miss ellie bronson

Dear Christian Bale at the Golden Globes:

Rock me sexy jesus. Seriously. I don’t care that you can barely speak in your own accent. The sound of your voice feels cool. It doesn’t matter to me that the stuff you say - to Carson Daly on the red carpet or when you won your award- makes no sense at all- even if I could understand what you were saying. You sound like you might have opinions about stuff, and be thinking thoughts about things.

Sure, it’s gibberish, but it’s poetic gibberish. No one gives a crap what poetry means either. You are pure poetry, Bale.

The weird combination of angsty and grateful - of resentment and neediness - is just so actorly. I love how you are one of those actors who gets their acting all over everything. You are ragey and vaguely threatening. You seem the most menacing when you appear to be happy. It freaks me out. I wanna see more.

I hope you are in more movies, and tv shows, and hell, even commercials. I’d like to see you try to sell someone something. You make Don Draper look like Shirley Temple. Don’t ever change.

True Blood is the new The Wire.

Previous posts have made quite clear my feelings of everlasting love for The Wire.  Sadly, however, The Wire is no more, and we all must get on with our lives.  David Simon’s new offering Treme is ok, I mean, it’s pretty, but it’s like a heavy-handed music video made by the bureau of tourism for New Orleans.  Booooooring.

You know what’s NOT boring?  True Blood.  One could also accuse TB of heavy-handedness, I mean, what with the vampires, shape-shifters, and now WEREWOLVES, I know, it’s a lot to take.  But it’s good.  Damn good.  Like, riveting, edge of chair/couch good.  

What’s not to like?  There’s sex, violence, intrigue, lies, lies and more lies.  Oh, and sexy white-trash people with not too many clothes on.  In other words, everything one could possibly want in a sunday night TV show.   In short, I’m hooked.

I mean, I don’t want The Wire to feel bad, but TW and I parted ways.  It was mutual.  We had a good thing, but all good things must come to an end, and David Simon is now making commercials for New Orleans so I think he’s ended up just where he belongs, and I wish him all the best, really, I do. 

Me, I’ve moved on.  Judging by Allen Ball’s GENIUS series Six Feet Under, he’s made of stronger stuff, and can continue to deliver staggering awesomeness week after week for as long as HBO will allow.  

So, raising a glass to True Blood, until next Sunday, my new love!

Thriller in Rye

I recently went on another exciting adventure with my friends Alex and Claire, this time to the idyllic suburb of Rye.  Little did we know our adventure would end in supernatural menace and almost certain gory death.

The day starts very promisingly, when Claire, her friend Liz, and I, head up to the AYC in sunny Westchester to catch the finish of the Spring Series regatta in which Salty Dog Alex was sailing, and watch the Kentucky Derby with some pleasantly inebriated sailors.  The city is hot and swarmy, but in Rye there is a cool breeze and even cooler Dark & Stormys.  We ensconce ourselves on the attractive and comfortable lawn furniture and feast on goldfish crackers and watch the boat with the red spinnaker.  One rum drink each and Alex has joined us.  Three more rum drinks each, and we’re watching the Derby.  The Derby is a disaster not only because it’s muddy and gross, but mostly because the horse Claire and I are cheering for, the filly Devil May Care, doesn’t even place.  I drink another Dark & Stormy bought for me by a well-spoken sailor to quell my Feminist disappointment.  Thirst and disappointment quenched, we begin our return journey to the city.  

Go-cups in hand, we taxi to the station.  Conversation has deteriorated from pretending we care about horse racing on the 362 days of the year that are NOT the Derby, Preakness, and Belmont Stakes, to contrasting our favorite HBO shows.  I weigh in heavily in favor of Big Love because of my well documented uncontrollable fascination with cults.  This may or may not have invoked the wrath of one of the one true gods.  At any rate, things start to take a turn for the worse about half an hour outside of New York.  

Claire and I both have to pee.  Our Go-cups are empty.  Sobriety is setting in and we’re missing the start of the Sox game.  We tumble out of the train in a rush, and crowd with the teeming masses towards the stairs leading up to the main concourse at Grand Central Station.  Somehow we’re almost last, which provides a terrific vantage point for observing the unrest and panic beginning to take hold of our fellow passengers.  

People are rushing up one stairwell after another in anxious throngs, only to return to the lower track level and try again.  It is like watching meth-addicted lab rats pressing levers and getting electric shocks.  The people don’t learn, and they try all 4 stairwells on the lower level and are fervently arguing with each other by the time we reach the end of the track.  What’s going on, we apprehensively ask the least fevered looking traveler, who responds that all the stairwells are locked and bolted shut.  By now the throngs are rushing vaguely around in circles and mobbing the locked stairwells.  Do we have to walk all the way to 125th Street to get out?  says Liz.  I’m claustrophobic, says Claire.  This is how the Zombie movie starts, says Alex.

All anxiety instantly leaves me and I’m crippled with laughter.  OHMYGOD YES I choke, WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE WHEN THE HUNGRY BRAIN EATING ZOMBIES RUN DOWN THE TRACK AND MURDER US ALL TO DEATH…I’m gasping.  Laughing so hard that tears start to run down my face and the having-to-pee situation gets dire.  

Finally some genius (not me) finds a freight elevator in a dark side hallway.  We crowd into it with about 20 other people.  I’m really claustrophobic says Claire, I think I might faint.  Look on the bright side, I cheerfully tell her- you wont feel a thing when the rabid zombies eat your brain!  I’m obviously helping, as she goes from looking pale and fainty, to healthily flushed with anger and is now glaring at me in a vivacious fashion.  The woman standing next to me tries to move slightly away from me but there’s nowhere to go- there are so many people in the elevator she’s pressed against the wall.  I consider telling her that I’m obviously kidding, everyone knows that zombies don’t take elevators, but then I remember that I probably am heavily scented with rum, and decide to leave it for now.  She’ll figure it out soon enough, or not.  

I’ll refrain from describing the situation at The Campbell Apartment, who suffice it to say, for a decent bar, has ONLY ONE bathroom, and just skip straight to the happily-ever-after.  We made it out of Grand Central Zombie House of Undead Death and safely to Prof Thom’s for the last inning of the Sox game- and they won!  

Dramatic Escape to Paradise On A Boat, Part 6: St Thomas, USVIs

Easter Sunday dawns, and we awake early in our beautiful anchorage in Jost.  Today we must return to American soil, which feels a little like giving in to an eventual return to “reality” - never pleasant.  The sail from Jost to St Thomas is breathtaking.  Clear blue water with hilly islands and bright sun and a perfect breeze.  En route we enjoy a typically generous brunch of leftover French cheeses, fruit, and crostini.  Customs is a cakewalk, though we get temporarily hung up by accidentally declaring some leftover sliced turkey, and receive a stern lecture about Mad Cow disease.  That’s so 2003, I think to myself but refrain from voicing any of my theories about the ridiculousness of mass hysteria surrounding bird flu, swine flu etc.  Now is not the time.  We bow our heads and promise to destroy our smoked turkey stash.  

We arrive safely at the marina, and begin an hours-long flurry of boat-cleaning and laundry.  After hosing ourselves down, along with the boat, we head to the delightful bar/restaurant on the dock, cosily named Tickles.  A few Caribs and salads later, and after a few last photos, S. heads to the airport.  Alex, Claire and I have accomplished enough boat work to justify a trip to the beach, so we head to one nearby.  It is a delirious and chaotic scene, with a band playing reggae and plenty of cold Coronas.  After we complete a few suitably obscene Pirate-themed Mad-libs, I fall asleep for the better part of an hour, and have to be shaken awake by Alex and Claire who are standing over me laughing.  Apparently I had fallen into a deep coma.    

Our big evening plans to watch the Red Sox season opener come to fruition admirably at the famous Fat Turtle.  We snag coveted seats at the corner of the bar and snack on conch fritters and delicious pizzas while enjoying alarmingly strong rum drinks.  Even though it is Easter Sunday, at Fat Turtle it is apparently always Saturday night.  We are surrounded by extremely inebriated college kids, a crew of riotous Aussies and boat-crew types.  Everyone is watching the game, and the crowd are all Sox fans! 

Things get a little hectic, rather quickly, as the Aussies buy several shots of rum for the bar, and the college kids next to me start making out.  The bartender dances on the bar, and I find a drunk girl getting sick in the bathroom.  We enjoy the scene for as long as we can stand it and then safely repair to the marina, where we catch the final inning at Tickles.  The Sox win!  Bed and second coma-sleep of the day.  

The last morning is sad, as we pack our bags and finish cleaning the boat.  After gigantic western omelettes at Tickles we head to the airport.  Back in New York I wander around Whole Foods in a daze.  There are so many people, and yet no reggae band or rum drinks.  Alex’s catch-phrase from the trip pops into my mind- every day without fail as some madcap scene would unfold around us he would say “This isn’t Idaho.”  It sure wasn’t.  But then again, neither is New York City.  

Dramatic Escape to Paradise On A Boat, Part 5: Jost Van Dyke, BVIs

Legend has it Jost is named after a 17th century Dutch privateer, though apparently there is not much actual “evidence” to support this history.  Currently the island is practically uninhabited,  with a mere 250 residents; to all of us Manhattanites it is essentially a desert island.  Desert or not, it is still under British rule, and we must go check in at customs before we can legally spend a dime on Painkillers at the Soggy Dollar bar (so-named because at some point in the not-so-distant past, sailors would swim up to the bar from their ships, so their money would be damp).  Breakfast is finished, and we’ve taken our morning dip in the clear warm water, dodging equal numbers of sea turtles and snorkelers.  Time to go ashore.  

Climbing in and out of a dinghy buoyed by waves is a bit more challenging than the graceful gazelle-like leap one can do when the boat is docked in port.  Fortunately we are all seasoned salty dogs, and we arrive at shore barely dampened by the waves crashing around our little tender.  To get to the street, we walk through the Stress-Free Bar, which is entirely decorated with giant conch shells and shell fragments, and already has some decidedly un-stressed looking patrons lounging in hammocks along the beach.  A taxi pulls up soon- a large painted jalopy with open sides- and we drive over hill to Great Harbor.  The driver, a laconic man with a lazy eye, takes the hairpin turns at about 1 mph, a nice change from the crazed Frenchmen of St. Bart’s who viewed each taxi-trip as their own personal Formula One.  

He drops us at customs, which doubles as the police station and, we suspect, the center of government for the entire island.  No one is there, and a frustrated tourist ahead of us informs us brusquely that she’s heard they wont be back for an hour.  She could use a Painkiller at the Stress-Free bar, I think idly to myself, as we wander down the street to Foxy’s, a bar owned by the eponymous Foxy, which Alex informs us, is THE place to go on Jost.  We’re on the main drag of the island.  We pass a grocery store and three or four bars on our left, and to our right there are palm trees and a beach, where a smattering of naked island children play in the surf.  Chickens and dogs meander around, seemingly too hot to move very fast or bark.  It is the most relaxing place I’ve ever been.  

Foxy’s is practically empty, with only a few tables of lunch customers scattered about.  Memoirs of good-times past are everywhere; past revelers have stapled t-shirts, hats, business cards, pennants, and ladies’ underthings to the columns and ceiling (there is only one wall to speak of).   Every object bears multiple signatures and a date- the earliest one I see is from the mid-nineties.  At the bar, Alex encourages everyone to order a Painkiller.  This is not a group that takes direction well however, and only Claire follows his lead, while S. orders a Mojito and I scan the menu, overthinking my selection.  Suddenly my eye falls on the best drink ever- which I am familiar with from Cyril’s in Amagansett- the legendary BBC!  I am overwhelmed with excitement and start jumping up and down and clapping my hands as I order it.  This attracts undue attention.  A man I’d previously not noticed, sitting at the bar next to us, zeros in on me.  Are you from Tennessee?  he asks.  A perplexed moment later I realize he’s talking about my straw cowboy hat.  No….NYC I say.  This further encourages him, as being a big-city type I am apparently a good-time girl.  I like your dress, he volunteers, though you would look better without it!  Alex puts his arm protectively around Claire, and I edge behind S., politely mumbling “thanks…” into my new BBC.  It is awfully early in the day for such forward advances, though one has to give him points for enthusiasm.  My BBC (Banana Baileys Colada, with delicious dark rum) is the BEST DRINK EVER, and unlike Cyril’s, Foxy’s brilliantly tops their BBCs with fresh-ground nutmeg.  I am going to start topping EVERYTHING with fresh-ground nutmeg - it is the awesome.  

Drinks finished, we check in at customs, and find a taxi back to White Bay (which we’ve re-named as White Boy, laughing at our own uncoolness amongst the laid-back islanders).  Back at the Stress-Free Bar we discuss where to find lunch.  Claire is pulling for the Soggy Dollar, as the name is just so compelling.  Suddenly a dreadlocked actual (though very tanned) white boy emerges out of the palm trees behind us.  You want to go to One Love he says, its right next door.  Surprised, we thank him and head down the beach.  One Love is not actually next door (island geography is a little vague), but we find it about fifty yards down the beach.  It is a lively scene, already populated with tourists and doing a bustling lunch trade to the strains of the first of many Bob Marley cover bands we will hear that day.  As we sit and order it dawns on us where our fellow patrons hail from, as the band leader changes every song to incorporate the words Puerto Rico, which engenders loud cheers from the small crowd on the dance floor.  The Puerto Ricans are feeling no pain, and we laugh approvingly at the show as bikini-clad girls and their companions gyrate on the stage; a flashback to our lunch at Nikki Beach.  There are a lot of lower-back tattoos on men and women alike, and swimwear ranges from the small to the microscopic.  I enjoy the best shrimp-wrap ever, filled with mango salsa and fresh seafood, and we repair to the Soggy Dollar for some after-lunch cocktails.  By this time White (boy) Bay is filled with day-trippers, who have rafted up their stinkpots in the harbor, and are now all standing in the surf drinking out of plastic cups, stumbling up to the bar for refills at regular intervals.  I speculate about how great a percentage of the water is now actually pee at this point, and then the heat overcomes me and I go swimming.  Fortified by rum, Caribs, and lunch, we return to the boat for pre-dinner naps.  

Dinner that night is at Foxy’s, where they serve barbeque every Saturday night.  We feast on ribs that fall off the bone, and enjoy more rum drinks and Caribs.  The crowd is older than the St. Bart’s bright young things, and amusingly, the 50-something crowd seems far more inebriated than the smattering of college kids covertly smoking joints.  We identify our friend from our pre-customs drink as hired local dance talent, who’s job seems to be entirely composed of dancing with a pole with a rope attached to it, which he treats as though it is a woman.  He caresses the pole, and sings to it, twirling the end of the rope over his head.  He alternates this pole-move with a series of acrobatics involving drinking a Heikenen from a deep back-bend without using his hands.  Everyone stares at him transfixed.  A hubbub arises on the other side of us as about 30 tourists, most of them wearing keffiyehs around their necks, arrive on the scene.  They immediately splinter into two groups, as the women head for the dance floor and the men attempt to hang an Italian flag between two columns.  This latter task proves to be almost impossible, and takes over an hour to complete.  One man stands on a chair attaching the ends of the flag in various ways, while seven or eight of his compatriots stand around below him shouting instructions.  They break two out of three staple guns provided by management.  At one point the flag is tied in a knot around one column, with other end trailing flaccidly.  Once they get one end stapled the other one is invariably at the wrong height or comes unattached somehow.  Between this and the pole-dancing man and the Caribs, our little group is soon weeping and helpless with laughter.  There is so much to see wherever we look.  The elder statesman of the Italian group, Papa Scarf, drifts over to join the women on the dance floor.  He is fantastically drunk, and seems confused about where he is.  At one point he collides with the pole-dancing man, and an expression of sheer panic crosses his face.  It’s all too much.  Our stomachs hurt from barbeque and too much laughter and we stagger into the street to hail a taxi home. 

Our driver is drinking a powerful rum drink, and as we slowly weave over the hill to White Bay we pass an energetic group of athletic, aged Germans, hiking over the hill single file.  They arrive back at the harbor at the same time as we do, and we soon realize that they are the inhabitants of a large Catamaran anchored next to us.  It has a large glass window in the main cabin, and as the septuagenarian Germans arrive home for the night they all strip off most of their clothes and mill about the cabin.  Oh great, says S., now we have to watch a bunch of 80-year olds screw.  We fall over each other scrambling to get below deck as quickly as possible, and sleep soundly until the next morning, which is appropriately, Easter Sunday.    

Dramatic Escape to Paradise On A Boat, Part 4: 3-hour Tour on the High Seas

Departure from delirious and delightful St Bart’s goes swimmingly.  The sky over our port side to the west turns pale and rosy as the hills and rocks of St B’s recede behind us.  We enjoy a very civilized glass of rose - only one each, as we have a long night’s sail ahead.  Alex has set us a course to the island of Jost Van Dyke, in the British Virgin Islands, and the autopilot is at the helm.  

As land vanishes on all sides, clouds thicken and a sudden squall blows in.  Turbulent seas, a sudden downpour and gusts to 30 knots.  Though the waves crashing over the side of the boat are pleasantly warm to those of us used to the frigid arctic Down East waters of New England, Claire and I don foul weather jackets over our bikinis.  Alex and S. discuss reefing the sails if the wind holds at 30kt, but at only 29kt, we persevere.  It is rough and choppy, and at one point all the empty rose tumblers fly off the table directly at me- though no injury sustained as they are fortunately the “free” plastic cups that we had fortuitously “liberated” from Nikki Beach.  Claire takes a seasickness pill, and Alex offers me one.  I’ve never been seasick, I reply jauntily, what does it feel like?  Oh, you’ll know, says Alex….and all too soon….I do.  

We’ve divided up the journey into 3-hour shifts: S. and I from 9pm-midnight, Alex and Claire from 12-3am, S. and I from 3-6, and Alex and Claire to bring us into harbor in Jost, from 6-9am.  Exhausted from our dissipated days, Alex and Claire get a head start on their evening nap below, while S. and I remain on deck and the squall lets up.  The rain has ceased yet the seas are still roiling and the wind is high.  Night falls.  I go below to the cabin for some reason and within seconds am hit with nausea.  We’d battened down all the hatches because of the storm and the cabin is 100 degrees and airless.  Alex, I’m queasy, I need a pill, I say…he gives me one and recommends staying on deck.  Within minutes, as Alex and Claire peacefully drift off to sleep in the main cabin, I’m curled up over the lee side of the stern, in the fetal position.  

The pill comes back up.  So does the rose.  So does lunch.  So does breakfast, and everything else I’ve ever eaten or drank in my life.  S. is solicitous and sanguine.  This will pass soon, he says.  His only word of caution is hold on tight.  If you fall overboard, he warns, I’ll never be able to find you.  He’s right.  With the thick cloud cover, there are no stars and the moon is not yet up.  We’re miles from land.  It is pitch black out there.  I am not frightened at all, merely annoyed and embarrassed.  I’ve sailed my whole life and never been seasick before, I say, what is going on?  It’s normal, S. says, it happens to everyone at some point, you should see even the most experienced sailors during the Newport-Bermuda race.  He pats me on the shoulder as another round of the sick begins.  He makes himself a snack, and offers to make me some toast.  OH GOD NO I say vehemently, I’m never eating again.  What is that 9 or 10 times you’ve thrown up now, he asks.  I lost count at 12, I say.  We pass the next four hours in this fashion.  S. talks comfortingly, explaining the various points of light that occasionally appear on the horizon- cruise ships and cargo ships we can see by the AIS.  In between bouts of the sick, he explains the wind, speed, and depth gauges.  I am not well enough to learn about the radar and the AIS. 

By the time midnight rolls around and our watch is over, I am mostly dead.  I’ve fallen asleep for the last 5 minutes of our watch- a cardinal sin no matter HOW ill you are- and I’m woken up by Alex’s cheery exclamation of “Felony!” (yes thats my name) as he appears on deck.  Having been briefed on my condition by S., he cautions me to try to stay hydrated, and I explain briefly what happens when I drink water- I see it again much too soon for comfort.  As I am already mostly unconscious I take over the entire mid-ship bunk for myself (I’d promised to share it with S., as no matter how seasoned a sailor, NO ONE wants to be in the fore or aft cabins during an overnight sail- they’re airtight coffins of death by suffocation).  I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow and my next conscious moment is when I again hear a solicitous “Felony…” again at 3am.    Miraculously I feel better.  Claire nestles me into a fleece blanket as I climb on deck, and both the moon and the stars have appeared so once again I can see a horizon line- an invaluable stabilizing force.  I’m better, I proudly announce to S., and speedily drink half a cold ginger ale to prove it.  This time I make it to the head in the cabin, before the ginger ale comes back up.  Baby steps, but still progress.  I am at least vomiting in privacy, and that is something.

