Once...Was Enough

The bar is full, but not quite packed when we arrive around 10:30. The band is scheduled to start at 11:00, but few tings here start on time. (This tends to work well for me.) I mainly want to people watch, but do chat briefly with a European fellow. His hair, which looks to have once been red, is wispy and longish in a Back-to-the-Future-Christopher-Lloyd kind of way. What strikes me most is the giddy smile on his face.

“I usually don’t come to this side of the island but I’m starved for music down here, man,” he says with a goofy grin. I agree. It delights me to watch his diaphanous hair flutter around him while he paces enthusiastically around the room in anticipation of the band’s arrival.

I notice a girl with messy bleached hair and roots as dark as her eyeliner. Her big British jugs are held in by a much-loved Kurt Cobain tank under a short-sleeve plaid t-shirt. She wears tight cropped jeans and black boots- an ensemble I find both nostalgically comforting and anachronistically absurd. I don’t believe I’ve laid eyes on a Cobain shirt since high school. Many of the grunge kids I hung with were Nirvana diehards. For years, I was the lone Pearl Jam fanatic.

If this many people showed at a Pearl Jam knock off concert when I was a teen, it would have thrilled me, at least in finding other regional fans. But now I look around at those who exited their regular island orbit tonight to hear Once play at the Caribbean Saloon, and instead of excited, I am critically curious, expecting this to be lame. I know it won’t generate anywhere near the group energy produced at the ten or so Pearl Jam concerts I’ve seen over the past twelve years. This band will focus on hits, many of which are usually my bathroom or beer break songs.

Fittingly, the band looks similar to my high school alternafriends. The guitar and bass players even go so far as to look like teenagers themselves. But the lead singer must be well into his thirties. He wears long cargo shorts and work boots. His hair is brown, wavy and shoulder length. From behind, he does indeed look a lot like a mid-90’s Eddie Vedder.

But his voice is a caricature of Ed’s. This annoys me greatly, however does not at all surprise. I was, in fact, afraid of it. Eddie’s voice is quite distinct and easily mimicked. Most short-careered bands in the mid and late nineties copied his vocal style. This guy’s voice reminds me specifically of the singer from Seven Mary Three, the one who added “cumbersome” to many a poser’s vocabulary.

They play Alive first, a song I consider a set closer or encore pick, per Pearl Jam’s usual method of procedure. I reserve the enthusiasm exhibited by those around me, hoping they’ll break out a more random tune later in the show.

So, I am happy when they play Down, All or Nothing, Breath, and State of Love and Trust, and leave my barstool to move a bit among the crowd. During one of these exertions, I meet a very happy little guy from Puerto Rico. He approaches the stage and requests the Screaming Trees. I ask if he’s referring to the song from the Singles soundtrack.

“Singles soundtrack?!” He yells at me. “Yes, you know Singles soundtrack?!” But with his wonderful accent it sounds like he’s saying “Sinnells soun-track.”

“Yeah, of course I know it. I grew up with it!”

“Me too! Nobody in Puerto Rico ever knew the Sinnells soun-track!”

“You grew up as a Pearl Jam fan in Puerto Rico? God, you probably had an even worse time than me when it came to finding other fans! I thought I had it rough in Iowa, but I bet Puerto Rico was worse.”

“Yes, I was the only one! It sucked!” he yells at me above the music, smiling widely, and holding out his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

Here we are, both living on St. Thomas, yet neither of us born or raised here. Both making a specific effort to catch this Pearl Jam cover act, the closest we’ll get to seeing our favorite band live in the Caribbean. I look around at the diversity of the people—a favorite I’ve not yet mentioned is a large black man with one of those fat rolls between the bottom of his bald head and the top of his thick neck. He seems to know every word to these songs and he couldn’t be further from the grunge rocker stereotype.

At a real Pearl Jam show in Minnesota, I would mostly run into other 18-55 white Middle Americans. In a way, this makes sitting through what might as well have been a performance by the avatar band from Guitar Hero worthwhile. I get to pay a bit of homage to a bygone era in American rock music with a group of people as varied as the species of flora in the Virgin Islands.

I hope this island serves as a place of evolution for the diverse group here tonight as much as it does for me. Because who wants to be like a cover band and remain frozen in time?

Open-Minded Adapting?...Or Lowering One's Standards?

The consequences of my actions were not lost on me. Let me tell you. Before moving to St. Thomas, I understood that in doing so, I deliberately placed myself smack dab into certain discomforts. Indeed, this was part of the point. Almost like manipulating the environment of a Sim chick out of pure curiosity in the result. How will she respond to living without convenient access to things she loves like seasons and sweet corn and art house movies?

While lush in many ways, the Virgin Islands are a virtual desert when it comes to new rock and Pop* music, a Current of which flowed freely in the Twin Cities, and from which I thirstily drank. One could even say I was a bit spoiled in this regard.

If I needed a live music fix, I could see under-the-radar star M. Ward at 1st Ave or news-coverage-grabbing Rage Against the Machine at the Target Center. Since very few nationwide tours skip the Twin Cities, I had the opportunity to catch whatever act excited me at the moment, and easily be home by midnight.

I patronized cool independent record stores, my favorite being the Electric Fetus for its consistent selection, fun location just south of downtown Minneapolis, and long history in the community. Growing up, Mom always pointed the Fetus out to me when we drove on I-35 to the city from Iowa. (More often than not the trip was dedicated to seeing a rock show—few tours stops in Iowa.) She often shopped there during her brief stint in Minneapolis after high school. This knowledge always made buying music at the Fetus an extra special experience, akin to ancestral traditions like eating lefsa during the Holidays.

And, of course, The Current kept my discerning ears stimulated throughout the work day. The MPR rock radio station never failed to challenge my taste and keep me abreast of the best in new innovative and interesting (mostly indie) rock and pop.

Island radio formats consist of mass-appeal pap, Caribbean music, and Christian talk. I was, of course, completely aware of this. To keep somewhat plugged in, I planned to podcast Sound Opinions and Musicheads, read music mags and blogs, and hopefully catch a festival in the States during the summer. Any music shopping would be done online, as I assumed (however, still have not confirmed) that the music shops here don’t cater to rocker types like myself.

I figured the closest I’d get to enjoying live music on island would consist of a mediocre bar band.

