On location in London #2

I'm covering the 2012 Summer Olympic Games from July 27 through Aug. 12 in London for the Virgin Islands Daily News. These notebook items and photos were published in the print edition.

What empty seats?

Photographers at the Olympics have kept their heads on a swivel the last two days. After they shoot the action on the court or in the pool, they immediately turn around and shoot the crowds taking in all the action.

Since when have the spectators at sporting events, or lack of, received more attention than the actual athletes? Seems like a streaker's dream.

Two days after the British media exploded with criticism over empty seats at the 2012 Summer Olympic Games – one local newspaper had the lead headline, “Empty Seat Saga Continues” – major sport venues like volleyball and swimming were just about at capacity on Tuesday. I dropped in on both and I thought the British fans came out in numbers.

Olympic organizers said Tuesday that a combined 2.1 million people have attended events in the first three full days of competition. They said 86 percent of ticket holders showed up Saturday, 92 percent Sunday and 88 percent Monday.

I think the local media just needs something else to talk about. As of Tuesday afternoon, the host country had won just four medals – no gold – which is only one more medal than Kazakhstan, which has tasted gold three times already.

Homer goes global

Facebook, Twitter and a plethora of other social media networks have been ablaze since athletes from around the globe arrived in London.

Just like in the States, the people of Europe have also become addicted to their cell phones along with the boundless wonders and incredible roaming charges they provide.

One athlete who has had a strong web presence even before he started his 2012 Olympic campaign is New York City resident Daryl Homer, a men's sabre fencer, who was born on St. Thomas. Check out his Facebook page – he already has more than 5,000 fans.

With such a global connection to other fencers in tact, pictures of newspaper coverage from around the world have flooded into him – via Twitter – over the last 48 hours.

On Sunday, Homer made U.S. fencing history when he advanced to the quarterfinals and finished sixth overall in the men's individual sabre event. Along the way, Homer beat Russia's Aleksei Yakimenko, a three-time consecutive European champion, who entered the Olympics with a No. 2 world ranking.

“I grew up idolizing him,” Homer said. “He’s a great fencer and a very nice person. I think he’s the best fencer in the world right now.”

It was the best finish for a U.S. men's sabre fencer since World War II. They didn't have Facebook back then so I've decided to send him an old-fashioned congratulatory letter through the mail.

Liquid Sunshine

On my way to see U.S. Virgin Islands swimmer Branden Whitehurst compete on a soggy Tuesday morning, I missed the first media bus and had to sit and wait for the next one with a few of the Olympic volunteers at the media bus stop.

Since I arrived, they have been very helpful and have always had a smile on their face. Even when the weather has not cooperated.

“Do you like our liquid sunshine?” one of the happy volunteers asked me as we huddled under a small umbrella during a brief rain shower.

“Oh, it's quite lovely,” I answered in my best British accent.

Before my visit to London, the only 'Liquid Sunshine' I had previously enjoyed was consumed at the Tap Room on St. John. Sunshine in London has been a rarity so far and guess who forgot to pack an umbrella?

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.

Running 8 Tuff Miles

I've been on the sideline and covered the St. John 8 Tuff Miles Road Race the last two years with the other hired geeks. This year, the race director talked me into running the event and once the boss heard of this, a first-person column was in the works.

My man Thomas Layer took some killer photos. All I had to do was run the bastard.

Much easier said then done. For those people not living here, let me try my best to describe this very unique race: It's freaking hard. Five miles of all uphill -- about 1,400 feet of total elevation is climbed in the race -- then the last three miles is mostly downhill.

This race is not for the phony tough. Only the crazy brave. The day after it was all over, I could barely walk but I sauntered into my office and tried to make sense of it all.

An excerpt from my column about the race: "I thought there's no way I would be able to watch Zuber finish (unless I cheat - an idea I momentarily contemplated), but if I finish before Zuber's girlfriend, then I can still be a champion.

She didn't know it then, but Michelle became my racing rival at that exact moment. Lots of people listen to music to get focused, some meditate. For me, I just chase other people's girlfriends up and down treacherous hills for 8.375 miles."

