Frenchtown

There is a district in Charlotte Amalie called Frenchtown, which is where almost all of the indigenous white people (not transplanted here like me), also known as Frenchies, live. They have an insatiable set of skills when it comes to gutting and cleaning fish, dropping the f-bomb with a serious accent and growing supermullets. "Tim," you may be saying to yourself, "I've heard of a mullet, a skullet, a brullet, a femullet, a feskullet and even the rare African-Amerimullet, but not a supermullet. What on God's green Earth is that?" Well, I've drawn up the following illustration to help you visualize it:


As you can see in exhibit A, the supermullet features mid-length, disheveled hair up front (the party). As demonstrated in exhibit B, it also features a bevy of extra long hair down the back (the after party). This combination of party and after party fully fits the mentality of a Frenchie as they can be routinely found working with beer in hand.

The Frenchie and the supermullet are not the only defining characteristics of Frenchtown - the district is also well known for its number of good eateries. DC and I decided to swing over to Frenchtown to grab a sandwich from the deli, as we were going to pick Justin up from the seaplane a few hours later and the deli was on the way. To accompany our half sandwiches, we each purchased a six pack of beer. Finding a cozy seat on a cement block 10 feet away from a gutting station (lovely atmosphere), we ate and drank our way through the meal. Since Frenchtown was relatively small and neither of us had ever really explored it, we decided it would benefit us to walk the streets and check out some of the other menus.

A pizza place here, a taco stand there, and a few minutes later we were at the end of the street reading the menu for a bistro. That's when a gentleman whose name I did not catch came up and asked us for 60 cents. I found this to be a very specific and peculiar amount of change about which to be inquiring, for two reasons:

1. Exactly sixty is tough to come by as many people I know take the quarters when they get change but leave all other denominations in the tip bucket, but more importantly...
2. You can't buy anything for 60 cents anymore, not even a cup of coffee. I'm ruling out the fact that he was going to purchase one stamp, because I think he probably would have just asked for the exact amount of 42 cents.

After regretfully turning down his request for the pocket change, he moved on to plan B; "how about one of them beers?" I was sort of shocked but mostly impressed by the audacity of his request - it was like asking for one cookie and getting denied, then immediately asking for two. Maybe that was his plan all along - go for shock value in hopes of impressing me, like "The Naked Man" move from How I Met Your Mother. Needless to say, it worked.

DC and I made our way back down towards the deli and grabbed a pair of seats on the patio area of the restaurant on the corner. Placing down what was left of our beer in front of us, and looking to kill an hour before we had to get Justin, we start to people watch. There was a creepy lady pushing an empty baby carriage up and down the street, there were some kids playing a game of baseball across the way. At one point a pretty girl went by and DC threw out the smoothest game he had with an unenthusiastic "Hey." When she didn't respond, but instead tripped over a rock on the road, he stood up and shouted with paradoxical enthusiasm, "good I'm glad you tripped!" She didn't respond that time either.

All of a sudden, we see our friend that had asked for the 60 cents. If I had been him, I would have cracked that beer open the second it was given to me, because down here beverages get warm fast and he was not armed with a koozie. While not armed with a koozie, however, he was armed with a keen sense of street survival skills. First, he searched around and found a bucket. Then he went from restaurant to restaurant, asking for ice. When one finally obliged, he cooled the beer down (until the mountains were blue), proceeded to McDonald's (told you Frenchtown had good eateries) and traded the beer for a sandwich. I could not believe my eyes. There was no way for me to know this when I first provided his instrument of merchandise, but I was at the onset of the chain reaction that hoisted the Beer Bartering Baron of Frenchtown to the halls of greatness.

My Merry Moustache Stings My Face

Alright, I know I've been MIA for a while, and I promise that in short order there will be posts about Frenchtown, overnight trips to St. John, impromptu camping trips and the phenomenon known only as "The Doodle". I just wanted to provide an update post so that my friends and parents know that I'm still alive.

The in thing this year is to grow a Merry Moustache. It is pretty much the same thing as a regular moustache, but it has an extra dose of merry. Please use with caution, though. I just tried helping a guest get ice and she thought I was this random creepster just hanging around the front desk. Point proven: the moustache does not improve game. however, by no means does this mean I am going to shave it off.

Good Form Sir

After a forty-five minute delay, I could finally get up and leave the room. I applauded the performance, as a good audience should, and made my way to the couch with Tiger and Jose.

This makes no sense to you. I should probably start at the beginning.

Friday started as most people's Fridays do - dreading work. It wasn't because I went out the night prior; it was because I didn't go out. If I'd gone out I might have slept, dumb and numb, through the night. Instead I stayed in, and was awoken at 2:30 am to the lovely sight of DC's guest from the States (DC and I share a room - remember this because it comes into play later) leaning over the side of his twin size mattress, vomiting into a garbage bin. Immediately, my chivalrous instincts kick in. "Are you okay?" I ask, "Can I get you anything? What can I do?" DC, laying awake and motionless next to his guest, replies, "I could use a water."

I got that water, but I brought it for the girl. DC was asleep when I got back, and she had no recollection of the any of this come morning, including puking. I couldn't fall asleep for another two hours.

The other reason I was dreading work Friday morning was because the rest of the crew got to go on this complimentary sailboat racing trip and I was privileged enough to hold down the fort. Its all good because I'll get my chance to go when someone else has to work, but it goes without saying I wasn't ripe with anticipation when Kiersten came in rocking photos from the excursion.

My shift ends and I can pull together my to-do list for the afternoon: 1.) beach with DC and Kristen, 2.) pick Justin up from the St. Croix seaplane with DC and Kristen, 3.) shop for family meal Friday with DC and Kristen. The thing about number two on that list was that we had no idea when Justin was getting in, so everything else was determined by the timing of that.

We get to Sapphire Beach and find a few beach chairs in the quickly fading sun. Ten minutes later we get a call saying Justin was landing. This was not enough time to get a suntan (read: burn my French-Canadian skin), but it was enough time to have an iguana meander by in a somewhat close range so that we could see Kristen's irrational and unprovoked fear of all things lizard on full display. Its pretty hilarious to see someone scared of a creature that would prefer not moving to moving, and whose m.o. in life is to eat bugs and leaves.

Fast forward through picking up Justin and dropping him off at his house. Now its time to get serious about family meal Fridays. The featured menu item this week (as selected by the anti-domesticated Kiersten because Beth has to work) is pre-made, oven bake pizzas. Price Smart was the name of the game as it is the island's mass merchandising center and it offers insane pricing. For example, I got a liter of Jose Cuervo for $13.49 (remember this because it also comes into play later). We got the rest of our supplies and made our way home.

Night rolls around and everyone arrives hungry. Time for Kiersten to shine - and shine she did. A more appropriate name for Kiersten when she is in the kitchen is "Special K" because she is definitely a special breed of chef. There are few scarier sights than Kiersten with two spatulas in hand about to open the oven. Five minutes into BAKING PIZZAS, one was upside down with its ingredients burning on the bottom of the stove. With some adjustments and help from her sous-chef Greg, everything turned out fantastic and the entire crew was full. The normal celebratory transgressions took place - DVD power hour, flip cup, arguing over flip cup, dance-off challenges that are pushed to a later date and on this particular Friday, a rubber band fight. I wasn't even involved, yet managed to get sniped out in the neck mid sip forcing a spit-take. Thanks DC.

Then night stumbles towards its demise as people have to choose between bed and Sib's. I chose bed. DC and Kristen chose bed. The rest of the party chose Sib's.

I was woken later in the night (I have no idea what time it was because the clock is on the far side of DC's bed and I was not going to look for reasons disclosed shortly). For the second night in a row, it was to Kristen making all sorts of noise from across the room. The first night the noises were hurls and spews of bile. The second night they were noises of an entirely different variety. Knowing full well that sometimes this is how the game is played when you share a room, I laid silent - pretending I was asleep - deciding I could wait them out.

Forty five minutes later, it was clear the deed was done (DC was rolling the bed, which is on wheels, back into its place in the corner of the room). Never one to let an excellent performance go unnoticed, I stood up, gave them a slow clap, exclaimed, "Bravissimo!", and made my way to the couch. Poised precariously on the coffee table to my front was a bottle of Jose Cuervo - the same bottle that I had purchased at a discounted rate earlier that day. It seemed to be staring at me, as if to say, "Good form, old friend. Have a drink of me on the house."

As I woke up this morning (and yes technically it was still morning for another ten minutes), I discovered that I accepted Jose's offer and that there were no parameters set in regard to the size of the drink. Half of the bottle was gone, and I was on the twelfth tee at TPC Sawgrass, on the last day of a four day tournament in Tiger Woods 2009. I was sixty two (yes 62) strokes under par. Somehow I even managed to shoot a 51. I cannot explain this.

Tropical Depression

While we are only a few hundred miles off the coast of the continental United States, I think the hardest part for people to grasp about our lives down here is the distance we feel from the people we love.

Yes we are only a phone call away. And believe me - I'm thankful we have that. But the impact of certain transgressions that most would call part of life have an amplified effect when for us it is relayed through a cell phone tower.

Thanksgiving turkeys are carved. Christmas presents are shared. Birthdays are celebrated. We pass on our cheers in a five minute phone call.

People get engaged and married. They have babies. Houses are built and homes are established. We share our congratulations through a text message.

Couples break up. People get sick. Loved ones pass. We offer our wholehearted but half-felt condolences and it absolutely kills us that we can't be there to do it in person.

While we may live in paradise, we suffer the consequences by not having the ability to be with the ones that we love when they need us the most. Or even when its not that serious - sometimes its just a trip to the bar or a family dinner that we are missing, but in truth we are missing so much more than that.

