Madness, in complete excess... are the only words known to this ravaged soul and spoiled liver to describe the abuse and gluttonous behaviour shared by myself, my wife, and the fistful of whack jobs whom were not smart enough to disassosiate themselves from our abandonment of responsibilities and restraint. The remainder of this story would be as fine and entertaining as anything else which comes from my head, but to truely appreciate how awry our plans strayed, one must know our original intent. Myself, and my wife got the brain fart to go to Breezes for the weekend following my birthday. During the planning process, we picked up a few strays, including Bobby, Kiki(Keri), Tambi, and Meathead. 'We can take the SeaLink over and back and spend a few days studying bible stories by the pool.' These are the words I used to sell the crew on going, poor bastards. What they didn't know was that Sodom and Ghamora were indeed bible stories.

Thus our story begins... I knew our 'pleasant' boat ride was going to be anything but when I saw Bastian waiting to board the same boat. For those that don't know Bastian allow me to save you the pleasure of his ramblings, his incessant begging for alcohol, his lousy poetry, and last but far from least his odor, which is as fragrant as a pierside brothel at low tide. His only redeming point is he's the only limestone carver on Andros, and if you can indeed keep the Guinness and Calcutta Gin away from him for more than twelve minutes he is actually quite talented. Unfortunately, it's easier to catch a fart and paint it purple, because the fame of his talent takes backseat to his title of 'Third Biggest Drunk on Andros', behind 'Pass out and Wets Himself Guy, and Dosier, who needs no more introduction. When I return from getting the tickets he's been proposing to Kiki by saying he'd 'parachute out of the next space shuttle'. I acost him by saying 'what the f*(k is the matter with you?! It's only 11:30 in the morning and your high!!'. He scampers away with his tail between his legs and we wait and drink water, the last water we were going to be drinking for the next 4 days.

In the beginning... Once in our rooms after a nightmare encounter with the front desk where I asked them guitar in hand 'yes, we're with the band 'Cracker Jacks', do you have our suite ready? If we don't have fresh grapefuit and pez we will sue.' Some people just shouldn't work in public service....no sense of humor. I mean I had two seperate bahamian women scratch my back when I walk into their store and they ask 'May I help you?', and I say 'sure, can you hit this spot in the small of my back with them 2 inch claws you got there sweetheart?'. They took it in stride, but not the whack job at our own hotel. OH NO.....she's above us somehow. She bats her half-lidded Egyptian painted eyes slowly as her mocha face reddens with anger. Once in our room which has a wonderful view of a hammock and a discarded shirt which I'm sure once contained breasts. Three doors down and across the hall Meathead, Bobby, and Kiki are setting up camp and preparing their room for all sorts of sounds and smells. Twelve minutes later I'm by the pool with Meathead. We are both drinking beer and Meathead is hitting on Makeda. The first of over 3000 girls he was destined to annoy or amuse with his incessant machismo. Within two beers all are poolside and we're planning our evening. 'I've got this down to a science' I say to all, 'if you nap between 8 and 11 your good until 5 when the bar closes, then you sleep till 10 AM when the bar and hot tub reopens.

The night is young... Bobby's Crabichanga kicks in full force and he vomits for over 18 hrs. Kiki calls it an night early. Meathead complains that no one wants to stay up and party, then his next breath is a loud forceful snore. Our room retires after dinner for a nap with the alarm set at 11 pm. Once we're up we find Meathead and hit the Social Hall and watch the band finish up their set, and I swear by all that's holy, what do we see but a midget! Not only a midget, a midget with a mullet, whereby I say yet again, if she starts rapping, I'll stop writing now! Never happened so we went to club Hurricane watching the 16 year olds drunk off watered down liquor and their own juices. One particular cat staying at our fine establishment who looks like Fabio has with him a girl who is to be known the rest of the trip as 'My Favorite Hat', being that she had the kind of ass one would like to wear as a hat. With the assistance of a too-white-for-their-own-good wedding party, the DJ commenced to poking as much fun at the white people as possible by playing the most trite, stereotypical songs he could muster up to make every white hand in the house raise up and go whoop, whoop. Such classics as 'Gonna make you sweat', 'Funky Cold Medina', 'Can't Touch This', and of course 'Ice Ice Baby'. Never have I been embarrased for my entire race. Meathead kept exclaiming 'BANG' whenever he found a female the slightest bit attractive, which was pretty much nonstop. Occasionally a few would stop and stare at him, until I explained to them that he had tourette's syndrome. Shelli and Tambi dance until just before 2 whence the club starts to clear, I grab another Jack and coke and we retire to the hot tub.

