My friends, I have some news. For some reading this will be bad news, for some it will be good; but my time on this island is coming to an end.
"One year?" you may be saying. "One year is all you're going to get out of the Caribbean before you call it quits?" Well, one year was all I needed to realize (at least partially) what I want and what I don't want. Here are a few examples:
What I want: To be able to watch and play hockey.
What I don't want: To watch three games in the entire regular season and not play hockey at all.
What I want: To see the seasons change, to shovel snow, to wear jeans for a reason other than fashion.
What I don't want: To continue to sweat through every shirt I ever wear, everyday. I even sweat through my boxers AND shorts for portions of my shifts at Fat Turtle.
What I want: To be able to see my friends and family. To know that to see my best friend and big brother (same person) in Malvern, PA is only a five hour drive away.
What I don't want: The exact opposite. There is an extremely large monetary difference between driving five hours and flying five hours.
The bottom line is its time to move on. Looking back 30 years from now, there is no way I could regret the past year. All the amazing people I've met, all the incredible experiences I've had - shit I sliced my foot on reef cliffdiving on Virgin Gorda which it didn't heal for three months and I still think it was worth it. I had to hobble-dance at the Christmas party. But when it comes down to it, this place is just not for me. I'm glad I know now, before I become a multi-billionaire and buy a timeshare from Matty that would just leave me in misery because I love cold not hot.
I have approximately one month left before I leave. The next post will be my bucket list of things to take care of before I leave this beautiful island. To the few that understand, this is my deathstar - the one greatest thing I have to accomplish before I am done. I just hope its better than Episode I.
(To those who don't get the very end, I recommend you watch the movie Fanboys. Its an epic story, even if you aren't a Star Wars fan).
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
I'm Planning A Baby Shower
Yes, you read correctly. Me - the same man who swore off babies after having his heart broken by one when he was six months old. If I'm walking by a baby it takes literally all my strength to hold myself back from punching it in the face. Why me? I was put in a position of unforeseen circumstances. And by that I mean nobody wanted to play "Restaurant Manager" anymore.
So the call comes in with the request of having a baby shower at the pool bar. Immediately I feel relieved, because its going to be way easier to shower babies safely down into the pool than it would be over a hard surface like the restaurant floor. Now I only need to hire a lifeguard as oppose to having a medic on hand. Upon sharing this information with Erin, our Assistant to the Regional Manager of Bartending, she informed me that there will be no babies falling from the sky but instead a party that celebrates the fact that someone will have a baby soon. I don't get it. Celebrating something before it happens? I don't wipe before I poop, that's all I'm saying.
That was pretty much the only joke I wanted to make, and the rest really isn't that interesting, so I'm going to stop writing now. Oh wait no - two things:
1.) I was a mess the day of the shower because I had no idea what I was doing or how I was going to execute everything. I'm a bit of a perfectionist and I've never been anything but perfect yet, so the challenge presented made me incredibly nervous. Thankfully I had the afforementioned Erin - who was only around for the pure amusement of watching me fail - pull a Vader and come back from the dark side to help me find solid ground. Without her it would have been an epic failure, and she deserves the accolades.
2.) At one point it started raining. I know, we live on a tropical island and rain comes and goes in five minutes with no way to actually have it forecast (in the words of Jimmie Johnson, "Weatherman is the easiest job in the world. Just say there's a 50% chance of rain, that way you're always at least half right."). It came right in the middle of the Act II - present opening (I now know that Act I is food and Act III is cake) and I probably would have helped them move stuff but they had already run over on their time and I wanted to get out of there. Plus that seemed like a whole lot of work. So the rain passes, and it gets to the point where its barely misting. I think to myself, "Self, why aren't they back enjoying the wonderful view and awesome party-times?" Boggled, I took a look around the attendees for the main contact when I realize they're all speaking Spanish. "Oh, that's right," I thought to myself, "Puerto Ricans don't like to get wet."
I still don't get why its called a baby shower if they aren't going to throw babies. My version would be way cooler.
So the call comes in with the request of having a baby shower at the pool bar. Immediately I feel relieved, because its going to be way easier to shower babies safely down into the pool than it would be over a hard surface like the restaurant floor. Now I only need to hire a lifeguard as oppose to having a medic on hand. Upon sharing this information with Erin, our Assistant to the Regional Manager of Bartending, she informed me that there will be no babies falling from the sky but instead a party that celebrates the fact that someone will have a baby soon. I don't get it. Celebrating something before it happens? I don't wipe before I poop, that's all I'm saying.
That was pretty much the only joke I wanted to make, and the rest really isn't that interesting, so I'm going to stop writing now. Oh wait no - two things:
1.) I was a mess the day of the shower because I had no idea what I was doing or how I was going to execute everything. I'm a bit of a perfectionist and I've never been anything but perfect yet, so the challenge presented made me incredibly nervous. Thankfully I had the afforementioned Erin - who was only around for the pure amusement of watching me fail - pull a Vader and come back from the dark side to help me find solid ground. Without her it would have been an epic failure, and she deserves the accolades.
2.) At one point it started raining. I know, we live on a tropical island and rain comes and goes in five minutes with no way to actually have it forecast (in the words of Jimmie Johnson, "Weatherman is the easiest job in the world. Just say there's a 50% chance of rain, that way you're always at least half right."). It came right in the middle of the Act II - present opening (I now know that Act I is food and Act III is cake) and I probably would have helped them move stuff but they had already run over on their time and I wanted to get out of there. Plus that seemed like a whole lot of work. So the rain passes, and it gets to the point where its barely misting. I think to myself, "Self, why aren't they back enjoying the wonderful view and awesome party-times?" Boggled, I took a look around the attendees for the main contact when I realize they're all speaking Spanish. "Oh, that's right," I thought to myself, "Puerto Ricans don't like to get wet."
I still don't get why its called a baby shower if they aren't going to throw babies. My version would be way cooler.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Greenman Cometh
So if you're a fan of this blog or journey or random assortment of slightly offensive and mostly embellished stories, you'll know for sure that we are all fans of the TV show "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia". And, if you happen to also be a fan of this TV show, then you'll know about the chronicles of Greenman. For the other people in the world who don't know, also known as 'friggin goons', Greenman is an alter ego of one of the main characters - Charlie. Greenman wears a bright green full body spandex suit and is in the process of attempting to replace the Philly Phanatic as the official mascot of the Philadelphia Phillies. Confident in his dance moves and ball throwing skills, Greenman quickly earns a spot in the heart of anyone who knows/sees/hears of his exploits.
The only thing is, I didn't know how well loved he actually was. Here is the only proof I can offer:
I, inspired by sirens and Tanqueray, decided it would be a great idea to order myself a Greenman costume. It fit great - I mean I really felt like it was an extension of my body. The movement was fluid, the hip sways were epic, and it goes without saying - I was flamboyant. Except it doesn't cover my dong so great. Oh well. In my infinite wisdom I decided I would wear this garment in a place OTHER than my apartment. The OTHER in this case is Fat Turtle.
We had a very solid set of individuals grouping together for what was destined to be an incredible night. A few drinks at the apartment convinced me it would be a good idea to rock the spandex out, concealed, to the island's premiere venue for Friday nights. Upon arrival, further contemplation (a serious set of more drinks) convinced me that it would be a great idea to exit the main bar area, strip off my clothes, suit up, and make my way back to the bar to dance my ass off.