Today Kiersten was informed that her dog Riley was hit by a drunk driver back in New York. She was absolutely broken down and devastated, as she should be, but immediately (as we've seen with a number of tragedies that have befallen us) there was an onslaught of people acting as her support structure - poised and ready to help her in any way, shape or form possible. Suddenly its evident that while we may not be close in proximity to our nuclear families, we have a strong group that makes up our island family to help take care of us.

That is the reason I am so thankful to have the cast and crew of my life that I do down here in the Virgin Islands. That inevitable moment that pulls the carpet from neath my feet has not yet struck me, but I can rest assured that when it does "the faces on the wall" and I will get through it together.

P.S. I miss and love my family and friends back up north. Get yourselves down here to visit me pronto.

The First Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Day. Remembering Pilgrims (Puritans) and Indians (Native Americans), Corn (Maize) and Turkey (um... Turkey). A day to celebrate getting fat in remembrance of the barren harvest experienced the first few years the Plymouth Rockstars graced this sweet land.

Often people forget what Thanksgiving is really about. People say, "Its about family getting together." Or, "Its about celebrating the blessings that have transpired in the past year." In my mind, Thanksgiving is really about the fact that these poor souls finally had something to eat.

For my actual celebration (and not the debauchery that occurred the night prior), I found myself explaining this theory to a couple of beautiful Scandinavian women that were kind enough to grace DC and I with their presence for their first Thanksgiving dinner ever. They had come to the restaurant a week prior to watch the sunset from the bar, and this time surprised DC at the front desk as they were heading down to eat. Immediately defining his value by disclosing his intimate knowledge of the menu, he asked if we could join them for the evening. Thirty minutes later, he was off shift and we were sipping cocktails, discussing the true meaning of Thanksgiving.

They defined themselves as "coworkers", but something told me they were way more than that. The one from Norway was working down here, while the Swede was just "on vacation, until January 28". I was shocked that someone could go months on end without having to worry about money, but I was even more intrigued by the possibility that they may be lesbians. The way they called each other honey... the way they traded soups halfway through the course... the way they caressed each other's hair... all signs pointing in the same direction. One thing was for sure - if this was going to happen, it was going to make my diary.

They also had an uncanny knowledge database of classic American cinema. I say "do not pass go, do not collect $200" and the Norwegian knew right away that it was from Ace Ventura 2. DC says "Nay ho lung ga" and its clear to the Swede we are talking about Wayne's World. Awestruck, we watched as they walked away after a great dinner followed by drinks at the bar. Something tells me this will not be the last we see of them.

This is the beauty of living in a place like St. Thomas. At a moment's notice your plans can go from something as mundane as watching Jeopardy to something as exciting as tandem hang gliding. The owner of the hotel, Bob, mentioned to me the next day that he was impressed with DC and I for finding dates the day-of for Thanksgiving dinner. I told him that he should know as well as anyone - that's how things work on the islands.

The Gang Celebrates Thanksgiving

Cue the music to Its Always Sunny In Philadelphia.

Due to certain scheduling conflicts and because we will celebrate a holiday whenever the heck we please thank you very much, the gang got together to celebrate Thanksgiving on Wednesday in place of the traditional Thursday. It was also a "goodbye, my lover" party for the Canadians as they were heading back to the great white north to play in some hot Canadian girl all-star hockey game. I'm pretty sure they also had a Lumberjack Contest to attend complete with a Molson sponsorship and a series of discussions ending with the phrase, "Noo doot aboot it!"

Okay back on topic - the roster for this momentous occasion. There were over twenty individuals attending, so I will fore go attempting to name them all as I don't want to forget anyone and/or misspell names and/or it seems like a lot of work and I'm having a particularly lethargic moment. What I will do is say that it was the Family Meal Fridays crew plus some extras - including the owner of the hotel and restaurant by which we are employed - Bob. Needless to say, the food had to be done right, and there had to be a lot of it.

Beth and I started the running around at 9am, trying to accumulate not only all the necessary ingredients for all of our dishes, but also a thawed out turkey (as it seemed to be an oversight until the morning of). We found a beautiful 16 pound bird and made our way back to the apartment to start the prep work. Everything was going smoothly until we got to the sweet potatoes. Apparently, there is a difference between American sweet potatoes and Caribbean sweet potatoes, because these things were Wayne Brady (white on the inside). Bottom line is this - by the end of the day we had to make four runs to four different stores to meet all our needs. Quick shout out to Beth a.k.a. Chef for cheffing up an incredible Thanksgiving dinner. The customer satisfaction survey held very high marks.

8pm rolls around and people start to arrive. This was a BYOB event, and believe me when I say that people brought beverages. I'm pretty sure we have a fully stocked liquor cabinet this morning. Don't fret, it will be depleted back to oblivion very, very soon. Before we ate, in lieu of saying grace, we went around the table and each said one thing for which we were thankful. There were so many kind words shared and beautiful sentiments that it was clear we really were a very tight knit group - like the Goonies. For example, Georgie was thankful for indoor plumbing. I was thankful that the Bruins were over .500.

Once the food was consumed and the music was pumping, it pretty much turned back into a Family Meal Fridays event. The linen tablecloths were removed from the tables and Flip Cup became the name of the game. Only this time it was Survivor Flip Cup. The correct rules (and I checked with my friend Google this morning - he knows everything) are as follows:

1. Normal flip cup.
2. At the end of the round, the losing team gets to select someone off THEIR team (typically he or she that performed the worst) to be voted off.
3. Their cup is then absorbed by another player so that the original amount of cups remains the same.
4. At no point does the winning team vote someone off.
5. First team to lose all their players loses Survivor Flip Cup.

The rules we followed, however, would prompt an error message on your computer if I tried to explain them. There was negotiating. There was haggling. I was definitely the worst player for multiple rounds (especially the first) but somehow survived through until there were just two of us. Safe to say, there was some controversy and some sour feelings.

Today is Thanksgiving Day, which is a day normally filled with football and family, turkey and touchdowns, cribbage and chex mix. While I won't be partaking in any heated charades battles this year, the bitter is just a little more sweet knowing I have a second family down here in the Virgin Islands. This year, that is what I'm thankful for.

Aussie Aussie Aussie...

Two Australians and a New Zealander walk into a bar. This is not the start of a joke.

The late check-in last night came around 10pm. Three dudes with thick accents and surf boards wanted to make sure the bar would still be open after they got settled. I told them it would be - half an hour later when they came down DC was closing up shop. He agreed to sell them some Heinekens as he was not completely closed out, and then followed that up with telling one of them he looked like Eric Bana. This slightly off-sexuality remark was surprisingly well received, and we got into a nice conversation about who they were (Dane, Emmanuel and Johnny) and where they were from (somewhere with strange, non-West-Indian accents).

These guys had led a pretty sweet life before making their way to our bar. They had met in Spain, working on a private yacht, but had each spent time on private yachts all over the world. Tomorrow they would be going to Tortolla or Jost Van Dyke to try to become dive masters at a scuba shop. Their spontaneity and zest for life struck a familiar chord with us, and so we told them if they wanted to keep drinking they could join us back at the apartment.

One hour and five drinks each later, we were taking a taxi east to Red Hook. Fat Boys was the name of the game, as it was karaoke Sunday. The bad news was that the gentleman who normally runs karaoke was sick, so we were out of luck. Instead we were able to negotiate our way onto one of the pool tables and had the first ever international pool competition between Australia and the US. This was no Miracle On Ice, but needless to say we represented and won.

Before all this (and the reason we decided on Red Hook) we met up with Todd, his sister Katie, and her friend Christina (I explain how we know them purely to clarify for those on the outside - these girls are definitely part of the family). Upon arrival, we saw them with an old foe of mine - a shark tank from Duffy's. Deciding I was going to have no part this memory destroying delicious temptation of a beverage, we went to Fat Boys and played the aforementioned game of pool. I looked back halfway through the game and saw Todd, Katie and Christina, each with straw in mouth, draining the goldfish tank that was their cup with relentless determination. It was not until morning, however, that the girls revealed they were faking it and leaving Todd to down the whole thing by himself. Upon hearing the news, I said a little prayer for his liver.

We then moved onto the Caribbean Saloon because it was happy hour (10pm to close... wait who what?!) And had our fair share of the horse racing game, Jageroos and $2 beers before DC challenged Dane to a walk-off, Zoolander style. They claimed to have seen this movie, and that they had intimate knowledge of how a walk-off works. They did not.

From David Bowie's mouth to God's ear, the correct way to walk-off is "First model walks; second model duplicates, then elaborates." The incorrect way to walk-off is to do whatever the heck you want at any point during the song. That's called dancing, Dane, look it up. I don't think I need to tell you that DC won the walk-off (due to Dane's DQ) but he also won the impromptu dance-off that transpired.

The night ended(-ish) and we went back to the apartment. DC fired up one of his power hours and Emmanuel managed to name every movie in the first three seconds of the clip. It was incredible. The man was like a movie encyclopedia. It goes without saying that these guys were varsity drinkers and therefore a welcome part of our life down here in the islands.

DC Lost His Hat And Two Shirts In One Hour

You only get one life to live, but if you live like me one life is all you need.

As I'm writing this both my hands are still slightly numb with that pins and needles feeling. Maybe its the chair DC tried breaking over my back after I beat him in the push-up contest. Maybe its the impact from one of many cliff-dives I took yesterday. Or maybe I had a stroke in my sleep. The problem is there is no way for me to clearly identify the source of my discomfort, because the list of possibilities is a seventeen item roster.

I should probably start at the beginning. It is safe to say that I am a terrible judge of responsible behavior. Therefore when Todd's sister Katie and her friend Christina flew into St. Thomas - two gorgeous Bostonians - we stayed up way too late drinking and carrying on knowing full well that we had Limnos in the morning and we were due to meet Guy and Gal at the front desk at 7am. Somehow we still managed to meet this obligation, and the full crew of seven was in a cab and on our way.

