Molestee and Molester...

So, the other day I popped into KFC for a bite to eat, when I spotted the father of one of my best friends from primary school days. He was looking kinda macheted and haggard, and I remembered my Mudda telling me that he had been severely ill with diabetes, but I had never found the time to pass ‘roun to their yard, to hail him up.

When Mr. Man saw me, he face did light up, and he rushed over to give me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Now, not being a touchy feely kinda person, it was a tad bit awkward, as I have a tendency to be very particular about those who invade my three feet of personal space, but, I stood there like a trooper, as he reminisced about old times, and how it was good to see me, all whilst hugging me. Until, his had slipped down and…shall we say…caressed my flicking posterior…!!

Now, have you ever had one of those moments where shock renders you immobile, and you continue to second guess yourself, and it is not until you come into yourself when the perpetrator has disappeared that you actually have an apt response for the episode in question, and two weeks lata you still cussin’?? Then, you turn so bitter, that you set yourself up for when next you see the perpetrator...Den you doh' see dem fi' months???

Well, I had one’a dem! I stood there, immobile stunned, and I lookin’ at the man to see if he hand did slip, or if he miscalculated the location of my back, due to our significant height differential, but alas it was not so. Mr. Man now looking at me with a smarmy look on he face, and now coming in for a’nudda hug. I dress back one time, and as I am known to be quite suspicious and calculating, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, though the ‘doubting’ aspect would not allow me to have him enter the sacred three feet territory again.

Then, to further aggravate me, when I went home and tell me Mudda, is then she choose to inform me seh he was a smarmy man from day one, and I must avoid him where possible. Had she warned me before hand, the man would’a nevah get to cop a feel! Damn pedophile!!

On the opposite end of the spectrum, the other night, I walking through the National Storytelling Festival, when I spotted a friend of Sonny’s . Seeing him gave me a bout of nostalgia cause I can remember when I used to pick him up and arrange play dates with Sonny, and I used to baby-sit him and smack him up the side of his head whenever he did become facetious.

Now, Mr. Man is six foot odd, and having all kinda Adam’s apple popping outta his neck, and he now speaks in a squeaky baritone, that has not yet perfected his range. Sigh. My Sonny goin’ reach there someday.

When Mr. Man saw me, he flew over and stooped down to give me a hug. Remember the aforementioned three feet business??? Note to self: I REALLY need to reinforce that rule more severely. Anyway, being happy to see Sonny’s pal, I hugged him back and prepared to engage in the patronizing adult to child talk, which was not really working out, considering the fact that he was over a foot taller than I am.

When Mr. Man look at me and seh: “Hey sexy…” with a lascivious sparkle in he eye, mi catch mi ‘fraid. What the fcuk?? Can you say Mary Kay Letourneau???

From one extreme to the other…molestee and the potential molester. Makes me wonder if I am at that age where I am neither old nor young, and people from both ends of the spectrum see me as fair game. One end potentially in need of Viagra, wanting a method of reliving their youth, and the young whippersnappers wanting to frolic with the older woman.

Sigh. What is a body to do? You jus’ haffi live.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Flipper In The Neighbourhood Pool

So, when I was advised that they were advocating for the development of a park that would keep captive dolphins, it hurt the radical environmentalist dwelling deep within the deepest recesses of my heart. My family can remember fondly our tuna boycott, due to the fact that dolphins were being caught in the trawl net of fishermen.

I felt as if there was something fundamentally wrong with the notion of dolphins in captivity, especially on my little rock, and I joined the dissenters and petitioners who let out a rallying hue and cry against the importation of the same. As is often the case with these Islands (and dare I say the world), should there be political backing and money behind a proposal, it is rare for an action to be denied solely for the moral good, or simplistically, our conscience.

