It's Hot!

Sorry I've been MIA. You may be asking, "Where did you go?" Well, first I was sailing the high seas in a crossing and then I had to get unsurly for the Royal Wedding and finally I was in Cannes for the film festival. Didn't you see me?? Well, in any case, I'm back and it's hot! After a very comfortable winter in Antigua, followed by a ton of rain last week, summer has officially sprung and this means drastic changes. Namely, it's time to shed the wool blanket I sleep with.

A wool blanket?? In Antigua??? That's right! I'm probably the only crazy person who sleeps with a wool blanket in Antigua period, but a wool blanket in May?? Yep, that was me, until this week. I admit it's completely odd and I think it harkens back to my childhood sleeping habits. I'm one of those people who can't sleep without a blanket or something over me (I mean, I'm sure I could if I had to, but so far I haven't had to). Even in the hottest Antiguan summers I'm still curled up in at least a sheet.

Anyway, I think this has more to do with the need to have weight on me when I sleep as opposed to any real notion of warmth. It's probably also a comfort thing too. In any case, this can all be traced to my childhood sleeping habits...

Here I am all tucked safely in bed with my New Kids on the Block sheets. I may or may not have given Joey McIntyre (on the right) a goodnight peck each night. In any case...

Growing up in the wild hinterlands of North America, my family did not have central heating in our house. Therefore, upstairs, where my bedroom resided, was heated only by space heaters and blankets. Eventually my father put in some insulation and that helped, but by then I was about 10 or 11, so my sleeping habits had been firmly established. That is, I was used to an extraordinary amount of blankets.

As you can see, at least four layers of cloth were a part of my nightly sleeping routine for most of the year. These layers included a sheet, at least one crocheted blanket that either my mother or grandmother had made, an ugly flowered bedspread that itched, and a wool army blanket. The wool blanket was key. I remember it being extremely heavy and it was also warm! What about the summer, you may ask? Well we had a window air conditioning unit for upstairs, so I would still be able to use my blankets in comfort even in the summer (though I'm sure I shed the wool blanket).

This issue of tons of blankets only got worse as I got older, moved out of my parents' house and into an apartment that was more poorly insulated than my parents' house. The place was so bad, in the winter I had to put plastic wrap on the windows to keep the draft out and try to keep my heating bill down.

As you can see, the number of blankets I was forced to use almost doubled! I upgraded from the itchy, ugly floral bedspread to a matching sheet and comforter set from Target (pronounced Tarjay). But, in the absence of my trusty wool blanket I was forced to compensate with the ultimate, thick crocheted blanket from my grandmother, a knit blanket featuring a very obnoxious flag, and TWO fleece blankets. My cat, that I had acquired for her ability to kill mice that would enter my apartment on the first snowfall, would wiggle her way to the foot of the bed, but she at least kept my feet warm.

Thus, I have been accustomed to a large number of blankets for most of my life. Clearly this would not be a habit I would shed merely because the weather is a little warmer here.

Case in point:

Last week, during the chilly rain storms (and for most of the past few months), I have slept with the following blanket arrangement. You'll note the diminishing quantity of blankets (only 3 layers now!), but I have managed to secure a wool blanket here in Antigua! Another army blanket, this one is not as heavy as the one I used as a child, but it's still a wool blanket. I know, I know, I'm crazy, but I like it. It's warm and cozy.

Lately, though, it's been hot. The rain stopped and it's been hazy and humid as the temperatures creep into the high 20s (or 80s). Therefore, I've conceded it's time to put away the wool blanket until next winter.