For those of you who don't know (which would be the majority of you - and I use the term "majority" loosely because I really mean one out of the maybe two people that actually read this blog), Limnos is an all inclusive boat cruise through the US and British Virgin Islands. When you embark, the first thing they do is jokingly offer you a drink that nobody ever accepts because its 8am. We accepted those drinks. 2.7 seconds later, we were drunk again.

Needless to say, the trip went well. The very first thing that happened to us, maybe 20 minutes in, was rain. I'm not talking about a sprinkle, I'm talking about the kind of rain that drowns short people. We could see it coming - the entire top deck of the boat was discussing the ominous clouds that loomed ahead. However, when the water finally struck, most passengers sprinted downstairs as quickly as they could to escape getting wet - they were like Lee Evans on a deep route. However, the five of us that kind of looked at each other with that "well, we're on a boat. We are going to get wet anyway" look on our faces and persevered. God threw rain at us like the Truman Show. We stuck it out. To hell with your corporate team building exercises; this brought us together, tight as a wolfpack.

When we were in Virgin Gorda, DC, Guy and I smoked cuban cigars while following our guide - Akeem - through the boulders in the water as we made our way down to the baths. We were like big smoking spider monkeys. He showed us down to the beach, where there were a cornucopia of European women tanning topless, then directed us to the top of a cliff so that we could jump off and impress them. In the process I managed to slice a deep gouge into both of my feet that I did not really feel until I woke up this morning. Tape is holding my right foot together. I did a sweet jackknife from 40 feet up though.

On the way back, the entirety of the Limnos guests and crew were in the back of a safari taxi. Nobody was really saying or doing anything, so DC turned to each other and had the following conversation:

"Singalong?"
"Singalong."

Moments later we had the whole taxi serenading "Sweet Caroline". I feel like if we had more time to arrange it, we would have been able to assign different parts to different groups or incorporate some harmonizing. Our next destination was Jost Van Dyke, which sounds like a game show host but I assure you is not. What it does host is the Soggy Dollar Bar - the birthplace of the painkiller. A painkiller is an alcoholic beverage comprised of rum, cream of coconut, pineapple juice and orange juice, but my favorite part by far is that after you shake and pour it, you have to sprinkle nutmeg on top for that final kiss of taste. Not many drinks can get away with having nutmeg precariously dashed on top. I tried it on a gin and tonic and it was an epic failure.

I almost wish we had a camera with us so that I could show you all the amazing life lessons that transpired, but as the The Format (RIP) would say, "pictures only prove you can't convince". As I've mentioned in the past my French-Canadian/Scottish descent does not bode well when we are having discussions with the sun. I was prepared this boat trip, however, because I bought SPF 55 sunscreen. This stuff was serious. It had the word "ozone" on the bottle. I felt safe. I was mistaken.

The problem was that I bought spray instead of lotion, because I figured it would be easier to administer. I was right about that part. I was wrong in my thought that I'd have even distribution. By two in the afternoon, my body was stripped like a zebra/referee/footlocker employee/hooters manager. I don't really care how I look because I sweat a musk of awesome all day every day, but my right hand looks like it belongs to the Kool-Aid man and my left to Bill Gates.

At the end of the day we took a nice taxi ride home with a kind local driver and nobody got into any arguments about the route nor fell out of the taxi when trying to exit upon reaching the final destination. Now is when this post should end.

However, for the rest of our VI family, it was Family Meal Friday. DC and I walked in, went to our perspective beds, and fell asleep. Later on when people arrived we were awoken (I am told, I'm pretty sure I never actually woke up) and I gave it my best 20 minutes before heading back to bed. DC on the other hand partied like a Wyomissing based rock star and managed to navigate a number of winning games of flip cup before retiring for the evening. I was bummed in the morning, however, for two reasons. One was because I missed out on America Night for Family Meal Fridays, and I was really looking forward to ordering an All-American Burger with a side of Freedom Fries and a Pabst Red, White and Blue Ribbon. The other was because I was not supposed to work until 2pm but was awoken at 7:15am to Kier begging me to switch shifts and work at 8am. What can I say, I'm a true gentleman - I obliged.

The Straw That Broke The Camel's Back

Alright, so here comes the long awaited second half that was promised days ago (the timestamp on this post will say November 17 but trust me its November 22). We all have those embarrassing moments that probably shouldn't be shared with the world, but in the interest of full disclosure (and because my Jump To Conclusions mat directed me so) I decided to "go for it".

I was having one of those days (and I know we all have them) that just straight up could not go well. I had awaken next to a beautiful girl who was decidedly not into me. One of my VI friends I had spent a lot of time with was flying out that day (Valerie Rae - sad to see you go) and I'd possibly never see or hear from her again. I'm pretty sure the Bruins had even lost to the Islanders. I overuse this word when speaking but rarely use it when writing - things were wretched.

Perhaps it was the fact that instead of kicking a (expletives deleted) girl to the curb and telling her to take a taxi I gave her a ride home. Or perhaps it was the fact that I was enlisted to drive Rae Rae's suitcase back from the Hooters House. Either way, as I was navigating my way home at 9am, chauffeuring a bag of clothes, I realized that things were not the way they should be. I got home and sprawled out on the pull-out, putting on the 11 saddest songs I know (big time Seth Cohen moment) hoping they would help me realize that things could be worse. They didn't. DC and VR Trooper took off because she had to get to the airport leaving me alone to wallow in my sorrows. Big time pity party.

It was then that I decided to check on the only remaining living being in the house, a dog by the name of Ziggy. I was welcomed with a wag of the tail, and decided I would lay next to this adopted island mutt for a while as I felt it was my last shot at redemption for the day.

What happened could only be described as beautiful. Ziggy, who tends to be squeamish in my presence as I give her crap about the crap she leaves on the kitchen floor, gave me dog kisses for an hour straight. I'm not even kidding - this dog did not take a break. I feel like she could sense the 'situation de la bummed out' I was in and was doing anything - the only thing - that she knew how to do to make me feel better.

My thoughts went back to all the incredible people I have met in my life that would, at the drop of a hat, do absolutely everything they could to reconcile any ill-begotten feelings that dwelled upon me. I thought about Butters and Cookie and Soco Amaretto Lime. I thought about Johnny, Brett and Billy and Water Street Music Hall. I thought about Paul and RJ and Brian at St. Bonnie's. Three highlights among many, many other "best ever" moments in my life. It was unexpected and uncanny - but this 10 pound dog had reminded me about what is most important in life.

I'm not writing this to seem self-righteous. I'm not writing it to send a message to the youth of America - because if I did it would read learn the proper way to spell Mississippi. I just thought it appropriate to shout out to all the incredible people I have come across in my life, whether you actually read this blog or not, to let you know that when the Jenga Tower falls, I know I've got an army of friends that will never let it fall too far. Aequitas and Veritas, eat cheese and prosper.

Return of the Mack

This post will be broken into two halves - one the typical satirical storytelling and one a bit more serious and personal. I hope you enjoy them both.

Yesterday, I was supposed to work a double shift because Kier was going with Todd to a wine tasting and I agreed to cover for her. What happened instead was DC took the car to drop Ms. Valerie Rae off at the airport, as she was departing that day, making it impossible for K and Todd to go anywhere without calling a taxi. They dropped the idea of sipping fermented and decanted grapes and instead I worked a double because Kier wanted a day off.

It was pretty much the day from hell. I don't need to get into the details but here are a few of the issues I faced in those twelve hours: broken fax machines, blocked up sewage pumps, disabled server connections, neighbors convinced they can negotiate a discount for themselves, emergency gas orders, roommate's farts lingering in the front desk area for hours, late check-ins and having to contact the humane society about a litter of newborn kittens riddling the restaurant. Just to name a few. Somehow I persevered the day and closed up 15 minutes late because a potential guest wanted to see a few of the rooms.

Scene set: it is 8:15pm. I just closed the office, making sure to account for all my nightly duties (except I forgot to clock out - sorry Kier can you take care of that for me?) when all of a sudden I turn to my left and I see a stunning blonde in a pink dress moseying down the stairs. "Whoa," I thought to myself, "what do we have here?" She slowly rose here gaze from the careful steps she was taking to reveal the last thing I expected. It was Rae Rae.

Because of the torrential downpour of rain we had experienced that morning (oh yeah I forgot to mention that - I started my day soaked like a submarine) her flight home had been cancelled and she was going to stay for another night. DC was working the bar, so I begged her to let me go down first just so I could see the look on his face. I'm pretty sure as she was walking down the stairs "Lady in Red" came on and DC shut down any inclination of a conversation with anyone else at the bar. Giddy and giggly, the two lovebirds reconnected for one final and unexpected night together. Christmas had come early.

I've mentioned before that Matty told us "when you meet a girl from Mississippi, the first thing you should do is ask if she knows how to spell it." Well, this was my last chance to ask Rae Rae. Her response, and I'm not making a single word up, was "M, I, crooked letter, crooked letter, I, crooked letter, crooked letter, I, humpback, humpback, I." What's frustrating is that technically she's right.

Soon Guy and Gal came down to the bar for another deep conversation (I'm being serious - any conversation I've had with Guy has been really deep. Out of four conversations, one was checking in, and the other three were race relations, the theory of marriage, and how minuscule we really are in the realm of the universe). We took our time discussing important philosophies on life while closing the bar, and then it was time to pick up a seriously upset Nicole from the Shipwreck house.

As we made our way back it was clear that Nicole can look good in anything she wears. She would make a plastic garbage bag look fashionable. I mean she paid to enhance the goods she possesses, but hey I'm not complaining (neither did DC when she agreed to let him to see what fake Ds felt like). We head back to the house for a night of drinking, grilled cheeses and laughs.