So, it was mild excitement I felt when, during a brief listen to the modern rock station that broadcasts from St. Croix, I happened to hear an advertisement for Once, a Pearl Jam cover band scheduled to play on island in early December. Of course, I planned to check it out. A $5 cover and a trip to the East End are totally worth it for rare entertainment like this on St. Thomas. At the very least, I knew it would be a fun blog post to write.

To be continued…


*I mean Pop Music here in the large sense. In my mind, the small pop, defines artists of an inane variety such as Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers, whereas Pop in the large sense can refer to artists as diverse as the oft disturbing Iggy Pop, as well as the anti-sellout Neil Young. Mayhap this makes sense to you. Mayhap not.

Day Sail to the British Virgin Islands

Hey ya'll.

Oops, my Britney impression accidentally popped out again.

But I guess these days it would sound more like:

It's Ashley, bitch.

And with that, let's begin this pictoral journey.

A month or so ago (yes, my story-telling is on island time), we chartered what I think would be considered a small yacht and sailed to Jost Van Dyke for the day. Jost (pronounced y-oast, rhymes with toast) Van Dyke is a little island in the BVI, past St. John. I think it cost about $70 per person, plus $10 or $15 to get into the BVI. For this you get the boat's captain to take you there and deal with all of the passport stuff. Plus, there are some light snacks and a cozy, comfortable interior in case, for some reason, you don't want to sit on deck in the sun.

Port of Entry

We received stamps on our passports along with an official certificate declaring us welcome in the British Virgin Islands for the rest of the day. After attending to this official business (which required no actual attending on our part other than remembering to bring our passports and sipping Presidente's on board while the Captain cleared us), we took a short trip to White Bay, the next inlet West and home of the famed Soggy Dollar Bar.

Yes, we sunblocked the tops of their heads.

The water in the above picture is not digitally enhanced, nor is it chemically treated. This is true blue Caribbean ocean water.  I fantasized about water like this as a child in my bathtub and at the local swimming pool. This water makes you feel as if you absolutely must jump in and become engulfed in its translucent, warm beauty. This is why, believe it or not, it wasn't even hard to convince me, the fish phobe, to jump off the boat and into the sea.

Which is a good thing.

Because the reason it's called The Soggy Dollar Bar, is the lack of any docks at this beach, so if you want to go to shore, you have to swim. So a lot of the cash transactions at the beach bars include wet money.

Some Soggy Dollar Bar Items of Note:

A whimsically painted sign above the toilet that delightfully rhymes:

 "In this land of sun and fun, we don't flush for number one."

Seagrape trees.  I found myself frequently staring at their rich red bark.

A kitty who loves people. It's a good thing, since she's constantly surrounded by beaching tipsy tourists. She allowed me to pick her up without a yeowly fuss, so I brought her to join us at the table.

"Would you Memorex the moment already? I'm bored."

Someone also felt it necessary to turn the camera on me. Thank you Universe for the crop feature.This is what I look like these days. I haven't turned into a salty old sea hag quite yet.

Ain't my armpit a beaut?

Not a bad jaunt for a regular old Saturday. Many islanders travel from one rock to another for entertainment and variety. Each island has it's own personality and all have gorgeous beaches. Why not island hop?

And, of course, no marine outing would be complete without a homeward sunset shot.

Fowl Feature

Some of you know that during the last year or so I've developed what might be called a creative affinity for fowl. Hence, the title of this here blog.

So, I am pleased to discover last week's episode of This American Life was dedicated to birds, primarily of the fowl variety.

I'm sharing this for any of you who may be in search of new audio entertainment that is both thought-provoking and funny. This American Life always brings forth at least one audible chortle from my being. Perhaps similar to how Baby Boomers with Scandinavian heritage can't help but giggle at A Prairie Home Companion. 

Every week This American Life features a specific theme and people from around the country, mostly writer types, share funny and poignant stories related to the theme. Every year before Thanksgiving the show's theme is dedicated to poultry.

My favorite segment from this particular episode is the mystery of chickens, who after tornados are often found, "alive and clucking, but plucked clean as butterballs," which, I learned, is a long documented phenomenon.

The download is free. Enjoy.

Poultry Slam 2008

Reply to Anonymous

I'm really annoyed because for some reason blogger won't let me add comments to my last post and I wanted to reply to the Anonymous person who didn't sign their name. My response is as follows:

"Thanks for the input, Anonymous.


Your comments sting, but they are true. I appreciate the honest advice and also for teaching me the term "apron strings."

But I wish you would at least identify yourself!"

That's all for now.
Have a nice weekend, folks.

The Sky is Falling (disclaimer: unnecessary self-pitying to follow)

I've struggled to find happiness, contentment, and fulfillment since childhood. Thus far, it's been fleeting. I've changed my surroundings, my medications, my beliefs, my routine, my goals, and yet I always end up with this vague...or not so vague depressed sense of hopelessness and futility.

I know that the only true source of peace available to me comes from within. Challenges and victories will enter and exit my life, alternately elevating and lowering my mood and my general sense of well-being. But underneath all the surface stuff that happens, somewhere deep inside, all is calm and well. Intellectually, I know and believe this to be true, but I'm having great difficulty actually living it.

I'm really fucking sick of being unhappy. And I'm sure all of you are really fucking sick of me bitching. An intelligent, attractive enough, middle-class white American whining about her piddly non-problems in the face of serious world issues.

Wah, wah, shut the hell up.

I thought coming to St. Thomas would solve all this. Such strong forces pulled me here. I thought to create a life less ordinary. I thought to force a mental and spiritual breakthrough. But now I just miss the comforts of my old frozen home. The Current, First Ave, trash collection, a decent salary and health benefits, Trader Joe's, Motley, among other such things and people...

I call this Woody Allen Disorder, or The Grass is Always Greener Syndrome (I thought I penned this term, but after googling it, apparently I did not). There's an actual scientific-sounding word for this that I've just spent the last thirty minutes trying to look up. Woody Allen refers to it in Wild Man Blues. He says that when he's in NYC, he always wants to be in Europe, and when he's in Europe, he always wants to be in NYC. If anyone knows the word he uses to describe this, please let me know. I think it either starts with an "A" or an "M", and if my computer time wasn't limited, I would still be looking for it. (Okay, I found it. Anhedonia, which actually means the inability to experience pleasure...not exactly accurate to what I'm describing, but close enough.)

