Hold On To Your Straws

There is a point in your life that you wake up, review your night, and thank the good lord that you have the friends you do. This is the true story of how the least likely liberator became the source of savior for DC and I.

It was a cold and frosty night in December for the rest of my comrades to the north, but in the Virgin Islands it was an ideal Saturday. Eighty-five degrees... not a cloud in the sky... and DC and I were on a ferry boating our way over to St. John for a night with Brent and Greg. The plan was simple: these gentlemen knew some ladies that happened to be in St. John for the night. They also happened to be at our favorite watering hole, the Tap Room. At first glance, this made sense. We were in for an incredible night.

The next morning I found myself sitting on a cooler in the back of a Jeep Wrangler, vomiting as it was speeding away, holding on to my mimosa and the car's frame for dear life. What follows is what happened in between.

We get off the ferry and we're in no rush, so we decide to stop for a drink at Larry's. Please mind you that Larry's is a "pour your own" establishment, and curse my heavy hand. So after a nice cocktail there we make our way over to the destination for the night: the Tap Room. One thing that Greg and Brent had properly informed us about turned out to be true; there were plenty of girls. One thing that they failed to properly inform us about was that it was an ugly sweater/best mustache Christmas party. Never one to let an awkward situation ruin the night, I called in my go-to signature move... drink heavily.

Minutes after arriving I was in no shape to try to talk to girls, and that's when I looked across the room and saw a familiar friend in the same situation: DC was drunk too. Now I have no way to confirm this, but I'm quite positive the ensuing conversation was held telepathically. I say this for two reasons: 1. We were across the room from each other and there was no way we could hear each other and 2. Neither of us could form words.

In our exquisite state of mind we decide its a beautiful night outside, and we should definitely go camping. We walk down the stairs, walk into the woods, find a nice patch of dirt and pass out. I awake 20 minutes later to the sound of a familiar voice - Greg was calling out for us. Apparently he saw us walking into the woods and decided it was someone else's responsibility to keep the iguanas company. I wake DC up and we reappear in the parking lot, much to Greg's delight. Deciding it was a good idea to get us as far away from the woods as possible, he suggested we move the whole group to the Beach Bar.

Same story, different venue. Minutes after getting to the beach bar, DC and I came to a realization: sleeping in the woods was a terrible idea. For so many reasons. Mostly because we could easily have just slept on the beach. We stumble off and find a nice fallen tree to lie under and once again pass out. Once again, about twenty minutes later, Greg comes by and wakes us up. We had tried the woods, we had tried the beach, but apparently the only place that was acceptable to sleep that night was on half of a couch at Brent's friend's place that was only like a 45 minute walk away. Its a good thing we didn't take the wrong street with a 45 degree incline like eight times, that would have taken a long time.

Morning comes, we wake up, we catch the ferry, and we're back in Red Hook. Molly Malone's for breakfast - possibly the best breakfast joint on island. I got bottomless mimosas and a breakfast burrito that used a pancake in place of the tortilla. It blew my mind. And so, we raised our glasses. We had survived another night of ridiculous debauchery. Greg drove us home, I puked, end of story. If at this point you're probably as tired of reading as I am of writing, so there's no clever last line to pull everything together. Don't worry you'll survive.

The Doodle Has Landed

Now I admit that if I had been prudent about blotting down the facts and events of Doodle's month long stay, I would be able to fully and wholly recall the experience. Clearly, I didn't. So, I can't. There are things that will be missed, but that's okay, because if you're spending your entire life living through me, then you 're going to have a really hard time getting laid. Because I have a really hard time getting laid. You'd understand if you eat as much cheese as I do.

So, we are officially dubbing this post a "highlight reel". Here are the facts I can remember from when Doodle was in town:
1.) She had a winter break from a college that exists in the state of Vermont, and said break was one month long.
2.) She has brown hair and is Kiersten's little sister.
3.) She had lo mein the first night she was here. I know they don't give out medals for noodles the way they do for Olympic events, but if they gave out some sort of hued glory to denote quality and magnitude, then this particular instance would have a gold wrapper.

Beyond that, everything is just hearsay. For instance I heard somewhere that a creepy dude stared her down mid-facilities-usage. I also heard somewhere that she, Kier and their brother Jason showed this dude what fists can do when swung at a high velocity. I literally heard (from back at the apartments) Kiersten screaming that she's lived here for two years and if she ever sees him again, the Floor General is going to get militant. Although, I can't confirm it was her. It could have been brakes squealing or a steam whistle blowing or that old lady from Kung-Fu Hustle.

The other thing that everybody needs to know about Doodle is that she is an increasingly talented musician. I love this fact because it provided me the opportunity to have someone with whom i could play guitar. We had some very serious jam sessions during multiple family meal Fridays, to everyone's enjoyment. According to some sources in St. Croix, she's an expert at woodwinds and brass. You know, mostly skinflutes and tromboners.

Well It Took Ya Long Enough!!

Yes, it has been a month since I last graced your retinas with a non-explicit yet oft-prolific exaggeration of the storied life we lead. In the past weeks especially, I have been the target of enough grief to make Charlie Brown rue the day he first uttered his alliterative catch phrase. The bottom line exists - I need to document the whirlwind of a life I have led this past month so it can fill the hearts of my fans (read: fan) while they sit (read: while John sits) at home unemployed eating far too many chicken finger subs and drinking far too much beer (read: as written).

The problem my friends (a term used loosely because I have no control over who reads this and I would never call Son of Sam a friend again after he ate my lunch that one day at work when it clearly had my name on it) is this: my computer done broke itself. Those who have experienced the blue screen of death may think they know what this feels like, but they have never experienced the blue screen of ridicule and mockery. My laptop taunts my attempts to turn it on. And so, the only time I'm operating a computer that works is when I'm at work, leaving me to do work (novel concept) and not write about Doodle's month long stay, an overnight camping trip in St. John, "The Night The Gang Beat Up A Random Creepster", four days of rain that Annmarie brought with her, the complete history of the Clousers with a special section dedicated to a Guinness World Record holder, the vegetarian catamaran and most recently the return of DB and a very groundhog birthday.

To put it plainly, I have a lot of work ahead of me. I also have three and a half hours left in my shift and a track record of writing all my papers the night before they are due with beer in hand, affirming my "game-day player" status. Hold on to your hairpiece, these fingers are flying.