Dear friends, today’s the first anniversary of Miriam Makeba’s death.

You must know by now that she is one of my all time favourite singers and her songs were the soundtrack to some delightful childhood memories.

Mama Africa died on November 10, 2008 and remembering her was bitter sweet as I’ve enjoyed listening to songs I’ve nearly forgotten.

I’ve kept a close watch on awards shows in 2009, expecting that an icon of beautiful music and global goodwill would get at least a posthumous mention.  Nada, of course.  Nothing but the vomit that passes for music nowadays.

But we don’t need their stinking awards to celebrate and play one for Mama.

Into the gentle Pata Pata of night

♫ One good thing about music

When it hits you feel no pain

So hit me with music

Hit me with music now

I got to say trench town rock  ♫

You gotta love Mr. Marley’s ode to Kingston 12.  I’m having that kind of mellow weekend, how is everyone doing?  I did something I haven’t done in some years.  I went out for a downtown walk to gaze at the natives and see if there are any H’ween costumes that would make me giggle like an 82 year old nun in a strip joint.  Unfortunately, if you’ve seen one pot-bellied, middle-aged man in a spandex wedding gown, you’ve seen them all.  My sister and I did get an offer from a little man in a dominatrix outfit.  Thanks to his, ahem, challenged stature, he was at eye level with our chests.  And he smelled as though he’d been under a bottle of gin since lunch.

The little man staggered and then said ‘Whoa!’.  I looked around and wondered what he was exclaiming about.  ‘Are those real?’, he asked in the way only a little man could.  I knew what he was asking but we both chose to ignore him.  ‘Can I touch them?’, he asked, pointing a child-sized hand in our direction.  Sigh.  How come I never get an offer like that from a tall black man in H’ween?  Why is it always the garden gnome with wispy, balding hair who is clearly blind as a runner girl can never boast a can-I-touch-it kind of bosom?

In other news, I had lunch with a friend and a married couple I haven’t seen since university.  This lovely nomad couple were several years ahead of me (in law and journalism when I was a freshman), and they married while graduate students.  Quite casually, I asked if they had any children and they said no.  I left it at that but the discussion came back to the topic and they easily shared that they’ve made a decision not to have children.  They were childfree.  Interesting!  I couldn’t even fathom how their respective families would deal with this most egregious of decisions in our culture.

I’ve learnt since then that this easy going couple are dedicated to their respective families.  The wife came from a family of 15 or 16 children (her father married 3 times) and she is financially responsible for all 5 children of the last step mother.  She is putting the children through private schools in Nairobi so they have a shot at a decent education.  The husband’s been shuttling his ailing mother from country to country to find an appropriate kidney donor for the past few years.  I think even if they were not both mentally and financially self-sacrificing, I believe it takes some courage and honour to not bring forth a child into this world.

I’ve always imagined myself as a parent of at least one child someday.  I have so much parental guilt and mental screw-up to pass on, I would surely become ill if it stays with me and doesn’t get passed on to an innocent child.  Of course, if the universe were to twist my arm and make me make a choice between my own DNA replicant and something else, I would (with a heavy heart, no doubt), accept this Bugatti:

Ay ya yay! How did I neglect my friends and our little corner of the world?

I miss all of you so much and promise to come back and be a better host than I have been in a couple of months.

We are officially in the thick of my favourite season (minus the cold wind and sneezing riff-raff). I discovered a few things that made me scratch my head a little. One is that I am half an inch shorter than I was 15 years ago. At this rate, I will be 2.5 feet tall when I get to retirement age. I’ve also learnt that space travel shows died with Star Trek: TNG. Stargate Universe? Blech. I’d rather watch Dr.Phil or stick a fork in my left ear, whichever I fancy at the time.

Life slapped me around a little bit a couple of months ago. I was intensely tempted to drop my drawers and moon it. Instead, I soldiered on and the latter part of October is surprisingly wonderful and I am most grateful.

I will be back with a longer post. How is everybody doing? Better check in, folks, though I will make the blog rounds.

(A., sending you lots of hugs for all your support, sweets).

I am sorry about the late wishes, I hope you are all having a blessed Ramadan. Let’s all eat a little less and not a little more as is the usual .

Hope all of you are okay.

Okay, I lied and acted like it wasn’t a big deal that Michael Jackson died in my last post. I’ve been absolutely beside myself. Ugh. Michael, I can think of a few people who should take your place. I’m a die hard fan. I really do regret how his life spiraled out of control in the past 15 years or so.

“And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.” –Khalil Gibran

How many of us can say that our childhood soundtrack had a track or two from Michael Jackson? For all his faults and failings, I am sad for the man’s passing.

Like many people, I’ve been following the massive demonstrations in Tehran and other cities in the past week.  I urge the Iranian people to continue fighting and not be scared away by government and militia thugs.  It sickens me to see the dead and injured but fighting for your voice comes at a price.  All too high for some, unfortunately.

I watched this harrowing video of a young girl near her father.  Absolutely sickening.

Here is the video, please don’t click on it if you find these types of images disturbing:

Death of a young woman

I read today of another pilot who died while flying a plane over a massive body of water.

Until very recently, I wasn’t afraid of flying.  In fact, I welcomed a chance to be away from phone and e-mail for a few hours.  I stuffed my carry on bag with 2 novels I wouldn’t read, a couple of magazines I wouldn’t read as well, my ear plugs, my eye covers, and my personal pillow.  I tried and tried but couldn’t ignore the human swill around me.  But I did my best.  Either be out of contact range or share a small, midair cabinet with riffraff and make the best of it.

I have no tolerance for people who don’t respect personal space.  I know the seats are small but doesn’t mean that I put strangers on my lap.  No, you can’t rest your head on my shoulder, you are not my child.  Don’t even think about drooling on my sleeves, I will kill you, you fucking baboon!

Keep your toddler’s hands off my face.  Don’t give me a dirty look when I tell her: “little girl, stop it”.  She is your spawn, not mine.  Air hostess, I have no use for your poison food.  Don’t wake me up or I will address you as the stewardess.

I can tolerate all that.  What I can’t tolerate is some gluttonous asshole who spent his life overdrinking and overeating dying suddenly while flying the plane that I am on.  Listen, asshole, just because it is your day, don’t make it mine.

They should pair up these 60+ year old pilots.  One of them croaks, the other can land the plane safely.  I have sympathy for people who have heart attacks.  Almost all.  The guy flying my plane is the exception.  I will chase you into hell.

I have a deposition on Wednesday.

We are being sued in the morning and we are countersuing in the afternoon.

How come the more things I have to do, the slower my thinking, energy and resolve?  I’ve been telling myself to sit down and prepare my paperwork all weekend.  It is Sunday at midnight and I have done jack shidh.

Those lawyers are going to wipe my nomad butt all over the floor.  I should care but I feel strangely numb.  I am eating a banana split I shouldn’t, the prints on my shorts are mesmerizing.  I will do anything not to start this week, go to that deposition, and fight my old clients.

Can I leave all of this behind and move in with you?  Anyone?

I make great pancakes and I’m housebroken.

Tonight I am going to a wedding of a friend’s sister.  This is her third.  I vowed, swore up and down, and spat on a promise ring that I would not attend another wedding of this woman.  I hate weddings in general but she manages to put together the worst.

After 2 previous marriages, I think a small ceremony is in order for the third.  Am I being too cruel?  I just don’t get why she needs to wear a white dress, do the green mile walk while people are shouting and ululating, sit in that hideous stare-a-thon seat for the just-married, and then have those odd-looking video guys take pictures.  And her 3 kids from the last 2 marriages will be running around.

It is all very strange to me.