Why is my computer time limited, you may ask? Well, because I spilled a minute amount of water in the general direction of my new laptop on Tuesday morning and now the hard drive is gone. I have grown exceedingly attached to my laptop in the last two months. It's my connection to the world. To the music and people I love. (Um, not in that order.) I'm an information addict! I need constant Internet access! So, I have to send my computer to Toshiba where hopefully they'll replace my hard drive for free, but maybe they will tell me there is water damage and, thus, I'll need to pay for it with money that I don't have.

Also, the last chapter and a half of my book will need to be rewritten because I am irresponsible and neglected to save it to my jump drive. *Sigh* It will be interesting and hopefully not too maddening a process.

I thought I would have to stop writing until the computer is fixed, thereby eliminating one of my major sources of joy. But I've decided that I'll just write by hand in a notebook. Tolkein and Hemingway penned masterpieces on little scraps of paper in the midst of flying bullets on the battlefield, so I think I can manage writing longhand in a composition notebook for a couple weeks.

I will have plenty of time to do this, considering that both Mom and Mike will be gone for the next week. It will be interesting to spend a week alone on this island. Luckily, I have to work every day this week, so the amount of time I can spend in an empty house crying and feeling sorry for myself will be limited. I am grateful to have made one girlfriend to hang out with as well. Mom probably won't be back until December after her surgery and recovery period. I'm thrilled that she's going to be okay (although I never really thought otherwise for some reason). But, I'm actually not convinced she'll ever return. Can you say "ironic"?

So, because of all this wah wah nonsense, Mike has given me another nickname. The poor guy didn't realize what he was getting into with me. Another crazy skinny bitch to add to his list of girlfriends. (His bff claims that this seems to be his type. Ha.) I did, however, offer plenty of disclaimers about my lack of mental stability and tendency toward moodiness. He chose to ignore them or not believe me, I guess. So anyway, he has started to call me Chicken Little.

I don't think it's wholly inaccurate. In fact, I'd say that he's come up with a good one.

At least it's in keeping with the chicken theme.

Hasty Update for Those Who Care

Good Night!

I know. You're thinking, "Why would she start a post with that phrase?" It's a West Indian thing. If you want to start off a relationship well with a local, you had better remember to say Good Morning, Good Afternoon, and Good Night, respectively, when greeting them. And Good Night is said upon approach rather than departure. It takes awhile to get used to. I'm not completely there yet.

It's been a week since I posted, mainly because I've been spending most of my time at my apartment with Mom where you have to walk down our steep driveway and sit at a particular spot on the wall that bisects our little road in order to get AT&T Internet and phone service.

As you may imagine, the wall is not a gentle seat for butts to rest upon.

I wish we had those little bleacher cushions.

Since I'm talking about it and even posted a picture, I might as well tell you the wall's history. At one time this was a singular roadway. But then some new people moved into the neighborhood and started to build houses. Apparently, their heavy construction equipment was ruining the road, which had been built and paid for by the current tenants. A disagreement ensued, and it was taken up with the local courts. The judge ruled that a wall be built down the middle of the road. The new neighbors were to use one side, and the old neighbors the other. And that is the history of our communication bench. Mom spends much time on this wall talking to her man in Oklahoma.

Speaking of Mom, she is currently en route to the leaveless land of Minnesota, where she will be treated for her little spot of breast cancer at Mayo. We have no clue how long she'll be there and what sort of treatment she will endure. We will know more by the end of the week. Neither of us have started worrying about it yet. Hopefully we will refrain altogether, as it will not do her any good. So, if you care about Pam, please send positive, healthy vibes her way instead of nervous, negative ones.

She just texted me from the plane and said she's already missing St. Thomas. Who can blame her with a view like this from our porch?

This picture doesn't do the water justice. Too many clouds.

Still, it's no view to scoff at.

And flowers like this growing in our yard?

Aren't those white mini-flowers delightful?

That's about it for news. My new job as a barista is going well. I am meeting a lot of people, and having a purpose with a paycheck helps my outlook and pocketbook significantly. Learning to do things like make croissant sandwhiches, run a register, and mop properly has a way to bust down my ego, which I think is a good thing. And they are all low-stress tasks. I'm definitely enjoying that part of working while it lasts.

I should hopefully post more often during the next couple weeks because I'll be spending more time at the boyf's where I can connect to the Internet without straddling a concrete wall.

Good Night!

PS. For some reason starting and ending this post with Good Night reminds me of Spanish sentence punctuation. Yeah, I know. You want some of what I'm smoking.

Occupational Euphemisms, Ego Dissolvers, and an Hourly Wage

I am finally hired. In the food industry-- a part of it I never before considered, although making coffee is obviously a better fit for me than waitressing or bartending. You’re reading the blog of a new, full-time barista. It has a sexy ring to it, don’t ya think? I’m glad the title "barista" has entered the mainstream, so I have a hip title. I much prefer it to coffee girl.

The position opened up because Johnny (adorable and sweet as can be) has been promoted to lead bartender at the newly renamed Liquor Box (the Drake’s Passage bar, which the boyf’s good friends happen to own. Everyone is connected down here.). Therefore, his full-time barista position at R&J's Island Latte is available. I didn’t consider this option when I first saw it advertised, since I have never before made coffee drinks. But I need a job. Any job. Staying unemployed will drive me to depression.

Thanks to a gentle kick-in-the-ass pep talk from Mom last Tuesday night, I entered Wednesday determined to be employed week's end. I was getting very close to selling jewelry, which I didn't want to do. If I know anything, it's that I'm not a salesperson, even though I come from a line of them. Like I've said before, wiping asses sounds like more fun to me.

We decided to eat at RJ's for lunch on Wednesday. We entered, and a pretty, light-skinned black lady greeted my mom warmly by name. Mom informed me that she is one of they owners and told me for the tenth time that they are very nice. It occured to me for the first time that I might enjoy working here, and we decided to inquire about Johnny's newly open position.

We find out that it has not been filled, but I need a health card before she will interview me. In order to work in the food industry in the USVI, one must have a valid Health ID or Food Handler’s card. In order to acquire said card, a stool sample must be tested to ensure one doesn't have worms. I ask if it takes a long time to get the card and find out that if I’m fast, I can probably get it within the next twenty-four hours.

“It all just depends on your body,” she says smiling, and gesturing with her hands in a downward motion showing the route that food leaves your body as waste.

“I like this woman,” I think to myself.