What's wrong with this picture... Other than it's blurry and someone's thumb is in it. This is not the Breezes I've known and loved for many years. Where are all the animals? The late night hot tub crew? The drunken freaks? The streakers? Those who must be warned every 15 minutes like clockwork by the hotel security to keep it down or they are going to have to close the hot tub and send everyone packing? All are missing. Where did everyone go when the club closed? Surely to all that's holy everyone didn't go to their rooms?! What a sad state of affairs when one can't even find drunken bare breasted underage girls after 230 am. Disappointed, we all drag our wet cold feet back to our room around 315, and are asleep by 4. Up by 8 AM for breakfast and coffee that is only slightly worse than instant Maxwell House drained through the business parts of my 7th grade science teachers pantyhose. Myself and Sheldon read abit by the pool whilst awaiting the awakening of the rest of our crew. Once all are gathered, it seems that a nameless guest staying in the room across from Bobby, Kiki, and Meathead was getting her muffin buffed the majority on the night making Bobby actually move his bed away from the wall to keep it from bouncing, with Meathead sitting, glass to wall exclaiming, 'Damn, Boyyyyy, Hit that!'. Post a breakfast which is the only thing Bobby's eaten since his crabichanga. The girls decide it's time to hit Bay Street. Meathead says 'BANG' and it's a-go.

Yo' Selma Bill, School's in sucka... It's almost too much to believe to think that the biggest Conchy Joe (white bahamian), on Andros would win a whitest dance-off. Let me explain. We walk around Bay Street for a few hours where I spend $60 on a quarter, $60 on a 15 cent piece, $14 for a $1 coin, $24 on a 2 dollar coin and $8 on a fifty cent piece. Quick math calls that $166 USD on $3.90 Bahamian. Hey, they saw me coming. Didn't hurt that myself and Meathead stopped for beer thrice, the last time at a shop where Beer was $3.00, Grits and Sardines were $3.25 and Virgins were $3.50. Again, must be an exchange rate issue. One particular sports store advertised on their marquee 'Name Brands for Less!!', they must have ran out of space because it should have read 'Name Brands for Less than you can bury your grandmother!!'. $55 for a pair of Quicksiver board shorts....Keep them! Bobby needs meds, he comes back with over the counter Codiene! I tell him, keep Sheldon away from it, she swears by it. After the straw market where I talk a Bahamian guy out of 3 huge pieces of black coral, and Meathead buys a carved torso of a nude obvious black female form, that I swear will only be a nub of a toothpick by the time he gets it home, we go to Senior Frogs for lunch. Why do we go to Senior Frogs for lunch you may be asking? Because we're white, and that's what white people do in Nassau. I'm eating the driest burger I've ever seen, drinking a $5 Sol beer when the DJ comes out blathering on and on about where are you from, and nice hat, and oh isn't that interesting, with everyone from a tablefull of Jersey Girls, to some Indian family that insisted they didn't order anything with meat in it, generally making his host-like rounds. At one point he realizes my shirt reads 'Got Meth?' so he pulls me up on the bar, and seems to randomly pick guys up from the restaurant and pulls them up on the bar. I see the writing early on when all the kids standing around me are white and he's not, I think 'he's going to make us dance, and make fun of us, and $10 five to one says he's going to make us dance to 'Play That Funky Music White Boy'. Like clockwork here comes Wild Cherry's anthem to late 70's disco crackers with Afro-envy. I immediately tell the guy, 'look, I dance like a paraplegic leper trying to scratch his own back. I didn't pay for this ticket, it's not my ride.', with that, me and Bobby jump off the bar, leaving Meathead up there, dancing like the welder girl from Flashdancer. An overwhelming victory for dance enthusiast everywhere, really. I do have to add as a footnote that they played the same songs at Senior Frogs, that they played at the Hotel bar....coincedence? I think not! I'm sure somewhere in Nassau, someone sells a CD called 'Cracker Jams', I just can't find the vender. We leave, find a Taxi and plan to go back to the Hotel for drinks and volleyball, at which Point Sheldon says, 'You can, I'm going to nap when we get back', I look sideways at her and ask, already knowing the answer, 'Did you take codiene?', her answer instead of a 'yes' or a 'no' was a guilty, 'I had a headache?'. in the form of a question as if, would you believe that.....'.

