing of news articles about the incident.

The Global Voices team’s Miami headquarters in Coconut Grove

The first sign was the failing wifi signal, accessible, after a while, only to people with the last name “Avila“. Then the power went completely. We eventually located the fuse box, and toggled every switch we could find. No go.

For relaxation, members of the Global Voices team helped Outreach Director David “Oso” Sasaki with his laundry

We’ve recently established, however, that the power outage was in fact south Florida-wide, and wasn’t the fault of the eight Global Voices editors and authors present in the city for WeMedia Miami 2008 and the eight laptops, the washing machine in the process of laundering 98% of Oso’s wardrobe, the coffee maker and the two ceiling fans going full tilt at the team’s Miami headquarters in Coconut Grove.

Phew.

Renata, one of the Avilas who had internet access till the bitter end

I’m back in Trinidad and still haven’t reported properly on BlogHer even after all sorts of cool people have written about meeting me (thanks, cool people! At least I took lots of photos). Putting me particularly and rather dramatically to shame (and not just for blogging about BlogHer) is Beth Kanter, an old Global Voices colleague whom I first met at the second GV summit in 2005, and who has been conducting a very successful fundraising campaign for a bloggers’ conference in Cambodia.

I’m hoping the fact that American Airlines left my luggage in Miami last night will net me some sympathy. And be thankful that your dog is probably not the Fake Steve Jobs either.

After this appeared, a few of my crueller friends suggested I should have Delphine’s tongue removed. I had to remind them that she’s just a pothound, after all, and you shouldn’t read too much into her expressions (not to mention, of course, that removing an animal’s tongue is just plain barbarous.)

Looking at the image above, however — the glint in the eyes, the expression of utter disdain — especially in the context of her Garbo-like attitude towards being photographed lately, you do begin to wonder. . . .

Woman: Hi, I’m trying to reach Georgia Popplewell.

GP: This is she.

Woman: I’m calling about an e-mail sent to you by Jane Doe [who, for the record, thinks GP is a bit of an upstart]. Will you be attending X event on Tuesday?

GP: Sorry, but I never received an e-mail from Ms. Doe.

Woman (with considerable attitude): Well, she sent it.

GP (not without a bit of ‘tude herself): Well, that is one of the problems with e-mail, isn’t it. Just because something is sent doesn’t mean it was received. I’m checking my mail now….

GP types “Jane Doe” into the search window of her e-mail client.

GP: Nope. Nothing. In fact, I haven’t received any mail from Ms. Doe in ages.

Woman: Well, it’s on Wednesday. Can you attend?

GP: What’s this event again?

Woman: The official opening of X [the same X that’s been in operation for over a year now].

GP: Could you e-mail me the information again? I’ll give you another address.

On the other end of the line GP can discern what she’s almost certain is the sound of pins piercing the fabric skin of the GP-shaped voodoo doll (loaned to the woman by Jane Doe) she’s convinced the woman has on her desk.

GP: Are you still there?

Woman: Er, yes. Let me get a pen.

GP: Why don’t you simply use one of the pins and carve it into the surface of your desk?

Woman: I beg your pardon?

GP: Sorry? Did I say something?

Embellished a bit, perhaps. I’ll leave you to guess which parts are genuine.

Thank you, dear Jamrock, for reminding us that our own parliament doesn’t hold the monopoly on ridiculousness. Via Ria Bacon’s Stet blog, I learned of this photo, which was carried on the front page of the Jamaica Observer on October 18. It’s a close-up of the hands of Jamaican Prime Minister Portia Simpson-Miller as she doodles on a square of paper during — get this — a debate on a no-confidence motion brought by the Opposition party! Maybe I would doodle too if my party held the kind of majority enjoyed by the ruling People’s National Party (PNP), and the debate did last seven hours; but I have to say I’m not all that impressed with the Honourable PM’s drawing skills.

You’ll want to read Ria’s entertaining attempts at analysing the meaning of the Mrs. Simpson-Miller’s imagery and also the later post where she reports on the restrictions since put in place for journalists sitting in on parliamentary sessions. Yep, instead of taking away Portia’s notepad and pencil, they’ve banned journalists from sitting in the gallery above the members, corralling them instead into a 6′ x 6′ press box. Which isn’t entirely surprising, but you sort of wish that one day the government would surprise us by reacting with a bit of imagination. Like, for example, by announcing that the Prime Minister had signed up for drawing lessons at the Edna Manley School for the Arts?

