St. John shenanigans

Do you remember that last scene in The Hangover when they find the digital camera with all the images that shed light on the previous night's debachery?

Well, that happened to me on St. John a few weeks back. Just replace the digital camera with a big, clunky action sports camera and swap Zach Galifianakis and Ed Helms with my island mates the Wolverine and Trish the Dish.

Here's the scenario: So I was having a few lunch-time brews at the Caribbean Saloon and in walked Wolverine and Trish. I tell them that I have to go to St. John that afternoon to shoot the final of a high school softball tourney and then decide to accompany me on this mission.

The game wasn't supposed to start until 8 p.m. That left several hours of trouble in between.

*   *   *

After finishing what I thought would be my final drink at Woody's, I decided it was time to put my game face on and go to work. The bar is about 75 feet from the ballpark so I started to pack up my gear before I heard a familiar moniker.

"Hey, newspapa mon?"

I turned around and the entire Kean High softball team was standing in front of Woody's. They were in full uniform and stared right at me.

"What's this?" I muttered and gave a quick look at my watch. "Did I miss the game?"

Nope. It had started to rain -- I didn't even notice -- so they postponed the championship until the next day. So you're telling me that I've been hangining around Cruz Bay, drinking all day for no reason at all?

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you," the Wolverine said.

So as you can imagine, we made a full assault on the local pubs and it got a little hazzy after that. These are some of the photos I found on my camera the next day...

Other island mates Marcus, Moose and Ms. Jodie are also featured here. Did you see the really tan woman that looks like Carmen Diaz' roommate from There's Something About Mary? Yikes.

Also, the Dominicans on the ferry ride home were hilarious. When one of their buddies totally collapsed with his ass hanging out, they all just laughed. Thank goodness Ms. Jodie is an ER nurse.

Good times, for sure.

Boating adventures and booze

I don't know why everyone loves that movie, Almost Famous, but do you remember when the main character wrote the lead to his story in Rolling Stone magazine? Something about flying over the ocean and "we're all going to die..."

Well I'll do you one better, chump.

Two weeks ago, I was with some friends on a boat and we were powering our way from St. John back to St. Thomas late at night. The ride usually takes no longer than 15 minutes. During the excursion, the boat shut off completely. Our drunken giggles and the sound of the whaling engines were suddenly replaced by severe silence as we started to drift in complete darkness.

The boat doesn't have a gas meter so we all thought we ran out. Perhaps the battery? It didn't really matter because we were in a pickle and the situation looked grim.

As everyone retreated to their cell phones and attempted to call boating heroes at 2:18 a.m. on a Sunday morning, I took off my shirt and stared at both shores. Which one was closer, St. John or Rock City? Could I swim it and be the hero? If I did make it to shore, then what?

All these questions annoyed me so I did what any rational person would do in such a situation.

I popped a bottle of champagne.

"I've been in a lot worse predicaments than this, folks," I said in attempt to chill everyone out.

For some, it really didn't matter. My girlfriend and another girl we were with had already hunkered down in the front of the boat. It looked like they were going to sleep this one off and wait for the sun to rise in a few hours.

So you can imagine their reactions when they heard the steady stream of urine hitting the warm Caribbean Sea in the middle of the night. They were really irked when they heard the cork pop off the champagne bottle.

I thought it was a great idea. It was a minor celebration to mark the end of a great adventure.

It all started about 10 hours earlier when Brianna and I met Scottie H and Benji at the marina, where they keep their boat. It was raining when we arrived and we just sat in our cars and waited for the storm clouds to push off.

"Shit will burn off," Brianna said while mocking one of my favorite island quotes.

For some odd reason, Moose and Marcus bought about two cases of Schaefer beer. You know, the good stuff. The cans are only 10 oz. so that justified the need to crush at least 20 of them before we got to shores of Cruz Bay.

Once there, we picked up a few more beach beauties and went to a nearby bay for some scurfing. What is scurfing you ask? Well if you didn't waste your time clicking on that link, it's basically like water skiing but using a surf board. We did that for about an hour and a half. Maybe that's how we ran out of gas?

After the scurf action, we decided to go back to shore and visit the fine establishment otherwise known as Woody's. We had already crushed our Schaefer supplies, mixed vitamin water with Cruzan dark and I guess we were all had the happy hour shakes. What turned into "one shot and we'll move on" turned into a shot frenzy and a $362 booze tab.

If there was a break in the sloppy conversation, Scottie H would lock eyes with you and tap his wrist with two fingers. In most civilized cultures, this gesture usually references what the current time is. To Scottie ("Boating!" was his war cry), this meant it was time for another round of shots. Though I didn't take part in each of them, Jager bombs, Cruzan 151, Washington Apples and Statue Of Liberty shots -- the one where you light your finger on fire -- were all consumed.

It's during those critical hours that follow when I want to hire a stenographer. For obvious reasons.

I do recall wandering into a sophisticated bar called Castaways where Scottie H grabbed the soda gun that servers use to refill drinks and shooting different liquids at innocent bystanders.

Later on, there was a debate with a cute bartender named Ricki. No, not about another gaudy bar tab. The bartender grew up on St. Croix, as did Scottie, so a little trash talk about their rival high schools started up. Since I cover high school sports for the Daily News, I felt I had some knowledge on the subject and decided to chime in on the discussion.

What did I say? I'm not too sure. I don't really remember. All available stenographers, please send me your resume.

At some point, I remember watching the Mayweather-Ortiz fight at another bar. I had a great conversation with a Islander who was a huge boxing fan. I told him that I wrote the article about the USVI professional boxers earlier in the week and he hugged me. Then he bought me a shot. It was a great symbol of respect shared among two sports fans.

The blurry St. John experience started to fade when we got back on the boat in Cruz Bay and warmed up the engines for a return trip.

Later on, when the engine went dead, the champagne was drank and after Moose proved his vast knowledge of 90's alternative music via Pandora to me, a savior joined the party.

Our friend Emily, who was also on board, somehow got in contact with a friend of a co-worker of a former roommate of a dental assistant and he rolled up to our drifting boat on a dingy with a 5-gallon drum of gas. We offered him money and he passed and he wouldn't even take a sip of champagne. A true American hero who did not seek any praise.

After a few pleasantries, he set off back to St. John and we were able to start the engine again. Most people would go straight home after such an ordeal and be happy they didn't have to spend the night out at sea.

What did we do? We got to shore and stopped into Caribbean Saloon for one. Make that many.

It was just another typical Saturday in paradise.

NFL action on island

Tropical Storm Maria was a complete tease. She was on a direct line for the USVI but passed north by about 50 miles. So the alleged day of reckoning turned out to be another sunny day in paradise.

Now what I am going to do with all the canned raviolis I bought? I'm sure I'll eat them eventually.

Moving on. So it's 12:50 p.m. on Sunday and the NFL is about to kick off its Week 1 action.

I was excited. My laptop was on the coffee table so I could monitor my fantasy teams, my stomach was full of cheesy eggs and I was still wearing my pajamas. It was shaping up to be a classic Sunday.

Then the satellite goes out.

I let out an angry yelp that was definitely rated R and frantically searched for answers. It wasn't because of a damaged signal or an approaching storm. Nope. The box literally turned itself out.

I looked at my watch. 12:57. Three minutes before kickoff? Sonofabitch.

I wasn't about to miss the opening game of the year but earlier in the week, I announced to my beautiful girlfriend that I was going to stay away from the bars this season. I wanted to preserve the girth of my cash roll, prevent the ensuing hangovers and spend some quality time with my lady while we shout at New York Giants together.

While I sat there and watched a TV screen full of static, my palms started to sweat. I considered jumping through the front window and running wind sprints until I passed out.

Brianna: "I can tell you're about to freak out. Why don't you just go to the bar?"

Sober NFL fan: "But I'm trying to save some money. We're paying for this satellite with the New York feed so we can watch all the Giants games. Did you hear that? I think I'm starting to hyperventilate."

Brianna: "The Giants game is on at 4. You didn't know that?"