<end of tape one, please insert tape two>

Geaux Saints Geaux

Football Sunday. Only one place to be - Hooters.

This time we brought along two of our guests that are cool as hell - for the sake of their reputation (and the damage it would suffer by being associated with us hooligans) I'm not going to use their real names. Let's call them... Guy and Gal. So Guy and Gal are New Orleans Saints fans, which means they were definitely going to get along with Rae Rae and Nicole. This was going to be little VR's last shift in the Virgin Islands, and because of this the entire crew came out to celebrate. While Guy and Gal could celebrate a successful day as "Cool" Brees led the Saints to a win, all the other games were epic failures. At this point in the day, I had no idea the travesty that was going to take place in Indianapolis, but there's no need to dwell on that now.

We talked about mud bugs and Dixie beer - we discussed the frivolity of marriage - we lived, laughed and ate naked wings. By the time 5pm rolled around, the Saints had won and I think Guy and Gal reached the full limit of awesome that one can experience in a day, so they took a taxi back to the hotel.

The other reason everybody was collecting themselves at Hooters was because there was a concert in Yacht Haven that night. The band is called Third World, and they were set up right outside Fat Turtle. By the time we got there and got settled with a beer, one of the opening acts was just finishing up. Between their set and the main set featuring Third World, the roadies were blasting reggae music so we decided to chill on some rocks that did not solicit a view of the stage. About 10 feet behind us there was a gentleman that I could only really describe as "not awesome". For the sake of this story, lets call him Malaca. He had a serious problem with the fact that we were blocking his partial view of the stage being set up. It was enough of an issue that he physically walked up to us and threw a tantrum-arm-filled fit. We moved, feeling slightly hated upon because of the color of our skin.

He however was not the only moron of the night. Later on when Kiersten was waiting to use the facilities, the men's room became available and there was nobody in line. As logic would dictate, she used the available washroom. Upon exiting the washroom this one loser decided it was worth giving her crap about being a female exiting the wrong door. Kiersten is not the kind of girl who will take crap, and apparently neither was the friend she made waiting in line. DC and I came upon a situation of some forty year old d-bag in a screaming match with two twenty something blondes.

Things quickly escalated to the point where we had to escort them away from the premises and distract them with the live concert 20 feet away. Kier went home while DC and I danced with the other girl (never caught her name) and about six of her friends. Good thing I practiced on my Dance Dance Revolution pad earlier that night, otherwise it would have been ROUGH.

We got home just in time to see the Colts score a game winning touchdown in the last drive of the game to beat my Patriots. Drenched and depressed, I went to bed.

Family Meal Fried Eh?

It was once again Friday and this time our talented chef was not working, so we were able to assemble the cast and crew of Family Meal Fridays. The menu featured fried rice and stir fry as prepared by Beth, as well as multiple sake-based beverages such as sake bombs and sake margaritas. The night however quickly took a turn for college as we found ourselves circling a six foot folding table playing flip cup.

Further proof that we were back in college days came when our hiatus from flip cup was filled with a power hour DVD of epic pro wrestling clips (although there were no clips of Captain Insano which really grinds my gears).

The crew that we had assembled that night was ideal in both size and roster. Brent even brought the hockey fans (Canadians) who were lovely as always. He also introduced a new version of flip cup where before the first two pair off, someone asks an 'or' question and they can't start drinking until they answer. For example: TOP or BOTTOM. BOXERS or BRIEFS. CARROT TOP or PAULY SHORE (I think the category for that one must have been which one would drive you to kill yourself first if you were stuck in a room with them. I pick Pauly Shore).

We then all made our way down to Yacht Haven to Fat Turtle because Jared and Greg had to work and we wanted them to be able to get in on the fun. If you go to the dictionary and look up "cut a rug", you will notice a reference stating "please see: Tim and DC at Fat Turtle on 11/13/09". It was a good thing it was Friday the 13th, because that was the only excuse we could provide for the mind blowing display of talent. The only pitfall of the night was a failed promise to get Michael Jackson's "Dirty Diana" on because DC has every move memorized.

After we finished the spectacle at Fat Turtle we get back home and had an acoustic sing-along on the balcony until 5am. I guess I was rocking out a little too hard because I started breaking strings.

Mom Don't Read This Post

Wednesday was my day off. I had the entire day to do whatever I pleased. Which is why when I couldn't fall back asleep at 8:03 am (after cleaning up the tootsie roll with a side of lemonade that Ziggy, the house dog, had blessed us with just minutes prior) I said I'm gonna make some major progress in Tiger Woods 2009 on DC's PS3. And since it was my day off, and I play much better with a little buzz on, I poured myself a rum and coke.

Around noon and a few drinks later, I realized that the rum was 151 proof. I shrugged it off and mix another drink - after all (and not to overemphasize this point) it was my day off.

2pm rolls around and the shift changes - as DC leaves I decide now is a good time for a nap. I get maybe 10 minutes in before Kier bursts through the door with Jared, Greg and Brent. They were all meeting Justin at the beach volleyball court and they decided I was going to be their sixth. When I say "they decided", I want to make it clear that I had absolutely no choice in the matter. And, by "no choice" I mean Kiersten jumped onto my bed and started beating me with her fists.

Mind you that I've never played beach volleyball. The only volleyball I've ever played was for one gym class in 7th grade, making my grand total of experience 43 minutes. Also mind you that I was completely hammered. This was the most extensive volleyball marathon in the history of mankind. We may have only played for four or five hours, but I felt like it had been three years. Even with the extended duration of playing time, I had a blast. I was diving left and falling right - trying to make blocks and failing epically. I'm pretty sure I tore a few ligaments in my left knee, but that story may have to wait for another day (if confirmed).

The sun FINALLY sets and saves my life. The M.O. then became what we were going to be doing for dinner that night. Fat Turtle was only steps away, and a mean Margherita Pizza was in order. We finish up and leave Yacht Haven. This is when I should have gone home if I was a responsible individual. But, if I had, I would have missed out on an incredible night.

As we are approaching Hull Bay I look up and the sky is incredibly clear. There is not a doubt in my mind that these are the most stars I've ever seen in the sky. We park and one of our hosts has a few fresh bags of mushrooms. I'm not speaking of the Portobello variety. I had never experienced nor had I ever had the inclination to experience psychedelic mushrooms. He starts to chop them up and make a mushroom coffee, which apparently is more of a "full body high". I passed and went with Brent to pick up a few lady friends that were going to be joining the party.

We arrive at a bar to which I've never been to find two gorgeous Canadian girls (one was Bree from a previous post), and by 'Canadian' I not only mean the country in which they hold citizenship but also the fact that they were hammered drunk. By the time we got back to the house the coffee was done and since the girls were all about it, I took half of a small cup.

We made our way down to the beach and laid down, staring at the horizon and the sky. I thought it was clear on the ride to Hull Bay - this time I could see about twice as many stars as before. The beauty of the moonlight kissing the boats at anchor was unbelievable, and we spent a good five hours just enjoying the scenery and each other's company. Eventually the night had to end (read: it was 2am and I had to work at 8am), so we gathered our coolers, our inflatable rafts and ourselves and went our separate ways.

DC's Saves Made Me Friends

Turns out I didn't need to change shifts after all because DC's game wasn't until 9pm and I would have gotten out of work at 8pm, but having that extra time allowed me to choose the perfect shirt from DC's closet (as my laundry needed to be laundered) - a bright orange Ralph Lauren Polo t-shirt. I chose this shirt not only because it was the only large, but also because it meant I would be noticed. My train of thought was if I'm going where people have guns, I might as well do what hunters do to prevent themselves from getting shot back up north and wear the brightest colors possible.

There was only one flaw in my logic - well perhaps two. The first was that everyone else that was supporting New Vibes was wearing black or white shirts and Jorts that ended at their ankles. They would have been capris if they had started where they where supposed to. I stood out like... well, like a white guy wearing an orange shirt in a sea of locals wearing black or white. There's really no other way to explain it. The other flaw was that the other team wore orange. Not just any orange - the exact same shade as I was wearing. The only thought that came to mind was a sarcastic "excellent."

I've only been down in the islands for a month and a half, and there is a definitive dialect associated with the local islander's version of the English language. I have not quite adjusted to this particular aspect of my new life. By that I mean I have no freaking clue what is being said to me 90% of the time. I felt like I was in a stadium full of Shannon Sharpes and I was Dan Marino. Postgame coverage will never eclipse the language barrier between those two.

Now I took french in high school, which should be read: I barely know french. But, the little I do know includes the words "ce" meaning "that" and "la" meaning "there" (I hope, please correct me if I'm wrong Madame Rosetti). At one point, the gentleman to my left looked to me and pointed to a player saying "CELA". Based on my knowledge of any language besides English, I thought he was saying, "that, there." I then asked if he was speaking French, just to verify my suspicions. I. Was. Wrong. CELA is the name of the player, and I definitely offended this guy who was only trying to be nice to an obviously out of place fan. If you're reading this, guy in the stands, please take my words of condolences: je suis desole.

Just then, DC (the reason I was in the preposterous situation in the first place) made an absolutely incredible and athletic save that sent the crowd into a frenzy. By simply screaming "THAT'S MY ROOMATE" I managed to make twelve new friends. In fact, less than a minute later one of the guys came up to me, looked into my party cup, and upon seeing any beverage at all instructed, "Finish whas in ya cup!" so he could buy me another $2 Heineken.

There are words you learn growing up that you think you will never have to use again. Today, I would like to feature the word "adjacent". Adjacent means directly next two, although most people just use its definition in its place. Let me use it in a sentence: At DC's soccer game last night, both groups of locals adjacent to me in the stands, one to the left and one to the right, checked to make sure that weed smoke wouldn't bother me. Apparently they didn't know Kremdog was a former employer of mine.

