My Dream Intervention

As I poured a glass of vodka for myself tonight and prepared to binge-watch some type of crappy "reality" show, probably about a minority group who live outside their means in hilarious ways,thus making me feel equal parts happy/sad. I started thinking about my sister's upcoming wedding. And how happy I was. And how ridiculously anxious I am about returning to my hometown, still out of shape and only slightly better than most of them (which merely means my grip on real life is becoming stronger and less demented which I'm not proud of). Then I got distracted by the cat rolling around on the floor which was the CUTEST THING YOU EVER DID SEE Y'ALL! I can't wait for the party, that's the best part of the wedding. I like parties. I especially like pretty parties after a wedding where everyone feels like no laws of social etiquette apply to them. Like, "I put on a suit, I can do what I want" kind of mentality.  They get outlandishly wasted and all the old white people forget the rules to rhythm that they never really knew in the first place, yet they remember that once they DID see a Michael Jackson video but they are too drunk to attempt to recreate any of it. It was after the cat rolled around but before the crappy show started when my mind forgot anything about whatever wedding I was thinking about and started realizing...I will never have that fancy party after a wedding for myself. Let's be real. It has zero to do with politics so don't get all weird about this, it has everything to do with the fact that I would never put the curse of "living with me forever" onto another human being.  Nor do I ever want to meet the person that would be okay with such a fate. Good god, can you imagine this person? I'm doing it right now and if I get my wits about me, I'll try to sketch a picture for the end of this ramble-blog. ***later edit: I did but I'm not sharing it, he's mine and only mine!***

Let's catch up. I drink alone. I like horrible television. My sister is getting married soon. I am never getting married, out of choice not because I'm a horrible ugly beast with issues regarding real relationships not based on fantasy worlds I create in my head or the fact that I really hate wearing suits or am the only person who thinks they look fat in black.  But I want SOMETHING. I deserve SOMETHING. I've worked hard, my parents deserve the "coming out" debutante party to show off their college graduated, bar-tending 32 year-old-of-a-son! Which means, I'm doing this all for other people and not for personal gain because I'm a beautiful, selfless individual (WHY WON'T ANYONE MARRY ME!...ahem...hack...cough...stupid autocorrect).

When I was a just a small drunk child, I used to read a lot of celebrity autobiographies and there always seemed to be a common theme, a common keyword that threaded the ones I read together. I would tell my mom my plans of becoming famous and she would say, "For what?" (with all the confidence she could muster) and I would earnestly tell her "For going to the Betty Ford Center!!!".  I mean, I seriously told her that up until I was 15 or so.  So ever since I was a young child, I've always known I was destined for rehab.  But, as I grew older and wiser and drunker, I realized that rehab that cushy was not only very dramatic of me but taking a week or more off of work was simply not feasible and the celebrities these days have really taken the punch out of going to rehab anyway.  Celebrities ruin everything.  So now what? No wedding. No rehab. I NEED ATTENTION! And the more I write about it, the more it's dire that I get it soon (READ MY BLOG!!!).  Well, bringing it all back around to my love for crappy television, I remembered my college days of drinking a box of wine whilst watching "Intervention" and crying because no one had ever cared to write me a letter that I could rip up in their face before! That was college. This is many many years after college. I think I'm finally in that place where I have enough people who truly love me that they WOULD write a letter. They WOULD gather in a cold church basement where they lured me under pretense of a surprise party to celebrate the birth of Diana Ross.And they would definitely be well armed (physically and emotionally) for the dramatic backlash that would come after letters were read.  What more is there to discuss??????? WE SHALL HAVE AN INTERVENTION! And it shall be the world's grandest intervention that A&E (who should really rethink that name these days) will want to start having a "Gypsy Intervention" show just to try and outdo me.  If there is a God...this will be the way things happen.

On my next birthday (33rd, pay attention) I will finally have my Dream Intervention. Something I can shove in the faces of all the substance abusers I've known throughout the years and say "mine was better than yours!", something they will be talking about in every bar from here to...wherever the furthest bar away is.  It will be the new definition of Epic.  And god help you, if you are my friend and are reading this, don't fuck it up. This is a one time thing. Anyone who has more than one intervention (much like those with more than one wedding) are never looked upon the same. I will not be shunned by society because you can't follow simple instructions.  From here on, I will strategically give you every detail and helpful hint to help you pull this off by December 5th. There is no longer an excuse not to shower me with love, I mean, it is in a sense...my wedding day.

1) Normally I prefer my birthdays to be in very showy places, so everyone can see how many people love me and watch me levitate on said love. Not this time. Pick a locale on your own, but pick a cold, sterile environment. Like a church basement where there are only folding chairs and donought crumbs from last night's "Overeater's Can't Be Anyonmys Because It's Very Obvious Who You Are" meeting.  But pick a nice people church, I don't need to burst into flames or anything...this year.

2) Decorations are a must. Like, spend some money. If I'm going to spend my birthday in a damn basement, you're going to make it look half way decent. I swear to the god of this church basement, if I see any g-d crate paper, you're all going to hell if I have to drag you there myself. