Hey.

What are you doing Thursday night?

Come see this. At Joe’s pub. Live.

In your brain.

It might do you some good.

There’s been much talk about the 1968 student demonstrations on the Columbia campus these days. About the spirit of rebellion and protest embodied by that particular class forty years ago. You know, way back when the school had all these racist, classist plans for expansion and there was a nasty, unpopular war going on.

On April 25th I’m marking my own protest day, my own day of thanks for small miracles, held hands, linked elbows, and flaring tempers. It’s taken me nearly three decades and hundreds of kilometres to understand where I come from, and to learn both the dirtiest and the most glorious secrets about those who came before. And there are a plenty of both. I could tell you some things, but I’ve got a flight to catch. Better get some shut eye, wake up bright and early, check things off my list. Il faut se battre. I just wish we could tap into that sentiment today…

Had the loveliest conversation with Dr. Winford James of the University of the West Indies this afternoon, and he pointed me to page 409 of the Dictionary of Caribbean English Usage:

And then there are romantics like Pico Iyer who, like, totally disagree. More revelations to come!
You unkempt looking knockabouts!