Back on deck I am somehow slightly better.  I sit on the starboard (windward) side with S., as we try to discern if the lights in the distance are land.  They’re not.  They’re a 700 foot cargo ship.  S. jokes, it’s headed straight for us!  I laugh.  I’m well enough to laugh!  An hour later I finish the other half of my ginger ale and keep down 6 sour-cream-and-onion Pringles.  I vow to never be more than 8 feet from ginger ale and Pringles again in my life as a bargain with fate to allow me to enjoy the second watch.  It works!  This watch I learn all about the radar and the AIS (a fancy system which allows us to see the names, ports-of-origin, course, and other relevant info about other boats within 25 miles of us).  If a big ship is headed our way, such as a cruise ship or the afore mentioned cargo behemoth, we have to change our course, fast.  They are much bigger than us, and it would take them miles to even slow down.  If our courses intersected they’d plow over us, back up over us, and run over us again.  Or something like that.  Ecstatic and energized by my newly slightly-less-nauseous lease on life, I grill S. with questions about the perils that might await us at sea.  As we can control our course, and are tricked out with all the latest equipment, there is no danger of collision with either another boat or reefs or other land masses under the ocean.  The real risks are things that you cant see with equipment, or the naked eye, such as containers or other things that fall off boats or float out from land, or even a whale.  

In preparation for my first overnight sail, I’d considered many possibilities, including that I might be scared, out in the middle of the ocean, in the dark, out of sight of land, etc.  I am proud to say that although I threw up enough food to sustain most of the fish in the caribbean for a month, I was never afraid.  S. jokes when the boat jolts against a particularly vigorous swell, I think we just hit a whale!  I laugh happily.  I LOVE sailing.  

Just as the sun begins to lighten the sky to the east, Alex and Claire get up for the final leg of the journey.  I proudly inform them that I’m alive.  They’re thrilled.  S. and I go below to sleep and miss the final leg of the journey, apparently a beautiful dawn amongst the islands, as Alex navigates towards Jost, near Tortola and Saint John.  When I wake up, Alex and S. are anchoring us in picturesque White Bay, which looks like every cheesy postcard of an island paradise you’ve ever seen.  A new day has never dawned so beautifully, and once safely anchored, Alex and S. who have shouldered the entire navigation and sailing duties, and the exhausted Claire who’s been up since 6am remain on deck while I chef us a gargantuan breakfast of almost a dozen eggs scrambled with bacon and three kinds of cheese, toast, and grapes.  As we feast Alex says, I think Ellie has one last little bit of pain, that can only be cured with Jost’s patented “Painkiller” - a frosty rum drink invented 40 feet from our anchorage.    I think you might be right about that, Misdemeanor, I say. (yes, that is Alex’s name.)  We all grin wickedly at each other.

Dramatic Escape to Paradise On A Boat, Part 3: More snapshots from St. Bart’s

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.  I remember saying something like “I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive…” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas.  And a voice was screaming: “Holy Jesus!  What are these goddamn animals?”

Then it was quiet again.  My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process.  “What the hell are you yelling about?” he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses.  “Never mind,” I said.  “It’s your turn to drive.”  I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark towards the shoulder of the highway.  No point mentioning those bats, I thought.  The poor bastard will see them soon enough. 

OMG SORRY you guys!  I TOTALLY got “Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas” confused with MY life again.  I hate it when that happens.  Getting ahold of self now.  Resuming correct narrative. 

OK so…yes, Alex and I survive our 30 mile swim through shark-infested waters back from the pirate ship to the relative safety of Nikki Beach, uh, beach.  After rewarding ourselves as well as the faithful Claire and S. for waiting for us so loyally, with another delicious bottle of Ott, we head back to the boat to nap.  This does not go as planned, as only Claire naps, while I sit on the deck with the boys, smoking cigarettes and telling lies.  More rose.  Things start to get a little hazy after that.

Sunburn and blisters from previous night’s fancy footwear prevent me from wearing shoes to our friendly neighborhood bar/restaurant Le Wall House where we have a drink while waiting for the cab to take us to Le Ti, where we have a dinner resy.  Thursday nights at Le Ti are “Sexy Fashion Show” night (every night has a different theme apparently).  The taxi over the hill to Pointe Milou is like a rollercoaster.  I’m happily bouncing around the cab as it veers around hairpin turns, still barefoot.  Things are really great.  Stuff is exciting.  

At dinner I enjoy a mouthwateringly perfect steak and polish off most of the dessert we ordered for “the table.”  My conversation is mostly limited to Homer Simpson-style fragments such as “cant talk, eating.”  I am fairly sure I had a LOT of opinions about the “Sexy Fashion Show” (which to the best of my recollection was neither Sexy nor Fashionable, though certainly a show…) but they escape me now.  The one brilliant idea (possibly of many) that I have during the course of the evening is to join forces with a table of attractive locals (transplants from Spain) sitting near us.  This proves prescient when they turn out to be friends of the owner, and henceforth we drink free beer far past closing time.  Conversation consists mostly of comparing swear-words in foreign languages.  My only contribution (in French!) is the subject of much debate as no one believes that it means what I think it means.  Undeterred, I repeat it until everyone agrees with me.  Repetition works FABULOUSLY in such circumstances.  

