British battle scars

So another Virgin Islands cherry was popped over the weekend.

I finally made it to England -- actually, it was the small island of Jost Van Dyke -- for the first time and upon telling this to my cohorts, shots of vodka suddenly appeared.

I also met one of the most interesting people, in my opinion, from around these parts.

Foxy, the proprietor of Foxy's Beach Bar, is legendary. Thousands of people venture out to his bar on Jost (which is the British Virgin Islands) every New Year's Eve for a huge party. I already asked him to save me a seat for 2012.

When our boat crew came ashore about 11 a.m. last Saturday, a few people on board decided to pay him a visit and he did not disappoint. First of all, he's been knighted by the Queen of England -- no joke. And word has it he was the first and only person to enter the Royal Palace barefoot.

He wasn't wearing any shoes Saturday and within minutes of meeting him, he started to belt out rhymes that described just about any city in the U.S. All you had to do what name it: Dallas, Camden, NJ, Compton -- he had a descriptive and well-thought out rhyme for each.

After doing a shot of fire water with Foxy, we moved on to other popular watering holes on Water Bay. Everyone always talks about The Soggy Dollar and their pain killers. It was cool but my favorite spot was One Love. It was 3 p.m., they had live music and I could barely keep myself from falling off the bar stool.

My friend Josh was also enjoying a rare day off and together, we decided to get weird.

JOSH: "Let's just keep drinking Jager."

ME: "Are you crazy? I have a wife and kids. I can't get all wasted in the middle of the day."

JOSH: "Sounds like you've already had too many."

ME: "Bartender! We'll take two shots of Jager, please."

The day continued on that pace until I realized I hadn't eaten any food yet. I fell back to our boat and bulldozed into our group's snack bag. The captain was no where to be found but the beers on board were ice cold and the party location shifted.

My beautiful girlfriend and her bikini-clad lady friends decided to lay out on the boat. My friend Jerry would call it 'Deck Candy' and I kept fumbling around looking for my camera. He took a picture of his girlfriend on a boat once, sent it into a boating magazine and now she is a magazine cover model.

The day wore on and my alcohol level remained heightened. Right before we left, I held two bottled beers (one in each hand) and tried to negotiate a big floated thing that was on the front of the boat. My boating terminology is grand. My obstacle course skills were impaired and I fell flat on my face but I managed to keep the beers upright so it was a minor victory.

No one saw the spectacle except for the boat captain, who did not laugh and just said, "I've seen so many people do that before..."

Falling on your face can be hilarious. But there was a rusty screw that stuck out where my exposed torso majestically glided across the boat surface. It was not cool. It left a bloody streak that started near my left nipple and ended in my armpit hair. Good thing I have such a muscular chest.

I was embarassed and my girlfriend was ashamed. What would Foxy think of my exploits? I wonder if he showed the Queen any of his drunken battle wounds?

I hope I don't get hepatitis or Mad Cow Disease. You can never trust the British.

High flying

I walked into Jack's Restaurant and Bar on a Thursday night recently and I found an old friend I hadn't seen in a few months.

"Jail?" I asked.

"Nope," Roz responded. "But almost."

Roz was celebrating with a festive table of friends and he quickly let me in on the reason for the Jager shots and sloppy dancing. The next day, Roz was scheduled to fly out of St. Thomas and make his way back to the Middle East -- he called it "the sandbox" -- for a second tour of duty in Afghanistan.

I was amazed at the news and like everyone in the bar that night, I bought him a round of shots.

The next day, I was scurrying through the airport and found a tiny bit of space in the quarantined Spirit Air terminal at King Airport.

Roz sees me and is aghast. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.

Well, I was flying home for a quick visit and failed to mention that to him during our celebration the night before.

"I didn't want to steal your thunder last night," I said. "You're going to fight in a war and I just had a craving for Taco Bell that I no longer can ignore."

We look at our plane tickets: Same flight. Cool. Same row. Wow. Exit row. Holy crap. This is getting weird.

We get on the plane after a few beers -- of course the flight was delayed over an hour -- and after everyone had packed onto the full flight, no one sits in between us. That's when the party really started.

Alright. Bare with me here. Roz is a U.S. military service member so free drinks are almost essential. Turns out one of the male flight attendants was gay and how did he put it...

"I play on that team, too," Roz said.

He wasn't joking. These guys start flirting and the free drinks start flowing. I was in the aisle seat and got caught in the crossfire. Little mini bottles of Sky vodka and Mister T's Bold Bloody Mary Mix had me slurring my speech before we even crossed over Cuba.

Great conversations with Roz. Don't Ask, Don't Tell had just been repealed by the Senate and by the end of the flight, this guy had me one step away from joining the Navy. Seriously. I actually was talking about joining the Navy for the next few days but then it wavered. Maybe next time.

It's one cool thing about living on this island. I've never been on an inbound or outbound flight without recognizing someone I know. I've even started to recognize the flight attendants. The same one that was single and ready to mingle with Roz was the same guy on my connecting flight from Miami to DC.

Roz got off in Miami -- he said he was going to blow up South Beach one last time. The next day, he made his way to Dallas and then it was off to the sandbox.

The flight attendant knew I was straight despite my dapper threads and asked if I wanted another bloody. Of course, I obliged but then he said he would now have to charge me.

Damn. Maybe I should have joined the Navy.

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.