Naughty by nature, not cause I hate ya

I don't really remember when I acquired the shirt.

I want to say it was in 1995 and I think I accidentally stole it from my best friend growing up, Travis Castleman, who is now married and the proud father of two.

As for me, no kids yet. I just brag about shirts that have been in the rotation for more than 17 years.

This was the scene on Saturday before a boat trip to Jost with Capt. Morgan and Ms. Carrie. Surrounded by beautiful women is just half of what I adore living on these fine islands.

I also love it when my continental friends send me photos and messages that bring me back to the States. It happened early Saturday as I was buying cheap beer and beef jerky at a neighborhood grocery store.

My good friends Dana and Doug, their daughter Kate, and Dana's father (who is one of the best hikers on the trail these days), who goes by the name Baltimore Bob, send me this photo while they were driving to a family retreat for the weekend.

Anything associated with a family retreat brings me joy. When you throw in some hard-core rappers from the 1990's, it just makes my day...

I immediately put on my favorite shirt. They had inspired me. Via facebook.

Who doesn't like Naughty By Nature? Everyone with their hands raised, please stop reading now and log on to weirdo.com. Never heard of them -- I do have some late bloomers reading these days -- then go ahead and get your google on.

My friend, the Hersh, told me they performed at the BVI Music Festival earlier this month. And I wasn't there? For shame.

OK. Kind of forgot what I was writing about or the point I was trying to make. But please take this away: I love my friends, they literally dictate my fashion choices for the day and I'm down with O.P.P. Yeah, you know me.

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.

He's back, baby!

OK, let me start off by saying I'm sorry. It's been nearly two months since my last post and there is only one reason for my absence.

Those of you who know me well understand what consumed my free time. It's been a tough run but I feel like I've finally turned a corner and I'm ready to write again.

Alright, it's time to come out with it.

I took a part-time job as a top secret agent and my first and only assignment was to infiltrate a group of rum-guzzling land pirates who roam the island countryside on motorcycles and wear black leather vests.

I know what you're thinking...HST's Hell's Angels. Yes, it was something like that but these guys were called the Caribe Riders and they don't brake for anyone.

The only problem was I got too close. I even got an over-sized tattoo on my back that looks like Queen Elizabeth riding on the handle bars of a motorcycle operated by Mitt Romney. The other Caribe riders didn't understand the joke -- neither did I -- but they let me in their gang anyway.

So, yeah. Now I got that going for me. Booyah!

And we now return you to your regularly scheduled program already in progress...

Real World heckling

So I was chilling on a boat with the rest of the hired geeks and something caught my eye during a lull in the high-powered sailing action.

We were taking photos of the International Rolex Regatta and we were right next to Hassle Island during the town races. That's the portion of the regatta when million-dollar sail boats have their spinnakers flapping in the wind inside the harbor while overweight tourists gawk at the colorful spectacle.

One of the mindless sight seers was a member of the MTV reality show The Real World -- yes, they are filming the show on St. Thomas -- and he and two cameramen were on the edge of the small island taking in the action.

I had to yell at him.

"Seven strangers, picked to live in a house and have their lives changed..."

The cast member looked over to me and smiled.

"You don't look like Puck, where's my boy, Dominic?" I yelled.

"So you just make fun of them right to their face like that?" one of the USVI Tourism executives asked me. She was on the boat for unknown reasons. I wasted three Dramamine pills on her friend, who continuously chundered below deck.

"I fuck with them constantly," I said. "It's one of my favorite things to do here."

Honestly, I've seen them out and about St. Thomas for a few weeks now. They hit all the places you would assume: Duffy's, Starz, Shipwreck, Carib Saloon, etc.

When I saw them for the first time, I actually felt bad for them. It was a few weeks ago and Spring Break was in full effect, so every move they made, they were followed by a gaggle of MTV pimple-popping groupies.

Who would have thought playing Twister would draw such a large crowd?

I've heard some hilarious stories from friends describing encounters with the MTV ass clowns. One friend held the redhead chick's hair back so she could throw up after drinking too much. Like everyone, she declined to sign the release form.

"They'll probably just blur out your face," the fire crotch cast member later told my friend. "Getting us on film throwing up is their favorite shit."

I had another friend, who works at a certain Red Hook establishment (in a parking lot), that told me about the cast member with big ass holes in his ears. Apparently, all the cameras following him around was a little too much to handle so he locked himself in the bathroom to cry.

That's the same bathroom I've chundered in on more than one occasion. And every time it happened, no one had to hold back my luxurious locks.

From what I heard from most people is that when the cameras are on, these cast members have to put on a performance. Basically, be something they're not. When that little glow from the camera spotlight starts to simmer, they fall back on their normal persona and really aren't that interesting. Not that they were interesting in the first place.

One bartender told me the production crew is a lot cooler than the actual cast members. How does that work? I want to shoot a reality show about the people who shoot reality shows. Shit, that's a better idea than Khole and the talentless Lamar.

I've already contacted friends about taking a small boat across the harbor and infiltrating the Real World compound. Nothing too crazy. Maybe some eggs thrown at the house and toilet paper in the trees. You know, your basic middle school shenanigans.

It's time to stop being polite and get real.

Getting my hair did

I'm about to plan my exit strategy on another long day at the office to watch the NCAA men's basketball final. For the second year in a row, I'm leading my office pool and yes, for a second year in a row, everyone in the office is accusing me of cheating.

After all, I do organize the pool. And I am the sports writer. C'mon, those other office hacks didn't stand a chance.

But it reminded of that blissful day in March when the tournament started up and the Madness took hold. I coincidentally had the day off and there was a full slate of basketball to watch on TV. Naturally, I made my way to the bar just before noon for tip-off.

But this wasn't your typical drink-and-watch-sports-all-day extravaganza. I brought my part-time hair stylist with me and she got to work on my dome piece. No scissors needed. Just a few small rubber bands and a little patience.

The good people at the Dog House Pub let me get my hair did while watching the games and this was the final product.

I don't think the lovely Jenna knew what she was getting into. Apparently, you're not supposed to wash your hair before it gets twisted up and she said that made the job harder. I think she did a good job and I paid for her services with a burrito and a few beers.

I haven't cut my hair in over a year. The barber shops on St. Thomas are comical and I've been holding out in protest ever since I was forced to point at a picture on a poster so the Dominican barber (who barely spoke English) could figure out how I wanted it cut.

Unfortunately, all the pictures on the poster were of black gentlemen. So there may have been a conflict in communication between us. He butchered me and I haven't let anyone touch my hair since.

Eventually, I have to get my hair cut. But not after shaving a fake bald spot on the top of my head and then styling a mullet for a few weeks. These hair modifications would only play out for the simple reason of hilarity.

Stay tuned...

Feel(ing) good story

Among a huge heap of scattered papers, empty energy drink bottles and a random baseball on my desk, I came across a letter from one of our valued V.I. Daily News readers.

Usually, people just leave crazy, F-bomb-riddled voice mail messages on my office phone to let me know I'm doing such a wonderful job covering sports in the territory.

Well, this reader ignored the phone book and typed out a lovely letter for me. It was in response to an article I wrote about a high school football player who found success amid early struggles.

The people who call the shots at the paper liked it so much, they put it on the front page and it was one of those true journalistic moments when sports transcends into news.

Or they just had nothing else to go with that day.

Please don't laugh too hard at our website design and check out the story at this LINK.

The only reason I found the buried letter is because the lady who wrote it just dropped in to discuss the article further with me. She did not know him personally, but if you read the article, I think everyone on island knew of his antics.

We talked for a while and she pleaded that I write more stories like it because there are plenty of young people that are trying to turn their lives around.

"And if you keep writing about them, the kids will read about it and try to do the same with their lives," she said, while holding my hand and trying to hold back tears.

"Wait, let me get this straight, high school kids are actually reading the newspaper?" I asked to break the tension. I think she wanted a hug.

Apparently, they do. Which is why this newspaper somehow still turns a profit. And that's probably why we haven't updated our website layout since 1990. Hmm, interesting.

Running into appreciative readers is always a breath of fresh air.