So, I embark on an adventure that includes a trip to the communitiy clinic at the hospital, meeting a half-mad woman who nonetheless shows me where the privately-owned labratory is located, obtaining a sample jar, and scooping a sample of my poo from the toilet with the serrated spoon attached to the jar lid. The next day, I'm relieved to discover that my poo is ova and parasite free. The people at the hospital give me a card, even though I couldn’t tell the lady my street number. (Mom keeps telling me it doesn’t matter!) 

After an easy and painless interview, I am hired. My normal hours will be 6:45am to 3:15pm, the earliest I’ve ever worked. I figure it will keep me healthy. I can’t go out late if I have to rise around 5am. The job only pays $10/hr, a sum of which I’m almost embarrassed to mention, except for the fact that I'm trying to dissolve the ole ego. And the tips aren’t nearly what they’d be if I bartended or waitressed. I could  also make more selling jewelry...

Unfortunately for me, I wasn't born with the greedy gene, allowing me to work jobs that I dislike because they pay well...I usually have to do something I find palatable, which generally doesn't include asking for people's money...

I’m thinking that the barista job will be virtually stress free.  My head won’t spin all night with work shit, and the anxiety won’t cause me to drag my feet  in the morning. This means I can spend more energy doing what I love, which is to write.

I will probably have to get a 2nd gig. And I have some options. But the whole thing is a pride-swallower, since I’ll be earning half what I did in MN, and will also have no benefits and no 401K.

But then I remind myself that this is an adventure. I am young. And learning to live simply is valuable-- thinking of abundance in a way that has more to do with small daily joys instead of purchasing power.

Plus, they're training me to make all sorts of cool coffee drinks. So, I am learning a new trade. Now, there's a better word for that...we'll call it a craft.

Creative Construction Cooking on Island

For the past two weeks, I've been staying in my boyfriend's half-built house. The cement frame is up and the beautiful French doors, and a gorgeous bathroom with beautiful tile, but the rest is still very much in progress.  I feel like I'm staying with Miss Havisham, but instead of the grand house being in the process of dilapitating, it's in the process of being built. Living here is reminiscent of camping. (Up until a few weeks before I arrived, Mike still used his outhouse.) The stove/oven is not yet hooked up, and Mike doesn't believe in microwaves. So, any cooking is done on a barebones outdoor grill consisting of cinder blocks, a propane tank, some gas piping and nozzles, a grate, and two big rocks. A few nights ago we made BBQ chicken skewers and veggie kabobs.

       Those things in the middle, between the food, are rocks.




The food was delicious- you'd never know it wasn't prepared on a Weber or Holland.

So then, the other night we were craving nachos. While at Pueblo buying ingredients, it dawned on me that we have no oven or microwave with which to melt the cheese.

"Mike, how will we melt the cheese?"  Right after the words left my mouth, I knew what he would say.
And he confirmed my suspicions.

"A blowtorch."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Why not? It works great."

So we blowtorched 'em like so:

I'll tell you this. They were better than any microwave or oven nachos I've ever consumed. And believe you me, I've consumed many a nacho in my day.

Land of Lizards

In Minnesota we had squirrels, raccoons, and apossums. In St. Thomas, we have lizards.
Big lizards like iguanas:

 And little lizards like gekkos:

I actually think there are more lizards in St. Thomas than there are squirrels in Minnesota. You see them everywhere. Gekkos sometimes even make your house their home. A few years ago when I didn't even know where the VI was really located, my brother, who lives on St. Croix, told me he had a gekko living in his bathroom who earned his keep by eating bugs.  I absolutely could not believe he had a lizard living inside his house, and that he was okay with it.

Well, I now have gekkos living in my apartment. Tiny ones we spy escaping from their cracks in the wall from time to time. We also receive a fresh crop of lizard dung in the office/library corner every few days. Mom thinks the tiny ones we see aren't capable of making waste that large, which is to say that we may have a bigger gekko living somewhere in our house too. Surpringingly, sharing my home with gekkos bothers me less than sharing it with centipedes. They're cuter, not nearly as gross. And the mofos will get out of your way a lot faster.

Last week I was spending the afternoon at my boyfriend's house-in-construction. I removed myself from the  hammock to grab my sunglasses, went back outside, realized I'd forgotten my book and went back inside to retrieve it from the "kitchen table". My eye caught something I hadn't noticed the first time I entered the house, among the dog toys on the tiled part of the floor lay half of an iguana. The top half. It's dead head looking directly at me. Harley (a year-old, 90lb Weinereimer)  galloped up to me, his tail wagging joyfully, eyes filled with excited pride as if to say, "Look at the gift I brought you. Doesn't it make you happy?"

It did not make me happy. I screamed and ran into the bedroom, closing both the door to the living space and the door to the porch so Harley couldn't drag either half in for me to admire. I sat on the bed and waited for the boyf to get home from work so he could remove the iguana carcus.

A couple days ago, I'm sitting at the table innocently typing away on the laptop when I look over and see Harley walking through the door with a very large, very whole iguana in his mouth. I screamed. Harley dropped the iguana and it started to run away. I screamed again and ran away to the bedroom and closed the door. I couldn't stay in there all day, however. It was before noon and I was actually supposed to be somewhere. I saw that Harley was back outside so I peeked out of the bedroom and saw no visible creatures in the "great room." I slowly escaped my bedroom prison and closed all the french doors leading outside (there are four).

When I finally mustered up the nerve to leave the house, I found the iguana trying to hide from Harley in the doorway to the garage. The top part of his tail was no longer attached to him, but rather lying on the sidewalk a few feet away. This devastated my squeamish soul. When I walked by him, the poor, scared creature tried to squeeze himself even more into the crack between the door and the wall. I fled. Every lizard I saw on the drive to my apartment made me jump.

I couldn't return until the boyf got home from work and rid the porch of multilated and/or dead iguanas.  He found him in the yard and sent him down the hill. Said the poor guy looked like he'd had a long day. I'm surprised he was still in one piece.

I don't know if I'm cut out for this tropical living...
But I suppose if I lived with Harley in Minnesota he would bring me squirrel heads.
And it would be cold there.

All We Have is Now (thank you Flaming Lips)

The following is one of my favorite pictures. I didn't take it in the Caribbean, but rather at the Bonnaroo festival outside of Manchester, TN in 2008. A delightful wall surrounds the grounds and is covered with graffiti-style portraits of music icons and other bits of art and wisdom offered by festival patrons.  