My lady always knows what to say to clam me down. I kissed her on the forehead, put on my Giants jersey (no showering for this guy) and grabbed the dog leashes. She knew exactly where I was going.

The Dog Pub near downtown St. Thomas is a great spot. You can put your dogs in a large cage and let them duke it out while you sip suds at a nearby bar and watch football. The owner is a Giants fan. I knew this bar to be my one safe haven on a unpredictable football Sunday.

People always ask me if there is a big football fan base on the island and there definitely is. Despite the very lack of available sports bars, there are plenty of import fans from all across the States.

Check out my San Diego friends Chris and Maggie. Yes, that is their new baby already sporting Charger threads.

Hooter's (aka Hoots McGoots), Caribbean Saloon and Shipwreck Tavern are also wise selections when watching football on St. Thomas. The good people at Sib's open early for football but they are hardcore New England fans while just about any other drinking hole is a crapshoot.

The Giants ended up losing to the Redskins (for the first time since 2007) but I still had a great time at Dog Pub. Brianna's car got slammed into by some drunk leaving Shipwreck but that's a whole different story and I don't feel like typing anymore.

Maybe I'll swing by Dog Pub for one on my way home? Perhaps. Wouldn't you want to know? Good day to you, sir.

Anatomy of a chunder session

"You know how many emails I've sent in my life? Maybe eight."

My old friend Woody said that to me in all seriousness while we were sipping cocktails during the afternoon at Morning Star Beach. I laughed at first but I could tell he wasn't joking.

That's why I'm sure he will never see these photos. Well, he would never fall upon them. Someone in our circle is bound to tell him. He may get mad for a second and then he'll laugh. Then, he won't talk to me for like 2 years. It's all good.

OK, so let's begin...

Here's a nice shot of Woody sipping on some whiskey while we hung out on the balcony from Tavern on the Waterfront. A friend was bartending and she was pouring some stiff drinks. By the way, it's Woody's birthday. He was turning 30.

Later on in the night, my old friend decides he wants to lively up the joint at Caribbean Saloon so he proceeds to shotgun a can of Red Bull. I have never seen this attempted before. Remember, the man is turning 30 and he insisted to be at the bar at midnight to celebrate.

So we made it to Iggies Beach Bar and there's really no one out at this point. It's approaching midnight on a Tuesday night. We're sipping drinks and no one really wants to take a shot at midnight but Woody continues to battle.

Now we've all seen this before. After taking back a tall shot of warm Jameson, he straightens up and hopes the Irish whiskey will comfortably find a home in his belly. This man is a drinking veteran. Will his 30-year-old body hold up?

Another tactic I've seen used before. So the shot didn't go down the right pipe, huh? Go ahead and take a swig from your other liquor drink for a chaser. That will surely help.

And we have liftoff! Woody finally gives in and starts to puke in an empty plastic cup. His girlfriend puts her hand on his back to comfort him and shield him from bartender ridicule. I screamed for him to "Puke on the bar! Do it!!!" so every patron was now looking at this 30-year-old man celebrate his birthday with a midnight shot.

It sounds gross but he didn't actually blow chuncks. Basically, the Jameson shot found its way back up. The bartenders heard my rant and yelled for Woody to puke on the beach and not on the bar. He desperately walked over to the beach with his girlfriend in tow but didn't give the dramatic chunder performance everyone had hoped for.

Since he managed to keep the rest of his stomach's contents in his body, he walked back to bar with his hands raised like he had prevailed. The applause was minimal.

Happy 21st -- ehh, I mean 30th -- Birthday, Woody. You are, indeed, a king among men.

Hitting the town

Light wallets on St. Thomas today and for many of us, it will be another Sunday afternoon spent lying near the water re-analyzing life's decisions.

Indeed. Had a few drinks yesterday.

It started at Magens Bay to celebrate a birthday for Mike, one of the owners of Epernay Wine Bar and Bistro.

Had dinner at Rancho Latino, a great Dominican cuisine joint. It was my very first visit there but will not be my last.

Stumbled over to the grand opening party for Senor Frogs in Havensight. The place just opened and I heard they charge $23 for chicken fingers. We had VIP passes so drinks and food were free last night and we all took advantage, in excess.

