King for a Day

This weekend I was pleased as punch to become a social experiment for every boy in the world when I was asked to be a part of my best friend's bachelorette party. I weighed my options for a couple of seconds before making my decision because it's been years since I've even stepped foot out of Memphis and I wasn't about to turn down an opportunity to drink somewhere new. And we didn't just go SOMEWHERE we went all out. I packed my day bag (the only bag I own, mind you) and before I knew it, me and a gaggle of ready-to-party ladies hit the road for HOT SPRINGS, ARKANSAS! Don't be j.

In narrowing down what I wanted this post to focus on I had many choices. If I summarized the entire trip you'd get bored and I'd cry. If I talked more about the "social experiment" quality of it I might offend good friends and I'd cry. So I've decided to go straight for the thing I was dreading about the entire trip. The spa package.

**If you didn't giggle when you read the word "Package", please close your browser because we are not friends or on the same planet together.**

Hot Springs is cute. You don't even realize you're in Arkansas if you can wipe your memory clean of the bumpy roads and cornfields and cheap-knife-selling gas stations you encountered along the way. And if you can forgive the "bartenders" everywhere for only knowing how to pour straight liquor and for calling your entire group "ladies" in every restaurant you went to even though I obviously have a beard and a penis (trust me, I made sure it was noticeable)...every time we left a restaurant I could hear them whisper "there's always an ugly one". Sorry, tangent. So yeah, Hot Springs is cute. We had 2 cool rooms connected to each other and were signed up for a pretty rad "Spa" day on our second day.

Before we left on the trip, I made it very clear I was having nothing to do with Spa Day. I was going to find a bar and make friends with no one and be perfectly happy until the girls came back. They laughed and seemed to hold on to the fact that they were going to FORCE me to disrobe and be touched inappropriately by people I did not know. I guess they forgot how stubborn I am. So Spa Day arrives and at breakfast we get a call.

Lady: "Eric, would you like a male or female masseuse?"
Me: "No thank you"
Lady: "..."

By this time I was highly hungover from our first night in HOG COUNTRY, sore, grumpy, and needing some time to not be around 6 women in full "BACHELORETTE PARTY" mode. Contrary to popular belief, gay men are not women. I needed to watch a sport or crop dust a bunch of old ladies having tea. SOMETHING! Instead, I put on a trucker hat, opened a beer, and turned on some JERRY SPRINGER all the while insisting I was NOT being dragged to what they lovingly called the "Bath House" which upon inspection looked like the place where all the girls were going to be murdered by the hotel killer and leave me as the last man standing. I was sure this was some sort of horror movie waiting to happen.

I did not go. I took a long shower. I watched cable on the crappy television. I thought about going shopping then realized I had to be stubborn about that too because I'm trying to fight a stereo-type here people! My job is hard.

When the girls returned they all had the same look on their face. Like their legs were melting and they were having problems standing up. All collapsed on the bed at the same time. I assumed this meant all went well and nobody got murdered by Helga the Killer Masseuse. So we continued the party.

As the day went on though, bruises started popping up, complaints about sore legs and shoulders were shouted, dead skin flakes found in drinks...all that jazz. All the while, I sat back in my bar stool grinning. Grinning like a fucking winner. I did not have headaches, I did not have any bruises, and I most certainly was not molested by any strangers that day!

I am not a martyr, no. And it may all boil down to my uncontrollable anxiety that wouldn't let me enjoy a nice day at the spa and then write about how it was probably horrible for everyone and that watching TV was a much better way to waste the money I had already spent on the spa day. But in my head, I am king. King of the bachelorette party! Dad would be proud.

Urban Outfitters=the nail in the coffin.

I've been living in a bubble. A very comfortable, posh, totally cool, and young bubble that everyone wants to hangout in. A couple of days ago some hipster child ran up to my reallyawesomecool bubble and popped it. Popped it HARD! In this bubble, I was young and hip and knew everything about everything that anyone could care to know about that was cool. I was livin' the high and naive life, just like mama taught me! Until this fatal day...I'm having trouble talking about it because I'm still in shock. Let me get to the point already.