Like I said before, it does not happen often. When it does, it's pretty awesome. Especially when it comes in the form of a random grandmother with soft hands and kind words.

My dogs are limin' hard

I was texting with my girlfriend the other day about normal midday bullshit. How was your day? What time do you want to do dinner? All that stuff.

I had to go cover a basketball game so to end the conversation, I threw out this matzo ball:

Ok. Fish for dinner sounds delicious. By the way, the dogs have Lyme Disease. Both of them. Have a good afternoon.

For some odd reason, she immediately halted our text dialogue and my phone started to ring. Who could it be? Ahh, she elevated it to a voice correspondence.

Aaron (with jackass sarcasm): Hey, so what's on your mind?

Brianna: What? Lyme disease? Are you serious?

Aaron: Yeah, no biggie. Doc thinks they got it in the States and brought it over here but it had been dormant for the last two years. I told him I wanted my money back from the previous two years' worth of blood tests. He's not playing ball.

Brianna: Stop messing around. This is serious.

Aaron: I am serious. And my wallet is almost $500 lighter now. He gave me some pills and he thinks the meds will knock it out.

Brianna (while looking up the disease online): This is scary. I'm calling my mom.

That fine lady is such a worrier. But it's a good thing. Who else is going to step up and pop a blood blister under my toe nail to prevent infection or allow me access to her protein supplements? And that, among many other reasons, is why I love her.

But I'm also in love with two other sexy ladies on this island and I just learned they had the same disease as that chick from the Real World. Remember her? That black dude slapped her in the face when she was in a car. Ahh, good times.

That reminds me, the freaking Real World is filming on St. Thomas right now, but that's a hilarious story for later in the week. Spoiler alert: They are all Douchebags with a capital "D."

Back to my beloved dogs. Doc said he was 99 percent certain they got Lyme Disease in the States. He's been in the vet game on island for the last six years and only three dogs have ever test positive for Lyme Disease. Hunter was No. 2 and Sydney was No. 3. It's actually very rare on St. Thomas.

I had to feed them these horse pills twice a day for about three weeks. I started to hide the pills in cheese but they became very hip to that.

Then I attempted to crush up the pills and sprinkle it on their food. It took forever.

The simple approach actually worked best. I would give them big bowls of wet Alpo and just stuck the pills into the Grade D beef. They devoured that stuff so fast, they barely even saw the pills.

Later on, I went to a 3-week check up, they drew blood and said they would call me later. I wanted to wait for the results but they said it may take 20 minutes. I was fine with that. Then they said maybe 30 minutes. I was still game.

They obviously wanted me to leave, which was a little strange.

"I promise, we'll call you with the results in about an hour," the untrustworthy receptionist said to me.

OK. I understand. But as I walked to the car, I wondered if that was protocol in case dogs are still sick and they don't want owners flipping out in their office. Yeah, that was probably it.

Well, I dropped off the ladies and went to work for the day. Four hours passed. Five. These bastards really knew how to build the suspense.

Finally, the head doctor called me at 5:15 p.m. I guess it was quitting time for him and he had to knock out a few minor tasks before he left for the day. Meanwhile, an insecure dog owner has been biting his finger nails all freaking day.

He told me the girls were OK and the medicine worked. I was so happy to hear the news, I drew a blank on asking him follow-up questions. I had just spent the previous six hours prodding regatta boat captains with questions, pressing a chess professor on the legitimacy of his job and trying to make 15-year-old high school basketball players say something longer that three words.

Yet, I couldn't get a single question in for this guy. And he knew it. He hung up with me instantly and then he was gone.

Could it all have been a hoax? A trick? A mean ploy to make some broke sports writer even more broke? Maybe they had a bad month? Maybe they had to get some funds up?

They thought, he's some chump with two dogs. Two dogs! Let's tell him they have Lyme Disease, charge him for the tests, charge him for this expensive medicine (which was just estrogen pills) and see if he falls for it. What a sucker.

That person was me. They're always out to get me, right? Either that, or I have a real fucked up way of playing devil's advocate. Whatever. The dogs are good. My bank account is meager and everything else is splendid in paradise.