I won't shun my sheet and duvet though. Boyfriend, on the other hand, prefers to sleep like this all year:

Growing up in warmer climes, he doesn't need the comfort of multiple blankets, which works out well because then we don't have to fight over them. =D

Arrested Development

It's been well-documented that the current generation of 20-somethings to 30-somethings are in a phase of "arrested development." They've been dubbed the "boomerang generation," coming back to live with their parents after having left the nest for university. People can't seem to agree whether this is a result of how awful the economy is now or whether it's because the boomerangers (doesn't really have the same ring to it as baby boomers, does it?) have been raised as spoiled little brats and want to keep living in the lap of luxury until long after the age when their parents were out earnin' a livin' the hard way. While I am not defending the arrested development of the boomerangers (get a job, hippy!) I have firsthand experience with some baby boomers who are only enabling bad situations.

Hey Look! A boomerang!

Did you ever get advice from someone who has never even remotely been through the experience you are dealing with? It's like when your redneck cousin who dropped out of high school tells you how you should write your advanced graduate thesis in thermo-nuclear-astrophysics... Or have you had someone give you advice on something they shouldn't be involved with at all? Like when your Mom tells you what to put in your Facebook status... Or maybe you've had experience with someone who repeatedly tells you everything is a "good experience" when, in fact, it is not... For example, you've just finishing swabbing and shamming the deck after a race and the captain's brother pukes all over the winch b/c he didn't know how bad Land Shark beer is, but your aunt turns it into a lesson in bad stewing, "You should cover the winches with plastic when you're done with them, like I have over my couch."

In my experience, baby boomers who have the biggest problems with their boomerangers usually take the above approaches in dealing with their kids. This is a recipe for disaster. It results in extreme meddling in issues in which nobody (of any generation) wants their parents involved:

Mom: "I was on Facebook before work this morning and saw someone called "Abras Saturday Night" posted new pictures of you...is this a friend?"

It also somehow creates a total lack of real concern and insight on issues that actually require some guidance and parental advice and experience:

"Go ahead, quit your job if you're not making enough, I'm sure you'll get another one really quickly because you're my little Einstein, and while you're at it, touch the cornballer!"

There also appears to be a complete lack of consistency among baby boomers in trying to teach their boomerangers about the value of a hard earned quid. For instance, they tend to bitch about the quality of life they have raised their lil boomeranger to expect:

"I have to give Johnny an allowance so he can afford his rent but when I was 16 my father kicked me out of the house and made me stand on my own two feet"

Yet they perpetuate standards of living that they should damn well know are out of the price range of their floundering offspring:

"Ew, you buy your groceries at Walmart? Can't you go to Trader Joe's? I don't even think Walmart has the gluten-free organic chocolate chip cookies I enjoy while watching C-SPAN."

At the same time, baby boomers reward irresponsibility because of their own warped sense of what their children "need" in order to survive in society while at the same time marvelling at how materialistic today's youth are:

"Johnny's iPod got stolen from his locker at the gym so I just got him an iPad because I thought it was an upgrade from his old one."

I implore baby boomers to stop this ridiculous enabling behavior if only because I'm tired of hearing you bitch about your children and all you're still stuck doing for them. Buying iPads and encouraging your children to expect to buy gourmet food when they're making minimum wage is not helpful. Furthermore, your continued harping on the good ole days of yore when you were forced to sink or swim in the ocean of society because your parents changed the locks on you before you could eat the icing off your Sweet 16 cake are tired and superfluous in making analogies to today's economy and society. First of all, most of your griping makes it sound like you're just jealous of your kids and the opportunities they have...opportunities you worked your ass off to give them. Be proud of how you have given your children more opportunities than your parents gave you! Second, your griping means nothing when your actions reinforce the bratty expectations of your children. Telling them you can't keep paying for them while you keep paying for them means nothing. It's like telling your kid they can only have one last cookie and 10 cookies later you are rushing to Trader Joe's because you ran out of cookies and Johnny is about to throw a temper tantrum.

It seems to me both boomerangers and baby boomers are in a stage of arrested development. The boomerangers are still clinging to the umbilical cords of privilege yet the baby boomers are gripping the other end as well. I think both need to let go so boomerangers can learn to stand on their own two feet and so baby boomers can deal with their empty nests, finally.