There were just a few things that didn't go exactly to plan. The biggest issue being that it is incredibly difficult to see through a green spandex suit when it is dark outside. This was one of those things one doesn't realize until they are in that situation, because honestly who walks around their apartment in a green spandex costume in the dark. I know I don't. Anymore.
So as I'm returning to the bar with the assistance of my boy Blake (who was donned the title of "Clothes Responsibilitist"), I'm blind. And I'm bumping into everyone - I mean everyone. This is where I realized the true magic of Greenman as there would be a three step process.
1.) I would unknowingly bump into an unsuspecting person, usually into the arm that is holding their drink.
2.) Upon realizing they were bumped into and their drink had been partially spilled, said gentlemen would turn around and utter the first two words of a three word statement, "What the -"
3.) Instantly realizing that I was in a Greenman costume, the previously planned third word of "hell" was replaced with "GREENMAN!!!!" This happened like seven times on the way to the bar, I shit you not. And we only traveled like 20 feet.
My Lt. Colonel Frank Slade to Blake's Charlie Simms (look it up, it won Oscars for cripe's sake), we make our way to the bar. Suddenly our friends see us - and Mount Vesuvius erupts. An onslaught of camera flashes light the way as I give a little hip sway action to momentarily appease the appetite of the ladies. Friends line up as pictures are snapped, and I make sure not to overplay the scene and bolt after one song. Returning to the spot of disrobement, I Optimus Prime myself back into disguise and return to the crowd as if nothing had happened. I even bumped into one of the same guys as before, who after staring at me menacingly asked me, "What the hell, bro?"
Upon further contemplation, it was decided to move the party to Club 75, the island's premiere (read: only) strip joint. I had been over-served (that never happens to anyone down here ever) so on the Safari ride over I decided I would get ready to suit up.
Now the first time, on the way down to Fat Turtle, I had put the suit on waist down and concealed it with jeans and shoes. This time, for whatever reason, I decided to come in with the suit on from neck down. This wasn't a huge issue as I was wearing a button up shirt to help hide Greenman, but they were checking IDs at the door... and my hands were green spandex.
Calmly, I pulled out my identification and waited in line. I had no idea what I was going to say, but for some reason I wasn't nervous at all.
The line shortened, the tension rose. The line grew shorter still, and I yet still felt no anxiety. Finally it was my turn. Upon handing my ID to the bouncer it was obvious I was wearing green spandex on my hands as they were glowing bright under the black lights. Before even looking at my ID the bouncer looked up at me, puzzled, his face wearing an air of "What the fuck?"
I said the one and only thing that came to mind. It was a masterpiece. When confronted with possibly being bounced, I looked him straight in the eyes and said, "Nah dude, its cool. I'm hypoallergenic." Satisfied, he handed the ID back to me and let me pass.
This was an incredible explanation of green hands and its for one reason only - saying I'm hypoallergenic is like saying "other people are not allergic to me." It by no means says that I am allergic to everything and I need green spandex on my hands to prevent me from getting sick, which is what I'm pretty sure this bouncer thought. People get hypoallergenic cats because they love cats but are allergic to them. I proudly moved on.
Club 75? No, I won't be writing about that. You have to experience that for yourself.
The only thing is, I didn't know how well loved he actually was. Here is the only proof I can offer:
I, inspired by sirens and Tanqueray, decided it would be a great idea to order myself a Greenman costume. It fit great - I mean I really felt like it was an extension of my body. The movement was fluid, the hip sways were epic, and it goes without saying - I was flamboyant. Except it doesn't cover my dong so great. Oh well. In my infinite wisdom I decided I would wear this garment in a place OTHER than my apartment. The OTHER in this case is Fat Turtle.
We had a very solid set of individuals grouping together for what was destined to be an incredible night. A few drinks at the apartment convinced me it would be a good idea to rock the spandex out, concealed, to the island's premiere venue for Friday nights. Upon arrival, further contemplation (a serious set of more drinks) convinced me that it would be a great idea to exit the main bar area, strip off my clothes, suit up, and make my way back to the bar to dance my ass off.
There were just a few things that didn't go exactly to plan. The biggest issue being that it is incredibly difficult to see through a green spandex suit when it is dark outside. This was one of those things one doesn't realize until they are in that situation, because honestly who walks around their apartment in a green spandex costume in the dark. I know I don't. Anymore.
So as I'm returning to the bar with the assistance of my boy Blake (who was donned the title of "Clothes Responsibilitist"), I'm blind. And I'm bumping into everyone - I mean everyone. This is where I realized the true magic of Greenman as there would be a three step process.
1.) I would unknowingly bump into an unsuspecting person, usually into the arm that is holding their drink.
2.) Upon realizing they were bumped into and their drink had been partially spilled, said gentlemen would turn around and utter the first two words of a three word statement, "What the -"
3.) Instantly realizing that I was in a Greenman costume, the previously planned third word of "hell" was replaced with "GREENMAN!!!!" This happened like seven times on the way to the bar, I shit you not. And we only traveled like 20 feet.
My Lt. Colonel Frank Slade to Blake's Charlie Simms (look it up, it won Oscars for cripe's sake), we make our way to the bar. Suddenly our friends see us - and Mount Vesuvius erupts. An onslaught of camera flashes light the way as I give a little hip sway action to momentarily appease the appetite of the ladies. Friends line up as pictures are snapped, and I make sure not to overplay the scene and bolt after one song. Returning to the spot of disrobement, I Optimus Prime myself back into disguise and return to the crowd as if nothing had happened. I even bumped into one of the same guys as before, who after staring at me menacingly asked me, "What the hell, bro?"
Upon further contemplation, it was decided to move the party to Club 75, the island's premiere (read: only) strip joint. I had been over-served (that never happens to anyone down here ever) so on the Safari ride over I decided I would get ready to suit up.
Now the first time, on the way down to Fat Turtle, I had put the suit on waist down and concealed it with jeans and shoes. This time, for whatever reason, I decided to come in with the suit on from neck down. This wasn't a huge issue as I was wearing a button up shirt to help hide Greenman, but they were checking IDs at the door... and my hands were green spandex.
Calmly, I pulled out my identification and waited in line. I had no idea what I was going to say, but for some reason I wasn't nervous at all.
The line shortened, the tension rose. The line grew shorter still, and I yet still felt no anxiety. Finally it was my turn. Upon handing my ID to the bouncer it was obvious I was wearing green spandex on my hands as they were glowing bright under the black lights. Before even looking at my ID the bouncer looked up at me, puzzled, his face wearing an air of "What the fuck?"
I said the one and only thing that came to mind. It was a masterpiece. When confronted with possibly being bounced, I looked him straight in the eyes and said, "Nah dude, its cool. I'm hypoallergenic." Satisfied, he handed the ID back to me and let me pass.
This was an incredible explanation of green hands and its for one reason only - saying I'm hypoallergenic is like saying "other people are not allergic to me." It by no means says that I am allergic to everything and I need green spandex on my hands to prevent me from getting sick, which is what I'm pretty sure this bouncer thought. People get hypoallergenic cats because they love cats but are allergic to them. I proudly moved on.
Club 75? No, I won't be writing about that. You have to experience that for yourself.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Tarot Cards
Last night I was just sitting at the hotel bar, minding my own business, when I get a call from a beautiful AND bisexual blonde that lives next door to us. She has just had an awful day including a flat tire, being broke as a joke and discovering she will no longer have a job one week from now. Seeing as how I've been schooled in the arts of chivalry from an early age (the book I'm writing is coming out this fall, there will be a one time only signing at the Double Deuce in Jasper, Missouri on a date to be determined) I invited her over to the bar so that I could buy her a drink. Obviously she accepted.