Around 10 p.m., we were on a ferry boat to St. John to go to the Madri Gras party at the Parrot Club. I gambled a little bit, had some spirits and made it out of there barely alive. About five of us entered the club during the party -- two of us were thrown out early (separate incidents).

Then we caught the end of a reggae-jam out band we saw the night before on St. John. Yes, I went to St. John two nights in a row. I am special.

Boarded the 1 a.m. ferry back to St. Thomas that attracted a security guard because my friend "Punchy" was running his mouth and licking his wounds.

When we got back to Red Hook, we sort of floated over the Caribbean Saloon, a great late-night spot. Cheese steak sandwiches and chicken wings went down the hatch and the food did not really get along with the Jägermeister, which had crashed the party in my stomach hours earlier.

And just before Punchy and I retired back to the homestead, I found $40 in my back pocket. So the night wasn't a total waste. Just another blurry roller-coaster ride in the Caribbean. Salud.

Rolling with the homies

Making moves, not movies

I'm not sure what it even means but I've been saying it since college. For those close to me, you know I say some weird shit. And for some reason I can never split ways with these Aaronisms.

A few more: Jesus Crackers, the rain locker, Weakels Baneeckles, Jeez Luise.


Wow. Strange thoughts on this balmy Thursday night in paradise.

For a few close friends, this night is their first of many more back on the mainland.

So I was sitting at Caribbean Saloon in the early afternoon last week. No, it wasn't happy hour or anything like that. I watching World Cup soccer, so get off my case.

Anywhoo, I'm sitting at the bar and I got three island homies with me. Brianna, my girlfriend, said if I could rank them, they may fall atop my island bro-mance list.

Now I found out Carlos, my Mexican partner in crime, was leaving island for good about a day or two before. He's spending the summer in Chicago before something else pops.

But then Bill leans over and I notice he's trying to book an airline flight via his laptop.

"What gives?" I ask.

"Oh yeah ... Dude, I'm leaving St. Thomas. Like next week," he says very nonchalantly.

Turns out, Bill, an avid sailor and death-defying surface diver, was offered a sailing job in Nantucket where he will be able to work on his captain's license. Zach, the third homie there, said he was leaving too but not for two more weeks. Zach is headed back to school in South Carolina to finish up his medical degree or something like that.

And just like that, I was all alone.

"Damn, I'm happy for you guys but that sucks!" I yell.

Moments later (and this is totally unrelated) I lost a $20 rock-paper-scissors game in double overtime. My afternoon took a severe turn for the worse in a matter of minutes.

The first picture is of Bill and Zach getting rowdy and the next one is Carlos filling up a beer bong for some island vixen on a boat. Yes fellas, I straight jacked these photos from your facebook.




We celebrated their final night on St. Thomas last night and after shaking off a sharp headache this morning, it made me think about how delicate my time here is.

In life, people come and people go. I understand that. But I guess when you live on an island that is only 13 square miles, the feeling of a friend having beers with you one second and then being gone forever the next second stings a little more.

Now I need to find be some new island homies ... paging Nick Wassum. Mr. Wassum, where you be?

It also reminds me of random conversations I've had with people I just met here. When it's obvious the person didn't grow up on St. Thomas (not hard to spot them out) a question that is blurted out early on in any get-to-know-you conversation is "How long have you been here?"

The answer to that question can range from "Dude, I'm on one of those cruise boats" to "Maybe a month" to "What are you, some kind of private investigator?"

I've been here for exactly 136 days. Doesn't seem that long at all, huh?

Another word thrown around the campfire is that couples move here and break up fast -- that the island is hard for lovers. Well, I'm very glad my beautiful baby hasn't dropped me for some pirate or West Indian (they get all the hookups here on jewelry).

I'm better looking than those guys, anyway. And I'm the author of this killer blog. Now all I need to do is tighten up my rock-paper-scissor skills and I'll be irresistible.

Alright then Bill, Zach and Carlos. You guys take it easy and remember everything I taught you. Good luck, fellas.