Welcome to the weekly column nobody asked for and everybody secretly needed: Time for a Reyality Check—a public service announcement disguised as journalism, brought to you by the Satirical Publisher & Editor who can find a raincloud in a rainbow: Terrance Rey.
You know me. The guy who studies glowing press releases like they are crime scenes and then mutters, “Hmmm.” Some call that being a negative sourpuss. I call it community cardio—keeping everyone’s expectations in shape.
Around the newsroom, my aliases have multiplied like iguanas after a rainy season. I’m your Reyality Check — your brand of “facts with bite.” (Hence the name of this column.) When the spin gets sugary, I show up with a toothbrush and a footnote.
Public relations teams have another name for me: Captain Caveat — every press release meets its match. If the statement has sparkle, I’ll bring the smudge test. If it floats, I’ll check for life vests. I’m also The Caribbean Contrarian — sunny island, shady takes. Not because I hate sunshine, but because glare hides potholes.
Readers on the Boardwalk wave (with all five fingers, usually) and greet Great Bay Grump — grumpy so readers don’t have to be. I absorb the scowl so you can keep your beach day smile. Pelicans, meanwhile, recognize one of their own: The Skeptical Pelican — always pecking holes in spin. If it’s fishy, I’m diving for the bones.
When I pace the promenade, narrating the headlines to nobody in particular, I become Boardwalk Curmudgeon — strolling, scowling, storytelling. It’s like a podcast, but with more side-eye. In the archives you’ll find Mr. Doom & Data — bleak… but sourced. Charts first, chicken-little later.
Island life teaches resilience—and prickliness. Hence my ‘Cusha Columns‘. Thus Cactus Quill — sharp, desert-dry humor in paradise. Expect the odd jab, but only to pop the overinflated. Friends accuse me of being a Rey of Gloom — the opposite of a silver lining (and proud). Guilty. If there’s a lining to admire, someone has to check if it was purchased with a procurement waiver.
At council meetings, I am Philipsburg’s Devil’s Advocate — the case for “hold on a minute.” Not to stall progress, but to make sure the “go” has brakes. Editors consider me some kind of SXM Sourcerer — conjures sources… and sour faces. When receipts appear, smiles disappear. Occupational hazard.
And when the fog machines crank up—consultants, committees, “soon come”—I pull out the compass as The No-BS Navigator — charting reality through spin doctors’ fog. If it can’t be mapped, maybe it’s a mirage.
So yes: I am that guy. The one who asks the awkward question right after the ribbon is cut. The one who counts the chairs at the groundbreaking and the cranes six months later. The one who will cheer loudly when something truly works—after it actually works.
If you’re here for cheerleading, the Tourism Bureau has brochures. If you’re here for clarity with a side of chuckle, pull up a plastic chair. Each week in Time for a Reyality Check, we’ll sift through the hype, follow the money, and see which promises survive contact with reality. It won’t always be pretty, but it will always be honest—and, when possible, funny enough to make the truth go down easier than a warm Carib at midday.
Bring your sunscreen. I’ll bring the shade.
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