On location in London #1

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.

Cheers, from London!

All seven of the U.S. Virgin Islands Olympians made it to London on time for an eventful Opening Ceremony on Friday night. One certain sportswriter, however, did not arrive in a timely manner and did not get a ticket to the festivities.

But on my connection flight from New York City to England – which was delayed almost three hours because of a storm over JFK airport – I still managed to mingle with other islanders.

I met a man from Antigua who helps manage and sell yachts all over the Caribbean. He's been to the Rolex Regatta on St. Thomas and then asked what I was going to do while in London.

When I told him I was headed there to cover the Olympic sailors from the USVI, he almost spilled his complimentary wine.

“The Virgin Islands has athletes in the Olympics?” he asked.

Because I wanted to settle down and watch a movie to pass the time, I simply handed him a few editions of the V.I. Daily News that featured the local sailors.

“Those are on the house,” I said before I put on my earphones and tilted my seat back.

He read the articles with intense interest and then tapped me on the shoulder to interrupt my slumber.

“How much are tickets?” he asked.

Empty seats and ticket woes

The British media has exploded in the last two days and criticized Olympic Games organizers for the amount of empty seats that have been evident at major sports like volleyball and swimming.

Premium tickets to the sold out Opening Ceremony on Friday ran as high as $2,708 a pop and more than 65,000 people jammed into Olympic Stadium for the spectacle.

But the finger-pointing has already begun about who is responsible for the vacant sections at the different venues.

Eight percent of all tickets have been given to sponsors while 75 percent have been reserved for the general public. Another 12 percent go to the different National Olympic Committees while a measly five percent get divided up between the International Olympic Committee and the trustworthy media.

IOC officials have promised to correct the problem. So far, the solution has been to ask the idle military security guards to stop looking tough at everyone and have a seat, preferably in the direct view of the television cameras.

Island time, England style

What should have been a 3 1/2-hour bus trip from Weymouth in south England to London for the Opening Ceremony turned into a marathon mission as USVI sailors Cy Thompson and Mimi Roller got an extended tour of the host city.

“I'm not sure the bus drivers know what they're doing,” a frustrated Thompson said. “It's already a long trip and because they were not organized, it added another hour and a half to the trip.”

The sailors eventually made it to London for the Opening Ceremony. Barely. The way back the very next day was the same story.

“The trip back took twice as long – like six and a half hours,” Roller said. “It was sort of an ordeal.”

The USVI sailors start their competition today and they have already reached out to a local safari for a ride.

Plenty of bark, no bite

So they have these people on the island that assume prominent positions known as "barker."

It's quite an interesting endevour. You basically sit there and yell at unassuming tourists as they march by in some sort of daze. You can actually feel them try to stay pristine during their clueless saunter, but they are obvious marks walking the plank through downtown Charlotte Amalie.

My friend Blake is one of the best barkers in town and while I stood next to him today, I had trouble trying to hold down my lunch while be harassed and berated random white people and tried his best to get them to walk into this restaurant to have lunch. Pure word-of-mouth action in full effect here.

I stumbled away and drank beers with the Wolverine, who was tending bar about 50 feet away. I couldn't take it anymore. But I eventually came back to watch some more. It was like a car accident drive by, you had to give a gander. You know, the whole process of it.

Making, or trying to make, people do shit they may not have planned for is kind of hilarious. To watch people in those intermediate decision-making moments -- they are always brief -- is kind of hilarious.

My bud, Blake, was out there all day. I'm talking 9 to 5. It was almost too much to stomach.

Blake: "Bro, I make mad money doing this shit."

Me: "Really? I'm befuddled by all of this."

B: "Do you just say, 'befuddled'?"

M: "I did. Indeed, I did."

He later told me that he gets a dollar a head -- barked at or not barked at -- for the lunch shift. It's an air-conditioned place on the water front...OK, I get it. You'll snag a few here and there.

But wow, dude. You really wake up for the day, shower up and report for work everyday to do this shit?

I'm getting nauseated just thinking about it.

When I was younger, my brother and I sold weak-ass fireworks around July 4 in one of those tacky tents on the side of the road. In Virginia, nothing that actually shot in the air was legal so this was a junior-varsity fireworks stand.

But still, I was almost forced to sell, yell, and even bark at passerby's in the Walmart parking lot that we took homage in. It was horrible.

Do they even sell fireworks on St. Thomas? OK. I now have a new game plan...who's ready to listen to a new business venture?

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.

Loose cannon on the beach

Maybe he approached me because I was the only other white guy inside a packed gymnasium. Or maybe he just needed a friend?

Professional boxers are interesting people. Less than 24 hours earlier, Adam Schwartz attacked a St. Croix boxer during the Boxing In Paradise V weigh-in at Lindbergh Bay. The spectacle sparked some excitement for an event that was sluggishly blurred for me because of too many afternoon beers.

I grabbed a photo, that was published the next day in the paper. In plain sight of random tourists walking down the beach, Schwartz said something lethal to Austin Joseph, who was about to make his pro debut. After Joseph took offense, Schwartz kissed him on his face and then the abbreviated brawl was on.

It was the first professional boxing weigh-in I had ever covered. I had seen enough of them on TV and of course, it's always appealing to see two guys give a free sneak peak of the bashing that many will have to pay money to see the next day.

I had to talk to this loose cannon cowboy.

During our interview, I learned that he trained at a gym in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. that was coincidentally across the street from a dive bar I had visited several times. My boy, Chico, was a veteran bar back there -- I'm talking close to a decade -- so I was very familiar with it and the lunatics who drank there.

"I don't give a fuck," Schwartz barked. "I'm going to kill that bastard tomorrow night."