Music Review: The Mount Gay Party UPDATE

Every year around this time there is a Mount Gay "Red Cap" Party where they hand out a select number of red caps like the ones pictured below. Apparently it is huge social currency to get a hat and you are a rock star if you get to bartend at this party.

(Note: These are just fucking baseball caps in an ugly color with a logo for a humdrum rum on it. And their logo is a map of Barbados! Seriously, I wish I could have been a fly on the wall when that decision was made. How bad were the other ideas for a logo that the best one was a map of the island on which the rum is produced!?)

I'm here to tell you that this party sucks and tends to recycle the same old tropes and party tricks every year. Case in point: Scratchy Bollocks played at the party AGAIN. I'd like to take this opportunity to reiterate a sentiment I expressed in a Facebook status recently. Scratchy Bollocks is extremely overrated and have played the same mediocre covers for the past three years.

Needless to say I did not attend the party last night, but that didn't prevent me from getting to hear every sad rendition of decent songs from my surly little hilltop last night. Thus, I give you the first Surly Stewie Music Review.

Scratchy Bollocks is a four (five?) member band (it really doesn't matter) who can play their instruments decently enough to the undiscerning ear and have a fairly talented singer who is attractive and good at engaging the crowd. Their major shortcoming is in their completely shitty butcherings of decent songs that used to foster good memories. Here are some of the problems with their covers...

#1 They speed up the tempo of every song they play! It's not a race boys. "Come Together" does not sound better in 2:30 than it did in the original 4:20(ish). Is this tempo upgrade meant to make the songs more "party-like" or "danceable"? If so, then they should pick different songs to cover, especially since they tend to toy with classics.

#2 They cover songs from artists that have very distinctive voices that are difficult to imitate for even the best singers, and completely out of the range of their current singer. Aerosmith's "Walk This Way" is an amazing song, but Steven Tyler's screeching only works for Steven Tyler and should not be attempted in even the best of circumstances. Similarly, while Bon Jovi's shouting in "Livin' on a Prayer" is not particularly distinctive, it does take a strong voice...and Mr. Lead Singer did not deliver last night. He couldn't quite climb that extra octave (or half octave...I don't know anything about music) at the end there. Fail. (Side Note: Get the lyrics right too!)

#1 + #2 = Compounding Problems. Upping the tempo on songs that already are difficult to sing is a recipe for disaster. I have to give credit to Mr. Lead Singer because he handles it quite well but why arrange the songs like that in the first place?

Maybe Scratchy Bollocks saw my Facebook status from a few weeks ago because they performed a few new covers last night. The first few were unmemorable (which, in their case, is a good thing), but the last one was a doozy. Did anyone watch the Super Bowl this year? Remember the halftime show and the Black-Eyed Peas arrangement? Well, it seems Scratchy Bollocks has made their own tribute to the Peas in sort of the same style as their Super Bowl show. Scratchy Bollocks, though, displayed truly horrific judgment by including a section from their song, "The Time (Dirty Bit)." The section I am referring to is the part where Fergie sings the chorus from the Dirty Dancing Song and then the DJ does that thing to her voice where she sings, "You-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou" ad nauseum. It's repulsive enough when Fergie does it on the radio and at least that's edited. It should never be attempted in real life, at a live concert, by a band that specializes in covers of classic rock songs.

Scratchy Bollocks, you get two thumbs down and I dearly hope English Harbour wakes up from its drunken stupor long enough to not book you for any of next season's parties. At the very least I hope this terrible party is moved from Reef Gardens so the music doesn't come blaring back up my surly hillside again.

P.S. It is Earth Day and shame on everyone who went to the party last night for being lame for leaving your trash ALL OVER DOCKYARD DRIVE!!! At 7:30 this morning the poor people who LIVE on that road were CLEANING UP YOUR SHIT!!! At least hire a fucking cleaning crew Mongoose/Reef Gardens, especially since these poor people were forced to listen to shitty music until the wee hours of the morning. Normal hard-working Antiguans who are trying to enjoy/observe the holiday today should not have to waste their time cleaning up after your immature, drunken revelry.