A few days ago my bff and I were killing time before going to our lovely jobs (that we only hold because we have to buy the coolest records and Igadgets and glitter) so we decided to stop by the newly opened URBAN OUTFITTERS. I hadn't been to an Urban Outfitters since I was 22 visiting Seattle (I am 29 now...and painfully aware of it) and I thought it was the greatest store that Jesus ever gave a bank loan to. Now, when we arrived I was kind of unkempt (which is cool right???) and in my boring work uniform...didn't think it would play a part in my anxiety-filled visit.

Upon entering the wreckage we were NOT greeted by the little hipster imp at the door. This was my first red flag. He was wearing something that obviously was picked out to make him look like the lowest on the Urban Outfitters totem pole. As soon as we walked in, he looked the other way. I stared. Refusing to move until I was greeted (my tax dollars pay your salary! I think...I don't know how that all works actually...)...well Impy didn't greet us and I was dragged away. I focused way too hard on not being greeted by Impy and watched as he greeted all the other 15 year old giggly girls that walked in. I guess I didn't giggle enough but I SWEAR I was kind of giggling and flipping my hair nonchalantly. I then decided that Impy was not an actual employee of Urban Outfitters...but he wanted to be. He thought if he came in every day wearing vertical stripes, too tight jeans, and a KA-RAZZY ski cap over his fat head and mouthed the words to the Radiohead songs playing over the cool loud speaker...they would eventually hire him. So to him I say, nice initiative, horrible outfit, keep reaching for the stars!

That was only the beginning. I started feeling this lump in my firm stomach when we started browsing the obviously-made-by-someone's-mother jewelery. I needed a moment to take it all in. I have social anxiety anyway so maybe this was just a minor panic attack. I can deal. That's when I looked around...like, REALLY looked around me. Everywhere were children smaller than me, trying really hard to do what I was trying really hard to do 8 years ago (and failing, unlike I did), wearing too tight everything/KA-RAZZY ski caps/funky hair/and mouthing the lyrics to the Radiohead songs being played over the cool loud speaker. What kind of hell had I just stepped into?

Then it happened. The jokes started coming. Everything out of my mouth was a snide comment about some piece of clothing ("Who is this LARGE for? a large baby???") ("I think you just found the 'Mom's Are Cool Too' Section, after Megan told me she found a shirt she liked)...I couldn't be stopped and I was cracking myself up! Then when I made a remark about a SALE price. I realized what had just taken place. I...after years of denial...had finally become my father. "Is that price in American dollars???". "I'm not sure which is the guy's section and which is the girl's". It went on and on.

And then...for the first time in my adult life. I felt old. I felt ancient. I didn't get it. I still don't get it. I knew a few of the songs on the cool loud speaker but I suddenly felt dirty about it. I knew I wanted to buy Tina Fey's new book but it seemed wrong now...and Impy was guarding that section of the store. I watched as more and more tweensters piled into the store grabbing up every over-priced thin piece of cotton to buy and all I could wonder was "did they just buy a dress or a shirt?". It was almost fetal position in a corner time. My breathing became heavier. I considered just giving up and trying to squeeze my fat ass into some jeans and showing those children how it's done...instead, I made a few more jokes about Impy and drug Megan out of the store. She dropped her pallet of 900 shades of glitter eye shadow and we were safely outside.

Outside the store a woman holding a violin case was on her way inside. I told her not to do it. She ignored me. At least she'd be able to express her feelings better than I was...I should start carrying a tiny stringed instrument with me wherever I go.

So here we are. I'm almost 30. I dress like a Target store. And I don't understand kids these days. Where do I go from there? Yelling at kids to get off my lawn? Drinking scotch and watching "Murder She Wrote"? I'm kind of okay with any of those options. Damn you Urban Outfitters...you killed my bubble.

