Lighter side of paradise

The barbecue season has arrived a bit early what with the impending GOP primary headed down to the wire for a real head on collision.

We ought to request for an additional EMT team to pick-up gubernatorial tandem and supporters who may run-out of oxygen before crossing the finish line. It’s no fun watching the divisive primary split the GOP in half well into doomsday.
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When you go to wakes, novenas, baptismal parties, weddings or anniversaries, you would find strange parrots in the venue singing: “Pepero-Kiyu” or “Juan-Diego”. There’s nothing melodic about it. In fact, both parrots have contracted sore throats and runny noses for singing too long under the erratic weather of the GOP landscape.

Who would I vote for as a Republican? The team who understands the issues and possess strong character, vision and integrity. There’s no room to accommodate our mini-version of Clinton and Monica, yeah? Did someone say “Charity begins at home?” What exactly does it mean, its relationship and importance to the most coveted seat in these isles?
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I fear irrelevancy and redundancy on things I say in conversations and deliberative discussions or issues that eventually find their way into this corner of the paper.

But there seems to be a strange confirmation that perhaps I’m now a member of one of two clubs or both. I need not go further than mention an issue, mundane or spectral, to which there’s always an instant answer of: “I knooowwwww”. I was like: “Gee, and I thought I was contributing, positively….”
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Around the carnival ground, local musicians whip-up reggae numbers as the sober and drunk troops mix it all up at the muddy dance area. Even as an established musician, I really marvel at the beat of reggae that allows wide-bodied folks a chance to swing with grace to the last beat.

I never liked this form of music. It lacks creativity. Then, I was protesting one evening about reggae when my son snapped, “Sorry, dad, it’s generational!” I was fuming mad ready to get even but decided to surrender to what’s rightfully the preserve of the younger folks.

It’s basically the same reaction my late saintly mom had as I beat drum set to the famous “Wipe Out” and other hip music of the sixties and seventies.
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Then there’s rap music which, in my view, is basically an abbreviated form of ghetto speech accentuated by funky beats. There’s no music, per se, but then it’s the fad of young kids to which my son again reminded me, “Dad, it’s generational stuff!” I figure the second in-your-face answer was enough for this senior citizen to, well, in their lingo, “park it”. It’s a “no -win” situation. I surrender!
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I’d like to encourage the legislative leadership to reserve some CIP funds for a new government complex to be built around the Civic Center area.

My purpose isn’t necessarily one of bringing the physical structure of government closer to the people as much as the bad experience I must endure each time I ascend onto the highest point on the island: Capital Hill where the air thins out, my sinus starts popping, and a bit suspicious that even the oxygen in my brain cells are diminished in the process.

Perhaps it is this thin air that has denied
our men wisdom sufficient oxygen in their cranium to put one and one together. Further, it’s closer to the blue skies of paradise that is only fitting for angels we haven’t heard on high.