Here are the links to my column and the official race story.

If any of you runners out there want a Caribbean challenge, this would be a great time to make a visit. If you just like to sit around and drink beer, of course this place is good for that, too. Cheers.

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.

The powers that be

We're moving into a new and bigger place down the road so my free time has been spent basically moving crap. It's stressful, any way you dice it. New beginnings. Closure on old digs. One door closes, another opens -- that kind of crap.

I guess I'm saying this because I wanted to justify why I haven't posted to the blog in almost two weeks. That's a good reason and because the latest post was one of my favorites (Happy Birthday, Woody) so I wanted it to breath a little bit.

This happened like three weeks ago but it needed to be documented. St. Thomas has experienced several blackouts recently and all the trauma had turned normal frustrated folk into a full-blown island misfits.

WAPA is the power and water company on island. The only one. There's no competition for these bastards and the government has its hand in the cookie jar, too.

So when rolling blackouts do occur, questions are frequently asked.

The first one is usually "Why?" A couple others come to mind: What in the hell are you guys doing? Do we live on a third world island? And get your shit together! (I know that last one isn't a question but I love yelling that remark to motorists that drive around the island in WAPA cars -- it makes me feel tough).

So Brianna and I had this nice little 2-day getaway planned on St. John. Basically a vacation away from our vacation. We actually won the free hotel night stay during a weekly raffle at one of our favorite watering holes.

We weren't five minutes away from leaving when we hear some jackass honking his horn in the street in front of our house. Like the seldom gun shots I hear, I ignored the first series of honks. The guy wouldn't stop and it wasn't until I walked out the front door and peered down the front walkway before I realized the honks were directed at me.

Law abiding citizen: "Hey buddy, what gives?"

WAPA jackass (while still sitting in the driver's seat, engine running, AC cranking): "Hey mon, you need to pay your power bill, I'm here to shut you off."

LAC: "Wait a second. Honking your horn? Is that how you bastards do business?"

WAPA jackass: "I saw both cars here."

LAC: "We're not even a month late. I've paid the bill on time for the last 15 months and we miss a few days and they send out people to shut it off? Why don't you go back to HQ and figure out why we lose power every other day?"

WAPA jackass: "I need money or I shut it off. Also, $30 late fee."

That's when I turned around and walked back into the house. It wasn't that we didn't have the money. We did. But like hundreds of St. Thomians, we had lost all faith in the company and we were basically boycotting them in our own little way.

When Brianna heard about the intentions of the WAPA jackass, she almost grabbed a weapon. She exchanged some salty words with the man and within an instant, he was out of the car, walked toward our power box and talked on his walkie talkie.

We were ready to pay but there was zero mention of an $30 late fee on the actual bill. We pulled it out for reference. He countered by summoning security on his walkie talkie.

Does WAPA even have security? We can't possibly be the first dead beats to take a stand against these scum.

From there, it was a good old fashioned sit-in. Peaceful. Effective. My ex-hippie parents would have been proud...

We basically blocked his path to the power box and he was out of options. He got a little frustrated, I started to chuckle and then he walked back to his car and left. Maybe it was because I snapped iPhone photos of his lunacy.

We had won the battle but the war had just begun.

Our ferry to St. John was about to leave so we quickly went online, paid the bill (sans any late fee), and taped this little note with a confirmation number on our power box.

We made it to St. John and had a lovely 2-day break off the rock. When we returned to our house, we were delighted to see the power was still on. An hour later, it was shut off and we started to curse but then we realized it was just another WAPA blackout screwing over the entire neighborhood again.

Congrats to you, WAPA. Keep up the good work and the fabulous customer service. Honk, honk.

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.

Hitch? Or not to hitch?

There were close to 1,000 runners at the start line, hundreds of volunteers and many on-lookers gathered in Cruz Bay for the start of the 8 Tuff Miles road race.

A helicopter flew overhead during the National Anthem, they had this guy yell into a microphone while people cheered, clapped and carried on. I was there to take pictures of all the commotion because that's what I get paid to do.

And then less than seven minutes later, I was sitting there absolutely alone and the scene was eerily quiet.