Don't You Bring Me Down Today!

Let's face it. As a gay, ugly, fat, dim-witted, easy-to-manipulate type there's one thing I have going for me in today's world of Kool Kidz (I think that may be a daycare somewhere, because we need to start off teaching the children how to spell like hipsters...but that's another blog at another time on another internet), POP MUSIC!
Now, there's plenty of pop music that I love to dance to and listen to on a daily basis because it makes me happy and makes me move my booty. But there's one type of song that keeps popping up lately that I've hated for a very long time and I think it's about time for that to be pointed out and be stopped! I'm talking about the "Manipulative Feel Good Song for Suckers" (I really wish that made a cool acronym but alas).
It all began with a little crooner known as Christina Aguliera. Around the time she was getting "Dirrty" she was also reaching out to all us children sitting alone in our rooms cutting our little elbows with paperclips because we have no friends, with the beautiful ballad called..."Beautiful". Now, there is no way in hell I'm going to believe that when sitting down to write this song someone somewhere did not say "Hey, kids are sad these days, let's make some money off of them!". I just refuse to believe it.
And people ATE.IT.UP. There were tears and people coming out of their rooms for the first time in 7 years flaunting their pale skin and antisocial behavior singing at the top of their lungs to the KOOL KIDZ "I am beautiful no matter what you say!!!!"...only to realize once the song was over the reason they locked themselves up in the first place...while Ms. Aguliera stroked her beautiful weave with a pile of your tear-stained money!


So then a few years went by and we realized we were over it and we went all indie and stuff. Then out of nowhere comes something called a Lady Antebell...no wait. Lady Gaga! Yeah that "Lady". She sings a few booty-shaking songs and someone somewhere says, "hey, sad gay kids love your music and nothing is hotter right now than gay rights...let's make some money off these gullible fags!". So the "Lady" sits down and writes all about how it's okay, it's fine, be your gay little self because you were "Born This Way". I like the song. It's catchy. I'm all about self-empowerment. But god help me if when I'm in my $8/hr job in a hairnet and dirty apron, cleaning fish guts off of a plate someone drooled all over, the last thing I want to hear is that I was "born that way" and I should be proud of it. And I'm all about blaming it on my parents too but they deserve a little better. I'm getting away from the point.
Now they're everywhere. I got Katy Perry telling me I'm a goddamned firework in a clear ripoff of "True Colors" (which is the ONLY anthem you ever need ever, it's well done without being schmaltzy...except when Phil Collins ruined it). In other words, stop letting pop stars profit off your own personal issues with yourself. They're not trying to make you feel better. P!nk doesn't care if you went out and made your first friend after hearing her tell you that you're "Fucking Perfect". But she sure is happy you bought the album. I won't stand for it! I was going to burn them all in effigy in a church parking lot...but then I remembered I'm banned from all church parking lots and matches so that's out of the picture. Plus, how do you burn a MP3?

I leave you with this: "You're not beautiful, no matter what they write ,words can't make you diet"

Funemployed?

This little vacation from the work world that I recently, on my own accord, decided to take has been exhausting, eye-opening, exhausting, frustrating, utter BS, annoying, and other words that mean "I fucking hate it". But, while I sit here listening to my spirit animal Diana Ross sing me uplifting words about being touched in the morning and that love song about the dinosaurs...I realize I have learned some things. Here's a list, bookmark it so if you ever decide to take a vacation to Depressingville U.S.A, you can save yourself some soul searching and spend your time applying for jobs instead.

1. When you're broke, Ramen is a great breakfast/lunch/dinner/late night snack
2. Future employers do not enjoy the smell of Beef Flavoring coming from your mouth when you speak
   
3. Cats do not like Ramen but refuse to help with the bills.
   
4. You talk a lot about food that costs 33 cents.
5. You see other unemployed people walking the streets, you try to befriend them and come up with a strategy together, they have to hire one of you right? You hold meetings in abandoned parking lots and church steps but they only want to talk about God and biscuits.
   