The Spaniards offer to drive us home, an offer we politely decline in a belated attempt at grown-up “responsible” decision-making.  Back at the boat, sweet Claire plays me my new favorite cheesy pop song, and I accidentally drink a ginger ale instead of a beer.  Bedtime too late to reveal.  

We all survive the night, and the next morning have baguettes avec jambon AND croissants for petit dejeuner at a boulangerie-patisserie.  I acquire a beautiful bright red sunburn while napping on the deck and then it’s time to provision the boat for our 100 mile/16 hour sail to the BVIs.  This proves to be a bit of a challenge when we discover that it’s Good Friday, and we’re technically in a Catholic country.  All the adorable churches we pass while wandering through town are empty, but all the shops are closed.  The harbor-master tells us we have to be out of the harbor by 3:30.  We politely ask for a delay until 4; he pretends to no longer speak English.  French A-hole we mutter to each other and go for bacon-cheeseburgers and freedom fries.  Best bacon-cheeseburger EVER and totally worth remaining in France illegally for.  Finally we locate the only shop open, where we purchase 14 EUR frisee and 25 EUR saucisson.  

Back at the boat we are remarkably organized.  Claire and I move various foodstuffs around the galley, while Alex fiddles with essential sailing-type-stuff, and S. wanders a few feet down the dock to assist the boat next to us with their bow and stern lines, which they have thoroughly tangled.  No sooner does he help them free themselves, then they collide amidships with a Catamaran which is floating toward them at a snails pace under neither sail nor power.  It was a slow-motion mess.  S. returns to the boat, and we ask him what the hell happened.  I have no idea, he says, I think they’re Italian.  

Time to get outta Dodge.  The harbor-master harangues us over the radio because it is now 4:15, but what can he do?  The sails are up and we’re heading out to sea.

Dramatic Escape to Paradise On A Boat, Part 2: Snapshots from St. Bart’s

Step 1 when adjusting to island paradise after harrowing journey: rose and hors d’oevres.  Geniuses Alex and Claire had stocked my soon-to-be home-for-6-days with delicious rose, and I’d purchased a selection of artery-clogging cheeses and pates so upon our arrival at the boat, we cranked the awesome-meter up to 11.  

Bikini donned, and snacks and rose consumed, we laze around the deck, lounging in the late afternoon sun and letting all cares fall away.  Napping occurs.  The only reminder that it is actually March back in the real world is that the sun suddenly dramatically sets behind a goonies-style rock at the entrance to the harbor at 6PM, and we muster up the energy to pretty ourselves up and start discussing drinks-and-dinner plans.  We briefly consider rushing to the swanky Carl Gustav hotel for “sunset cocktails” yet the sun is too quick for us.  I further sap away our impetus to actually “go anywhere” by quoting one of my favorite scenes from Boogie Nights, where Julianne Moore and Heather Graham have shut themselves in a bedroom for a days-long drug bender, all the while telling each other that their options are unlimited, they are both talented and deserving of great fame and fortune, when Heather Graham abruptly derails their ambition by the phrase “but I don’t really want to leave this room.”  It works, energy sapped, we open another bottle of delicious delicious rose and gently bob up and down as waves lap against the dock.

Eventually hunger wins out, and suitably gussied up, we wander in to “town” - a picturesque main drag lined with bars filled with tourists, equally divided between families and eurotrash.  We somehow find a local bar, which seems filled with actual island residents and cruise ship staff.  This is the “real” St. Bart’s, we tell eachother, soon to find out that there is really no such thing.  Drinks consumed, next stop is Eddies, an asian-fusion joint with the freshest seafood ever and picture perfect “island” decor.  I gorge myself on unusual combinations of crabmeat and lobster and a perfect white wine.  Stuffed to the gills, we sit complacently staring at the beautiful people, when our waiter brings us each a shot of rum, compliments of Eddy.  S. tries to protest, saying there is really no need for MORE booze at this hour, at which point I typically seize control and insist we drink the rum, as I’ve read online that this is what “one does” here.  This has the desired effect and we imbibe.  Suitably relaxed and feeling little pain we wander the streets for a while and discuss whether it would be wrong to steal one of the hundreds of moter-scooters, vespas and ATVs which are scattered along the sides of the streets in clusters.   I mean, how hard could it be to hot-wire a car, we say.  The more the desire to steal something grips us, the more quickly we realize its time to return to the boat before one of us, crazed with vespa-covetousness actually ACTS on our musings.  Safely back on the boat we listen to music and let the warm breeze lull us into a stupor.  I fall asleep in my mid-ship bunk like a baby rocked in a cradle as the boat rolls gently back and forth.  