The game ended in a 1-1 tie which is so uncommon for soccer. Even though most of the team was working DC over and trying to get he and I to join them at Green House for a couple of drinks, we decided to head back to the apartment and pass on the "only white people at the bar" sandwich they wanted us to eat.

1.21 Gigawatts - That Shit Doesn't Come Cheap

Last night was Q's birthday. Q is the dishwasher in the restaurant here, and Q is a local that actually likes white people. Immediately after typing that I realize how bad it sounds, so let me clarify by saying that at least 50% of the locals I have met legit like white people. Its like Sex Panther - 60% of the time, it works all the time (I don't know how that's relevant, but I digress...).

To celebrate his birthday, Q brought a special drink in with him last night. Its called Copperhead Wine. Here are a few facts about it:

What it is not: wine.

What it is: 151 proof rum. Also in the bottle are a coiled Cobra with a Scorpion dangling from its mouth.

I wish I were lying. In order to get it you have to go to Vietnam. I'll never go, I'm too scared of Charlie (from the conflict, not from Its Always Sunny). I'm also scared I might run into Sylvester Stallone as Rambo and be forced to try to have a conversation with him. He sounds like Shannon Sharpe with a mouth full of peanut butter.

Back on point - Copperhead Wine. The idea is you take a shot and then spend the rest of your day trying not to go blind. I took two. DC and Todd each took three. Q took close to ten. Later that night I hallucinated meeting a walking pickle. It was definitely different, his name was Bill. I kept asking if he meant Dill, but he insisted it was Bill. It kinda pissed me off, his name didn't make sense.

Tonight I traded shifts so that i could go to DC's soccer game. He is the only white player in the entire league, and I will be the only white person in the entire stands. I'm considering wearing a shirt that says "please don't rob me, I only brought $10" although I'm worried that $10 is just enough to make it worthwhile.

Meatmare On Elm Street

Just another night around the apartment. Blast through the door after a few drinks at one of the many fine establishments on island, hungry as all get out, end up vegging out on the couch or playing guitar on the balcony. Except tonight was going to be different, because tonight I was going to cook a milk-steak.

Preparing a milk-steak is easy. I took out our finest cookie sheet and put it on the stove, poured in just enough milk to coat the sheet, took a two pound block of frozen meat from the freezer and proceeded to drop the whole mass of meat in - still frozen. Okay it wasn't a milk-steak, maybe more of a milk-burger. But, I personally thought it tasted delicious. DC disagreed. Kiersten didn't eat any because she is a vegetarian. Which brings me to the point of this particular posting (the milk-steak was just an appetizer (pun!)) - meatmares.

I've never had a meatmare, but that's because I don't qualify. Apparently its a phenomenon that happens when one decides to become a vegetarian. About a month into it, one might start to have nightmares that depict meat in a frightening situation.

I envision it like this: you fall asleep. You are sleeping soundly, dreaming about when you were a kid, playing touch football with your friends. Derek calls "hike!" and drops back while you streak down the right side of the street. He sees you and guns a pass deep past their coverage that you have a chance at if you run your hardest. So you dig every ounce of grit you can and are about to make the catch... and that's when the ball turns into a leg of lamb. Another scenario involves the plot of Nightmare on Elm Street except Freddy Kreuger's knife-fingers are now cooked-bacon-fingers. Sounds frightfully delicious.

We went online to ask my good friend Google if this phenomenon actually exists. I want to share with you this quote from someone who responded to a post on www.veggieboards.com:

I've only had a couple meatmares and they were within the first month or so of going vegetarian. They both completely freaked me out.
In the first dream I was eating a plate of meat. When I looked up I saw that I was in my car and the meat was from a rotting deer carcass that was sitting upright in the passenger seat with its ribcage exposed.
In the second dream, I (forgetting that I was vegetarian) put some chicken in the microwave. When I looked in the microwave, I saw that it wasn't chicken at all, but my kitty Oliver who was in the microwave.

I contest that meamares do not exist, and that this person is just batshit crazy.

We were introduced to meatmares by (none other than) Rae Rae. She asked Kiersten if she's ever had a meatmare and Kier got this "just when I thought you couldn't possibly be any dumber, you go and do something like this" look on her face and just stared until poor VR looked away. I guess she didn't totally redeem herself.

Scuba Diving At Hull Bay

It has been our goal since we moved down here to go scuba diving. We've talked about it pretty much every day and since we can't go home to our families on Thanksgiving we are planning on diving that morning and hunting our own fresh lobsters for dinner. So that brings us to this morning, when DC and I are going on our first of three dives to get certified.

We were supposed to get a ride from Jacob at 9:30 this morning to get to Hull Bay by 10. Jacob calls at 9:40 and explains that his car is beat and we need to find our own way. Granted its a five minute drive, but we've never been there and we don't know the way. Kier was working so we asked her but she was still hammed from the Fat Turtle. Basically her directions went something like this: "You need to go to the stop sign and turn... left... then I don't know maybe you should go another way... just go like you're going to Red Hook and follow the signs."

There were no signs. After going the right way, then not believing its the right way and turning around, then calling for more directions as we drove past our apartment, we finally make our way to Homer's. Homer is THE MAN. This guy not only knows everything there is to know about diving, but he makes it so easy to learn Al Ovechkin could do it. Google him and then Geico caveman and you'll get the joke.

Scuba diving is one of those experiences for which there are no words to describe. Its kinda like skydiving in that sense - a standalone experience. At one point 3,000 fish swam around me and I felt like King Triton commanding the sea. Yes, that was a Little Mermaid reference, but I have a big white beard so deal with it. We went down along the top of the reef and looped through the bay. We had to go slow because we had a little dead weight with us in the back, but I loved it. I can't wait until we are certified (early next week - hell yeah) because we can go at our own pace (read: challenge Aquaman to a race).

The great thing is that Homer's ability to make the experience easy isn't the only that makes Homer's scuba shack a cut above the rest. There is the help. Jacob we all know and love, but there is a beautiful Brazilian named Dani and an awesome tattooed girl named Tiffany. Plus its located pretty much in an open-air bar that has pool tables, a ping-pong table, dart boards, a bookcase stocked with books and a pavilion. Possibly the best beach bar ever.

Fat Turtle Fridays

It had been a while since just Kier and I went out - and since DC was over at Matty's for a while, we decided it was just what the doctor ordered. Go-go gadget taxi driver!

Its a Friday night. I'd never been to Fat Turtle on a Friday night because we usually have Family Meal Fridays but couldn't this week because our head chef got called into work. It was pandemonium. There were girls everywhere. Shots were flowing like wine. There was loud 'boomchik' music blasting. What is boomchik music? Just say that word over and over at a quick pace and a regular beat and you'll find out.

Out of a sea of people, a single captain emerges. Brent rushes up to us, definitely a few deep, and hugs us like we found his lost puppy. The first thing Kiersten says is, "Tim needs you to find him a girl." That's why I love her, she just gets straight to the point. Brent grabs me and steers me over to Bree, a very attractive tall blond who was in a group talking to one of his roommates. He just says, "This is Tim. He's single." And then walks away.

Is it wrong that I assume everyone from Canada loves hockey? Apparently not, because Bree lives outside of Vancouver and roots for the Leafs. A short while later I returned to Brent and Kier when out of nowhere Jacob shows up with Patrickson. Jacob is a Scuba Instructor and he was supposed to join DC and I as well as the main guy Homer for a dive in the morning. The one thing Jacob told us was not to get shitfaced. Then he shows up at Fat Turtle and orders about 50 rounds of shots. Needless to say, Jacob had "car trouble" in the morning.

BTW I absolutely slayed the dance floor. Girls were hanging off my every move as if I was the new Twilight movie. Why didn't I bring anyone home? Because you need more than good dance moves to cage this beast.

Dinner At The Hooters House

Every time we told someone that DC and I were going to the Hooters house because they were cooking us dinner, they made the most original joke in the history of humankind. "Are they cooking you wings?" HAHAHAHAHAHA oh my God you're a genius! How did you even think of that joke its so complex! Its like you finished War and Peace, skimmed the Wall Street Journal, filmed a documentary about agrarian precapitalism and the capital forming effects of military mobilization, and THEN came up with the punchline. Touche salesman, touche.

So anyway I was enjoying some wings over at the Hooters house... oh man now I'm a funny guy too. Here's what really happened:

I get out of work at 8pm. DC and I have to be at the house by 9pm, otherwise something weird happens like their horse-drawn carriage turns back into a double-wide. We leave around 8:40 because he wants to stop at the stadium and grab a couple of beers for the road - some of the other teams in his soccer league had a game. None of you have ever been to this stadium and most of you will never go, but it is located in the straight up ghetto. Seeing as how I'm a white boy in a striped button up and I forgot to bring my non-existent gun, I opted to stay in the safari.

After circling the stadium three times with no sign of DC, I started to draw attention to myself. A white kid in a button up at a soccer game full of locals is an awkward situation. It is however trumped when you are a white kid making the same four left turns in the ghetto. People start to notice you. I decide I'm just going to park by the entrance and wait it out. Just as I did, Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry" came on the radio. Considering the situation, I decided the radio should be off.

Right as I'm pulling away to do another lap, DC comes out. It turns out the lady tried charging him $5 per beer when they are really $2 and he had to get his team out of the crowd to vouch for him and it was just a whole big mess. Anyway, we get to the Hooters house at exactly 8:58. We are welcomed by an already drunk Rae Rae, a non-drinking Nicole, a cute yet to be named bleached-blond Hooters girl, and three dudes. One is the manager of the Hooters, and I'm pretty sure the other two work in the kitchen.