We sat, we talked, we drank and laughed. After a while we fell upon the conversation of what to do for food. "We could just go back to my place for some pizza," she offered. I'd like to take a moment to point out that not only is this the perfect plot for a porno but that said porno always ends pretty damn well for the lead male role, usually played by a Rod Hammer or a Python Johnson. As my name does not carry this same kind of auditory sexual prestige, please don't get your hopes up. Regardless of any ill-gotten aspiration and later realized failure, I went with her.
Seeing as this was my first time in this particular apartment, it was customary that I take a tour. To the right we have the kitchen, then as we pass through the garden space we enter the living room and finally the bedroom. As she left to start the pizza, I explored. A few candles here, some pillows there - suddenly I stumbled upon it. Like Mikey Walsh from The Goonies finding the map in his parents' attic, my eyes gazed upon a treasure of my own - tarot cards. I'd often been tempted to get my tarot cards read, as the mysticism has always allured me, but had never given in to the temptation marked by some as voodoo. More importantly, finding this deck provided the easiest finishing move ever as the tarot card reading site was located directly adjacent to her bed.
Like clockwork, she came back into the room just as I was fingering through the deck. Obviously looking to get me naked, she offered to give me a tarot card reading for free while the pizza was cooking in her miniature oven. As a master of the obvious and an experienced importer/exporter, I obliged.
First came the explanation of how exactly the tarot cards work: the deck is shuffled and mixed and I'm told that I am to pull five cards and place them in front of me face down without looking at the reverse side. The rest of the cards are then cleared and my cards will be flipped, one by one, to reveal certain aspects of my life. The first card represents past. Keep in mind that the fortune tellers' classic line of "it means different things for everyone" was thrown my way but what is shown on the first card should represent something that I am looking to get over or that I am perhaps running away from. The second card represents the present, and indicates an aspect of the way I am currently living my life that will lead to the third card - my future. The fourth card, or the "intercept" card indicates some sort of action or method I can utilize to dodge the future from the third card and instead provide myself the alternative offered by the fifth card - cleverly named the "alternative" card. I know that's a lot to take in so just think of it like this:
1 = Past
2 = Present
3 = Future
4 = Alternative Course of Action
5 = Alternative Future
Alright so I draw my cards as she lights the candles, the deck is cleared and we are ready to start flipping. I felt like I was playing texas hold-'em, except the stakes were a bit higher. I take one moment of hesitation - do I really want to know my fate? How much faith can be placed in a set of randomly drawn cards? What if I don't like what I see and it fully messes with my head? As my eyes slowly shift up from the mysterious cards in front of me, to the beautifully crafted body sitting indian-style across from me and finally to the gorgeous face gazing upon me with a smile of anticipation, I only have one thought... "Oh yeah, that's right I'm trying to get laid."
Freshly donned with an air of confidence and swagger, I flip the first card that represents my past - DEATH. Hormones halted, I immediately lost any and all mojo as this just took a drastic turn for the serious. This card represents the passing of an important part of your life but (as its in the "past" position) also represents a rebirth and beginning. Digging what I'm seeing as I definitely came down to St. Thomas to run away from certain aspects of the real life experienced on the main land, I continue on.
Upon flipping the second card - which represents the present - I see I've acquired the sobriquet of HERMIT. This means that in the most recent days and weeks of my life I'd opted to keep everything to myself, hiding serious or legitimate concerns that crossed my mind, and avoid going out and celebrating life with my friends. Also true.
The third card was the CHARIOT card, which meant if I continued on my path my future would be one of drastic financial and social favor. Yet, I'd be riddled with an overwhelming sense of seriousness and drive that makes me a model citizen and a mold for progress yet alone in my fortune and success.
The fourth card represents the intercept card - a course of action or a method that once followed can distract my life from the fate of the CHARIOT and instead offer the alternative life of demonstrated in the fifth card. It is in sorts a way of embracing one's responsibility for their own life and choosing paths. The card that I flipped - and I wish I was making this up, was FOOLISH CHILD. This represents going through life without a care in the world and taking life as it comes; not concerning one's self with fame or fortune and just embracing the beauty of each day. Nice.
My fifth and final card was the SUN card. This card represented an alternative future of happiness, bringing joy to the many people around you who love and embrace you. Boss.
So my synopsis of the reading goes as follows: Yes, Tim, you ran away from something from which you felt you needed to escape. Currently you are being a bit antisocial - but don't sweat that because in the near future you will either be a captain of industry or if you continue on your ways of blatant disregard for your liver and any kind of career the worst that will happen is you are going to be a singular and solitude source of happiness to those who mean the most to you in this world.
I can't believe I'm actually buying into this crap.
P.S. I didn't get laid, I didn't even make a move.
We sat, we talked, we drank and laughed. After a while we fell upon the conversation of what to do for food. "We could just go back to my place for some pizza," she offered. I'd like to take a moment to point out that not only is this the perfect plot for a porno but that said porno always ends pretty damn well for the lead male role, usually played by a Rod Hammer or a Python Johnson. As my name does not carry this same kind of auditory sexual prestige, please don't get your hopes up. Regardless of any ill-gotten aspiration and later realized failure, I went with her.
Seeing as this was my first time in this particular apartment, it was customary that I take a tour. To the right we have the kitchen, then as we pass through the garden space we enter the living room and finally the bedroom. As she left to start the pizza, I explored. A few candles here, some pillows there - suddenly I stumbled upon it. Like Mikey Walsh from The Goonies finding the map in his parents' attic, my eyes gazed upon a treasure of my own - tarot cards. I'd often been tempted to get my tarot cards read, as the mysticism has always allured me, but had never given in to the temptation marked by some as voodoo. More importantly, finding this deck provided the easiest finishing move ever as the tarot card reading site was located directly adjacent to her bed.
Like clockwork, she came back into the room just as I was fingering through the deck. Obviously looking to get me naked, she offered to give me a tarot card reading for free while the pizza was cooking in her miniature oven. As a master of the obvious and an experienced importer/exporter, I obliged.
First came the explanation of how exactly the tarot cards work: the deck is shuffled and mixed and I'm told that I am to pull five cards and place them in front of me face down without looking at the reverse side. The rest of the cards are then cleared and my cards will be flipped, one by one, to reveal certain aspects of my life. The first card represents past. Keep in mind that the fortune tellers' classic line of "it means different things for everyone" was thrown my way but what is shown on the first card should represent something that I am looking to get over or that I am perhaps running away from. The second card represents the present, and indicates an aspect of the way I am currently living my life that will lead to the third card - my future. The fourth card, or the "intercept" card indicates some sort of action or method I can utilize to dodge the future from the third card and instead provide myself the alternative offered by the fifth card - cleverly named the "alternative" card. I know that's a lot to take in so just think of it like this:
1 = Past
2 = Present
3 = Future
4 = Alternative Course of Action
5 = Alternative Future
Alright so I draw my cards as she lights the candles, the deck is cleared and we are ready to start flipping. I felt like I was playing texas hold-'em, except the stakes were a bit higher. I take one moment of hesitation - do I really want to know my fate? How much faith can be placed in a set of randomly drawn cards? What if I don't like what I see and it fully messes with my head? As my eyes slowly shift up from the mysterious cards in front of me, to the beautifully crafted body sitting indian-style across from me and finally to the gorgeous face gazing upon me with a smile of anticipation, I only have one thought... "Oh yeah, that's right I'm trying to get laid."