I hadn't even asked a question yet. Then I had to remind him that I worked for the newspaper and that our interview was completely on the record.

Somehow, the conversation quickly shifted to where he trained and the people he hung out with in Fort Lauderdale.

"Chico? I don't know any Chico -- he sounds like a douche bag," Schwartz said.

This was an interview about boxing yet we never really talked about the fight. I couldn't stop giggling at this guy. It was like the Great White Hype but this fool was a lot more cocky.

"What, you want to buy some ecstasy? I can get you weight," he bragged.

OK, that was first. I wondered how many times Max Kellerman was offered drugs by the pro boxers he interviewed during his illustrious journalism career.

Fast forward 24 hours. As expected, Schwartz got his ass kicked...

The bruiser had a reported MMA background and it was obvious seconds after the opening bell. Joseph knocked him to the canvas three times in the first two minutes and then it was all over.

Which brings me back to the beginning of this blog post.

I sat ringside and watched the main event bouts for the rest of the night. The V.I. boxers cruised and one of them, Julius Jackson, almost sent his helpless opponent into my lap. Photographer extraordinaire Thomas Layer captured the scene...

Completely rattled and I'm sure, a little embarassed, Schwartz emerged from the locker room all cleaned up and found me in between fights. He made immediate excuses for his pitiful showing but this time, I wasn't asking any questions. I had seen it all. Everyone did.

You could tell he had no idea what he had got himself into. And now, after the fact, he had no idea what to do with himself. Schwartz asked me what I was up to that night and I balked.

The fights were actually held the night before the St. Thomas Carnival Jouvert so it was sure to be an exciting evening on the Rock but I had no capacity for this loose cannon.

Just then, the professional boxer took a quick moment to pose with me for a photo. Either he will become a champion one day and this will be a famous picture or I'll be sending it to the Fort Lauderdale police department to prove his St. Thomas alibi when his drug dealing friends get killed.

I love cops

These are tough economic times in the islands so a little league baseball team or non-profit organization selling water on the corner or at the intersection has become a mainstay on the lavish streets of St. Thomas.

Now the local swine have gotten in on the action.

While I was driving to work this morning, I was talking on the cell phone (Yes, guilty as charged) to the proprietor of a local beer-slinging establishment. I'm trying to get 20 cases of beer at cost for when 22 of my cousins visit next month...does that math add up?

Anyway, instead of declining on the exceptional offer of $1 for an ice-cold bottle of water, I came in direct eye contact with a local cop just standing on the side of the street. I think I actually switched hands with my cell phone while we shared a moment staring at each other.

His trained police response: He tapped on my car while I drove by and yelled, "Pull over!"

I contemplated a fierce getaway (I was mobile and he was just standing on the side of the road) but it was 10 in the morning on a Monday. Certainly, not the right time for a showdown.

I pulled into a nearby gas station, nonchalantly put on my seat belt and started to get my paperwork in order. But he never came. I rolled down my window and looked back for him and he motioned for me to exit the car and come to him, while still standing on the side of the road.

Right then, I knew I was dealing with a pure professional.

The following dialogue was the same interaction I've had with just about every traffic cop since I moved to St. Thomas in 2010. Almost verbatim.

Swine (while looking at my Maryland driver's license): How long have you lived here?

Ex-patriot: Only about a month, just for the season. (Even though my name has been printed up to three or four times in a daily newspaper for the last two years)

Swine: You know you're supposed to get a V.I. license after one month?

Ex-patriot: I was unaware of that, sir. I will drive to the DMV -- or whatever you guys call it down here -- right away. I will correct this problem. It's my mission in life.

(During our little exchange, about two or three different cars honk and wave at the cop)

Ex-patriot: You're pretty popular around here, huh? Do you help them sell water on the weekends?

Swine: Your court date is set for August 26. (The same day I leave for the Olympics)

Ex-patriot: Sounds good. I'll text you beforehand, maybe we can carpool?

He did not laugh, removed his sunglasses and gave me a sinister look that only a man above the law can give while standing on the side of the road.

I grabbed up the ticket, held back on my "nice doing business with you" remark and walked briskly back to my car.

Ahh, another Monday morning in the books and another traffic ticket.

I quickly called my beer-slinging accomplice back (after I was out of view of the stationary police officer of course) and closed the deal for the booze. One door closes, another one opens. Unfortunately, my credit card balance will take a hit on both ends.

Timing is everything

The summer is upon us on St. Thomas and that means only two things: sweaty morning runs and occasional 12-hour blackouts.

I was trudging up a hill near my house this morning when a co-worker pulled up aside me in his car.

Marcus Browne: What up, playa?

Sweaty, hyperventilating runner: Oh, what up, Marcus? You live around here? I live right up there...

MB: Yeah, man. Right down this road. It's a small island.

SHR: Cool, we should start hanging out. You know, outside of work.

MB: Yeah, mon. For sure. Enjoy your run.

He pulled away, I put my ear phones back in and continued my assault up the hill toward my house. When I got to the small street in front of my house, I started to walk and cool down.

Just then, a tree branch snapped about 20 feet above me and came crashing down with a huge iguana hanging on for dear life. The reptile absorbed the fall, left his defunct magic carpet (the tree branch) and quickly scurried back into the bush.

The iguana's crash landing happened about 10 strides directly in my path. If I hadn't stopped to talk to Marcus, the green bastard would have fallen right on my head.

It was an omen. Today is going to be a good day.

*   *   *

I'm in my office now and while in the process of writing this, Marcus passed by my desk and I told him the abbreviated story.

"That's crazy, man," he said. "You owe me."

*   *   *  

You think iguanas are nasty? Well, what do you think they taste like? Thanks to our friends over in Puerto Rico, you may already eaten it before and not known it. Check out this story.

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.