UPDATE: If I was a lawyer, I'd represent Antigua Distillery Ltd. who is a silver sponsor of sailing week this year. You'll note that Mount Gay is not a sponsor at all...yet the red caps from this year have "Antigua Sailing Week 2011" embroidered on them. This comes after Sailing Week tried to get independent businesses in the area to not sell any beer other than Carib during sailing week because Carib is a sponsor. WTF Sailing Week??

Concours d'Elegance

Classics is in full swing here and the Concours d'Elegance has already happened and prizes have been awarded. Maltese Falcon got three stars.

This is a self-appointed 3 stars and clearly Maltese Falcon does not find herself worthy of 5 stars, so let's try to figure out what's holding her back.

First, her masts are obviously too tall. Look at them. Tall masts are beneficial but there is a fine line between tall and too tall. You don't want to look like you've got a Napoleon complex, Maltese Falcon.

Second, these lines on the mast between these spreader-type things are too few and far between. How are you supposed to climb on them? They hold great potential to be fun and offer a whole new aspect of "extreme" sailing, but they're not quite there yet.

Third, look at all these oil drums. Especially those three ugly ones. That can result in minus three stars Maltese Falcon! Don't leave that shit lying around when you want to look good.

Finally, your red light up there on your middle mast doesn't really match with the rest of your decor. How about a blue light? Or another star? That would go so much better with your sleek design. Red lights can send the wrong message too. Are you open for "business" or just trying to let other boats know where you are at night? I think we all know what you're really saying and that type of behavior is frowned upon young lady! Let's put the "class" back into "Classics."

With a few small changes, I think Maltese Falcon will be able to revamp her style to come out stronger for next year's Classics.

UPDATE: I'm beginning to think Maltese Falcon isn't even TRYING to win Classics. She hasn't left the dock all week. You can't win a race if you don't try. And she doesn't even have her red light on tonight! Maybe she's closed for business?

UPDATE #2: Oh! There's a part at Abra's tonight. Clearly Maltese Falcon doesn't feel the need to compete with the shenanigans that will ensue.

Work Ethic

I have been at work early everyday this week because my boyfriend has a workshop in town and needs to drop me off early I have a bitchin' work ethic. Getting to work early is awesome because no one else is on the internet and it allows me to play Zynga games unhindered because they take up a lot of bandwith upload work-related content to YouTube for my company's website. That, in turn, frees up time during the day for me to work on my dissertation edits develop new projects for work. It also means that I can leave work at 3:30 without having to sneak out the back door and feel satisfied that I have put in my full eight-hour workday.

If a Man named Sexy Pants invites you to dinner on a boat named Scoundrel it'll be OK and fun(ny) so say yes.

As you may have surmised, I was invited to dine aboard a boat named "Scoundrel" by a man named Sexy Pants. That is not his real, given name, but it is a well-known nickname of his, and in the conversations below, everyone calls him Sexy Pants, so it's not like I substituted "Sexy Pants" for his real name for comic effect. It's real.

So last week, my boyfriend said, "My mother said Sexy Pants invited us for dinner on his boat." Us as in his whole family, Mom, Dad, Brother, Boyfriend, and now Me because my boyfriend and I are considered a unit because we are adult-like and live together. Damn you domestic partnership! (Also note how I wasn't even phased by being invited to dinner by Sexy Pants because this is Antigua and these types of things are normal).

The biggest issue was that my boyfriend's mother warned me that I would not be able to pee the ENTIRE TIME I WAS ON THE BOAT. Sexy Pants does have a bathroom on his boat, but it would just be easier if I didn't have to worry about peeing for the evening. This would not be a problem if I didn't pee every 20 minutes! So I set up a strategic plan. We were having dinner at 5:30, so I stopped drinking any beverages at 4:00 pm to sufficiently empty my system and ensure I would not have to pee on Sexy Pants's boat.

