How you livin?

This was the scene during a sunny Sunday afternoon atop the island of St. Thomas. The picture was taken at halftime, right as the N.Y. Giants appeared to have opened an insurmountable lead on the Eagles.

Look at us ... so happy and full of life.

Then Mike Vick and that ass clown DeSean Jackson ruined everything, which resulted in the Miracle at the New Meadowlands.

We enjoyed mimosas and Brianna made home-made chili at our friend Frank's new condo in a part of the island referred to as Mountain Top. The title fits the scenery.

I had put back my second bowl of chili and was considering a ceremonial Jager bomb before it hit me: I had never been to Frank's new house during the day.

"Hey guys," I said. "Let's check out this view Frank keeps telling us about before we get all loopy (on an account of the short-lived Giants domination and the danger than lies within Jagermeister)."

Everyone, which included Frank, Brianna and I, agreed as the whole gang headed north.

His new place is sick. It has a crazy 180-degree view, as you can see clear across the island, over the golf course, way past Red Hook and with the British Virgin Islands on the horizon. He's so high up that you can spit off his balcony and with the right kind of wind, it will eventually hit a tourist at Megan's Bay.

After having a jolly time at a friend's swank digs, I couldn't help but reflect on the place where I put my head down. Strangely enough, I don't have a lot of pictures of my headquarters.

It's located right outside of Charlotte Amalie, up a bike-path trail, and when the power goes out, you can hear the generator from the nearby hospital kick in. And when it does, I always think about how many lives were just saved with the quick flick of a wrist. Or is it automatic? Maybe I should walk into the hospital and ask somebody.

I've been to the hospital twice since I moved down the block from it over nine months ago. One time was for a seizure. Not cool. And it left my wallet empty.

The other time was to shoot some sort of church revival seminar symposium meeting of some sort. My boss was in attendance so I showed up 10 minutes early and naturally left 20 minutes after it ended and everyone had left and I was alone in a dark room.

The cool thing was that when everyone left -- it was for lunch -- they gave me a ticket for the hospital cafeteria. I had to move on to another assignment so I tucked the golden ticket deep into my wallet.

"Save that ticket," my boss said. "The hospital has some of the best food on the island."

Believing everything she's told me for the last nine months, I made sure to put it next to the most important stuff in my wallet: in between my Men's Warehouse coupon and a fake $1,000 bill that has a picture of Ben Franklin winking.

"Ahh, the next rainy day," I thought. "But who will I go with?"

I know how some people won't eat by themselves in public because they feel weird. I actually enjoy it. People watching is the perfect dessert after a turkey and cheese sandwich goes down the hatch.

But in a hospital cafeteria? I don't care how good the food is, watching hospital folk while eating Salisbury steak or meatloaf may not work well with me. But I should try it out, eh? After all, I got the golden ticket...

But we'll have to save that social experiment for next time, boys and girls. In a blog post where I planned on showing pictures of my house and taking potshots at my lovely landlord, it ended with a somewhat entertaining story about churchy people, meatloaf and Benny Franklin.

How you like them apples? And by the way, the chili was crucial.

Over and out.