They already never call — just wait till they read this.

(Forgive me — I’m not having a very good morning).

The Queen’s Park Oval in Trinidad, during the WI v South Africa test match in April 2005

Here listening to the commentary on the 2nd One-Day International between West Indies and Zimbabwe going on in Antigua, which is interrupted mid-sentence by one of those strident commercials. Said message from our sponsor concludes with the tag line:

“Wave your flag high in the sky and show that cricket is a West Indian thing!”

I find this curious. As dismal a spectacle as West Indies cricket has been over the past 11 years, are there really people out there who need to be convinced that cricket (78 years after the West Indies were granted Test status) is a West Indian thing? The image below should dispel any doubts: who else but a West Indian would haul a 19″ television set to a cricket match?

We lost that match by 8 wickets, however, so drowning one’s sorrows in “Baywatch” reruns (or whatever else it is they’re rerunning on cable these days — shows you how much TV I watch) may not have been such a bad idea.

“This has “caption contest” written all over it…” was the comment left on Flickr by the wily Sanjiva, who has developed quite a knack of making me do things I’d normally never think of doing.

So if you’re so inclined, please leave suggestions for witty captions in the comments section, bearing in mind that this is not actually a contest (ie no prizes will be offered!).

FYI, the people in the photo are (L to R) West Indies star batsman Brian Lara, McCann Erickson Senior Art Director Leizelle Ramsoondar, Trinidad & Tobago/Falkirk FC footballer Russell Latapy, and my brother C*POP. The edge of Trinidad & Tobago/Sydney FC footballer (and captain of Trinidad & Tobago’s World Cup team) Dwight Yorke’s white cap is visble to the right of Leizelle’s face. The photo was taken during our recent commercial shoot in Manchester.

Jonathan on J’ouvert morning (L) and Carnival Tuesday (R).

- He wined down the place (and got wined on) on Carnival Monday and Tuesday, and keeps saying that his “memory bank was erased” over the Carnival weekend, but that didn’t stop Nicholas “Nikipedia” Laughlin from being quoted TWICE by keynote speaker Edward Baugh (Emeritus Professor of English at the University of the West Indies in Jamaica) at yesterday evening’s opening of the 25th annual West Indian Literature conference. Both quotes were taken from Nikipedia’s review of The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse. Also referenced in Professor Baugh’s talk were two other writers named Derek Walcott and Antonio Benitez-Rojo.

- Seems that Jonathan Ali hasn’t outgrown Carnival after all. After being spotted on j’ouvert morning perched on a fire hydrant in front of the Red House, covered from head to toe in clay and sporting a devil tail with a light bulb on the end and cursing the Prime Minister (photos coming soon, we hope!), a somewhat cleaner, soberer Jonathan appeared again on the streets of Woodbrook on Carnival Tuesday morning. Jonathan makes an attempt to regain his dignity in his latest blog post by reproducing a poem by Derek Walcott, but rumour has it that next year he may actually don a costume.

Nikipedia’s taken charge of making sure we have decent devil tails for j’ouvert this year, and spent the earlier part of today running around to hardware stores and the like buying wire and electrical components (seems we’re going to be illuminated).

But I received an e-mail from him about an hour ago saying that he couldn’t remember the tail-making technique I’d so carefully coached him in last year, and instead of walking him through it over the phone, I decided to dig into my archives for the images above, which are taken from the flyer for a j’ouvert band my friends Gillian Goddard, Robert Young and I decided to produce during a season of insanity back in 1995.

I don’t know who invented the technique, but I learned it from Robert, and have passed it on to several since. The end product (no pun intended) looks like it would be uncomfortable to wear, and men, in particular, usually balk when they first see it. But in reality these tails are extremely comfortable, and within minutes most people forget they’re wearing a wire tail and start prancing around scratching and poking people, until somebody stops them and curls the wire into a less lethal configuration.

