Rub it in

At first glance, it appeared Brianna soaked our steaks earlier tonight in some kind of mystery seasoning.

Turns out, she got this bag of unmarked poultry rub from my parents' house in Herndon, Va. Several times over, my parents have tried to get me to take it away since I brought it there in the first place. When you're packing for the Caribbean, so many things never make the final cut: guns, sun block, chicken/steak rub.

My sly mother sneaked it into a box that Brianna shipped to herself from the States. It was backed with Christmas gifts, turtlenecks and this mystery rub.

Then I remember that I bought it off an old college buddy of mine who started up his own little spice company on the side. His name is Josh and he is a professional chef. I'm should he would enjoy the free advertising so check out his web site.

I heard they sold over 200 pounds of the stuff just last year. That's why it stayed inside my mother's kitchen cupboard since 2009. Because it's that good! Like a fine wine, it got better with age.

* * *

Ok. This is hilarious. I just goggled his company for the first time in years and he updated the web site. Please check it out and then click on the link at the bottom where he was featured on some Virginia Public Access television station.

My computer at work doesn't have sound but I didn't need it. The look on Josh's face says it all. That kid is hilarious. Well done, sir.

RUB IT IN!

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.

Credit or debit?

You know how those little tasks on life's to-do list always seem to get swept by the wayside? An annoying commercial about getting your credit score checked online stuck out to me the other night.

You know the one with two strong men in black body suits with good credit scores and then there's that short fat guy with a bad score because you never checked and now you can't get a loan to pay off your bookie? Wow. Annoying but effective.

This is the one I used so if you have some free time or if you want to waste some time at work ... but if you're unemployed, don't check it because it may not brighten your day. I don't know. Check it out: http://www.freecreditscore.com/

I checked and it made me happy. In the words of Larry David, I did pretty, pretty, pretty good. Much better than I thought. Now I'm not going to tell you the scores. That would be rude. But just like my eye prescription before I got the lasik, my numbers are heady and can not be beat.

So with a good credit score, maybe I should buy a car or a house, huh? Is that how this works? I'd rather buy the final season of Curb Your Enthusiasm on DVD.

Meanwhile, the lone ATM machine inside my neighborhood bank was out of order. Again. I didn't even have to go in there to find out because a line of standing people wrapped around the outside ATM where cars are supposed to drive up to it.

My checking account is with Banco Popular. A very organized and professional outfit from Puerto Rico. Actually, they are the worst. But I do like to brake out the card at bars or at the grocery store. It gives me mad street credit.

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.

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.

Doctor Said I Need A Backiotomy

Oh it's been a while. Indeed.

I have a hilarious story about my back going out on me, drinking free liquor on a plane with a U.S. solider and mass consumption of pain killers. Not in that order though.

And of course, Happy Holidays, Happy New Year and all that jazz...

Listen. Good stuff is coming. But my back hurts and the BCS National Championship is about to kickoff so the blog is getting bumped tonight.

If you have any complaints, take it up with my manager.

Be back soon. XOXO.

Love,

Aaron

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.