Just the facts Ma'am... I could go on for days about fun the boat ride was, but in the interest of time and space I'll just sum up the trip in blurbs. We pack Jager and Corona in the off chance that the Bar isn't open. The bar is, but we still drink our Corona as well as canned Heineken, which taste is so far removed from beer the chance of them meeting is as remote as Bastian from anything personal hygiene related. Once we were topside, I saw boarding what may or may not have been a black midget. I said, if he donnes a Rebel flag and starts rapping, I can stop writting right now, because I will indeed have seen enough. Unfortunately he must've been killed and eaten, because he was never seen again. Bobby gets some sort of bahamian meat pocket from the snack bar, almost resembling a 'chimichanga', which we all agree is a bad idea, but he's a daredevil, and eats his 'crabichanga' and laughs at us all. Around half way across I'm over a six pack into the ballgame laying on the metal observation deck warming myself like a puppy in the sun singing 'I don't want to grow up, I'm a Toys-R-Us kid'. That's the last solid memory, the rest is grey area, but I'll do my best to relay the parts that actually must have happened, because everyone else remembers the same.

Taxi-Cab confessions... Potter's Cay is what the free world would be doing for foodstuffs if the Conch Republic would've won it's war upon the U.S. No health department, and nothing a few shots of high grain rum can't cure. Botchalism, Salmanilia, and Trichinosis for all my friends. This is where we met Abaco Joe. We found him after a brisk walk from the Bahamas Ferries port where we found no Taxis, where upon I declare, 'They spooked the horses we'll have to walk back to camp'. We board his taxi after the agreed upon price of $6 a head. He takes us through the back streets of Nassau where he asks, 'any of you every heard of Abaco'. After several wide eyed nods he says, 'This here taxi is an Abaco Taxi, we ain't legal in Nassau', stirring my anarchist nature with drunken calls of 'Damn the man', and 'we're outlaws, outlaws and pirates arggh!!'. Our joy is short lived when Joe makes a check to right. I thought he was turning around to see us while he was driving, turns out he's starboard deficient. Abaco Joe is now, One-eyed Abaco Joe the Pirate, and he's driving a boatload of crackers around the backstreets of Nassau in speeds in excess of 50 miles per hour.

Hey little girl, want a $50... With the turmoil of Nassau proper now properly behind us, we're free to do what we came here for. Play volleyball, romp in the hot tub, troll for visitor chicks (it's oh-so easy when they are all visitors), all under the influence of heavy drink, and heavier pheremones. We start out courtside when an obvious underage girl comes up wishing to pick up a game. I immediately see she's a player, slight of frame, shoulders like stone, and quads which could launch her into low orbit, all in this creature that can not be older than sixteen years old. I say 'hey, I'm Geo, are you looking to pick up a game?', she says 'I'm Nicole, and yes I want to play'. Meathead says 'BANG'. The three of us get in the next game. Meathead looks like a constipated monkey on the court, he's good, just looks funny. Just as I expected, Nicole was a little dynamo, not quite as I expected, however, she was only 14, 'what on earth are they putting in the water in New York!?', I ask her father who is 51 and gets absolutly no envy from me. He has the look of a man that knows he's going to have to go through this fruit of his loins dating whilst he's in his mid 50's. Kudos John, and be kind to him Nicole, he's a good man.