Nicole made dinner, which she said took two and a half hours to make. To be fair I believe her and it tasted good, but it was spaghetti in a red sauce. Maybe the water was boiling for two hours and fifteen minutes and she was counting that. I was a little disappointed - here are two girls from Mississippi and we are eating pasta. I was expecting blackened catfish, maybe some mud bugs, collard greens - some serious southern food.

The night turns from dinner to music, which was once again an awakening experience. Nicole dedicated "I'm on a Boat" to Slim, the seven foot black guy from West Virginia, and he had never heard it. Most of them had never heard it. Like I said earlier - its a black hole at the Hooters house. I was baffled nobody knew who The Lonely Island was. I was further shocked by the number of jokes DC and I were making to each other about everyone else that they were just not understanding. Be careful with those big words, people get lost.

Cole Trickle Ain't Got Nothin

Its long overdue that I tribute a post to driving on island. Lets start with the primary issue - you drive on the left side of the road. Once you get used to it, you realize it makes much more sense - but it does take a little time to get used to.

Second, the roads here are pretty much all 45 degree inclines and declines and every turn is a hairpin. Taxi drivers usually have to stop before making the turn so they can honk their horn and warn any oncoming traffic. There are only certain cars that can handle such ridiculously rigorous roads, and the nineteen-ninety-something Honda Odyssey we rock is one of them.

Third, there are no such thing as stop signs in St. Thomas. I mean, they exist, but people just don't really obey them. Down here, they are called stoptionals. There is also no discretion in regard to who gets a stop sign and when. Random red octogons sit on the side of the road with no purpose. At a four way intersection there will only be one stop sign. Its pandemonium.

Fourth, there is no open container law. This means when you are getting ready to leave a bar, you don't have to throw back/leave your drink. Just ask for a plastic and you can take it for the road. In fact I've heard many drinks ordered just in that purpose - for the road. They will give you a ticket for not having a seatbelt buckled, talking on your cell phone or saying "come on meow" when pulled over, but not if you have a cold beer chilling in the cup holder.

Fifth, there is some sort of unwritten law about when you are supposed to let people turn or pull out in front of you or pretty much any awkward situation. The best is when you don't expect it and have to slam on the brakes because Johnny Rasta wants to make a right.

Sixth, MAMA T. Mama T is a green Ford Explorer with a personalized USVI license plate that drives around the island at 5 mph. She is most likely to make an appearance when you are in a serious rush or when you are lost. I think her name stands for Mama T(errible driver).

Finally - lets talk about lines. In the states, you have a line to indiate the left side of the road, a line to indicate the right and a center dotted line to indicate where your lane ends and where the oncoming traffic should stay. In the VIs there are no such lines. If you're lucky, there will be lines on the side of the road to tell you not to drive into the rock or off the cliff. If you're unlucky, there is not even close to enough room on one road for two motor vehicles.

Roads here are funny, the ones that are really steep are really narrow, but the ones that are flat seem to have 45 foot shoulders on each side. No way to explain it, besides saying... its just the Caribbean, take it easy.

The Absolute Best Beach Body Ever

Rae Rae and Nicole came over for a night of drinking and fun. Apparently Nicole thought we were going out and about, because she was dressed to the nines. Short sundress, made up like a pro and the ladies were just hanging. We lived, we laughed, we tried playing Clue but couldn't figure out the rules... at the end of the day Nicole and I had plans to take the ferry to St. John the next morning.

Now driving on this island is crazy, which I can get to later, but long story short I got lost. When I finally showed up to the Hooters House 30 minutes late (yes there is a house, and its like Bermuda's Triangle - no house phone, no cell reception, down lost long alley), St. Thomas decided to bless us with rain. We once again got lost on the way - this time on the way to the dock in Red Hook - but made it just in time to make the 1pm ferry. Apparently, a terrible cloud of rainy weather follows Nicole around everywhere she goes because it rained the entire 20 minute boat ride.

We went to Woody's and got a seafood platter, we went to Cinnemon Bay, we got R & R's at the Tap Room. In short, we covered all the bases. I'm pretty sure I can pin the exact moment of "botch" as the moment she woke up from her short nap on the beach and saw me coming out of the water. I'd have to guess it looked something like Hasselhoff out of Baywatch if he was 20 pounds overweight and took a baseball bat to the face. Needless to say, things didn't work out. At least I still have Ursula.

Later that night, she disclosed her least favorite word as "forget about it". I felt it was my civic duty to inform her that "forget about it" is actually three words. Things like this happen.

Accents and Accidents of the Southern Variety

So we all know by now that DC has a serious long-term girlfriend named Rae Rae (Valerie Rae? VR Trooper? Sound familiar yet?) and we also know that she has an eleven month old child back in Mississippi named... something. The reason I say "something" is because its impossible to remember this child's name once you have heard his nickname. Its kinda memorable. Apparently the little fella likes to stick his tongue out a lot, like something fierce, because Rae Rae calls her child "Toadfrog".

First of all, when I hear "Toadfrog", I think of a mutant villian that Godzilla had to fight before stomping through Tokyo. More importantly, however, its oxymoronic because toads and frogs (while they may look similar because they both have tongues) are very different animals. Its like saying Gatorcroc... or Zebrahorse. Do you want to guess what the response was when DC told Ms. Rae (I'm pretty sure its her last name - the name so nice you say it twice) that it was oxymoronic? I'll give you a second so you can write it down so you have proof. Go ahead, take your time.

"HUH?"

I'll bet 3 out of 4 got that right. He explained that it was not in fact a moron high on oxycontin, but instead a phrase that seems contradictory. Then he had to explain what contradictory meant. It... took a while before the conversation was back on track. Maybe that's why Matty said that when you meet a girl from Mississippi, the first thing you should ask her to do is spell it.

It turns out that the rooster crow girl dubbed Mini is actually named Baby. So... close enough. But she just left island and in what I like to call the Mississippi Swap, when she went home Nicole came in her place. Not to knock Baby because she seemed like a very sweet and attractive southern girl - but Nicole made the cut in the Hooters calendar. Her nickname is A double D because she's "ADD and has got double D's". Needless to say, it was nice to meet her. More on that later.

DC is and always has been nothing but a gentleman to ladies, but you should see how he treats his soon-to-be wife. They are like two peas in a pod. Oh - pea! That reminds me, RR said that Johnny Depp was so hot she'd let him pee in her ass. Maybe its that kind of thinking that made her leave her 11 month old child so she could take a 1 month shift in St. Thomas. You stay classy, Mississippi.

Madlibs aka Filling In The Blanks

Its been almost a week since the last post and that's simply because when you're living in paradise its sometimes tough to take a break and make some notes. So the next few posts will all be coming up pretty rapidly and will hopefully do the last week justice. There will even be a guest post by DC, if he can figure out how to use a computer. Man that kid is dumb. And no... the New Vibes post was not him, though he does talk like that all the time. Alright, lets kick the tires and light the fires - its time to get drunk and do some creative writing.

Little Green Ghouls, Buddy!

Last night was Halloween and once again I found myself without a costume. This wasn't my fault, though, because I was supposed to work 8am-8pm while Kier and DC were on a boat trip and I figured there was absolutely no way I was going to want to go out after that. Turns out that the boat trip fell through and I was only working the morning shift.

So what to be as last minute costumes? Well, Kier pulled off an epic replication of the pregnant prom queen. Greg wore the deflated St. Pauli girl fat suit (without the blower in it) and somehow didn't sweat himself into oblivion. Austin pulled out an old Turkey costume that he had in the closet (might have to borrow that for Thanksgiving). And for the most obscure costume of the night: DC was Nightman. Nightman is a character from Its Always Sunny In Philadelphia that wears all black, has mascara eyes, snaps/hisses when he walks, and is a master of karate. Only three people the entire night knew who Nightman was, and mind you that includes the five people in our group. His mortal enemy is Dayman, and I wanted nothing more than to go as Dayman and balance the force of the night. Here they are in battle:


Unfortunately when I moved down here I forgot to bring my off-white full body pajamas and black junk protector, so I had to move onto other ideas.

What I ended up going with was two Styrofoam plates taped together like a clam shell and hung that from the button of my shirt. The front of the Styro-clam said "What's the forecast?" and inside I wrote "cloudy with a chance of cock" and had an arrow pointed down. I actually got the idea from Greg, and I went with it because my dear friend Jose Cuervo told me it was a great plan and that girls would love it. Jose was wrong.

I could have just gone as Helen Keller, because for all intents and purposes I was deaf, blind and mute. I was like Barry Badrinath from Beerfest. It was a typical night out, and by that I mean it was the most incredibly epic Halloween ever. At one point Kier decided she had enough fun for one evening and tried falling asleep on the sidewalk. Kicking and screaming, she resisted as DC and I tried to get her on her feet and into a taxi home. The security guard of the development came over, obviously thinking we were trying to take advantage of her. He ended up giving her a ride home (score, free taxi!) and we went to Hubbly Bubbly to root for Austin in the costume competition.

It was down to two costumes - Austin as a turkey, and a dude with three girls as the four seasons. I'm not talking about the legendary doo-wop group front-manned by Frankie Valli, I'm talking about the actual seasons. DC found out that the first prize was a $500 gift certificate, and upon hearing this replied with an unprompted "gaaaaaay". Austin ended up as the first runner up and we headed back to Fat Turtle because clearly Hubbly had no idea what a good costume was.

Later in the night, DC was talking to a hot bumble bee when I came up and interrupted the conversation with "I'm the owner of this joint and I know this guy and he is LOADED. (Turning to DC) Sir, we have the milk boiling in the back the way you like it." I then walked away, but DC told her that their conversation had hit a high point and ended things right then and there. Somehow, mysteriously, Rae Rae was in his arms when he woke up this morning. Neither of us can recollect seeing her at all on Halloween night.