After signing the petitions, buying the T-Shirt and the bumper sticker to assist with the “Keep Dolphins Free” cause (though the sticker was not going on my new car), I noted that there seemed to be two powerful factions vying against each other, with the almighty tourism dollar seeming to be at the root of all that is evil. The advocates on both ends seem equally matched in terms of resources and political clout, though I know governments rarely side for what is right and what is good when individual representatives are wined and dined by powerful lobbyists with powerful friends and powerful dollars.

Forget the environmental studies; forget the moral and political implications; forget the fact that our Islands now seem desperate in having to resort to such garish and gaudy attractions; forget the fact that Grand Cayman has almost evolved to an unnatural concrete jungle and that there are almost no more aspects of nature tourism available for eager visitors who are not willing to dive the deep wall to find it; forget the fact that as a local, even if I were so inclined, I would have an all encompassing feeling that the park did not serve my best interests, nor can I afford it.

Needless to say, as the political rhetoric is spilled, and the debate continues, the Minister of Tourism confirmed that dolphins slated for the captive tank are ‘expected’ to die, as did six quarantined sharks who died due to a mechanical malfunction. A more cold and dismissive statement that I have never heard. Send in the first batch, and they will die until we get it right. They will be the martyrs for the cause. What a travesty and an embarrassment.

As I stand here on my personal soap box, preaching to one and all, let it be known that I and mine shall boycott said facilities (whether they like it or not!!). This boycott shall stand the test of time and the probable pollution of the North Sound, and further, as mere lowly peasants casting our ballots but once every four years, we are too poor to afford entry anyway!

We will show them! Viva La Revolution!!!

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Pirates' Week

So, Pirates' Week has come and gone, and once again, I am confused.

Back in the day, I used to revel in the concept of Pirates' Week, and would eagerly anticipate the arrival of each district day. But, now that I have gotten older I have become somewhat disillusioned with the Festival, and the hypocrisies surrounding the celebration thereof. I see the need for the Festival, and will continue to support the endeavors in an attempt to refrain from being one who sits back and critiques the efforts of others, with no constructive assistance to offer. Note the use of the word 'attempt'.

Pirates' Week originated as a celebration of the cultural heritage of the Cayman Islands . Albeit, in my age old cynicism, I have always found it curious that the Islands have never actively acknowledged its slave history, though we do laud the raping and pillaging of the pirates. Needless to say, it is here, and it is mine, so I will keep it, inconsistencies and all.

For one week of every year, pirates invade Islands. They arrive in grand style on their schooners, amidst booming cannon fire, smoke, costumery and a wonderful display of swordplay to kidnap the Governor of the Cayman Islands at a scheduled time each year. You would think that the Governors would have learned by now, but…

As a child, I can always remember mi Mudda dressing up us chillun, all’a we donning some form or pirate costumery, and trooping into town to watch the landing. We would actively vie for a spot at the front of the barricades, petrified yet hoping to be noticed by the pirates as they aggressively swiped their broad swords on the road, and tossed beads and souvenirs to kids in the audience. If a kid was really lucky, a pirate would kidnap you and run down the street with you, while you kicked and bawled bloody murder. Then, you would brag about it to all of your friends the next day. Sigh. It was awesome. Later in the night, we would take off our shoes and run barefoot through town during the street dance, playing catch until our parents rounded us up, and marched us home.

As a teenaged Diva, I would eagerly await the start of the street dance, so that I could witness performances from the likes of Denise Plummer, Calypso Rose, Gabby, and Sparrow. Every heritage night would find my friends and I in the district of choice, hunting down lobster and shrimp dishes, and taking in the band. By the time the trial of the pirates would come around we would be exhausted from all of the activities, and could not wait until they were thrown off of the island!