The next morning, groggy from a sound night’s sleep, host-with-the-most Alex chefs us a substantial breakfast, as we have a long day ahead of us.  Attired in our skimpiest most European swimwear, we taxi over to St Jean on the other side of the island for an afternoon of swimming, beaching, lunching and multiple bottles of Domaine Ott.  Ensconced in our rented beach chairs with matching towels (costing somewhere around 300 Euros apiece) we while away an hour or so chatting, walking on the beach, and watching families with small children frolic in the water.  Bottle one of Ott consumed, we drift up to the porch, a mere 6 feet away, but a world apart.  No sooner have we ordered our rose, and our first courses, then the throbbing techno house music spun by an energetic DJ gets louder.

The table next to us fills with the oddest selection of characters imaginable, some of whom have clearly come straight from central casting for the previously mentioned Boogie Nights, or possibly extras from Striptease.  These nubile ladies immediately begin to gyrate enthusiastically on the table top.  Some older gentlemen of their party watch approvingly, while a gaggle of teenage boys and girls also at their table look bored.  I take a large number of photographs, trying to capture the exact moment when the most arses are visible at once.  Unable to eat properly, our table guzzles rose and gapes.  The nubiles, who we’ve realized are not quite as young as initially thought, inspire other women around the restaurant to join in the fun.  We are surrounded by women of various ages in various stages of undress, gyrating maniacally.  The only option is to laugh, and laugh we do.  At points some of us are crying, though for slightly varied reasons.  Claire is nauseated by the display, Alex is laughing uncontrollably and narrating the ridiculousness, and S. is disappointed that the nubiles are not so attractive.  I am irritated that they are moving too quickly for me to properly document the display.  Leaving lunch half-eaten, we grab the wine and flee to our chairs.  

At this point, Alex and I decide to swim a mile or so out to what is clearly a pirate vessel moored on the far side of the bay.  We’ve noticed the pirate himself rowing his classic dory up to the beach, no motorized dinghies or tenders for him!  This guy is LEGIT, we tell each other.  Draining our glasses, and with no adults around to tell us to wait 20 minutes after eating, we head into the ocean, leaving Claire and S. at the mercy of the nubiles.  After swimming for about half an hour, Alex and I realize that in fact the pirate ship is farther then perceived, and yet we are undaunted.  We’re determined to see the phenomenon up close even if it means swimming 10 miles up-hill-both-ways in a snowstorm.  We dodge the boats ferrying cruise ship guests to the beach and redouble our efforts.  Though we are not rewarded with rum, or even grog, when we reach the ship, as the pirate is still somewhere up the beach, we swim around and around the boat marveling at the wonder of it all.  It is painted black, of course, and proudly flies a jolly roger from the mast.  There are numerous oddly placed chains, and the battered hull indicates that some serious weather has been experienced.  The name of the boat escapes me, as the 40 or so bottles of wine we’d consumed had worked their magic, but it hailed from Key West, an impressive distance for a boat not more than 30 feet long with a crew of one lonesome pirate.  There is a weatherbeaten figurehead, who is unfortunately more clothed than the beachside nubiles, but at least she is present, though desperately in need of a coat of paint.  

Time to head back.  On the way back to the beach, Alex and I agree that in the re-telling, we must explain that instead of rose, we’d actually been drinking RUM, and had each drunk a CASE, and the pirate ship was 20 miles away and there was a tsunami while we were swimming there.  We wonder if Claire and S. will remember who we are when we return.  

To be continued….

Dramatic Escape to Paradise On A Boat, Part 1: Arrival St. Bart’s

Somehow I have acquired enough merit from a previous existence to have such wonderful friends as Alex and his fiance Claire.  They recently invited me down to the caribbean to stay on their beautiful sailboat and cruise around some islands for a little R&R.  Again, I have no idea how I conned these people into this, but I thank the god-that-doesnt-exist every day for such blessings.  Actually I have a pretty good idea how this invitation came about and it involved about 30 martinis.  Thank god (redux) that they’re drinkers!

Departure goes smoothly, as friend S. and I head to JFK airport in the wee hours of the morning.  I’ve been too excited to sleep much and regale S. with horror stories I’ve heard of the puddle-jumper plane flight into St Bart’s, where we will meet our generous friends and their lovely Sabre yacht.  This flight takes 10 minutes from St. Maarten, and apparently involves some sort of a death-plunge into a watery grave.  Don’t worry, says S., its like a roller-coaster.  I worry a little more.  I hate roller-coasters.  I’ve actually fainted on one, when I was 12.

In St. Maarten we drink two beers at the airport.  Delicious weird foreign kind of Amstel that I’ve never had before.  I buy fancy cigarettes for cheap and feel like chic world traveler.  

The plane is tiny.  Only 3 seats across, and they’re doll-size.  I’m a size 6, and am falling out of it into the aisle.  S. is mostly in my seat as he’s like 6’4” or something.  My heart starts to race as I see that the copilot is a young attractive blonde.  I racially profile her (just as I always hate when people do to me) and assume she’s an idiot because she is pretty, and cant fly the plane and the pilot is probably drunk and we’re going to die.  Take off is horrible, as expected.  The plane is from 1964 or so, and shudders with every gust of breeze.  Its a little foggy.  I perspire gently and shut my eyes, gripping the seat back in front of me.  As soon as we’re up, its time to head down.  We speed up.  I’m now in a full on cold sweat and friend S. asks me if I’m going to vomit.    No of course not, I answer testily (more on that later…more prescient words were never uttered.)  Try looking out the window he helpfully suggests.  WORST IDEA EVER.  What’s happening outside the window is the plane is in the predicted death-plunge-of-certain-death headed down at a 90 degree angle straight for the side of a jagged hill.  As the trees rush towards me at breakneck speed, I cry out and grab S’s arm.  Preternaturally calm passenger in front of me turns around at my outburst, and I apologize, thinking that it will be doubly pathetic if the last words out of my mouth before death are “sorry.” So thats how it ends….not with a bang, but with a “sorry.”  Note to self: change life!