Me wearing a tail in 1999

Materials required:
- A length of wire (eight feet will give you a tail of respectable length)
- Enough fabric to either 1) shred and wrap around the wire or 2) make into a long, narrow sleeve (in which case you’d need a needle and thread or sewing machine) into which you insert the wire
- Another length of fabric or cord to wrap around your waist (length will depend on your waist size)

Note: if you plan on wining on somebody, or having somebody wine on you, please make sure and remove your tail first!

The reason I haven’t done a podcast in more than three weeks is that I’ve been too busy taking photos of myself. Or so suggests an article in today’s New York Times Style section which an image of me helps illustrate. The piece also seems to think I’m a teenager, so it might be advisable to take the whole thing with a grain of salt.

I’ve only seen the online version of the article, so I don’t know what size the image is in print, but just in case it turns out to be bigger than a postage stamp and somebody I know sees it and mistakes me for some kind of megalomaniacal narcissist, I figured I’d pre-emptively set the record straight as to how my photo happened to be in the Times in the first place, especially as I’m well aware that there are people out there who believe that things happen to me not because I am slightly charming and have the habit of being in the right place at the right time, but because I spend my time mailing out media kits stuffed with tear sheets and head shots (airbrushed) and cases of premium rum. And that’s my friends and family I’m talking about.

I do occasionally take photos of myself. As Oso said the other day, we’re all vain bastards at the end of the day (though in order to attain Oso’s level of vanity I’d have to take lessons). When it comes to portraits of myself, I am, in fact, one of my favourite photographers — certainly the only one who knows how to choose the right shots and actually deletes the awful ones when she promises to, instead of stashing them in a folder marked “Blackmail”.

There I was, for instance, this past January on a visit to New York, browsing the stacks at St. Mark’s Bookstore in the East Village, when I felt the urge to place the PowerShot G2 on a shelf, set the self-timer and look down into the lens. In the resulting photo the skin on my face looks like it’s being subjected to a stronger than usual gravitational pull, making me look jowly and double-chinned; my pores are the size of 25-cent pieces and the two furrows that form between my eyebrows when I haven’t had enough sleep look like they were carved into my face with a sharp penknife. And have I mentioned the triangle of light on my nose that makes me look like one of the Beagle Boys? Naturally, this would be the one the photo editor from the New York Times who contacted me out of the blue (note: she contacted me) a couple of weeks ago, would choose from my Flickr page.

I suppose I could pretend that looking bad was the point of the exercise. But for that to fly I’d have to look shockingly awful, or do something awfully shocking, like pose nude (in which case I could think of better places to put my photos than on Flickr, and to hell with Creative Commons). Or pose nude with a heliconia stuck between my cheeks (not the ones on my face). Or, if I had the talent, paint myself nude, like my friend Irenee Shaw, and say: “As a Caribbean person, in the light of our historical circumstances, the assertion of my own narrative and presence is important.”

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Lifehacker to TTCS OSSWIN CD: Be my Valentine!
The Trinidad & Tobago’s Computer Society’s OSSWIN CD, a collection of open source software, was chosen as February 14th’s Download of the Day by popular productivity site Lifehacker, which was particularly impressed with the TTCS’s implementation of an innovative web-based interface, “allowing you to browse the offerings and download programs from the source without downloading the entire CD.” The TTCS OSSWIN CD was mentioned in CFR’s last “This and That” entry.

Lizard to CFR host:  Be my Valentine!
Today, for the first time in her life, the host of Caribbean Free Radio had a lizard fall on her. The incident occured on the atmospheric patio of the Diego Martin Pan Institute in Benjamin Street, Diego Martin. The CFR host was eating a salad when “something black” leapt on to her clothing. One of her dining companions, Wendy Warnick of Fairbanks, Alaska, helped brush the creature off the CFR host’s arm on to the ground.

Baby, the Diego Martin Pan Institute’s chef and man of business, told the CFR host that the incident signified good luck. The CFR host, who is terrified of lizards, is reported to have said: “I’m surprised I didn’t get a heart attack, but it could have been worse - this could have been a Teacher Mildred moment.”

UNC to Ato Boldon: Be our Valentine!
Ato Boldon, four-time Olympic medalist and World Championship 200m gold medalist, was appointed a senator today by the United National Congress, Trinidad & Tobago’s opposition party. Nicholas Laughlin, blogger, metal-cutter and editor of Caribbean Beat magazine, is said to be sitting near the phone awaiting his own call from the UNC.