In my old age, as I am walking through town, I really cannot begin to fathom what the so-called festival entails. As we breach the barricades and stroll past the Hard Rock Café, the screeching sound of a hard rock band pierced my ear, as the band proceeds to massacre some heavy metal tune or another. I must admit that I am somewhat embarrassed to put this into writing, but, them is the facts. Set up on another corner, is a cordoned off area for the ‘Teen Disco’ from which the sounds of hard core reggae is competing for dominance with the heavy metal music. Fifty meters down the road, the so-called Heritage Song Fest is in progress. I guess that the event organizers did not think that the metal heads and the teens would not be interested in the song contest, nor did they wish to give the entrants the possibility of a wider audience. Worst yet, a fricking plate of lobster cost $12.00, and is not enough to cut the hunger gnawing at your stomach!

Needless to say, by the time I hit the centre of town to set up my little spot to take in the featured band, I was confused. Sigh. What is a body to do. We jus’ have to live.

On that depressing note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

"Heritage" Song Fest

So, after regaling in the probable joy of my long weekend, I must say that it was awesome. Kinda low key with some activities thrown in, providing me with sufficient entertainment and well as sufficient rest.

Last Friday, we went out the waterfront and took in the fireworks with champagne, after which DV and I went to take in the ‘Pirates Week Heritage Song Fest’. Sigh. It was a travesty. If ever there was a sign of the cultural confusion that makes up the Cayman Islands, it was blatantly apparent in the so called Heritage Song Fest. I was so irritated and disgusted, and embarrassed, that the dyam event jus’ mess up my champagne buzz!

First and foremost, I caught the “Windsor Park Wild Dogs” as they began their performance. Interesting to say the least. The young men proceeded to engage in a very telling rap tale and performance, worthy of the BET awards, lamenting about how people are chatting about them, and how they doh care. Yes. They rapped in the ‘Heritage’ songfest, regaling one and all about their disgust with all and sundry that envied their personal attributes. I know people does gossip real bad in the Islands, but for some reason, I jus’ did not get the link in the rap song. Maybe because they were bellowing and spitting so hard in the mike, I could not understand them.

The WPWB were followed by the eventual winner, spouting her original pop song, “Drop It”. Ms. Ma’am brought forth a performance worthy of Brittany Spears, complete with intricate choreography with her personal back up ‘professional’ dancer. Singing about how we must ‘drop it on the dance floor’. Yes. This was my ‘Heritage’ competion. I will not even bother to comment on the Canadian country music travesty. A sad state of affairs.

Needless to say, I placed this encounter behind me, and we trooped around town for the Street dance, liming and chatting. Eventually, we made our way to the band, and jumped and gyrated for a bit. DV didn’t though, cause his size 20 shoes were hurting him, and he say ‘bad man don’t dance’.

I vaguely recall somewhere amongst the drunken revelry that a pact to attend Trinidad Carnival was made. Dunno if I am up for that in my old age, but I will take it under consideration.

On that note, I shall now exit. Had a long week, and I tiyad.

Ta.

The Long Weekend!!! Yippeeeeeee...!!!!

Well, Monday is a Bank Holiday in the Cayman Islands! I ain't sure exactly what the day signifies, but I tekkin it and I runnin' wid it, and thanking all those who have made the day possible.

This weekend, I am running away from home, and FG is going to pamper me and tek care of me until I get on she nerves. I am going to be the guest from hell. I packing up my suitcase, wine and champagne and going tek root in she living room with her remote, my 'puter and will sure to be free with my gasseous emissions. She will not kick me out as long a I supply her wid booze. If we run out, I goin' pop over to Zulu's place and raid his liquor cabinet. Tee hee. Then, DV has volunteered to cook us breakfast on Saturday, after which, I will find a way to harass him for the rest of the weekend. My devious mind shall plot and ponder ... !

Pirates Week festivities are pending, but I really not feeling it. I may go hunt up some food and a sidewalk lime, but I ain't sure. Will play it by ear.

As it has been a while since I have added some beefcake, Ladies take a look at the sultry pose and the deep penetrating eyes, and lets blatantly objectify this man, pick him apart and plant some insecurities deep within. Gimme a rating from one to ten, nuh?

On that note, I shall now exit. Ya'll be sure to have a wonderful and safe weekend. Peace and love.