Guest Post by DC - New Vibes

Hi everyone! My name's DC and I'm a little nervous, this is my first time posting on a blog! Please excuse my excessive use of exclamation points, I'm just so excited because I love football! You Americans might call it soccer, but now that I'm on a team down here in the Caribbean, I call it by what its known as worldwide.

Yeppers, you heard right. I'm on a team down here! Its called the New Vibes, and these fellas are the returning champions of the Caribbean league. I met a few of them when I was out at Green House with my roommate/mentor Tim. He had so many girls just hanging all over him that he sent six of them to a table with a guy in a Ronaldino t-shirt. None of the girls were looking at me nor acknowledging my presence (which is good because between you and I, I get nosebleeds when I get nervous) so I asked the guy about his shirt. He told me that since Tim was such a great guy, he'd let me tryout for his team as keeper.

I played D1 soccer in college, so I felt pretty confident in my abilities. I get to the stadium and start warming up. Before the game the teams line up face to face so they can hear you when you wish them good luck. I'm not sure the best way to put this, but I was the only muffin that wasn't burnt. The other team's goalie spotted this right away and started a sing-song musical chant that went something like "they got a white guy, they got a white guy, and he's their keeper, and he's their keeper." Can you imagine that?? I mean its my first game and there are already people making up chants for me! This is the kindest league ever! Since the sweetest mints are compliments, I figured I'd return the favor and tell him that I liked his jersey, it really brought out his eyes. The only downside to the entire affair was that the field was actually a baseball diamond, and my goal line was all dirt.

We ended up winning 5-1, and guess what? I made the team! I'm going to be the starting keeper on the New Vibes! After the game the guys asked if I wanted to go out with them so celebrate the win, but I told them that I was too tired for ice cream and went home instead. But wait - the story gets better. Practices are Sundays at 7:30am! This may be fate, because that's my favorite time of the week to play!

The Dream Outlives The Man

If I were to say that the particular bar that would host the evening's festivities was called Green House, what would you think? I for one thought it was going to be a nice bar with an affluent crowd and perhaps a special on mojitos. In fact, it was a dark dingy hip-hop blasting dance party. Why would that be the bar of choice for the evening? Because DC had a fever, and the only perscription was more Rae Rae.

She had been texting DC all night flirting and begging him to come to Green House because it was the last night on island for a number of the Hooters girls and that was where they wanted to spend it. It was nice getting pat down for weapons on the way in, because I knew that once we got inside we would be safe. I especially wasn't hiding a gun where my dong usually goes, but thanks for checking there extensively anyway. Sorry for saying dong mom.

We get our beers and walk around, looking for Rae Rae. When we found her she had some weird growth on her lip - it was in the shape of a six foot white guy. About five minutes later she left with this dude. I felt bad for DC - all night she had been leading him on, and for this? DC was like Martin Luther King Jr, though, because the dream did not die with him. Sitting in the next barstool over was Brittany, the Hooters waitress who gets confused about pretty much anything, but specifically what someone takes with them when they ask for the rest of their food to be wrapped.

I start talking to her and for some reason she seems really into me. Maybe it was the Dakar Noir I was wearing. I go to the bar and get another round, and upon my return she is gone. The way DC described it this morning was that she was on the phone and did an impromtu demonstration of her 100 meter dash. Regardless, her bolt meant one thing - we were the last two white people in this bar.

No big deal. At least not until DC spotted some dude in a Ronaldino jersey. Long story short, DC is now the keeper on the best soccer team in the Caribbean. His "tryout" is a game tomorrow night. Now seems like a good as time as any to mention that we saw Michael Jackson last night. I'm not even joking around - this guy had a light blue bedazzled translucent blouse unbuttoned and over a white wife beater with black pants, sunglasses, a classic MJ hat and a white glove. He even had the lightening skin and jerry curl. It was like a Halloween costume.

After a while we decided that we had enough of the cast and crew of House Party. As we exit the establishment we see one of our familiar taxi drivers. This guy is actually a really good guy, and his brother is too. The best way to describe his brother is to say that he is a Rasta that runs a bodego out of the back of his pickup truck. For the first and hopefully only time in my life, I bought a cold cheeseburger out of the back of a pickup truck and then took a taxi home.

Get Lost Chris Daughtry

I feel like every Tuesday post is going to start the same way: "So it was Monday and we were planning to stay in. But then..."

This time the "But then" is the fact that Adam, Kasia and Mariusz wanted to go to Red Hook. Specifically - Duffy's, which is slowly becoming my favorite bar because of the homeless Rastas and cougars on vacation. Seeing as how they only had two nights left before they were leaving the island, I couldn't resist.

So we get east and walk into Duffy's, and what's this? A group of eight cougars with mostly empty drinks? Just what the doctor ordered. After a quick "get here now" text to DC and a quick drink, I found myself getting a little frisky on the dance floor with Colleen, who is turning 40 this Thursday.

Twice in my life I've had something happen to me that I like to call the Really Phenomenon. This was the second time. Basically what happens is you meet a girl, have a short conversation and go your separate ways, only to have her come up to you ten minutes later and introduce herself to you again, remembering nothing from the first interaction. The first time this happened to me I was in Philadelphia and we were at a bar called Drinkers. I was ordering another round of $1 PBR pounders and a girl came up and asked if I had any quarters. Seeing as how I didn't have any quarters because you don't get quarters back when drinks are in dollar increments, I asked her what they were going to be used for. She pointed to a cup placed high on a shelf on the wall behind the bar, sharing that if we make a quarter in there the whole bar gets free shots. She told me that her name was Clairie and that she did promotional events marketing for the Wachovia Center. We shared a few laughs and I returned to my friends.

Ten minutes pass, and I get a tap on my shoulder. It was a girl, and she told me that her friend thought I was really cute and wanted to meet me. I'm always game to meet girls that think I'm cute, even if it has only happened three times. She steps out of the way, and walking up with outstretched hand is Clairie. "Hi, I'm Clairie, what's your name?" There's only one proper response to this, hence the name of the Phenomenon. And no matter how hard you try, you can't hold it in. REALLY?

So back to last night. Colleen and I are going all Patrick Swayze/Jennifer Grey when the song ends and I return to my drink. This time the Really Phenomenon took only about two minutes to recoil. I dance my way back over to Colleen and she slurs "What's your name?" Before I even have time to respond a Chris Daughtry lookalike comes stumbling across the dance floor and bumps into us. To a drunk cougar, nothing is better bait than an American Idol contestant, so her focus quickly shifted to making out with this dude. That's when the Eva Longoria stunt double said "heyyyyy I was making out with him" and I decided to walk away. After all they don't make mouth-condoms.

Our ride home that night ended up being a taxi that was a pickup truck with two rows of seating in the cab. When we commissioned this taxi's services, we didn't realize there were going to be three Rastas in the cab that were going to ride with us the entire trip. Safe to say, I stayed pretty quiet.

The Return of Rae Rae

To start, I need to apologize in advance for any misspellings. I was not supposed to work this morning but Kier got a migraine and asked me to cover the rest of her shift. I am pretty sure I'd blow at least a 0.22 right now (blow? gayyyy)

I have to start with the current - about 17 seconds after Kier left, a friend of the family that owns this establishment came into the office, seeking a computer with which to check the internet. He speaks Polish, Russian, German, Afghanistan, Dachshund, Martian and MS-DOS, but he does not speak English. He put his phone on speaker while checking his voicemail - and I don't know if its a Europe thing, but his PIN was probably 700 digits long. I felt like he was trying to play "Louie Louie" on his brick. To punish him I'm playing Jay-Z's "December 4th" over and over again - a great song, just not 300 times in a row.

Alright, to last night. Everyone's shifts ended (including DC holding down the bar and walking into the apartment with $500 in ones) and we decided that we should steer ourselves over to Shipwreck. We got a chance to hang out with the Family Meal Fridays crew, so we were all just around the same general area when something happened. I don't mean to get anybody alarmed - its just not a very common thing down here in the VIs.

Ok here it is - a single girl came up to DC and started flirting with him. I know, right? Nothing but love for DC - he is not the issue in this connundrum. The problem is the severe lack of single girls on this island! Every girl here is seriously spoken for.

So a beat passes until she decides to introduce herself to the rest of the table(s). A resounding "Hey y'all, my name's Valerie Rae" overcame the vicinity, and I dropped everything (the sweater I was knitting): I had heard this voice before. "But where?" I asked myself, accidentally out loud. Was it from work? Was is from a beach? No - the "Hey y'all" was too distinguishable. One thing was clear - this girl has worked at a Hooters.

I snapped my head around like a switchblade and screamed "My God - You're Rae Rae!" Rae Rae had been Master of Ceremonies in the prior week's Sunday football exploits, specifically when she got Mini to crow for us. Rae Rae has a thick southern accent. Other things Rae Rae has include knee high socks in 80 degree weather and an 11 month old child.

After some serious dancing and some serious drinking, we somehow got home. They even played "Call on me" so I could do the workout dance. What's on tap for tonight? Well its Sunday so I think we'll take it easy, maybe just some karaoke at Fat Boys. And maybe three fingers of glenlivet. And maybe a few rounds of shots, although one shot is all I need.

Family Meal Fridays

We started a weekly tradition on Friday night that will go on for at least one week, and its called Family Meal Fridays. The concept is easy to grasp - we gather and share a meal and our stories from the week and a whole bunch of booze so that we don't drop our entire paycheck at the bar.

The inaugural dinner was cooked by Beth, and she made a delicious Chicken Parmesan and Eggplant Parmesan. I was in charge of delivering the liquor, and for that I had to make my first trip to Cost-U-Less.