At 5:30 pm my boyfriend and I trotted down to his parents house because Sexy Pants was going to pick us up in his dingy across from the Compton House (aka behind a closed pasta restaurant on the side of a road). To make matters worse, I almost died on the way down to meeting Sexy Pants. Antigua is a small island with winding roads and there is no need to drive over 35 mph, yet we we sped down to the harbor and plundered through potholes like we were in a German Tiger tank instead of a 12-year old Honda CRV. Somehow, we made it to our rendezvous spot without dying.

After walking down a precariously built and balanced plank (that is the only way I can describe it) that led to a floating dock, Sexy Pants pulled up in his dinghy.

*Note: That is not Sexy Pants in the picture. That is Daisy Duke in sexy pants to give you an idea of what type of pants Sexy Pants wears to have earned his nickname.*

So all five of us piled into his dinghy and he drove us out to his boat. Sexy Pants is a kind, friendly old man who is "American" and "Canadian" despite the fact that he talks like Gorbachev and has lived in South America for the past 30 years. We got to his boat, which is named Scoundrel, and it was only then that I realized how ridiculous the situation was. I mean, come on, if you are a young woman and have been asked by Sexy Pants to go on a boat named Scoundrel, would you reasonably think that was a good idea? I wouldn't, but maybe that's because I'm from New Jersey and therefore have had numerous bad experiences with both sexy pants and scoundrels.

After climbing onto Scoundrel, we all settled into the spots from which we would not move for the rest of the night. For those of you who are landlubbers and only familiar with cruise ships, there's not much room on a 38-foot sailboat for a dinner party. And we were on the deck because it would have been even more hot and crowded down below. So, we settled down and Sexy Pants took his position in the Galley where he proceeded to serve us drinks.

The drink orders were simple...two beers, one red wine, and two Caipirinhas. The Caipirinhas were highly recommended by Sexy Pants and were described as "better than Ti Punch." For those of you unfamiliar with Caribbean and Brazilian death drinks, both are generally made by crushing some lime with some sugar and then adding your death liquor of choice. In the case of Ti Punch, a popular cocktail among French Caribbean islands, the death liquor is Rhum Agricole, a French-island rum that can be used in place of paint thinner when you need to do some housework. In the case of Caipirinha, the national cocktail of Brazil, the death liquor is Cachaca. Though I am unsure of its household uses, I'm sure it could at least be used to disinfect your toilet. In any case, I was one of the fools who decided I'd brave the Caipirinha because I seemed to think getting out of the boat and back into a dinghy in 3 hours would be easier if I was full of Brazilian death liquor and I could breathe fire with the strike of a match.

Anyway, it took Sexy Pants about 30 minutes to serve us our drinks because he was so excited and chatty and was telling us about all his recent travels around the area. He was also telling us about his family and his two "ugly" granddaughters (he was joking) and his son-of-a-bitch son-in-law (I don't think he was joking there).

Then, he sprung appetizers on us: raw conch and crackers. The conch wasn't really raw, it was ceviche-style, marinated in lime and Worcestershire sauce. Still, I am an American and there is only so much raw food I can eat. No matter how good it tastes, I still get creeped out because I am eating RAW FISH! And it's not sushi! I really enjoy sushi. Instead, it's conch which is chewy and slimy and I'm averse to weird textures with my food!

We made it through our appetizer and luckily Sexy Pants was on top of things and segued right into cooking dinner. One and a half Caipirinha's later and I thought I'd be OK to make it through the night without having to pee. Sexy Pants's dinner was actually pretty tasty. He made us conch fritters with this delicious sauce and rice and a red cabbage salad that reminded me of some Slovak traditional food that my grandmother used to make. It provided a moment of comfort and distracted me from the fact that I was a boat named Scoundrel with a man named Sexy Pants. Even though I knew I was totally safe and I had four chaperons, I kept thinking if something bad happened and I had to call my Mom and start the story with, "Well, I was on Scoundrel with Sexy Pants..." that would be humiliating and she would personally call the National Guard to escort me back to the States or something.