Freshly donned with an air of confidence and swagger, I flip the first card that represents my past - DEATH. Hormones halted, I immediately lost any and all mojo as this just took a drastic turn for the serious. This card represents the passing of an important part of your life but (as its in the "past" position) also represents a rebirth and beginning. Digging what I'm seeing as I definitely came down to St. Thomas to run away from certain aspects of the real life experienced on the main land, I continue on.
Upon flipping the second card - which represents the present - I see I've acquired the sobriquet of HERMIT. This means that in the most recent days and weeks of my life I'd opted to keep everything to myself, hiding serious or legitimate concerns that crossed my mind, and avoid going out and celebrating life with my friends. Also true.
The third card was the CHARIOT card, which meant if I continued on my path my future would be one of drastic financial and social favor. Yet, I'd be riddled with an overwhelming sense of seriousness and drive that makes me a model citizen and a mold for progress yet alone in my fortune and success.
The fourth card represents the intercept card - a course of action or a method that once followed can distract my life from the fate of the CHARIOT and instead offer the alternative life of demonstrated in the fifth card. It is in sorts a way of embracing one's responsibility for their own life and choosing paths. The card that I flipped - and I wish I was making this up, was FOOLISH CHILD. This represents going through life without a care in the world and taking life as it comes; not concerning one's self with fame or fortune and just embracing the beauty of each day. Nice.
My fifth and final card was the SUN card. This card represented an alternative future of happiness, bringing joy to the many people around you who love and embrace you. Boss.
So my synopsis of the reading goes as follows: Yes, Tim, you ran away from something from which you felt you needed to escape. Currently you are being a bit antisocial - but don't sweat that because in the near future you will either be a captain of industry or if you continue on your ways of blatant disregard for your liver and any kind of career the worst that will happen is you are going to be a singular and solitude source of happiness to those who mean the most to you in this world.
I can't believe I'm actually buying into this crap.
P.S. I didn't get laid, I didn't even make a move.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Ninety Percent Chance Of Reign
So in the past three nights I've gotten in two dance-offs. As illustrated by the title of this post I bat about .900, with my only career losses being against DC. No matter the case, no matter the race, no matter the place, I do what I need to get the crowd clapping. The first showdown was at Point Pleasant, an incredible bar/restaurant at the top of one of the peaks here on St. Thomas. I was just sitting there, minding my own business when a local (who also happened to be waitressing at the time... interesting take on your job when you just jump on the dance floor mid-shift) (although upon further contemplation I'd probably get out there too, which explains my 9 for 10 average record in dance-offs) (I have nothing else to say, just wanted to use the pause concept again. Where was I? Oh yes, the local) challenged me to a "how low can you go" contest to the Ludacris song by the same name. Needless to say, I went low enough to make the dude from "Powder" blush. I was lower than G.W. Bush's approval rating. I was lower than the literacy rate in Mississippi (I'd apologize but the fact is those who would be offended by this can't read it). I was lower than Verne Troyer sitting down. You get the point. The fact of the matter was that she was unable to set the bar quite as low as I could. I stood up and walked away to thunderous applause.
Fast forward to last night. Now Fat Turtle was packed, and there was a bit-o-boozin going on. If memory serves me correctly, I'd be surprised if I remembered much at all. Two things I definitely remember as "the end of the night" are as follows:
1.) Kier mentioning that she just met three Hooters girls that are new to the island.
2.) Telling our restaurant manager that we had done enough dancing and that were ready to leave. Which was immediately followed by "Forever Young" by Jay-Z coming on and that statement being immediately retracted.
The problem is these two memories are both, as I said "the end of the night". They both were not. They were probably about two hours apart.
In the mean time, there was a dance-off.
Now as I've made fully clear, the few precious moments of said dance-off are a bit hazy. It was more like the pictures during the credits at the end of The Hangover. Not necessarily a full encapsulation of the night's transgressions, but a solid snapshot slideshow nonetheless. Here is how I remember things going just prior to the dance-off:
-The "watchu doin? I dunno" dance.
-A firedancer that refused to accept my challenge.
-Much applause from Taavon's necklace.
-Push-ups on the dance floor.
-Rocking the cyclone AND the Thunderclap.
So after all this, I find myself faced off with a 6'5" and at least 275 lbs. West Indian dude that thought I was trying to out dance him in order to win the affection of his ladyfriend. Undeterred, I confronted him, face to face, and said..... "This ain't no Dancing With The Stars, sucka. It's time for a dance-off."
The music screeched to a halt. The crowd oooooooooo'd. A circle was formed around us and he stared me down like he was going to eat my unborn children (yes I'm pregnant. Twins!!). Unfortunately for him, my glare spoke for itself - "you're going down, you handsome son of a B." It was tense. There we stood, squared off for what felt like an eternity before one of us made the first move. It was me. I turned to the DJ, and with full confidence and aspiration in my voice, said "Gimme the hard stuff." The song: "Take My Breath Away" by Berlin.
Naw I'm just kidding, It was more of a dance-off between DC and I, neither of us really remember much so we'll just call it a draw.
Currently batting: 0.904762. Holla!
Fast forward to last night. Now Fat Turtle was packed, and there was a bit-o-boozin going on. If memory serves me correctly, I'd be surprised if I remembered much at all. Two things I definitely remember as "the end of the night" are as follows:
1.) Kier mentioning that she just met three Hooters girls that are new to the island.
2.) Telling our restaurant manager that we had done enough dancing and that were ready to leave. Which was immediately followed by "Forever Young" by Jay-Z coming on and that statement being immediately retracted.
The problem is these two memories are both, as I said "the end of the night". They both were not. They were probably about two hours apart.
In the mean time, there was a dance-off.
Now as I've made fully clear, the few precious moments of said dance-off are a bit hazy. It was more like the pictures during the credits at the end of The Hangover. Not necessarily a full encapsulation of the night's transgressions, but a solid snapshot slideshow nonetheless. Here is how I remember things going just prior to the dance-off:
-The "watchu doin? I dunno" dance.
-A firedancer that refused to accept my challenge.
-Much applause from Taavon's necklace.
-Push-ups on the dance floor.
-Rocking the cyclone AND the Thunderclap.
So after all this, I find myself faced off with a 6'5" and at least 275 lbs. West Indian dude that thought I was trying to out dance him in order to win the affection of his ladyfriend. Undeterred, I confronted him, face to face, and said..... "This ain't no Dancing With The Stars, sucka. It's time for a dance-off."
The music screeched to a halt. The crowd oooooooooo'd. A circle was formed around us and he stared me down like he was going to eat my unborn children (yes I'm pregnant. Twins!!). Unfortunately for him, my glare spoke for itself - "you're going down, you handsome son of a B." It was tense. There we stood, squared off for what felt like an eternity before one of us made the first move. It was me. I turned to the DJ, and with full confidence and aspiration in my voice, said "Gimme the hard stuff." The song: "Take My Breath Away" by Berlin.
Naw I'm just kidding, It was more of a dance-off between DC and I, neither of us really remember much so we'll just call it a draw.
Currently batting: 0.904762. Holla!