The mispellings don't even bother me.

That's how much I like it.

I loved this proverb because it's a punchy, scatalogical summary of Eckhart Tolle's primary teaching. (Isn't it fun when the obscene and the divine co-mingle?) I, along with millions of other Oprah fans (ain't no shame) and spiritual seekers, had been studying Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth. I was really struck by his observation of how most people spend the majority of their lives in their head, either reliving past experiences or worrying over future ones, and thereby not truly being in the one moment we ever have in life, which is the present one. Well, I certainly recognized myself in this description.

While we were studying this particular part of the book, I discovered the same message in the lyrics to a Flaming Lips song that I'd listened to many times before without every really thinking about what it meant.
The song is aptly named, "Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell"-- the ego being an entity much discussed in Tolle's teachings. One night while listening to my headphones during the long trek down the hall to my old apartment building's laundry room, I noticed that the lyrics seemed to speak to this exact same idea.

I was waiting on a moment

But the moment never came

All the billion other moments

Were just wasting all away

I must have been tripping

Just ego tripping

                         

I listened to the song for days. It was a rock and roll balm. I listened in my car, in my bedroom, and on my mp3 player when necessary-- trying desperately to remind myself to embody the present moment in a way that I will listen. I have no idea what Wayne Coyne had in mind when he wrote those lyrics. To me, hearing them that night in the stuffy corridor of my Minneapolis apartment complex was a little bit of synchronicity, the universe pointing out something that might be able to help me enjoy this life a bit more.


For the last couple of days, I've been listening to an interview with Eckhart Tolle by Krista Tippett on Speaking of Faith. This has been after taking a long Tolle break for reasons I won't elaborate upon at the moment. I enjoyed hearing his soothing, yoda-like voice again, teaching his lessons in a way that makes them seem so simple. He mentioned using what he calls a pointer when you notice you're in a state of mental suffering. This is something to ask yourself when you feel stress or anxiety settle in your body. "What is my relationship with the present moment right now? Am I friends with the present moment or are we enemies?"  This pointer has, indeed, been helpful to me, albeit far from a magic bullet.

My decision to move to St. Thomas is for some reason wrapped up with my desire for living an anxiety free life. (This might be considered ironic since moving here has conjured up a host of fresh worries). I realized the other day that there will always be something for me to worry about. Right now I'm worried about not getting a job down here (since we already know my last resort option of bartending is out) and not being able to pay my bills...those student loans for the college degree that I so value but don't seem to be using. Soon I will be employed, and my current worry will no longer be valid. By that time something else will have me worried. Some drama at work or perhaps worrying that I'm not doing a good enough job. Or something will occur in my family life. The point is, you can always find things to worry about. Me especially; I've been a pro since childhood. So the key is not to just solve whatever it is that worries me right now, but to discover a way of living in which anxiety has no part.

We're working on it...
And by "we", I mean the royal collection of voices in my head.

                              

Yay Technology.

Leaving my writing group was one of the biggest bummers about moving from Minnesota to St. Thomas. The four of us- Pock, Todd, Phil, and I- met in the fall of 2008 at the Loft Literary Center during a twelve week beginning memoir class. We ended up in a group together and enjoyed the experience so much that we decided to get together every few weeks to share writing. And it always ended up being a fun eating/drinking/conversation/therapy session too. Writing regularly and having a community with which to share and receive feedback has improved the quality of my life immensely during the past year.

Relationships in the group grew beyond merely sharing our writing. One of the group members graciously let me stay with him during the two month transition period between my old life and my new one. I cherish my time spent in his cozy brick duplex in South Minneapolis and will miss the many deep, meaningful, and sometimes downright goofy cigarette-smoking chats around the fireplace and on the front stoop with Neighbor Phil while collecting many an empty bottle of Blue Moon...

Anyway...

We decided that we would try and continue to meet after my move via Skype. On Wednesday night we had our premiere remote session. Since I get a strong enough 3G signal on my air card  in the bedroom, we intially drug the kitchen table in there and set up. But the signal wasn't strong enough to communicate very effectively. Our images pixelated and our voices warbled in and out. I experimented and found the signal much better on the porch outside the bedroom. So we pulled the table out there (thankfully October in St. Thomas brings lows in the upper 70's) and installed some portable, big boy construction lights so my comrades in Minneapolis could actually see me. And the reception was near perfect. After 30 minutes or so, it barely seemed like we were in separate places.

Notice dog's feet next to mine under table.

We read our pieces aloud, provided feedback, and caught up on personal lives during an almost three hour video Skype conversation. All with 2500 miles of land mass and ocean separating us. I love technology.

I always dreamed of a career in broadcasting...

Weekend = Leisure

Hope yours has some of this:

Maybe just with autumn leaves instead.

Last Resort Option: Out

When I first considered moving to St. Thomas, I told people that if I couldn't find an office job, I'd just tend bar or waitress. It could be a fun adventure. I was mostly joking, but I considered it an option.

During the third session with my holistically awesome therapist who helped guide me through this major move, she asked what was the worse that could happen if I gave up my job and life as I knew it and moved to the island.

"I could get killed by a hurricane." I said.

"Natural disasters don't count. That could happen here too." she told me.

"I could get hit by a stray bullet. That happens down there, seriously. They have a gun problem on island."

"Nope, that doesn't count either. That could still happen here in your life now. The girl that was shot in St. Paul last weekend, that was in my neighborhood. But I'm not going to spend all my time worrying about my safety and that of my children because it's unproductive. It doesn't do you any good to focus on random violence and natural disasters because you have no control over those things and it wastes valuable mental energy you could use on something else.",

"Okay. Well, I could go through all my savings and end up waiting tables or bartending."

"Okay. That counts. You could go through all your savings and end up waiting tables or bartending."

"Anything else?"

Not that I could think of...

And at the time, this last resort didn't seem so bad. I mean, it's a risk. But not a crappingly huge risk. And when put in the perspective that I could lose all of the relatively little money I had and get stuck working in the service industry, it felt like a risk worth taking, especially considering the creative and spiritual (and okay romantic) pull I felt calling me to the island.

I've been here for a little over a month now and have been offered two jobs (while having applied for many). The talented chef at my neighborhood beach restaurant has asked me to waitress for him three times now. I have declined each time, telling him thanks, but I'm looking for an administrative job with benefits. I'll let him know if I get desperate.