The runners had taken off into the hills and the fans left. The two people that promised me a ride to the finish line ditched me in confusion.

I didn't have many options left at that point. I had to get to the finish before the race winner so I could take his picture for the newspaper.

At first, I considered to just quit, walk into a nearby bar and start drinking but it was only 7:23 a.m. Only the wackos would be putting them back at this ridiculous hour.

I didn't quit. I took action.

I did the only thing I could do. I started to walk down the road and I hitched.

Thankfully, a lady I met earlier in the morning's commotion saw me and stopped to pick me up. She knew where I was headed.

Hitch hiking is actually very common on St. John, which is a good thing. All good people on that island. But around here, instead of throwing your thumb out, you just sort of point in the direction you're headed as motorists pass by.

I try to pick up hitch hikers on St. Thomas but it's hard.

Two years ago, a young law clerk who just moved to the island picked up two young drifters on St. Thomas and a few hours later, he was dead. Shot execution style and stuffed into the trunk of his own car.

Pretty gruesome, huh? You think I'm making it up?
The defendants are on trial right now.

It's crazy stuff. You know, hitch hiking and all that jazz. When I was hiking the Appalachian Trail, I relied on people picking me up when I got into town.

When I first moved here, I picked up a few guys walking toward Red Hook and became good friends with one of them, Bill Haynie, who is now a sea captain cruising around the Caribbean. I wonder what the hitch hiker equivalent is out on the water?

Profiling inevitably comes into play here. I hate to say it -- and we all do it -- but I always size up people hitch hiking:

1. Do they look dangerous?
2. Could I beat them in a foot race?
3. Ketchup or mustard on their hot dog? Or both?

I've given my girlfriend strict orders not to pick up hitch hikers unless they are female. I think she told me she had picked up a few of her students one time on the side of the road because if she had not, they would have been late for her class. And we can't have that. No sir.

But it's a tricky thing. I don't have an official stance on it.

On one hand, I don't want to die. On the other, I like to make friends.

Anyway, to finish my 8 Tuff Miles story: the lady who picked me up got me to Coral Bay just in time to take the winner's shot. It didn't run in the paper anyway so in retrospect, I should have gotten drunk.

What a great ending to an uneventful story.

Flags of the gridiron

The year was 1994 and I was in the eighth grade. Awe yes, I remember it like it was yesterday. Crazy acne, a mouth full of braces and a sweaty P.E. uniform that was washed maybe once a semester.

Every so often I fell victim to flagging. Do you remember the term? Or is it from a regional dialect?

The way I remember it is when some jackass pulls down your pants -- gym shorts were most susceptible -- revealing your adolescence to an audience of 13-year-old girls.

I tell you, it was hard growing up middle-class and white.

* * *

On Friday night, I ventured over to St. John to cover opening night of the St. John Men's Flag Football League. You heard me right.

During the week, I even wrote a preview story. It started like this:

Who needs the NFL playoffs when exciting football action is happening right here at home? Just scrap the pads and add some flags.

Surprisingly, the stands were pretty crowded and there was some talent up there. I mean talent as in good-looking girls who watched from the stands. The action on the field -- not so talented.

Remember, it's flag football. Look at this guy getting run over...

First of all, I saw one of the teams at a nearby bar an hour before the game pounding talent juice. They got off to a fast start (their opponent muffed a snap in the end zone resulting in a safety) but as the game wore on and their buzz wore off, they fell apart and eventually lost.

I felt like an idiot interviewing the winning quarterback after the game.

ME: Wait, let me get this straight, all you guys work at the Westin Hotel? Then why is the team called the Storm?

QB: I don't know.

ME: Can you spell your last name for me?

QB: No. Look, my girlfriend is calling me. I gotta go.

ME: Oh yeah? Which one is she? The one in the blue top over there?

QB: No. That's her. (pointing at a different girl)

ME: I was watching her and her friends wrestle around in the stands before I heard all you guys yelling on the field. Apparently, it was because of the winning touchdown but I wasn't watching so could you...

QB (walking away): Sorry bro, I gotta go.

ME (under my breath): You suck at life.