Out Of Retirement
So there is a certain nostalgic feeling that comes when an old friend you haven't seen in a while suddenly shows up and surprises you when you least expect it. Last night, I was able to experience this joy.
The old friend I'm referring to, of course, is Friday.
Yes, I realize that Friday nights come roughly once every seven days and there are around fifty-two of them in a year. And yes I'm quite aware that a surplus of Fridays have passed since my last post. The difference, my friend, is that those were just days. Last night, was a FRIDAY.
"But Primetime (as I've recently come to be known. Not really - people won't stop calling me Timbabe which disappeared until last night, thanks Leah for sharing that one with the world), aren't Fridays usually the start of the weekend? And don't you work every Saturday?" you may be saying. And, you would be right. Congratulations on your incredible grasp of the work week. That doesn't apply down here.
The reason that last night was a real Friday was because we not only had a family meal, but we also rocked out Fat Turtle. After my shift at the pool bar, I managed to cook a crudely pulled together meal while the Philadelphia Flyers lucked out against the Chicago Blackhawks and evened the series. Justin and Beth came over, as well as their incredibly intoxicated yet still fun to talk to friend who I will protect with anonymity. Food was eaten, people caught up, laughs were contagious. The loud eating game was played and I won. Eventually the time had to come to move on to Fat Turtle.
As we walked in, it was about a 9 out of 10. The place was packed. Good friends were everywhere, as well as gorgeous women. Drinks were plentiful. The only thing missing was some serious dancing. I mean people were dancing, but clearly they weren't serious about it. They were mainly just paired off, moving their feet and hips rhythmically to the beat, sometimes putting their hand in the air or on their dance partner. I mean that's fun and everything, but its not real dancing. Real dancing comes when they make a circle around you as you challenge someone to what is essentially a one-on-one walk-off that features ridiculous(ly good) moves, charming smiles and the wink and pistol aimed at the closest suitable female. Once we got there, it was 10 out of 10. Some serious dancing occurred, but we'll get to that in the next post. Skip ahead.
So I had just finished dancing with a girl, getting all kinds of wild, and it was time to move on and grab an adult beverage and cool off. So I snag a beer, make some moves and bump into the girl with which I was dancing. I figure now is a good as ever to introduce myself, as she basically raped me (in the sense that Kristin Stewart intended) on the dance floor. The only problem is, I've had a few drinks. What I meant to say was "My name is Tim. What's yours?" What I said was "My name is Tim, with an I."
This might become my new pick-up line, because I heard girls like guys that make them laugh - and she would not stop laughing at me all night. She'll probably call.
Later on Kier met some Hooters girls who were fresh on island and gave them her number citing that her roommates were "the two greatest guys on island." I don't know who these guys are, but I'd sure like to meet them as they might be able to help DC and I meet girls. At least her night ended well:
The old friend I'm referring to, of course, is Friday.
Yes, I realize that Friday nights come roughly once every seven days and there are around fifty-two of them in a year. And yes I'm quite aware that a surplus of Fridays have passed since my last post. The difference, my friend, is that those were just days. Last night, was a FRIDAY.
"But Primetime (as I've recently come to be known. Not really - people won't stop calling me Timbabe which disappeared until last night, thanks Leah for sharing that one with the world), aren't Fridays usually the start of the weekend? And don't you work every Saturday?" you may be saying. And, you would be right. Congratulations on your incredible grasp of the work week. That doesn't apply down here.
The reason that last night was a real Friday was because we not only had a family meal, but we also rocked out Fat Turtle. After my shift at the pool bar, I managed to cook a crudely pulled together meal while the Philadelphia Flyers lucked out against the Chicago Blackhawks and evened the series. Justin and Beth came over, as well as their incredibly intoxicated yet still fun to talk to friend who I will protect with anonymity. Food was eaten, people caught up, laughs were contagious. The loud eating game was played and I won. Eventually the time had to come to move on to Fat Turtle.
As we walked in, it was about a 9 out of 10. The place was packed. Good friends were everywhere, as well as gorgeous women. Drinks were plentiful. The only thing missing was some serious dancing. I mean people were dancing, but clearly they weren't serious about it. They were mainly just paired off, moving their feet and hips rhythmically to the beat, sometimes putting their hand in the air or on their dance partner. I mean that's fun and everything, but its not real dancing. Real dancing comes when they make a circle around you as you challenge someone to what is essentially a one-on-one walk-off that features ridiculous(ly good) moves, charming smiles and the wink and pistol aimed at the closest suitable female. Once we got there, it was 10 out of 10. Some serious dancing occurred, but we'll get to that in the next post. Skip ahead.
So I had just finished dancing with a girl, getting all kinds of wild, and it was time to move on and grab an adult beverage and cool off. So I snag a beer, make some moves and bump into the girl with which I was dancing. I figure now is a good as ever to introduce myself, as she basically raped me (in the sense that Kristin Stewart intended) on the dance floor. The only problem is, I've had a few drinks. What I meant to say was "My name is Tim. What's yours?" What I said was "My name is Tim, with an I."
This might become my new pick-up line, because I heard girls like guys that make them laugh - and she would not stop laughing at me all night. She'll probably call.
Later on Kier met some Hooters girls who were fresh on island and gave them her number citing that her roommates were "the two greatest guys on island." I don't know who these guys are, but I'd sure like to meet them as they might be able to help DC and I meet girls. At least her night ended well:
Saturday, May 1, 2010
My Night After Watching Hockey At Hooters
So there I sat, with the only draft beer this island has to offer (Miller Lite) at the only bar I could find that would actually play a hockey game (Hooters). I was with a hardcore Red Wings fan that can name a whole 4 players on Detroit while the Coyotes demonstrated a new level futilityas they lost 6-1. The only Coyotes goal was off a faceoff - as Howard put it, they got lucky.
The night had been lovely as Danielle and I were splitting pitchers served by a newly 18 year old Lauren who actually looked closer to 15. We had Daytona boneless wings; we had a visit from Cameron the Catamaran Captain who had just finished his fifth shot of Jager in an equal amount of minutes; safe to say we had a great time.
As we exit this fine establishment with a universal "Thanks for coming to Hooters, y'all!", the question comes up - what to do now? The options were limited. Either it was a taxi home, or we head to Fat Turtle to say hello to whoever is bartending. Obvious answer.
As we arrive, we see our favorite bartender Greg closing up. He did however share the good word that the Clovis, who owned Fat Turtle, was at Hubbly Bubbly with six scantily clad girls. 3.6 seconds later I blast through the door of the Bubbly and snag a seat amongst the drunken ladies. Danielle had a warm reception as her first glass of Dom was poured, which ended up being the end of the bottle. I, assuming that the night was heading toward its end because not only was it late but the booze was gone, was shocked as a second bottle of Dom (clearly set aside and on reserve) emerged from the kitchen. And so we drank Dom, we shared hookah, and we laughed like the monopoly man. These girls were kinda hot, but they were equally oblivious which in my eyes makes them gorgeous. At one point "Make It Rain" came on and Clovis threw a pile of 50 one dollar bills on the dancing ladies. As they scrambled on the floor to pick them up, he turned to us and said "Clearly they don't know who I am."
As we exited Hubbly Bubbly on our way to Stereo, one of the girls came up to me and asked if I could take care of them. She was rationally concerned, because she was the oldest in a group of drunken twenty two year olds that had two rich locals who were tossing money around as their guides. I promised her that I'd be with them all night to make sure everyone was alright.