Tart Stew anyone...Anyway, where was I. Ah yes, visitor chicks. I've always had a soft spot for visitor chicks, mostly because they have so many soft spots. And here we have a solid island full of them, all scantily attired and apparently here for the same reason. Whence it's too late for volleyball, myself and meathead retire to the hot tub to clean the 12 pounds of sand out of 'places where I didn't even know I had places', which elicits giggles from the upteen tarts soaking in this bubble jetted wonder that seats thirty, effectively making it Tart Stew. I settle in and immediatly tell the folks in the tub to make room or Meathead will do a cannonball, or Meatball in this case. After himming and hawing amongst the masculine members of our watery home, who obviously are not keen to the addition of more sausage to the stew, lessening their odds considerably. Mostly because we are obviously intoxicated, and our sagitarrian natures take over and we must be the life of the party and will not be ignored. I immediately apologize for my Tourett's riddeled constipate monkey. All in all, it was harmless I ended up talking to Kathy and Kelly, a couple of animal hospital workers from Philly that happen to be there with Fabio who is currently fondling and sucking my favorite hat. Post a boring dinner we go to see Junkanoo which is supposed to start at 9. Instead we lay witness to a Fire eating/dancing weirdo, and a pyromaniac limbo artist who crawls under a bar whilst a Dirty era Christina Aguilera looking blonde shares bar-holding responsibilities with an equally annoyingly cute tramp. Both of which Sheldon and Tambi says they should eat, just on general principles.

Whistling in the dark... Junkanoo is magic. It has the ability to bring out wanton abandonment of all responsibilities, and disolves any need for apologies. Blame it on the drums, blame it on the horns, blame it on the dancing, but never accept responsibility for your actions. You were under the spell of a tradition dating back over 400 years. Of course that's the real Junkanoo, not a faux exhibit for a bunch of cultureless American yuppies who use any excuse possible for living in excess. I personally stand in awe of a tradition which dates back this many years which hasn't been corrupt by greed, over commercialization, or personal gluttony.....and the bouncy little girls are a nice touch. When the horns enter playing a 40 beats-per-minute-too-fast rendition of Feliz Navidad the whole of Breezes erupts with hoots of enjoyment and begins their rocking and bouncing to the beat and follows the slowly winding serpentine musical beast that is the Junkanoo experience. Girls, eyes half-lidded from drink, and intoxicating experiences, guys following their lead, Fabio making out with a manequin, whom tomorrow he will say 'She started it', Meathead screaming 'BANG'. Truely an experience. Then dancing at club Hurricane.

He's dancing....no, he stepped in something... The club was boring, too early, being only midnight. Sheldon and Tambi disappear to try to order Dominos for late night munchies which never comes to fruitition due largely to the fact the Dominos in Nassau is run by Nazis whom were never hugged enough by their fathers. So the hot tub is the next logical alternative. Myself and Bobby end up poolside talking to some girls from Jersey who witnessed our debauchery at Senior Frogs. One of which is a sex therapist who obviously feels Bobby is in need of therapy, another of which is a music major. I spend until around 130 talking to her about the miscellanies of our lives, share a couple shots of Jager and retire, not feeling upto the grueling challenge of changing for the club with 15 hours of alcohol in me.

For 3 strange days, I had no obligations... Here I sit, the morn of day 3 gagging down rancid coffee which is the only thing closely resembling a non-alcoholic beverage I've consumed in these 3 strange days, reading Villa Incognito by Tom Robbins, waiting for the remainder of our party to stir to life. Once Sheldon shows up all red eyed and coughing it's clear, she caught the plague which I was suffering from less than a week ago. That being said we wake the rest, and have a wonderful breakfast then wait poolside for the bar to open and for the winds to pick up enough to take out one of the Hobie Wave Catamarans. Whilst we sit around reading in the interim of the above waits, somewhere from the grounds of Breezes a distinct call is heard. 'bang'. Which makes us all just shake our heads and smirk. Me especially so. Of all the things that could've been remembered on this trip, of all the words of wisdom, of all the experiences that could forever enrich our mundane lives, 'BANG' is going to be the highlight of Breezes '05. So be it, history is written by winners baby.