And then last night a local proprietor sort of talked me into showing up at nine this morning to learn how to make drinks and see if I'll work out as season help at the bar. For some reason (...beer), I decided this was a good idea. It could be a fun adventure. At least I'm not sitting around all day with nothing to do but job search in a limited market. So I agreed to show up and meet with the senior bartender (who has served me on multiple occasions) and two other girls for training.

Now, I've never worked in the food industry before, preferring retail in high school and campus jobs in college. And then group homes before getting my first real business job. Yes, rather than waiting tables or pouring drinks, I've always preferred to work in group homes where wiping butts was part of my regular duties. I'm telling you, there's heart and soul in wiping butts.

So, after a tossy-turny night of weird, unpleasant dreams about my future bartending experience, I woke up late yet still determined to show up and try my hand at pouring drinks. After we started to actually work (which requires things like wiping down and stocking the bar and hauling ice around in a huge garbage bin ) it was pretty clear to me that these two other darlings (nice girls. asked to be called by nicknames sounding like stripper pseudonyms. i didn't fit in.) definitely knew exactly what they were doing.  And that no one was real interested in training me. Which was fine. Because after an hour, it was pretty clear to me that bartending is not an Ashley job.

I don't even really like bars. At least not enough to spend time in one six days a week. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good time out, but I'm not a big crazy party girl. Also, I know I would drink and smoke too much, which was my boyfriend's immediate concern (and he's certainly not prudish when it comes vices). But apparently bartenders here tend to party A LOT.

I don't want to memorize all the types of alcohol and drinks and shots. I don't want to spend my days with drunk people in an atmosphere smelling faintly of vomit, looking at a big-breasted mermaid painted on the wall.

Another thing is that I want to work somewhere air-conditioned. Maybe that sounds lame. But if I can't live in air-conditioning, I at least want to be saved from constant sweating during the work day. An open bar by the cruise ship docks definitely increases my sweat level. My face dripped so much during the short time I was there that the proprieter handed me a paper towel to wipe it off. Attractive, huh? Now that I mention it, I don't like cruise ships either and wouldn't want to look at them all day every day. Or serve and entertain their passengers.

I want to work in a nice, clean, air-conditioned office with other people who are better versed in Microsoft Office and 3-in-1 fax/copy/scan machines than mixed drinks and bottle openers. (I was supposed to bring my own? Who knew?!)

So, after two hours, I thanked the proprieter very kindly for the opportunity, but told him that I felt in my gut this wasn't for me. I got in my car and blasted the AC, thinking longingly about computer screens and desks. I certainly didn't expect that to happen when I left my job in the states.

So, I now know that bartending is not for me. But, dammit, there goes my last resort option.

Local Color: Safari Busses

So, our version of mass transportation in St. Thomas is the independently-owned sarafi bus. Sarafi busses are basically a big pick-up truck with the bed converted into a seating area a little smaller than a short bus. Most of them have about four rows of seats, and I suppose four people could fit comfortably on each bench. Some are for tourists (the ones with all the white gawkers) and some are for locals. Many safaris also operate as a means of personal self-expression, presumably for the owners.  And I guess safari-bus owners are just as complex and multi-faceted as anyone...

 Does anything seem incongrous about this picture to you?

And I thank him for nudi-mudflaps.

And for money plate covers too.

And after the Leap of Faith...?

I ran. I jumped. I landed on the rock.
The safety net worked. But it won't hold much longer.

Now what?

I'm doing my best to stave off the feelings of self-reproach, desperation, and impotence.

I'm working on that faith thing...
Trusting in flow. Believing that I will encounter exactly what I need.
As long as I keep an eye out for it. Whatever it is.

Doing my darndest to keep the vice grip from clenching tighter around the center of my chest.
I guess that would be my heart.
The anxiety.
The fucking anxiety.
The anxiety that only hinders and never helps.
The anxiety I can't recall not knowing.

Trying to stay calm, cool, collected. Gotta stay positive, (thank you Hold Steady). Or as the ubiquitious bumper sticker on island claims, "Positive is How I Live."
Because as cheesy as it may sound, that's what it's about. This creating your own life thing.

It's liberating and it's terrifying.

What I'd like to feel is bold. Confident. Enthusiastic. Limitless. An omnipotent force in my own life.

I want the tightness that tries so hard to grip my chest, I want to whack it like a ping pong ball
And turn the worry into something light. Something that flies.

Turn it into something creative. Loving. Compassionate. Connected.
I want my soul salivating over the deliciousness of life.

But those circuits in my brain that are so used to worrying. They run deep. Like an ancient river bed,
always waiting for a new current to fill its dry banks.

And those nasty negative feelings and thoughts that tell me I won't find a job.
That it's hopeless. That I'm worthless and irresponsible. That I won't be able to pay rent next month.
That those strong magnetic forces that attracted me to this island, surprising me as much as everyone else.
That inspired me to leave a very good man.To leave a perfectly good well-paying, fully-benefited job in a down economy without having another lined up...
That the synchronous pull that led me here simply dropped me off and left again to entice the next idiot who fantasizes about things like romantic island adventures and writing books.

And I'm stranded on an island where everything costs more than it did in Minnesota with the exception of alcohol, cigarettes, and pot. And where salaries are very much below those in the Twin Cities.
Stranded and shit out of luck.

But that would be looking on the downside.
Because we create our own luck, right?

And I am an optimist.
An optimist trying to cultivate more pluck.

I don't really want to retreat back to the cage, do I?

Nope. Not when it's put to me like that, I don't.

Tropical Inspiration in my Neighborhood

"That's Mr. Tool to you!"

Might as well have named it "I'm Clueless"

Transporting your Vehicle to St. Thomas: A Step by Step Instructional Guide

(Or How to Slowly Go Insane by way of Caribbean Red Tape)

1. If you wish to transport personal goods to the island, in addition to your car, then I suggest you fill your trunk until it’s questionable as to whether it will stay closed. I managed to pack two large plastic drawers, one small file drawer, a wooden trunk, an old pressure cooker, and some miscellaneous kitchen utensils into the trunk of my Toyota Corolla. I could have shoved more in the empty corners if I’d had time. If I’d really thought ahead, I’d have stuffed the glove compartment and center console too.