Less than one minute later I broke that promise. Upon exiting, we ran into Greg who had just finished closing. "Sib's?" he asked. "Sib's," I replied. No goodbyes necessary, we hopped into his car and were on our way. A few drinks with and a ride home from the owner was the best way to cap off the night. I'm still pissed, however, that the Coyotes lost.
The night had been lovely as Danielle and I were splitting pitchers served by a newly 18 year old Lauren who actually looked closer to 15. We had Daytona boneless wings; we had a visit from Cameron the Catamaran Captain who had just finished his fifth shot of Jager in an equal amount of minutes; safe to say we had a great time.
As we exit this fine establishment with a universal "Thanks for coming to Hooters, y'all!", the question comes up - what to do now? The options were limited. Either it was a taxi home, or we head to Fat Turtle to say hello to whoever is bartending. Obvious answer.
As we arrive, we see our favorite bartender Greg closing up. He did however share the good word that the Clovis, who owned Fat Turtle, was at Hubbly Bubbly with six scantily clad girls. 3.6 seconds later I blast through the door of the Bubbly and snag a seat amongst the drunken ladies. Danielle had a warm reception as her first glass of Dom was poured, which ended up being the end of the bottle. I, assuming that the night was heading toward its end because not only was it late but the booze was gone, was shocked as a second bottle of Dom (clearly set aside and on reserve) emerged from the kitchen. And so we drank Dom, we shared hookah, and we laughed like the monopoly man. These girls were kinda hot, but they were equally oblivious which in my eyes makes them gorgeous. At one point "Make It Rain" came on and Clovis threw a pile of 50 one dollar bills on the dancing ladies. As they scrambled on the floor to pick them up, he turned to us and said "Clearly they don't know who I am."
As we exited Hubbly Bubbly on our way to Stereo, one of the girls came up to me and asked if I could take care of them. She was rationally concerned, because she was the oldest in a group of drunken twenty two year olds that had two rich locals who were tossing money around as their guides. I promised her that I'd be with them all night to make sure everyone was alright.
Less than one minute later I broke that promise. Upon exiting, we ran into Greg who had just finished closing. "Sib's?" he asked. "Sib's," I replied. No goodbyes necessary, we hopped into his car and were on our way. A few drinks with and a ride home from the owner was the best way to cap off the night. I'm still pissed, however, that the Coyotes lost.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Getting My Health Card
In order to work in the food and beverage industry on the island of St. Thomas, you are required to get what is known as a Health Card. A Health Card is a photo ID that certifies you are healthy enough to prepare or serve food and drinks. And how does one acquire the stamp of approval that is "healthy" in the lovely Virgin Islands? Its easy - there are only two steps: poop in a cup and get your blood pressure taken.
There are no questions about your past health. Nothing to disqualify in the range of hepatitis, hair loss or whooping cough. You can have smallpox, just as long as your blood pressure isn't too high. Even when it is too high, they hand you excuses at the drop of a hat -
"Oh its a little high, are you nervous about passing this test?"
"Oh its a little high, you may need more exercise."
"Oh its a little high, you probably eat foods with salt."
"Oh its a little high. Welp, you pass."
And then - of course - there is the feces sample. I know that whole 2girls1cup thing was popular back in the States years ago, but it seems like the Virgin Islands are a little behind on their trends. The short story is that they test your poop for parasites. The long story is that you collect a feces sample while at home and put it in a vial they provide to you using a spork that is attached to the cap. There are markings on the side that indicate levels of volume, even though they don't tell you how many mL of your feces they need for a proper analysis (How much poo is too much poo?). This vial then goes into a plastic zip-lock style bag with all kinds of 'hazardous material' labels on it. You come to the hospital between 1pm and 3pm, take a number, and then sit in the waiting area with your feces sample amongst others attempting to acquire their Health Card. When your number is called, you hand over your sample and get your blood pressure taken, and if everything pans out you get your picture taken and your Health Card is given to you before you leave.
So there I was, lucky number D7, awaiting the moment when my name was called. I had dropped my sample off the prior week in hopes it would expedite the retrieval of my card. It did not. With ticket in hand, I took a seat in the middle of the fifth row back, surrounded in all directions by local West Indians. Glancing through the crowd I found the one other white guy, who was already staring at me, and we exchanged the traditional head nod. The office wouldn't be open for another half hour, which gave me plenty of time to acquaint myself with my surroundings.
Two rows back, there was a lady on her cell phone with a baby in her arm. This baby was of course crying because it was not being attended to, to which the mother replied repeatedly, "Hush up now chile, I'm intaviewin' for a job!" I found it baffling and yet bold that she would hold a phone interview while in line at the hospital with a crying baby in her arm. I wonder if she got the job.
Cell phones seemed to be the theme of the day. At one point, there were ten phones ringing ten different popular songs at the same time. It was like MTV Hits top ten list was condensed into a seven second spectacle. About fifteen minutes into my wait, a group of four local vagabonds walked in and one guy went to take a number. When the ticket didn't rip the way it should have (everyone else got it to work fine...) this gentleman decided he would "fix" the take-a-number distributor. Wait, no fix isn't the right word... oh yeah that's right he snapped the plastic dispenser in half and the roll of numbered tickets fell onto the floor.
At this point the gentleman, who was clearly drunk (another bold move - getting your Health Card when hammered at 1pm), looked around the room precariously as if to check if anyone had seen him. We had. All of our seats were facing his direction. He flashed a nervous half-smile, and then placed the roll back on top of the broken dispenser and rejoined his group. This is all while the other three were having an argument about why one of them shouldn't be dating the guy she was currently with. They were loud and obscene enough to make the entire waiting room blush. They were dropping f-bombs like nobody's business. They were talking about what the sex was like. And the best part was that they had selected to sit next to the lady with a baby on the phone interview.
My number was finally called and I approached the counter, making sure to give the obligatory head nod to other-white-guy as I walked by. I was assigned a window from the lady at the registration desk, and the very first thing I was asked for was my photo ID. Which was strange, because I had to submit my ID as collateral for the badge I was required to wear as a hospital visitor. This means I had to go all the way back down to the front desk, explain the situation and get a photocopy of my ID, then return to my window to a nurse who was now furious with me for wasting five minutes of her time. She returned the favor, however, because upon my return I saw she was already helping someone else despite her testimonial that she would wait for me.
Paperwork was filled out, payment was made, and lab results for the feces test were retrieved (I passed). My blood pressure was a little high based on the fact that I had eaten Kung Pao Kitten at the Chinese restaurant across the street for lunch. It was not until the picture was taken and the Health Card was printed that I noticed my resemblance to Krusty the Clown.
As I walked out of the hospital, thankful to have a Health Card and that the process was over, I realized that the lab doesn't do DNA tests on the feces sample (if that is even possible). Therefore, if one knows they have parasites, all they have to do is provide someone else's feces and they can still get a Health Card. This renders its existence somewhat worthless. The End.
There are no questions about your past health. Nothing to disqualify in the range of hepatitis, hair loss or whooping cough. You can have smallpox, just as long as your blood pressure isn't too high. Even when it is too high, they hand you excuses at the drop of a hat -
"Oh its a little high, are you nervous about passing this test?"
"Oh its a little high, you may need more exercise."
"Oh its a little high, you probably eat foods with salt."
"Oh its a little high. Welp, you pass."