Wasting away again... It's noon, the bar's been open for 2 hours and I'm 4 Memosas into the ballgame when Nicole and her family show up to play 'beach bowling'. Half way through the volleyball court starts stirring with activity. Myself and Nicole preferring grunting/sweating/jumping over throwing a coconut at some water bottles filled with sand make ourselves scarce from one scene to dominate the next. Many people come and go during our 5 hours of game. Sabrina and her submisive boyfriend from Chicago, Dawn and Grace from Jersey, Some cat from Holland, A guy and his extremely hot although lousy volleyball playing girlfriend from Boston, and Too Tall (Drew) from Wisconsin. However while Dawn is leaving I tell her, 'You better come back later, someone slipped a Rufi in my drink, and I'll be looking for you!'. 8 games, 2 pizzas, who knows how many beers, and many many shared stories later we sit with our new friends in the hot tub, Nicole, her mother and father, Drew, and yet more girls from Jersey. Tambi was all about Drew who was only at breezes on a day pass, being that he is the project manager for a resort being built by the Marley clan on Cable Beach to rival Atlantis for the higher dollar clientelle. Since he has to leave by 630 pm, we kidnap him and make him stay for dinner. Over which Drew gives us these words of wisdom, 'If Rita Marley ever offers you a hit from her splif, clear your calendar for at least 48 hours.'. He also expressed an interest in coming to Andros for both business and pleasure purpses. Posibilities of resorts and a laid back lifestyle we described to him were too much to ignore. He does eventually have to go and being that Bobby and Tambi were talking about her breasts he wishes us all, including Tambi's breast a good night. As soon as he's up and gone from the table Tambi acosts Bobby for, and I'm quoting here 'cock-blocking' her.

Girl, you have no faith in medicine... Sustinance had, 4 memosas, beer(stopped counting at 15), and 4 Jack and Cokes later and we're geared and primed to go out. However with mine lovely wife sick and spitting up enough colors to turn a bag of skittles into a jealous rage, I opt to stay with her for the evening whilst I hear all manor of commotion in the hall. Including but not limited to Bobby hooting and screaming and shhhhing a faceless and nameless female companion around 1 in the morning, with Meathead offering up his now trademarded 'BANG'. I think for half a second that it could be the muff buffin skeez of a neighbor, but then I hear a distinct Jersey accent which narrows his companionship to about 1/2 the girls on site, which of course will prove problematic the next morning. When I call room 215 at 615 telling them to meet us in the lobby in 15 minutes to catch our cab which will deliver us to the boat. When Kiki walks up, bag in hand saying.....'and then there were 5'. It seems he indeed spent the night with Gracie and Dawn the Jersey girls from the earlier volleyball games. Of course the Front desk worker looks at us like we have two heads when we ask, yes, what room is Dawn from New Jersey staying in? He's very sympathetic to our needs until he finds out we aren't visiting Andros we live there, at which point he says, 'Oh just go mon, we take care of him, we set him straight!'. In the interim wait for a delinquent tattoo covered, smelling slightly of hypidermics on Jersey shores, we're acosted by a poor lonely drunken soul carrying an empty bottle of champagne saying, 'I ain't slept in two days, my plane leaves in 3 hours, and the bar doesn't open until 4 hours.', he goes on to relay how just 3 short hours ago there were so many bare breasts in the hot tub he couldn't count them all, he met swingers and they had a (he starts thinking and counting on his fingers), a 'manage a cinco', where Tambi asks 'some French and some Spanish?'. He looks at her like a cop would look at a Kennedy with an obvious underage drunk girl, and says 'No idea what your talking about'.

Get on the Boat, the Banana boat... Winds have picked up out of the North proving to make it an interesting ride home. While we're waiting to board, Bobby does indeed show up with a morning glow of one who's spent the last 6 hours knowing(in a biblical sense) Gracie Lou Freebush from Scratch Ass New Jersey, and the smell to match. Upon boarding and departing Nassau Harbour, the waves do indeed pick up, so much so that when Tambi gets her hot dog from the snack bar, she looks at it for 12 seconds and says, 'uh, yea.....no', just before jetting to the head to releive herself of the contents of her stomach. That being said, it's now 830 and myself and Meathead are polishing off our second beers while watching 'Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants', I'm trying not to cry, and Meathead's waiting for the blonde to get naked....'BANG'.

It's smaller than I thought it would be... What started out as a partying, drunken, insanely excessive weekend, ended out being, well, exactly as it was expected. A riotous time was had by all. We of course hope to do it again within the next year, but I don't think it'll be the same, even if we take the exact same people. We shared a vibe, a feeling, a sence that we were all there for the same trip, we would persue it in differnt ways, but we all had our agenda, and most were realized. That's not the kind of harmonic resonance you can duplicate. Zero drama, tons of alcohol, lots of dancing, and only two counts of cockblocking, Bobby and Tambi, and Meathead who dispite his best efforts continued to cockblock himself all weekend...'BANG'.