But perhaps you’re moving to the island to simplify…

2. Remove any objects from the vehicle you’d prefer were not discovered by Customs agents, human or canine.

3. Drop your vehicle at Tropical Shipping in Riviera Beach before 3pm on a weekday.


Avoid my mistakes, and:

a. Refrain from losing your title, unless emptying the entire contents of your car in the Comfort Inn parking lot in search of the document you spent an extra $20 to expedite sounds like a valuable use of your time. Tropical will accept scanned copies if you are fortunate enough to figure out where your title is. And if someone is able and willing to scan and email you a copy. Once you are on island, however, you WILL need a copy of the original title.

b. Research the correct Tropical Shipping location where vehicles are accepted instead of relying on your not-so-dependable memory. Otherwise, you could spend a good part of the day driving to the wrong place, which, if nothing else, will make the process more adventurous since you won’t know if you can actually make it to the correct location by 3pm.

Note: Even if you are unfortunate enough to commit the aforementioned mistakes, the helpful (no sarcasm here) people at Tropical will gladly help you get your car on a ship, even if you arrive 5 minutes before closing time. Bless Them. But then again, who (besides certain branches of the government) closes at 3pm?

4. Get to the island yourself. No, you cannot travel in your car even though it seems there would be room. Once you’re on the rock, wait for a call from Tropical telling you your car has arrived, but a Customs inspection must be completed prior to retrieval. When you ask when to expect this, your question will be politely ignored and you will be told that they will call when it’s complete. You will thank them and wonder why you bothered asking.


5. When you receive your phone call two days later, it’s time to go to the St. Thomas Tropical Shipping port. While you may think that you’ll leave behind the wheel of your vehicle, you won’t be doing that for the next four to twenty-four hours. What you will actually pick up at Tropical is your Bill of Laden and an incorrect list of instructions about the treasure hunt on which you must embark to actually reclaim your car from the shipyard. You mean to mention the mistake when you return to Tropical, but by that time you will have lost the will.


Note: It is helpful to have a local companion from here on out, especially if you are unfamiliar with the island. You will at least need to borrow a vehicle until Step #15.


6. To proceed further, your car must be insured. I am still unclear on how insurance works here because I’ve been told different things by different people. My original understanding is that, while there are multiple insurance brokers on island, there is but one carrier. It is not a competitive market. They will charge you $350 if you are a new customer, and $260 if you are a current customer. Sometimes. Because my mom, as a new customer, paid $260. And if I’m looking at the documents correctly, we have different underwriters. So, my suggestion is that you go Guardian in Havensight above Caribbean Travel, which is where she paid $260 as a new customer. This covers liability insurance for one year. For some reason, very few people on island purchase comprehensive coverage. I haven’t been able to extract a truly good reason from any locals on why this is so. The vague answer I receive is that it’s not worth the money.


7. Next you proceed to the Virgin Islands Revenue Bureau (VIRB) because that’s where the instructions say you should go. Here you will stand in line for 15 minutes. When you finally advance to the front of the line, the lady behind the counter will tell you, “Road tax is at the inspection lane,” to which you will reply, “What?” and she will repeat in a tone of voice that is not any easier to hear (partly because she’s behind a plastic window, as most clerks are here), “Road tax is at the inspection lane.” You will thank her kindly for this bit of information.


8. Since you have to go that direction anyway, you might as well stop by the Excise Tax station in the Tropical Shipping grounds, behind the junior high school that looks abandoned but is not. Here the old woman behind the window has her chin on her chest and appears to be sleeping. Upon realizing you’ve entered the office, she will look at you with contempt in her glazed eyes and grunt something in your general direction. You tell her you’re here to take care of the excise tax for your car. You will hand her your Bill of Laden and she will tell you with hostility that you don’t need to pay excise tax. Then she will stamp your piece of paper and you are dismissed. The stamp is what you need.


9. If you’re lucky, someone will tell you that the inspection lane where you supposedly pay the road tax is located at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles (BMV). However, the inspection lane is NOT where you presently need to go. You actually need to go inside the BMV. You will probably into the first entrance at the BMV where many are assembled in a long narrow corridor painted a nauseating margarine color. You observe multiple windows with multiple purposes, none of which seem to be yours. After standing there for awhile looking perplexed, a skinny youth who seems to be wearing his weight in jewelry and apparently knows exactly how things work at the BMV, graciously tells you that road tax is actually paid next door. You will discover later that he is a professional who navigates the car clearing process for hire, a service I unfortunately could not afford at this juncture. I think it runs $100-$200. Perhaps this convenience is in your budget.


10. Next door you find a far more spacious room with far fewer windows and far fewer people standing about. You figure out that road tax is paid at the furthest window from the door. After sliding a few of your growing pile of documents under the plastic window, the clerk will turn up the radio and begin to sing along with a song. When she finally notices you, you’ll pay her sixteen cents per pound of your vehicle. My Corolla, a roughly 2500 lb vehicle, cost me $404.


11. Take a short trip to the next window to pay for the permit required to move your car from Tropical Shipping to the BMV. The permit will cost you $5. This is the least amount of money you will part with on your quest to retrieve your wheels. This is my favorite step because while you may think that they will give you said permit at this window where you paid for it, you are wrong. In order to pick up the $5 permit required to move your car one-half mile, it is necessary for you to go back to the other BMV office—the one you mistakenly entered in the first place.


12. After entering the narrow room where many people still swarm looking like they have no clue as to where they should be, the same skinny fellow with the bling points you to the middle window, where there is no sign stating that this is the place to retrieve the $5 permit, for which you just paid. Bless him. You wait in front of the window for five minutes while the girl behind it talks on the phone. When she acknowledges you, tell her you’re here to retrieve the permit you paid for next door and thrust some of your papers through the hole. (At any given time, you have no idea which paper they need to see.) She will give you back your pieces of paper, and you hope the one that contains your permit is included.