And then - of course - there is the feces sample. I know that whole 2girls1cup thing was popular back in the States years ago, but it seems like the Virgin Islands are a little behind on their trends. The short story is that they test your poop for parasites. The long story is that you collect a feces sample while at home and put it in a vial they provide to you using a spork that is attached to the cap. There are markings on the side that indicate levels of volume, even though they don't tell you how many mL of your feces they need for a proper analysis (How much poo is too much poo?). This vial then goes into a plastic zip-lock style bag with all kinds of 'hazardous material' labels on it. You come to the hospital between 1pm and 3pm, take a number, and then sit in the waiting area with your feces sample amongst others attempting to acquire their Health Card. When your number is called, you hand over your sample and get your blood pressure taken, and if everything pans out you get your picture taken and your Health Card is given to you before you leave.
So there I was, lucky number D7, awaiting the moment when my name was called. I had dropped my sample off the prior week in hopes it would expedite the retrieval of my card. It did not. With ticket in hand, I took a seat in the middle of the fifth row back, surrounded in all directions by local West Indians. Glancing through the crowd I found the one other white guy, who was already staring at me, and we exchanged the traditional head nod. The office wouldn't be open for another half hour, which gave me plenty of time to acquaint myself with my surroundings.
Two rows back, there was a lady on her cell phone with a baby in her arm. This baby was of course crying because it was not being attended to, to which the mother replied repeatedly, "Hush up now chile, I'm intaviewin' for a job!" I found it baffling and yet bold that she would hold a phone interview while in line at the hospital with a crying baby in her arm. I wonder if she got the job.
Cell phones seemed to be the theme of the day. At one point, there were ten phones ringing ten different popular songs at the same time. It was like MTV Hits top ten list was condensed into a seven second spectacle. About fifteen minutes into my wait, a group of four local vagabonds walked in and one guy went to take a number. When the ticket didn't rip the way it should have (everyone else got it to work fine...) this gentleman decided he would "fix" the take-a-number distributor. Wait, no fix isn't the right word... oh yeah that's right he snapped the plastic dispenser in half and the roll of numbered tickets fell onto the floor.
At this point the gentleman, who was clearly drunk (another bold move - getting your Health Card when hammered at 1pm), looked around the room precariously as if to check if anyone had seen him. We had. All of our seats were facing his direction. He flashed a nervous half-smile, and then placed the roll back on top of the broken dispenser and rejoined his group. This is all while the other three were having an argument about why one of them shouldn't be dating the guy she was currently with. They were loud and obscene enough to make the entire waiting room blush. They were dropping f-bombs like nobody's business. They were talking about what the sex was like. And the best part was that they had selected to sit next to the lady with a baby on the phone interview.
My number was finally called and I approached the counter, making sure to give the obligatory head nod to other-white-guy as I walked by. I was assigned a window from the lady at the registration desk, and the very first thing I was asked for was my photo ID. Which was strange, because I had to submit my ID as collateral for the badge I was required to wear as a hospital visitor. This means I had to go all the way back down to the front desk, explain the situation and get a photocopy of my ID, then return to my window to a nurse who was now furious with me for wasting five minutes of her time. She returned the favor, however, because upon my return I saw she was already helping someone else despite her testimonial that she would wait for me.
Paperwork was filled out, payment was made, and lab results for the feces test were retrieved (I passed). My blood pressure was a little high based on the fact that I had eaten Kung Pao Kitten at the Chinese restaurant across the street for lunch. It was not until the picture was taken and the Health Card was printed that I noticed my resemblance to Krusty the Clown.
As I walked out of the hospital, thankful to have a Health Card and that the process was over, I realized that the lab doesn't do DNA tests on the feces sample (if that is even possible). Therefore, if one knows they have parasites, all they have to do is provide someone else's feces and they can still get a Health Card. This renders its existence somewhat worthless. The End.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
St. Patrick's Day Resolutions
Since I dubbed my New Year's Resolutions "fake" (even though some of the goals are actually being accomplished like when the Clouser family brought me down a Pat's cheese steak, reinstating my faith in God and heaven), I've decided that this St. Patrick's Day I will make a number of real resolutions that are to be accomplished within a 12 hour buffer of March 17, 2010. There are seven of them, because St. Patrick's Day is associated with Ireland and the Irish are considered lucky, as is the number seven. Here we go!
1. Get Ella to do her impression of an Irish accent.
2. Get a local to sing a traditional Irish song with me. I'm thinking Dropkick Murphy's Dirty Water or Walk Away.
3. Eat something green.
4. Eat something blonde.
5. Drink green beer (down here that means Heineken).
6. Tell the same story three times in a row to test my friends' patience.
7. Call an estranged ex-girlfriend at three o'clock in the morning and recite the following: "Listen I know we haven't spoken in a while and normally I wouldn't bother you but I just got an email from the heir to the throne of Zimbabwe and his estate is worth millions but its all tied up in litigation. He needs like $2,000 to cover legal fees in the mean time, could I get a loan to help him out?"
Alright so that last one was kind of out of left field, but do I care? No I do not. Mainly because I probably won't remember the phone call.
1. Get Ella to do her impression of an Irish accent.
2. Get a local to sing a traditional Irish song with me. I'm thinking Dropkick Murphy's Dirty Water or Walk Away.
3. Eat something green.
4. Eat something blonde.
5. Drink green beer (down here that means Heineken).
6. Tell the same story three times in a row to test my friends' patience.
7. Call an estranged ex-girlfriend at three o'clock in the morning and recite the following: "Listen I know we haven't spoken in a while and normally I wouldn't bother you but I just got an email from the heir to the throne of Zimbabwe and his estate is worth millions but its all tied up in litigation. He needs like $2,000 to cover legal fees in the mean time, could I get a loan to help him out?"
Alright so that last one was kind of out of left field, but do I care? No I do not. Mainly because I probably won't remember the phone call.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
"A Note From The Desk Of Rowdy"
My friend Scott is one of the funniest people I have ever met, and this is because at any point in any conversation he will bust out the most random yet hilarious commentary. Scott has a brilliant mind, but at times he applies this mind to the simplest of things and (like Moses) comes around the mountain with some serious facts. This morning I logged into facebook only to find the following message from Scott. Keep in mind all I told him was that I'm living in St. Thomas now:
"well thats good thanks for leaving me you cock eating ass head. but seriously, and know that you've heard it here first, there is going to be a tidal wave of girls we went to grade school with who have profile pictures of them with someone else's baby. dangerous seas ahead my friend. but maybe i'm wrong. maybe these girls don't hit 27 and go ballistic."
A work of art. Not because it was spawned out of thin air. Not because its about girls with which we went to grade school. Its genius lies in the fact that its going to be someone else's baby they're holding. He's absolutely right, cheers to you my friend. Don't get caught in the trap.
For the record my head looks nothing like an ass.
"well thats good thanks for leaving me you cock eating ass head. but seriously, and know that you've heard it here first, there is going to be a tidal wave of girls we went to grade school with who have profile pictures of them with someone else's baby. dangerous seas ahead my friend. but maybe i'm wrong. maybe these girls don't hit 27 and go ballistic."
A work of art. Not because it was spawned out of thin air. Not because its about girls with which we went to grade school. Its genius lies in the fact that its going to be someone else's baby they're holding. He's absolutely right, cheers to you my friend. Don't get caught in the trap.
