Paradise Island, Bahamas
"Today feels like a Sunday," said Joe, one of the photographers I work with.
He was right. Then again, every day feels like a Sunday in the Bahamas.
"Why haven't you posted?" asked Benjo.
I thought for a second and really didn't have an answer. The intertubes is spotty in my room. Most of the time, it's down. The only access I have is downstairs at the media desk and even then it drops out frequently.
But for the most part, I haven't felt the urge to post. After being here over a week, I have fallen under the spell of Island Time. I'll get to it when I get to it. Like the blogs. I'll post... eventually.
I have been writing. Excesses of random dispatches. I just haven't been posting those. I have been writing between 3am and 5am by the illumination of the moonlight with the exception of the night that it rained. I have been waking up early to walk on the beach and then retire to my room to write and gaze out at the ocean. Then it's off to work for a lengthy day before I hit the bar with Otis and drink until they run out of Kaliks.
I have a hole in my jeans. A small one formed on Wednesday and it ripped yesterday. My only pair with me. I also have a blood stain on my polo incurred during a near brawl at Dodger Stadium this summer. I forgot it was there until I pot on the shirt this morning while the steel/reggae band below belted out a cover of Red Red Wine.
I have just a few moments before the start of the final table. There are eight players left in this poker tournament. First place pays out $3 million. Not a bad payday if you ask me. Of course, with televised events, there is always a delay due to technical difficulties. I decided to kill the time by writing a brief post and watching 150 Great Goals: Ipswich Town. It was given to me by my UK colleague Simon who happens to be a huge Ipswich supporter. I was giving the Brits a tutorial in American football and they in turn gave me a highlight reel of goals.
150 of them. Goals. 150? Yes.
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