If I could take a moment and praise the driving experience on the island. Cons include a very mountainous terrain and cars that park in your lane and just throw on the flashers (much like double parking in NYC except there is not "single" car to make it a "double" park). Pros include how much sense it makes to drive on the left side of the road, how everybody stops to allow you to turn, and the fact that there is no open container law.

So after a series of sharp turns and 45 degree inclines, I found Cost-U-Less. Beth had already brought over one JV bottle of white wine, so I picked up a handle of rum, another JV bottle of white, a Varsity bottle of red, and a case of beer. Inspired by Annmarie - a JV bottle is the normal sized bottle of wine, a Varsity bottle is 1.5 liters. Kier's two sayings are "Bitches be crazy" and "This ain't no JV." She sure is special.

Justin and Smitty coach a high school football team, so they show up after their practice and dinner starts. By this point everyone was about two drinks too many into the night, so it was less of a "dinner" and more of a "feeding". We were animals. It was like we'd been fasting for the month of Ramadan, except taking nights off too. With the snap of your fingers there was no more food and a whole bunch of dirty plates.

...more like what didn't we do that night. We played Apples to Apples. We played guitar and sang off the balcony. We told stories. We laughed, we loved, we prospered. At one point Justin took my phone, called DC's phone (who was sitting next to him) and had a three minute conversation with his voicemail about which GI Joe was the best (and got in an argument about it with himself and threw a chair, it was pretty intense). My vote is for Snake Eyes.

In the morning there was no alcohol left. All of it was gone. While we were sleeping a hurricane must have come through our apartment because it could not be described as tidy. I looked in the mirror to check the travesty that was looking back, drank a pitcher of water and went back to sleep.

"One Shot is All I Need"

DC and I were hanging out in the apartment before his bartending shift just letting time pass by. Perhaps it was this severe lack of things with which to occupy our time, or perhaps it was the riveting plotline - but we found ourselves watching Sniper 3. I don't know if you've seen Sniper 1 or Sniper 2, but you don't get that sense of completion until you watch the entire trilogy.

Anyway there is one scene that I feel best sums up the movie/experience/adrenaline, and it has become my new favorite catchline. When it was explained to Tom Berringer's character (the main character, and yes he was the title sniper for all three movies) that he may only have time for one shot at his target, he swings around and looks just to the left of the camera, saying, "One shot is all I need."

"Seriously? That's you're new favorite catchphrase?" YES. The reason is this: next time you are at a bar and someone turns to you and gives you the nonchalant "hey man you want a shot?" just turn to him and with conviction declare "one shot is all I need."

We should have followed that advice that night. DC was closing up the bar and Todd, Kier and I were his only customers - waiting for him to get out so we could all scram. It was Monday, we were going to give our livers a break. That's when a certain gentleman came up to the bar with a bottle of Pernod. This wasn't any random dude, this was a privelidged guest who had ties to the owners. He also spoke no English.

After some time, we realized he was asking for a rocks glass, a brandy snifter, a pack of sugar, a coaster and a straw. This man wanted to do shots. The specific variety of shot he had in mind goes as follows - you dissolve the sugar in the Pernod in the snifter. You then light the Pernod on fire to warm it. Once warm, you pour the shot into the rocks glass and use your coaster to cover and trap the vapors in the snifter, drink your warm sugar shot from the rocks glass, and use your straw to inhale the reserved vapors. An optional move (an option only selected by our Polish friend) was to mime a bench press after the shot and a military press after the vapors.

After too many of these we ended up in the pool with a varsity bottle of wine, a twelve pack of beer and no lifeguard on duty. Then we woke up in the morning. The in-between part is a little hazy.

God made it snow, Brady made it rain

I apologize in advance for the length of this thing (just found my new favorite pickup line).

On island there are only maybe three places that serve draft beer. Hooters is one of them. They also have the football package. A quick Venn Diagram illustrates how that puts Hooters in an exclusive situation on Sundays. We walk in for the 4pm games and are welcomed with a resounding "Welcome to Hooterssssss!!!" We get our pitcher and our shots of tuaca and order food.

By the time I was full, I had finished all but three of my chicken wings. I asked our waitress Brittany (although she probably spelled it with an 'i' at the end) for a take-out container, jokingly adding "I have a dog at home." She FREAKS - "YOU CAN'T FEED CHICKEN WINGS TO A DOG!" But I calm her down, saying that Ziggy is a special dog and that she's really smart and that she'll be fine. So Brittany goes to grab my plate and asks quite possibly the only question I didn't (nor would ever) expect to hear: "Would you like just these three wings, or do you want all these bones too?"

No thanks, Brittany, I'll stick to the wings that have yet to be consumed.

Shortly after that, Todd's lady friend Ashley came in and had a special treat - cookies. I was stoked, because I love chocolate chips. These were a little different, they tasted kinda like granola and moss. About 30 minutes later we all suddenly felt very relaxed and at peace. It was then that waitress #2 (Rae Rae - I shit you not) started chatting with DC about how he looked tired, and needed to wake up! He insisted that he was fine, but Rae Rae from Mississippi was determined.

She walks away and returns a minute later with waitress #3 (didn't catch her name, lets call her Mini). She was very short. She was so short that her head didn't even come up to the side of the table. Lincoln Hawk would have loved her. The only thing shorter than Mini was the amount of time it took her to lose all her dignity. Rae Rae tells DC once again that he looks tired, and he needs a wake up call. Then, turning to Mini, she says "DO IT GIRL!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

This is the part of the story where Mini starts to crow like a rooster. Not like a Peter Pan crow, I'm talking about a straight up rooster crow. My favorite part however was when she was done crowing, because she just turned and walked away as if that wasn't the strangest thing any man, woman or child saw that day.

Marveling at our incredible experience, we walked across the street to Mojo's - a very cool bar because its like an open air hut and instead of stools they have swings hanging from the perimeter. It was now that we should have decided to go home. But when somebody said "Fat Boys" and "karaoke Sunday" in the same sentence, that thought went right out the window.

We sang three songs - LFO's Summer Girls, NSYNC's Bye Bye Bye, and Journey's Don't Stop Believing. The crowd was eating out of our hands. My roomates from my former life on Audubon Street would have loved it. I never leave my fans unsatisfied, so only because they begged for it I gave them an encore.

We had to pick something everyone knew, something they would recognize but not necessarily expect. The choice was obvious to me: Bonnie Tyler - Total Eclipse of the Heart. The moment the first few piano notes were struck, a euphoric wave swept over the crowd. We needed no microphones. I might as well have been holding a baton - conducting the crowd that was my orchestra. We even got the screaming chorus down to the whisper of the second verse at around the 2:20 mark of the song. Gustav Mahler, eat your heart out.

And so, with scratchy voices, sweat swabbed shirts and a brand new fan club, we ventured home on the left side of the road.

My Friend Likes Little People

We first discovered this anomaly my first night on island when we went to Fat Boys, a bar in Red Hook. My friend, who for the purposes of this blog I will call Lincoln Hawk, introduced her short friend Alex in "Laundry Position" - that is Link came running through the crowd around the corner of the bar holding Alex on her hip like a laundry basket. The thing was that they both were acting as if this was the most normal thing that could have been happening, and when inquired as to why they were in this particular Kama Sutra-esque circumstance, Hawkman revealed "I loooooove little people"

Fair enough. Everybody has particular likes and dislikes, and Alex is a short person - so it fits.

But then a couple of days later we were sitting around the apartment and Lincoln said the following words: "I want to birth a midget." DC and I immediately stopped what we were doing and looked at each other. Most people say "I hope my baby looks like me" or "I want my son to be good at sports" or at least "maybe it'll have hair". But disclosing a preference for such a specific variety of human means one thing - she had thought about this for a while.

Still, upon further review we decided that this too was reasonable. After all, the smaller the child, the easier the childbirth, right?

Then the other night happened. We were sitting at the bar enjoying the view, when suddenly - unprovoked - Hawk tells us that for her 30th birthday, she wants midgets. "Not like, as a gift," she explained, "I want 20-30 midgets at my party, just running around like little animals."

I think its time for an intervention.

Tuesday 10/13 - Cougars on the St. John Ferry

The hotel owner decided to give us all the same day off, which won't happen again for a while because one of us is most likely always going to be working. We decided to celebrate the only way that made any sense - drinking and the beach. Why drinking and the beach? Because its Tap Room Tuesday.

So we roll ourselves out of bed around 10:30, determined to make the 11am ferry. I think we caught the 1pm. Because Kiersten is so sheltered and anti-social, she only struck up conversations with two separate married couples on our 20 minute boat ride and recruited one of them to join us to Cinnemon Bay instead of the slightly more touristy Trunk Bay. After meeting up with some friends at the beach and spending a few hours hiding in the shade because my French-Canadian heritage dictates that sunshine is concentrated evil, we headed to the Tap Room for some R & R and Trivial Pursuit.

Dusk swept itself throughout the islands and we decided we would grab some food over at Woody's before taking the late ferry home. While we did not see him this particular visit, Kenny Chesney will often grab his axe and play a late night, rum-driven set as he only lives a short walk away. "How do we know that Kenny really plays there and its not just some local myth?" you may be asking your computer screen. Well, I can't confirm anything, but I'll let you know if I see a guy with a tucked in sleeveless shirt, puka shell necklace and a cowboy hat. I love his style, he's like Larry the Cable Cowboy.

On the late ferry we sat across from a group of older ladies that took a particular interest in DC. Thankfully his judgement wasn't too impaired, because the one cougar looked kind of like Chris Farley as the Lunchlady.

And of course, the night would not be complete without a quick visit to Duffy's. DC decided to lay some knowledge down on the locals as he put on a display of the most earth-shattering and innovative dance moves this island has ever seen. I'm pretty sure the earth literally quaked. Oh and it turns out Kenny was actually at Duffy's that night - don't worry, Kiersten found him.