6. You start to realize why these other people are unemployed.
7. You start to realize you're turning into one of those people and spend the rest of the week eating Ramen alone in your room and crying into your empty vodka bottle.
   
8. Job applications ask really stupid questions: "What Elementary School did you go to and what subjects did you study?"..."Well, I was the Champion Heads-Up-7-Up player in our school for 3 years. And if you need me to get us through the Oregon Trail, I'm your man!".
9. Those doing the hiring don't really give extra points for being a smart-ass on your application...Starbucks has NO sense of humor.
10. Craigslist is only good for job searching if you're looking for a job as a tranny hooker...and you want to die. I saw that Lifetime movie (like 90 times cuz I have nothing else to do).
    

But the number one thing I've come to realize during all this is...I NEED A JOB!

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Ramen Noodles

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Erico and Crackliet

Happy Valentines Day blog-readers (aka people I bug on facebook and twitter to read my ramblings that only do so to shut me up)! As I sit here in my Snuggie drinking a plastic cup of wine and watching any and every mind-numbing marathon I can find on television, I find myself reflecting on prior relationships/affairs (all of which I probably made up in my head) with fondness. But one is standing out in my mind...not because it was such a great affair but because it's hilarious and totally blog-worthy. Yay!

Let me set the scene for ya:
It was a dark time in my life. I was unemployed, no cellphone, no money, hadn't eaten in a long time, scrounging for pennies to buy Ramen at the grocery store next door. Let's just say, I was vulnerable and malnourished.

I don't recall the circumstances too clearly when I met Crackliet (I do not know the guy's name and probably never did), I do know I was walking home from a night out of mooching off some friends who had jobs and came upon a fellow wanderer. He seemed nice enough. A little jittery. And he followed me around a lot without talking too much. Exactly my type.

We finally arrive to my apartment where he talks me into letting him stay over, shower, and eat the rest of my 3 month old Saltines (all the food I had). I felt I was doing a nice thing for a long-time friend (6 minutes is a long time for me to keep a friend). Well, somewhere between his 30 minute shower and when he taught me what a crack pipe was and proceeded to use it in the middle of my room (don't worry, I just watched)...Crackliet fell in love.

I realized after the crack pipe and food was consumed that I was doing a favor for a probably homeless guy...so I did the only thing any nice American would do, I let him sleep on my futon and cuddled with him. Don't act like you haven't done that.

The next day, he caused me to miss a job interview because he would not leave or take a "hint" (saying "I have a job interview and you gotta go" is a hint right?), we watched a movie and then he agreed to hit the streets. I thought I was in the clear from my love-struck house guest because I had no phone, he had no phone and he was so high he wouldn't remember where I lived.

Wrong. For the next 5 or 6 or 7 days or months or years (seemed forever), Crackliet would stand in the parking lot of my apartment building and scream up to my window: "ERRRRRRRRRRRICO, ERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRICO!!!!!" over and over and over. Which forced me to turn out all the lights and hit the deck...I pictured him scaling the walls (a superpower I believe all crack users have) and forcing himself in, I pictured him finding a way into the building and sleeping in the hall until I had to leave. Thank god I didn't have any reason to leave the building too often. This went on forever. And every time he yelled my name I came close to opening the window because from the floor of my apartment building, in the dark, I could hear his poor crackhead heart breaking all the way from the parking lot.

I'm a heart-breaker and an enabler. Who wants in???

Months and months later, when I secured a job, I was reading through the best magazine in the world JUST BUSTED where you can see who got arrested over the week and make fun of them when lo-and-behold I see a familiar beautiful face. Crackliet had been taken in for Indecent Exposure and Prostitution.

My biggest regret from this affair is...I forgot to charge him.