Dinner was finished in a reasonable amount of time and we all praised Sexy Pants for his cooking and tried to devise an exit strategy because we were in a boat in the middle of a harbor and the only way back to shore was in Sexy Pants's dinghy and he had to take us. Sexy Pants, however, decided we must have dessert.

Dessert consisted of SEVEN different types of fruit/death liquor concoctions that were in various old containers: a mayonnaise jar, a cashew nut jar, an old Goya spice jar, and those were just the ones I could recognize. Though Sexy Pants seemed to have a good idea of what types of fruit he mixed with his death liquor such as plums, guava, prunes, and raisins, he was suspiciously mum on what type of alcohol was in the jars with the fruit. He mentioned sugar at one point, and about 15 minutes later lamented that no one imported Jamaican 151-proof rum to Antigua anymore, but never came clean on what exactly was in his jars. If rhum agricole and cachaca are death liquors these jars contained super-turbo-explosion-death-liquor. You didn't even need to light a match near my mouth to start a fire. A spark would have done it...the thought of a spark would have done it. After finishing my shot glass of plum(?) moonshine death, I was peer-pressured into eating a prune from the prune moonshine death jar. We all were. My boyfriend's tongue went numb. On the plus side, we now know where to go when the dentist runs out of Novocaine. On the down side, Sexy Pants tried really really hard to get us to try all SEVEN of his moonshine death concoctions. We succeeded in convincing him to let us get away with only trying three.

At this point, we tried to make our exit. Which was impossible because we were still on a boat in the middle of a harbor and I was not wearing a bathing suit and therefore refused to swim to shore myself. So after a few attempts at saying we really must be getting to shore and asking our host to give us a lift in his dinghy, Sexy Pants decided we MUST listen to music and it must be JANIS JOPLIN. Now, I like Janis Joplin just fine, but not when I've had enough death liquor to require a stomach transplant and I haven't peed in 3 hours and I'm pretty sure if I did pee I would know what having gonorrhea feels like because I'd be peeing fire-spurting death liquor and that would be awful.

Somehow, we managed to convince Sexy Pants we had to go. I think we all stood up, which was difficult on the boat with the awning over us. I don't even know how I made it into the dinghy without falling overboard into the harbor and despite all the moonshine death concoctions Sexy Pants had sampled, he managed to get us safely to shore and (presumably) get himself safely back to his own boat.

The strange thing is that Sexy Pants makes the best conch fritters in the whole fucking world. And that is why if Sexy Pants invites you to Scoundrel for dinner, you should say yes.

Parkour! vs. Steve Holt!

Last week, everyone and their Moms were posting about this Mario-themed gym where cool people can frolic around doing gymnastics because they are talented and cool.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fouvwilGWc

I showed it to my boyfriend and he said, "Oh, they're doing parkour." and I was like, "parker?" And he was like, "No, parkour."

Then, I was all brilliant and said, "Oh, it's like that thing they did on the Office."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x76BSVN7wvY

And then I laughed at myself because I remembered that the first time I saw that Office clip on TV, I thought they were just saying "Hardcore!" instead of "Parkour!" But then Jim explains everything, so I was glad I didn't miss the internet sensation of 2004 and had caught up 5 years later when that episode aired in 2009.

In a related story, today I was asking my boyfriend if he was OK with leftovers for dinner and he raised both his arms and yelled, "Pulled Pork!" and began to kick the walls of our house and climb over the couch. I didn't really understand why his "Steve Holt!" impersonation (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rREGbLdOzfg) made him start kicking the walls of the house. Then I realized he was doing "Parkour!"