13. Now it’s time to go to Customs. Take a deep breath and make sure your patience pants are tightly buckled. When you walk in, you’ll notice an area behind a glass window where three people sit, two men on either side of a woman. A sign on the window advises you to stay seated until you are acknowledged by one of the officers. The woman looks at you and snarls, so you advance toward the window where you notice she is reading the newspaper. You hand her your stack of papers and she looks through them, muttering, “What is this…I’m sure you don’t have what you need. I’m sure you don’t. What is this stuff…?” She sounds as if she’s maybe having a stroke as she speaks to you. Perhaps English is her second language, a fact for which you usually have patience. But since she’s muttering as if you are a stupid person after all the steps you have accomplished just to get this far, you’re quickly arriving at a state in which you almost hope she is, indeed, having a stroke. Because, at this point, you’d like to see someone trapped in the clutches of excruciating pain. And you usually consider yourself a peaceful, loving soul. Take another deep breath. Tell her you need to clear your car through Customs and that you have already paid road tax and have insurance, and a permit, and have been to the excise tax place, etc. You’ll be handed a form with a few items circled, which you assume must be filled out. After filling in the blanks to the best of your knowledge you return only to find her wholly engaged in the newspaper. Fortunately, the man sitting next to her decides to help you. He’ll let you know you filled out the form incorrectly, and you will fix it accordingly. Then he’ll ask you a few questions about what you are transporting. He’ll stamp your Bill of Laden, and you’re done with that step. Phew.


14. By this time you may look at your watch and realize that this is all you can accomplish today. The next step is returning to Tropical Shipping to show them all of your documents, pay, and finally retrieve your car. But Tropical Shipping closes at 3pm and the inspection lane closes at 2:45. It’s now 2:15, and you know accomplishing this is not possible. So you will try again tomorrow. After a couple beers and a good night’s sleep.


15. Your first stop today is at Tropical Shipping. This will be your most enjoyable, as the personnel are helpful and pleasant. Perhaps because they work for a privately-held company instead of the government. After verifying that your documents are stamped and signed appropriately, you will pay for shipping your car across the ocean. They charge by weight. My Corolla cost about $1300. Then they will give you yet another piece of paper and you will meet a nice man in the parking lot. You will inspect your vehicle to make sure there is no horrible damage, even though you don’t care at this point because you really just want to get behind the wheel and drive the damn thing away. After agreeing that there is no new damage, you sign a piece of paper, and the car is yours again!


16. Now it’s time to return to the BMV to register your car. It’s just down the street from Tropical. You will pull into the back of the building where you will see the inspection lanes. Have your road tax receipt, title, and proof of insurance ready. They will tell you when to pull into the lane. Many people will be standing around, including an armed police officer. None of them will appear to be doing anything work-related. A dreadlocked young man will beckon for your paperwork. You’ll hand it to him and he’ll sign it without so much as glancing at your car. This is your inspection. He is nice enough to tell you which window to approach once inside.


17. Find a parking spot and enter the first door at the BMV. Get in line at the proper window and prepare to wait patiently. Not that anyone else waits patiently. Many of the other people loudly complain about the wait, banging on the window and asking if the clerk has gone to lunch. Meanwhile, the security guard instructs those waiting to form a straight line, to which one man replies, “Make them go faster inside,” to which the security guard replies, “They are moving fast.” This rowdy exchange continues during your time in line. At least there is a good chance you’ll be amused during your half hour wait.


18. When you finally advance to the front of the line, you will shove your paperwork underneath the plastic window and tell them you’re here to register your car. She will give you another form to fill out. You’ll step to the side and fill out the required information. When you return to the window, she will put her hand up to let you know that she’s not ready for you yet. When she finally acknowledges you again, you will get a plastic laminated number, and will be told to sit and wait for your number to be called.


19. Numbers will be called in no identifiable order out of one loudspeaker mounted in the center of the narrow, fake-butter corridor. You will strain to hear them, determined to avoid elongating what you desperately hope is the last step to finally driving your car away from this absurd jungle of red tape. It’s not easy to hear what is called over the loudspeaker, partially due to the noise made by bored and frustrated BMV customers (if you can call them customers) and partially because the speaker has a fair amount of crackle, and partially because cars seem to keep passing with music playing loud enough to actually drown out the announcements.


20. Luckily, you are able to hear your number called, as well as the window to which you must report. When you arrive at the window, you again shove your paperwork in the tiny opening. The clerk will not look at you, but you might hear her ask her co-worker when she plans to go to lunch. When she does make eye contact, tell her you’re ready to pay for your registration. She will leisurely calculate your fees and collect your new plates and registration sticker. She will tell you a sum twice what you expect, given the amount registration is said to cost on the posted sign. You will nicely ask her to specify the itemized expenses, and she will tell you registration, license plates, inspection fee ($10 for the dreaded gentlemen to sign the paper without glancing at your car), and a few other items you can’t remember and also can’t refer to later because on the receipt $41 is listed as “Other.” You will sigh and fork over the money, anxious to finally get your new beautiful VI license plates and drive freely around the island.


21. Finally, after multiple hours, thousands of dollars, and with a stack of more than 20 pieces of paper, your new VI plates and registration sticker are in your trembling, anticipating hands. Hopefully, you brought a screwdriver—not, not to hurt anybody— so you can change your plates in the parking lot. Follow the instructions on the registration sticker for application to your windshield.


22. Now it’s time for a Presidente. Or a Painkiller.


23. And for God’s sake, after all this, don’t forget to stay left!

The Payoff: Tropical St. Thomas License Plates

Caribbean Units of Measure

Do you think they mean "feets" or "foots"?

Initial Post: Justifying my Blog Existence

Until now, I have paid little attention to the blog world. I know it's a big deal. Society changing. Suddenly every person with a computer and Internet access has a platform on which to share their perspective. Previously, I thought, who gives a fuck? Who in the hell reads anyone's blog, anyway? Who has time to read someone's damn blog with all of the books and magazines and interesting, vital websites to read? What makes these people think they have anything of value to offer?

But then I made a bit of a life transition. Or a pretty big life transition, depending on your perspective. And all of a sudden I'm under the impression that I have something of value...or of interest... or at the very least, amusement, to offer. And I've finally committed myself to pursue writing as a career. Anyone who has designs on being a writer in 2009 better damn well have a blog. So I'm jumping into the blogosphere. In doing so, I have travelled a bit and looked around to see what others are doing, and I must say that I understand the whole blog thing more now.

There are a lot of fucking interesting people in the world. Isn't that fantastic? That's one of the points of life, right? To delight in the uniqueness that individuals have to offer? Eh, it's one of the points of my life anyway.

We'll see where this little experiement takes me. If nothing else, it's a manner in which I can keep in touch with loved ones back in the Midwest and elsewhere.

And perhaps an exercise in creative self-indulgence.