For the record my head looks nothing like an ass.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Just Call Me T-Rex
You thought it was over, didn't you? You thought I'd been overcome with laziness and the very idea of writing seemed less surmountable than a climb to the top of Mount Everest. You thought I was washed up, like the all-star relief pitcher Kenny Powers. You have been praying for posts - some begging, some threatening, most just continuing on with their lives as if I never existed but deep down in their soul craving my words.
You know at the end of the first Jurassic Park when Dr. Alan Grant and company look doomed? They are in the lobby of the Jurassic Park complex, surrounded by raptors, about to get eaten as one lunges toward them - when all of a sudden out of nowhere the T-Rex busts through the wall and eats that raptor like a boss? I'm that motherfreaking T-Rex. You never expected me to come back into your lives and save you from the Velociraptor that is boredom, but guess what? I just did.
Yeah I took a few months off. Yeah I've been doing stuff that definitely deserves to be up here. Instead of writing, I've been learning. Spending a few minutes out of the lime-light and out in the shadows only makes you come back stronger. Bruce Wayne did it in Batman Begins, Maverick did it in Top Gun, Rocky did it in Rocky IV, and Simba did it in Lion King. So get ready kids, because I'm about to drop some serious knowledge on you. T-Rex out.
You know at the end of the first Jurassic Park when Dr. Alan Grant and company look doomed? They are in the lobby of the Jurassic Park complex, surrounded by raptors, about to get eaten as one lunges toward them - when all of a sudden out of nowhere the T-Rex busts through the wall and eats that raptor like a boss? I'm that motherfreaking T-Rex. You never expected me to come back into your lives and save you from the Velociraptor that is boredom, but guess what? I just did.
Yeah I took a few months off. Yeah I've been doing stuff that definitely deserves to be up here. Instead of writing, I've been learning. Spending a few minutes out of the lime-light and out in the shadows only makes you come back stronger. Bruce Wayne did it in Batman Begins, Maverick did it in Top Gun, Rocky did it in Rocky IV, and Simba did it in Lion King. So get ready kids, because I'm about to drop some serious knowledge on you. T-Rex out.
Friday, February 5, 2010
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 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.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Fake New Years Resolutions
For no reason beyond the fact that its kind of rainy out, here is a list of new years resolutions on which I will never follow up.
1.
2. Try to get Kiersten to say "BITCHES BE CRAZY"... aw who am I kidding that'll never happen.
3. Find a cure for GAIDS because my roommate is afflicted.
4. Continue to tell Brett that he's playing his angles wrong.
5. Get Johnny Narch a ladder (he's been dangling from the rafters for years).
6. Concede that Tom Brady may not be the coolest person on Earth (there can't be two of us after all...) but note how bad the Pats would be if he were J.P. Losman.
7. Teach Ziggy how to shit outside.
8. Further integrate with the locals of St. Thomas, learning their languages, customs and beliefs.
9. Upon completion of #8, get a local Government job so I can literally do nothing all day.
10. Break 50 at any course in Tiger Woods 2009, then bang a prostitute to celebrate the way I would if I were actually Tiger.
11. Teach midgets the superpowers of invisibility and flight, further mystifying their existence.
12. Find Ariel from The Little Mermaid, kiss her to release the spell Ursula placed upon her, and then totally bang her out. Actually it would probably be better if I never had to hear her voice, its most likely that she would just nag at me all day. She is a woman after all, even if she was born in the sea.
13. Grow an epic rat tail.
14. Play hockey at least one time. I don't care the variety (ice/roller/yes even street because then I can pretend to be Mitchell Goosen from Airborne), but I have to play.
15. Visit Paddy's Pub. Hopefully I'll walk in on the gang harmonizing to a sweet tune so I can join.
16. Much like #8, learn the ways and means of the Frenchies.
17. Much like #9, get a weekend job gutting fish in Frenchtown.
18. Find the Beer Bartering Baron so I can pay him that 60 cents he asked for. Maybe 61 if I include interest.
19. Sometime in the next year, visit the following cities: Saratoga Springs, Rochester, Buffalo, Boston and Malvern. Might try to get it done in a long weekend.
20. Sometime in the next year, eat the following items: A steak from the Mafolie, A slice of meatball pizza from Marino's, a Pat's cheese steak, a doughboy from Esperanto's, Anchor Bar wings, and a garbage plate from any one of Rochester's fine establishments.
21. Go on a night scuba and see sharks versus dolphins playing what they call "football" but we call "ocean game where shark tries to eat the dolphin and dolphin goes eeheeheeheeh". I want to see the sharks score at least one "touchdown".
22. Continue loving each and every day of my incredible and fortunate life.
#1 was left blank, and there's a reason for this. I do believe that a man should evaluate his life from time to time to make sure he is on the track he wanted for himself. Upon completion of my self-evaluation, I concluded that I'm awesome and there is nothing I should change.
1.
2. Try to get Kiersten to say "BITCHES BE CRAZY"... aw who am I kidding that'll never happen.
3. Find a cure for GAIDS because my roommate is afflicted.
4. Continue to tell Brett that he's playing his angles wrong.
5. Get Johnny Narch a ladder (he's been dangling from the rafters for years).
6. Concede that Tom Brady may not be the coolest person on Earth (there can't be two of us after all...) but note how bad the Pats would be if he were J.P. Losman.
7. Teach Ziggy how to shit outside.
8. Further integrate with the locals of St. Thomas, learning their languages, customs and beliefs.
9. Upon completion of #8, get a local Government job so I can literally do nothing all day.
10. Break 50 at any course in Tiger Woods 2009, then bang a prostitute to celebrate the way I would if I were actually Tiger.
11. Teach midgets the superpowers of invisibility and flight, further mystifying their existence.
12. Find Ariel from The Little Mermaid, kiss her to release the spell Ursula placed upon her, and then totally bang her out. Actually it would probably be better if I never had to hear her voice, its most likely that she would just nag at me all day. She is a woman after all, even if she was born in the sea.
13. Grow an epic rat tail.
14. Play hockey at least one time. I don't care the variety (ice/roller/yes even street because then I can pretend to be Mitchell Goosen from Airborne), but I have to play.
15. Visit Paddy's Pub. Hopefully I'll walk in on the gang harmonizing to a sweet tune so I can join.
16. Much like #8, learn the ways and means of the Frenchies.
17. Much like #9, get a weekend job gutting fish in Frenchtown.
18. Find the Beer Bartering Baron so I can pay him that 60 cents he asked for. Maybe 61 if I include interest.
19. Sometime in the next year, visit the following cities: Saratoga Springs, Rochester, Buffalo, Boston and Malvern. Might try to get it done in a long weekend.
20. Sometime in the next year, eat the following items: A steak from the Mafolie, A slice of meatball pizza from Marino's, a Pat's cheese steak, a doughboy from Esperanto's, Anchor Bar wings, and a garbage plate from any one of Rochester's fine establishments.
21. Go on a night scuba and see sharks versus dolphins playing what they call "football" but we call "ocean game where shark tries to eat the dolphin and dolphin goes eeheeheeheeh". I want to see the sharks score at least one "touchdown".
22. Continue loving each and every day of my incredible and fortunate life.
#1 was left blank, and there's a reason for this. I do believe that a man should evaluate his life from time to time to make sure he is on the track he wanted for himself. Upon completion of my self-evaluation, I concluded that I'm awesome and there is nothing I should change.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, November 23, 2009
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.
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.
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