Maybe I'm Not A Writer.

Maybe I'm not a writer. Maybe my words won't go down in history somewhere, or be quoted, or even published anywhere outside the blogosphere. Maybe the best I can hope for is just to be retweeted every now and again. Maybe I'm not as good as I like to think I am sometimes.

Maybe I'll never write a book. I admit, the thought of even starting one daunts me. I wouldn't even know where to start. What would I write about anyway? Maybe the countless stories that float around in my head are doomed to remain locked up in there, never to see the light of day. Then again... maybe that's for the best.

Maybe blogging won't make me rich and famous one day. Maybe it will never be more than a hobby. A way for me to express myself in ways I could never truly articulate in the real world. A way to come out of that shell I've developed over the years and interact with people I share such a  strong connection with, I've somehow grown to consider so many these people - people I've never met in real life - "friends".

But so what? I never set out to be or do any of those things. When I first started all this, it wasn't to become famous. I never had dreams of having hundreds or thousands of followers. But I'm glad for every one I do have. I was a goof. A guy who used humor to hide his insecurities. One who declared his love for coffee, breasts and video games without fear of being judged. One who read and commented on other blogs, not so that people would notice me and follow me home, but because I enjoyed them. Maybe I'm still that guy. Yeah! I'm definitely still that guy.

So maybe I'm not really a writer. Or maybe I am. I'm not the one to judge that for now. Maybe all I am is just goof who can string a few sentences together and hopefully make someone other than myself smile. Even if it's just a little smile. But you know what? Maybe I'm okay with that. Maybe that's all I need to be right now.

Where I'm From.

I am from the birthplace of steelpan, from Charles chocolate candies and Solo soft drinks.

I am from the warm and sunny tropics where temperatures can range anywhere between 26 to 34 degree (celsius). I am from where you're bound to find a mango/coconut/banana trees growing in most yards (sometimes all of them together).

I am from the Chaconia, the Northern Range, the Pitch Lake and Buccoo Reef.

source

I am from an evening walk to the ice-cream parlor. I am from macaroni pie or roti or pelau on a Sunday.

Pelau courtesy: Mrs. C.

I am from the sibling disagreements that melted away even more quickly than they started and from not holding grudges.

From "Respect yuh elders" and "Always tell yuh neighbors, good morning".

I am from church on a Sunday morning. And you had to make the weekly trip to the market first.

I am from ice-cold coconut water (right out of the coconut) around Queen's Park Savannah and doubles in Curepe.

From the neighborhood children playing cricket or small-goal football in the street after school, from a culture created from the combining of Africa, India, Spain, England, China, Syria and more countries than I can name in this post.

I am from the old photos (way more than all the albums could hold) that were on the top of the old bedroom wardrobe. Safely hidden away from young, destructive hands but still close enough to get whenever that relative you hadn't seen in ages visited.

A few great bloggers I follow (like her, her and him) have been started doing this and I decided to join in. There's a template too (which I didn't follow 100%) that can be found here

No, no, no! I'm Not *That* Vinny C.

It has come to my attention that I've become a victim of identity theft. Okay, I'm exaggerating. But it's still a case mistaken identity.

See, there's this show on MTV called America's Best Dance Crew and one of the dance groups this season (I think. I don't watch it) is a group called ICONic Boyz (with a "z", of course). Among the members is a kid named Vincent Castronovo. Young Vincent is apparently quite popular and is sometimes referred to as...

Vinny C.

Yeah, I know. Crazy, right?

And that's about much research as I did on this show.

Anyway, this other Vinny C has his own Facebook fan page, twitter and tumblr accounts. There is apparently a fan site too called "F*ck Yeah Vinny C" (which is a little too much enthusiasm, if you ask me). Now it seems his fans, in a desperate search to attach themselves to anything Vincent Castronovo, have been sniffing around and following to my Twitter account.

I've got nothing against the kid so if any of his loyal fans read this, please stifle the overwhelming urge to blast me with angry comments in his defense. I'm just saying, I'm not him. If this still offends you then you're beyond any help I (or anyone else besides maybe a therapist) can offer.

That being said, I'd like to take the time to inform these misdirected fans that they should observe the obvious differences between the young Mr. Castronovo and myself before following my tweets only to realize your mistake a few days later and dropping me like a soiled jockstrap.

Vincent Castronovo:

Source

Me: 

Take a few seconds. Get a good look. For those who may still be unclear, I'll guide you to the obvious differences:

- I've been told I look young for my age but, still, I'm not 12-years-old. I know he isn't really 12 (Probably), but I don't watch the show and don't care enough to go find out. I have a wife and, until recently, I also had a job... with a desk... where I had to wear a shirt. One that did not involve spinning back-flips on a stage.

- I do not now, or ever will, EVER, have a mohawk or fohawk or whateverthehell it's called. Not.happening. EVER! Don't even ask.

- I'm black. Well, mostly. I'd think that should be a dead giveaway right there.

- I can't dance. Not if my life depended on it. I've got two left feet that step on each other and just get a passing grade in getting me from point A to point B. That's how uncoordinated I am.

- I don't do jazz hands (or even a lone jazz hand) in my photos. One day, maybe. But not today.

So, to all you Vincent Castronovo fans out there, in your feverish stampede to get close to this young man, please take a moment to stop, take a breath, compose yourselves, mop the sweat from your brow and take a good look at the profile of the person you're about to follow.

Thank you and good day to you all.