Somehow we narrowly avoid the mountain top- I swear we grazed it a little- and fall down onto the runway and screech to a halt a few feet before the runway dead-ends into the ocean.  I stagger out of the plane, shaking, and practically in tears.  We taxi into town on windy hilly roads, which don’t scare me cause nothing ever will have the power to frighten me again after the death-flight-of-doom-and-certain-death.  Out of the taxi I almost collapse on the sidewalk and insist on drinking a bottle of water and smoking one of my new fancy cigs before we head to the bar to meet Alex and Claire.  I sit on a curb till heart rate slows, and suddenly notice that I’m in paradise.  Palm trees, attractive French people, adorable little stucco two-story shops and buildings.  Next stop: Le Select (home of the famous Jimmy Buffet “Cheeseburgers in Paradise.”  Friends A and C are tanned and happy, feasting on burgers and drinking Caribs which we will all drink like water for the remainder of the trip- or at least when the rose is running low or we need variety.  I brag to them about how I bravely survived the flight of hell.  They sweetly humor my dramatic re-telling.  We head to the boat for rose and hors d’oevres.  En route I buy lots of foie gras and fancy cheese to celebrate life.  Calories don’t count when you’ve just cheated death.  

Top 10 things I Love & Hate about the holidays

TOP 10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT THE HOLIDAYS:

1. Eggnog. Seriously, you guys, that stuff is disgusting.  There’s not enough rum in the WORLD to make it palatable. Barf.  Same goes for rum-cake, even though that has rum in it.

2. Gift-giving one-ups-man-ship.  This sucks if you are not the wealthiest member of your family or the alpha-dog in your group of friends.  Its always a safe bet to go for ‘thoughtful’ gifts, but you’re still gonna feel like a loser when some high-roller buys everyone like, a Cessna.

3. Weight.  If you have gained or lost weight in the past year, now EVERYONE in your friends and family will notice and either comment or not, which is worse.  “Are you OK, why are you so skinny?” is almost worse than disapproving glances as you go for thirds on pate, as those you can happily ignore as you gorge yourself on delicious pate.

4. Dating.  If you are in a relationship, you gotta stress about what gift to buy, knowing the entire fate of your relationship depends on getting not only the right gift, but the right level of gift - nothing too much (clingy and desperate) and nothing too small (emotionally  stunted and withholding).  Cant win, really.

5. Not-Dating.  This is worse than Dating, because chances are you recently went through a breakup (c’mon, no one in NYC is single for more than a few months) and thats why you are so skinny or fat, and everyone’s gonna grill you about it.  You can be as funny and self-deprecating as you want, but just don’t drink too much champers and start crying under all the questions.  No one wants to smooch a snivelling mess under the mistletoe.

6. The sidewalk in front of Macy’s.  Ok I realize I already sound a bit like Scrooge with all these things I hate and all, but seriously the entire 34th street area is impassable and I gotta walk that way to go to work.  Is there really a demand for 30 different Santas all OUTSIDE the store?

7. and FORGET midtown.  Don’t go there till January.

8. Awkward run-ins at holiday parties.  No, sorry, I don’t remember your name, we meet once a year, how on earth could I?  I cant be expected to remember EVERYONE…

9. Dry-cleaning bills.  No joke, these can reach into the hundreds this time of year, esp if you are prone to spilling bubbly and caviar…

10. Post-holiday blues.  What the hell are we all sposed to do until spring?

TOP 10 THINGS I LOVE ABOUT THE HOLIDAYS:

1. Snow.  This TOTALLY makes the cold worthwhile.

2. Skiing.  Who doesnt love skiing?  Communists that’s who.  People who hate America.  People who hate FREEDOM.

3. Lights in trees.  Beautiful!

4. Crafts, people, crafts.  My family always made all our own ornaments growing up, so not only are we TOTALLY creative and artistic, but the tree is beautiful!  So get yer craft on.

5. Its A Wonderful Life.  Nothing captures just now not-wonderful life can be as well as this movie, and it’s a good reminder not to off yerself.  Plus you can work on your Jimmy Stewart impression by stuffing lots of marzipan in your mouth and trying to annunciate.

6. The Perfect Gift.  You can always count on one home-run with one gift, with one family member, once per holiday- whether given or received, its a guarantee.  Enjoy!

7. Trips.  It is now practically mandatory to take some sort of trip during the holidays, or at worst, immediately following.  Either skiing or someplace warm for sailing!

8. Holiday parties.  I love parties!

9. Stories from holiday parties.  Almost as good as stories from Birthday Parties, but often involving santa hats and/or lit candles.  Good stuff.

10. Champagne!  Of course, one should enjoy this bubbly treat all year round but it never seems so festive as right about now…mmmnnnn YUMMY.