Ta.

Rally 'Roun the Future of the West Indies...

So, hear ye! Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Knoweth all that ye have read it here first.

For the past year, my Sonny, the Creep, who I had previously described as a non-Athletic nerd (I say with a Mother's love) much to mine and his father's dismay, has gotten all caught up in the cricket fever. Yes. He is playing cricket.

When he first indicated his interest in cricket to his father, shock rendered Sonny's Dad speechless, and I was the same when the information was relayed to me. After getting over the initial shock, Sonny's Dad went to the nearest sporting goods store, and purchased the finest cricket gear that could be found on that side of the Caribbean. Sonny's Dad was as proud as a peacock because he could finally toss a ball around in the yard and talk cricket statistics in a manly manner with his son. In turn, I started to read up on cricket (yawn), and Sonny and I would watch tests on TV when he was in Cayman (yawn..yawn...). He would regale me with tales about his perfected 'Yorker'., and the style and technique used to perfect the same (Yawn...yawn...yawn!).

Sad fact is, we realised that Sonny had a decided lack of coordination, which made him ...well...terrible...though he participated with zest and vigour! And, he had the best gear on the cricket pitch! His cricket whites were continually fresh and crispy, and no one could attain Ducks when batting, with the style, grace and enthusiasm as my Sonny! So what if his team groaned and moaned when he was up to bat (Little Jerks!)?

Though he was all around...well...terrible at the game, my Sonny was very pragmatic about it. He would regale me with tales of his misses and Ducks with a form of optimism that...well...entertained...me like no other. His devious little mind went to work when he took his fancy cricket bat to school and advised his scholmates that they could not use his bat if he did not get to play. Yes. He used the old 'blackmail them with the equipment' technique! He manipulated and contrived and stuck to it. Of course, being the wonderful and loving mother that I am, I supported, encouraged and advised that all would be well (Please note this aspect for his future biography). But, I was still pragmatic enough to realise that my son would never be the supreme world class athlete that would support his mother in the method to which she is unaccustomed. Sigh. There would be no bling in my future.

But...stop the presses! Sonny has now informed me that he scored 49 runs in a match and he has taken all of five wickets during the current school term!!! Yes! From Ducks to 49, and now a world class bowler!!! One run away from a half century!!! Windies: Here comes your future new recruit!! Paltry records for the most runs scored will be broken in no time!!

Of course, I uttered the necessary loving platitudes and congratulations (yes, I was able to hide my shock), and I am ashamed to admit that I had to further verify the information with Sonny's Dad. I was afraid that Sonny had miscounted, or was counting the runs by tens. Sonny's Dad was as much shocked as I was, and sought to reassure me that all was well, and that Sonny had not jacked himself up on steroids, or had even employed a pinch batter.

After I got off of the phone, I of course circulated the news to the Cayman family, and this is the part where I became disgruntled on Sonny's behalf. All and sundry were doubtful of Sonny's runs, and someone even demanded an audit! Mi mudda ask me if Sonny cork he bat! I am sooo offended! Dem tek me son mek sport! Hmprh. No respect. Brings to mind the words of the great David Rudder:

"Michael should'a lef' long time,

I heard an angry brother call;

Caribbean man...that , that, that,

THAT is the root of our trouble!"

Well, once again knoweth all that ye have read it hear first. When Sonny becomes the first Caymanian to mek the Windies team, he (and I) will have the last laugh! Sonny has dual citizenship, but the Bajans got nuff players on the Windies' team, so we will use the Caymanian nationality. I have it all planned.

When I am sipping Mimosas in the grand stand in Pakistan...well maybe not - 'fraid'a terrorists, make it...Australia...yeah! When I am sipping Mimosa's in the grand stand in Australia, watching Sonny go up to bat, I will wave to the losers watching on TV at home in the wee hours of the morning! He may be my meal ticket after all!!

Early Retirement, here I come!! Yippee....!!!

On that note, I must now exit.

Ta.