It was while waiting for the first plane at the shack that passes for an airport in Little Cayman that I caught a glimpse of the AP wire story on the front page of the Caymanian Compass.
I was playing with a puppy in the airport office when I saw the headline; the Caymanian reading the paper quickly offered it to me, as I clearly had more interest in it than he.
But I am not my brother, and it didn't take long—about a second, actually—for me to go from glimpsing the Caymanian Compass to joining my fellow townies in an obsession.
I couldn't watch enough airport-bar CNN-blaring televisions. When the gong of scandal ringeth, count on me to be the first in line for the hanging, salivating in expectation of the next tidbit.
In Little Cayman, where the fun is in landing, not eating, the bad-tasting bonefish, normally the fish get thrown back. " a woman—the hostess, the birthday girl—called me Saturday night.
But the fucking barracuda just hover, and wait, and wait. "Everyone is dying to hear about your date with Monica Lewinsky!
You tend not to spend too much time contemplating Tim Russert's innermost thoughts when you're 100 feet under water, breathing through a narrow tube, soaring past the ocean wall in slow motion, staring at 200-year-old sea tortoises, parrot fish, and coral that have no concern for love or career.
When you emerge into a media maelstrom directly from a media-free world, whether it's Jerusalem or the bottom of the ocean, alleged semen on a reportedly navy blue dress purportedly ejaculated by the leader of the Free World seems rather unimportant, not to mention, well, seedy.
Whether we care about her or not, we've all done the math on Monica's behalf, parsing out her destiny over warming beers and neglected finger food.
No matter the permutations, there are really only three options: 1.) It happened the seamy way it looks, in which case I feel sorry for her.
(You know how some photos of yourself can make you cringe? My sum total experience is a meeting of eyes at a boring bar party and a B-minus date afterward.
Imagine if one of those became a new international icon. quislings are hissing about her "wacky" dress is because she has a sense of style, and this city, simply, does not. If fate, Vernon Jordan, and Ken Starr hadn't intervened, who knows, maybe I'd be the only reporter in the world pursuing her.