QB: What? (he pulled a 180 and started to walk back toward me)

ME: Nothing.

QB: Yeah, that's what I thought.

He then turned away again and walked closer and closer into his girlfriend's sweet embrace. His girl was not even good looking. I should have fought him. Better yet, I should have flagged him.

With pants near his ankles and his jock strap revealed, I'm sure I could have got one or two shots in before he knew what had happened. But it was no time for a showdown. I had a hot story on my hands and a weekend deadline loomed.

Pure journalistic genius on this one.

Definitely going to save it for my portfolio and if history is kind to me, it may be included in my personal memoirs. We shall see.

Put your back into it

My flight to DC was great. My flight back to paradise was a nightmare.

Spirit Air sucks. There's no way around it. Sure, they may have some cheap fare to the islands but that's about it. They charge for carry-on bags (which usually makes up the difference compared to American Airlines and Jet Blue) and they charge for every single thing on the flight and that includes aqua for a man with a sore throat.

So I was headed back to St. Thomas and my flight was leaving Ronald Reagan at 7 a.m. on a Monday morning. Spirit ran a special on that particular flight so everyone and their mother jumped on.

I like to be the last person on the flight. Yeah, I'm that ass hole. The way I look at it, I want to spend the least amount of time possible trapped in some metal missile up in the sky.

As I walked down the center aisle, the very few people who had an open seat next to them actually prayed this 6-foot bastard wouldn't sit next to them. From about 10 feet away, I grabbed a quick gander at my seat. The most overweight person on the flight was sitting bitch to my window seat. Check that, he was super fat. He was muy gordo.

And get this, he rolled his eyes when I gave the innocent point to symbolize the vacant seat next to him was mine. What an asshole.

This guy had body rolls that oozed over the seat railing. It was horrible.

I'm not a touchy person, especially with random fatties, so I literally adjusted my back so I didn't have to come in contact with Lieutenant Big Mac. My spine was crooked as a politician and I held that uncomfortable position for the entire 2 1/2 hour flight to Miami. After we landed, I elbowed Colonel Cottage Cheese so he could wake up from his slumber and get out of my way. When I walked around the Miami terminal and stretched out, I thought I was fine.

Two days later, I woke up with a slight cough and then ZANG!

The pain was so intense, I wanted to collapse on my kitchen floor but my body would not allow it. I sort of slumped on to the top of my living room couch. My dogs started to get concerned after I let out a blood-curdling yelp that was muffled because once again, my body would not allow it.

Somehow, I made my way back to bed where my girlfriend was sleeping.

"I think I'm going to die," I said.

She woke up and didn't think much of it until the next round of back spasms made me punch the wall with one hand and cover my face with the other.

Besides child birth, it was the worse pain I could imagine. I don't have a vagina so I really don't know what that could possibly feel like but it didn't matter. It was horrible.

Thank goodness my girl had a mini pharmacy at her personal disposal and her mother is a certified doctor. For the next few days, I floated in and out of consciousnesses as Brianna kept me hopped up on all types of multi-colored uppers, downers, laughers and everything in between.

"Thanks for the drugs, baby," I said a few days later. "They really helped."

"It was only Ibuprofen -- you're such a whimp," she answered.

It doesn't matter what I ingested. The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced. People at my work became concerned after I called in sick for a third straight day and other people started to call in favors as chiropractors were alerted.

But I couldn't even get out of bed. No joke, Brianna had to help me to the bathroom just so I could piss.

I now know why there's a random metal pole sticking out of the wall in our shower.

Back injuries are pretty messed up. Putting pillows under my knees while I slept became a past time and each time I coughed, it was like someone kicked me in the back and I couldn't kick back because my back was fucked up. It was a cruel joke.

I never did go see a doctor and I'm coming back to life slowly. I haven't ran in over a week and just sitting on an office chair for more than an hour is a challenge.

I hope to be back soon because I want to run in the St. John 8 Tuff Miles road race coming up next month. I covered the event last year for our paper and I vowed to the champion I would be gunning for him in 2011.

He's an international track star. I just like to talk crap.

In retrospect, never fly Spirit Air. It's all their fault.