The following is reprinted with the kind permission of my friend Nola Powers, who in any event is sailing at the moment in the Grenadines on a 45′ monohull manned by an all-male crew and couldn’t care less right now what anybody does with her work. It is based on a true story (”or sort of,” says Nola). It is strongly believed that the rap video in question is the one for Jay-Z’s “Big Pimpin”, portions of which were filmed on location in Trinidad during Carnival 2000 (hence the outdated reference to “a $950 costume” - these days you can barely get a costume in a jouvay mud band for that price). The original version of “Stop the Carnival!” was published in The Ticket magazine.

STOP THE CARNIVAL!

This Lent I’ve given up vegetables and exercise. Some of my friends and associates think it’s contrary to the spirit of the season, but after a pre-Carnival dominated by denial, steamed foods and entanglements with weight machines and other instruments of torture, I think it’s the least I can do for myself. In short, my pre-Carnival is pretty much other people’s Lent, if with a slightly less noble goal—i.e. being able to squeeze into my costume on Carnival Monday.

But there was one Carnival a few years back when I didn’t have to worry about fitting into a costume. Up to two weeks before the event I’d been a regular at the gym and observing a dietary regime that would have given a hunger striker cause for concern. Then I get a call from this friend who works in the biz (that’s Hollywoodese for the film business, I think) asking me if I wanted to work on a rap video that was being filmed here over Carnival. Being both Trini to the bone and in possession of a $950 costume, I refused. Then she mentioned an obscene sum of money, plus the fact that they’d reimburse me for my costume. I was on eBay in seconds flat announcing the sale of one Carnival costume, which was snapped up within minutes by a drag queen from Abilene, Texas. And in the space of a pit stop at KFC to rebuild my depleted reserves of saturated fat, I went from mas’ player to a full-fledged member of the biz.

Well, maybe not so full-fledged. I soon learned that I’d been hired not for my way with celebrities but for the fact that I owned a car, which ended up transporting not major rap artists and recording label execs, but boxes of groceries and emergency supplies of masking tape and clothespins (which, as not many people know, they use a lot of in the biz). “Believe me, you don’t even want to meet those people,” my friend said. “They’re a bunch of arrogant, sexist so-and-so’s. You’re far better off in the, er, transport department.”

Carnival Tuesday morning arrived and I still hadn’t come within 100 feet of a rap star. Crawling bleary-eyed to the production office that morning, I’d run into several of my costumed pals, wending their way in jaunty fashion towards King George V Park. “How’s show biz?” they asked. In response I made the cross-armed gesture popularised by Run DMC circa 1989, which is about the most up-to-date piece of urban body language I know (I’d planned to bone up hanging out with rap stars), and which was appropriately ambiguous.
 
That afternoon, however, my big break finally arrived. Somebody handed me a walkie talkie and dispatched me to the Savannah to find the band Poison, whom the director had come up with the bright idea of filming a scene with. Arriving at the Grand Stand, however, about 80% of Poison had already crossed the stage. The 6,000-strong spandexed throng was pouring out on to the western end of the Savannah in jumbled mess, bikinis askew, headpieces discarded, any notion of staying in section long forgotten.

After fiddling with the buttons for about five minutes, I finally got the walkie to work. “We’ve missed Poison,” I yelled to the Assistant Director. “They’ve already crossed the stage!” I heard the AD relaying the news to the director, who cursed and grabbed the walkie. “Well then we’ll just have to get them to go across again!” he screamed. I almost dropped the handset laughing. “Did you hear what I said?” he yelled again. It took me a few moments to recollect myself. “Yes, I heard,” I shouted back, “But that can’t happen.” “And why the *%&# is that?” he yelled. “Because this is not your movie,” I replied calmly. “This is Carnival.”

Leaving the director spewing expletives on the other end, I switched off the walkie and caught a music truck down the road. And that was it for me and the biz.

My only regret is that I’d sold my costume, as the following year the band was charging $1250 for one that was practically identical.

I’ve discovered I find spam easier to tolerate if the “sender” has a cute name. Today’s “Spam Name of the Day”: