Jazz Café Experience

Surrounded by swirling smoke in the jazz cafe, I was sitting down, tapping my fingers to the lingering sound of a tune. Couples around me were holding hands like sly foxes under the round tables, kissing keenly, like the sky does the moon. Empty seats and lonesome folk were sitting as one, with scented candles burning with zeal. Strangers and friends mingled, lounging on the divan. I was focused, gazing at the starry spotlight on the woman onstage. She was singing the blues, freeing them from her soul with every gloomy note. Her voice was almost haunting, sending chills throughout my body. The band played slowly, with the music leading the way. Taking a drag of my last cig, blowing smoke rings that travelled across the room, I closed my eyes and swayed my body, left and right to the melody, digging into my thoughts and untamed imagination.

A bluesy dream, it was; the sound of the barry soothing me. I was floating on air, flying high through the smoke. I was lost in the music, lost in the moment. A heavy crowd of colours emerged; blues, reds and purples, chatting away like a soft breeze. A figure, faded like a black sketch loomed; all rubbed out and messy, but redrawn as it neared… It has bold outlines and faultless features – teasing me to insanity. This handsome painting whispered into my ear sweet nothings, sweeter than the sweetest honey. When I unclosed my eyes and took a look around, I smiled, bit my lip and guzzled my drink down. I just sat there and smoked my ciggy dry and tasteless. Tapping my fingers to the lingering sound of a tune, I let the nocturne of the keys make its mark in my mind.

(No folks, I don't smoke lmao this one isn't about me)

Lightning Bolt Strikes Gold too…Cheerfully?

“And he’s done it! He’s done it! I cannot believe my eyes! Wow! Amazing!”

He looks to his left. He looks to his right. He knows. He knows. He beats on his chest. As he crosses the finish line with ease, he spreads his lengthy arms like wings and flies across the track. He celebrates with a smile and a handful of dances. He’s broken the world record. 9.69. The fastest man in the world. Number one. Who, you ask? Usain Bolt.

This young, now 22-year old, Jamaican sprinter has a future ahead of him brighter than the biggest star. I was in absolute awe for two days straight. Usain Bolt, 9.69 seconds, 100 M? It was mind-boggling to me. It still is. He is definitely the highlight of the Olympics. Usain is a relaxed and fun-loving guy who knows that he’s a damn good sprinter. Yet I tune into my daily dose of the Olympics while I’m enjoying my breakfast and I hear some breaking news - Jacques Rogge, president of the International Olympic Committee believes that Bolt showed a lack of respect for his rivals by celebrating too early.


"I think he should show more respect, shake hands, give a tap on the shoulder to the other ones. Not making gestures like the one he made in the 100 metres,” Rogge said on Thursday. “He still has to mature. I would love him to show more respect to his competitors. He should learn that he should shake hands with competitors." - Link

Is this guy serious? Showboating is embedded in sports like a heart is in one’s body. When you score a goal, make a sick pass, cross someone to the point where they fall, of course you want to celebrate! It’s a great feeling. You cannot deny that nor can you deny how they’re expressed. And when there are far more serious controversies to deal with, such as the age of the Chinese gymnasts, this man wants to cry and whine about a little celebration. Usain is overwhelmed with joy and Rogue expects him to shake hands? Bullshit. He hugged some people, and to me that’s good enough. It’s not as if he put up his middle finger, turned around and starting running backwards, saying “Catch up niggas! FUCK YOU!” It’s not as if he did not acknowledge the other sprinters. He was as modest as he could be. Many athletes have been “showboating”. Just yesterday, during the 50k walk, the first place man from Italy was waving to the crowd, pumping his fists in the air. Volleyball players run around and yell at the top of their lungs every time they make the other team cough with their sick plays. If Usain had showed no emotion at all, there would be an even bigger whine from that rogue, calling him stuck-up and rude. Give me a break. With such a great accomplishment for Jamaica, a country full of sprinters that hardly make the podium, there is absolutely no reason to criticize a young man who celebrates his success. It’s not that serious folks. You know what’s really serious? Doping. That’s some serious shit.