Monday, July 30, 2007

Changing Of The Guard

So, I had oft heard my Mudda lament that there was nothing on the island for her to do, no form of entertainment where mature women of her age could get all dressed up, look real fine, and go out to shake their tail feathers in a venue fraught with mature and well behaved peoples. The isolated ‘Oldies’ concert did not count, as her peers did not want to be repetitively slapped in the face by a form of entertainment whose primary marketing ploy was geared around the fact that they were catering specifically to the ol’ people.

During the times that Mum would hem and haw about this tragic fact, I never paid she any min’. I of course, was frequenting the clubs, liming and enjoying the fetes where my friends and I would all meet up, have a rollicking good time, then go back to mi yaad, where more often than not, I would often find mi Mudda sitting on the porch, or up reading a book when I would arrive home in the wee hours of the morning. Additionally, if she went out, who would I get to baby sit?? (Lawd, if she eva knew that I said so! One of the joys of anonymity!) Devil

Anyway, after a seemingly long hiatus, I went to the club with DV on Friday night, and for the first time, I now know what mi Mudda was talking about. Whilst sipping a cosmopolitan (elegantly, I might add) an’ taking an objective look around the club, I came to realize that I was probably the eldest person there. The girls were so young and willowy, they almost looked as if they were just entering puberty, and I wondered if they were carded at the door. My peers no longer frequent these establishments. They are married, divorced, getting married, getting divorced, or bogged down with chillum. There has been a changing of the guard, so to speak. Lawd, I felt old. I no longer recognized or understood the music, and I really knew that it was time for me to make my exit when I discreetly assessed the fire exits, and pondered possible violations of fire safety laws. Sigh. Things rough. When DV left me to get a drink, I was approached by an enterprising young man, who called me his “Baby Love”. When he smiled, he had an amazing set of grills that blinded me when the disco lights hit them. They were either grills, or a really bad case of plaque. Teeth

Early into the night, the DJ gave me a frikking false sense of security: he played six consecutive calypso songs. I wuk’d up with JOY, and sang loudly and clearly, thinking that all would be well. Then, I realized that said DJ’s nefarious scheme consisted of playing the ‘old’ stuff that I could identify early into the night, and proceeded to leave the ‘good’ or ‘young’ stuff for the wee hours for the enjoyment of the freaky young whippersnappers, when the arrived en mass at the stroke of midnight. When the clock struck midnight (and I believe that there was a full moon) Mr. Man started to play some bag a’ noise that was full of mere treble, and yet the young populous could all fill in the DJ’s strategically placed blanks! There were rap additives, and lawd, the reggae almost killed me! What the hell is going on with reggae music nowadays??? It almost seems to be fused with a form of heavy metal / pseudo rock, and all I could think about was Red Plastic Bag’s song “Ragga Ragga”. Sigh. It has all come to pass.

So, after such a tragic and somewhat depressing occurrence, I would ordinarily lament at the fact that I am getting old, because I was sleepy and was home by 1:30pm, and a form of fear that I would soon be joining mi Mudda on the porch. But, alas, with maturity, comes truth, or certain factual realizations.

The young whippersnappers are living it up now, but when they reach my age, those young Nubian princesses that are only now only now sprouting boobs and partying all night long – that shit is going to sag and go waaayyy south to their no bony l’il knees. Those smooth and young innocent looking faces are eventually going to be lined and haggard from the cigarette smoke and hard drinking, unhampered by any form of exercise. Ya’ll watch. You read it here first.

Though, when the young Playas’ ripped abdominals are soon overtaken by the solitary barreled keg, unfortunate as it is, they will still get women, only now they will no longer pant after the young nubile princesses (now the battered hags), but will rather yearn for the elder women, or pant after the new flock of princesses, soon to hit eighteen. They will get them too. Thus is the circle of life.

This summarizes my Caymanian sociological study. My contemplation in a nutshell.

On that note, I shall now exit. You will note that there was no apology for the long absence. I was just toooo lazy to blog. I ain’t shame.

Ta ta...