Nooosspapa mon delivers

I remember thinking something like, "Whoa, it's like 9:30 a.m. and we're still going..."

Just then, my brothers, who were swimming in the infinity pool under a early morning sun, started to taunt what they thought was a man standing near the fence to this elaborate and gaudy property.

I sprung into action. I walked over and to see what this person wanted. Only trouble, I presumed.

Turns out, it was not a man but a fiery woman with very short hair. A neighbor. A person, she led to believe, with power.

I played it cool to begin.

Aaron: "Good evening, mam, or should I say good morning."

I still had a cocktail in my hand and I was soaking wet from my previous pool visit. She was not impressed.

Crazy woman: "Are you fucking kidding me? Good morning!? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

I was ill prepared for this encounter.

A: "I apologize mam --"

She cut me off immediately.

CW: "Listen. It's fucking 9:30 in the morning and you have the music blasting. There are good people here that have been trying to get sleep all night. We've had enough of your shit."

She held all the cards in this hand and I was ready to fold even before I walked up to her. I will not humor you with the rest of the conversation but it got ugly. Quickly. Indeed, this was no time for a showdown.

Granted, we had put down thousands of dollars to make this villa our we-don't-give-a-fuck vacation villa. But this is not 'Nam. There are rules...

The conversation ended abruptly when I proved to her that I lived here, was not some schmuck from (enter random U.S. state here), and promised to shut down the party as long as she didn't call the swine. Not that they would have come anyways, they have bigger fish to fry. So we left our encounter on even accords and the party ended with a few snaps of the finger.

*   *   *

Two weeks ago, I had approximately 25 cousins, wives, husbands, boyfriends and girlfriends of cousins (whatever, you get the point) visit me on St. Thomas for a magical Caribbean vacation they've only ever read about.

We had two monster villas under our belts, countless bottles of cheap rum and an appetite for destruction on our combined group resume.

Months earlier, I put out an open invitation to all my cousins -- I have quite a few -- to visit me for one solid, crazy week on the island. I was expecting an optimistic return of 50 percent. I didn't get a single "No" which is a testament to how awesome my family is. At the same time, it struck fear into my soul.

Living here, you always run into people that have a friend or two visit them from the States. No big deal. The revolving door on my house has been swinging in the Caribbean breeze ever since I moved here in 2010. I love visitors and I invite them from far and wide.

But 25 heads? It was a huge undertaking. No doubt. By some sort of pure luck, I was able to pull it off.

I took the week off from work, which was a necessity. Living here for over two years, I basically put down on paper all the cool things I like to do here and just threw it at them in some kind of blind itinerary. Some people may flinch at the concept but everyone involved on this trip absorbed it and prospered.

It was an amazing week. Movie night on Water Island, Festival on St. John, Megans Bay, Peterborg, Frenchtown, Sib's on the mountain, and even a ride on the Treasure Seeker. Plus, every bar we visited, we took over. It was fabulous.

Just want to thank all the family involved. You guys were great. Let's do it again next year. Why not?

Nooossspappa mon!

Thanks for all the love. See you guys again real soon.

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.

The V.I. Hooter's Experience

Over the last few weeks, I've been hanging out with a new friend, Stephen. We work similar hours on island -- I'm a late-night sports writer and he told me his job is so top-secret that I needed security clearance just to buy him a beer.

Anyway, the kid is hilarious. He reminds me of The Pheonix, a fellow thru-hiker I met last summer while hiking the Appalachain Trail.

We've exchanged a few stories about living on St. Thomas while leaning against the bar at Sib's, another local establishment that attracts only the most elite drinkers.

Well, old Stephen was suffering from the Monday blues last week and decided he needed to get out of the office before he went postal.

After a quick drive, he arrived at Hooter's, which has only one beer on tap and serves All-U-Can-Eat wings (after 4 p.m.) on Mondays for 10 bucks.

The restaurant is strategically located across the street from Yacht Haven Grande, where all the big cruise ships dock for the day. For some odd reason, however, the restaurant never seems crowded ... even on Wing Night.

I've walked in there once or twice with my girlfriend (for protection) and aside from the boisterous "WELCOME TO HOOTER'S!" cheer you get from the bored waitresses, all you hear during the meal is crickets in the distance.

Now on this somber Monday, Stephen walked in, gave a quick glimpse at the talent and plopped his butt on a bar stool near the corner of a somewhat empty bar. The plan was to drink Miller Lite draft and eat hot wings until his head cleared. Or until he felt like going back to work. Whichever happened first.

To his surprise, the bartender was actually good looking. Check that, she was a blond bombshell and Stephen couldn't help but stare (he showed me pictures of her on his iPhone). In recent years, that was quite a rarity at Hooter's so he felt the day was about to turn.

After three beers and three plates of 3-Mile Island wings, the bar became steady as other locals jumped on the Wing Night special. The last horn blew from the last cruise boat so the rest of the island could take a collective sigh of relief.

Before Stephen knew it, he was yucking it up with the other bar folks. The same bar folks that said hello or nodded to every single server before sitting down. Like they owned the joint. The worst part, the bombshell said hello to each of them, too.

The dreaded regulars ... at a Hooter's?

Stephen started to sweat. What had he become, he asked himself. Did he want to be like the rest of the people around him? The type of person that would go to a Hooter's in the middle of a Monday afternoon for flat beer, over-rated wings and girls in orange short shorts flirting with patrons?

Stephen immediately stopped talking to the other schmucks, quickly paid his bill and burst out the door toward his car. The mundane Monday had turned into a nightmare.

The only thing he could think of now was to get back to work and pretend like his Hooter's trip never happened. He smoked a cigarette before he entered the office to disguise the booze on his breath and sat patiently at his desk. Was the mission worth it? Did he accomplish what he set out to do?

Then he got a text message. It was from me.

"Hey bud, let's do wing night at Hooter's tonight. Don't be a bastard. Meet me there at 7 p.m."

He texted back: "OK. Sounds good. I haven't been there in a while."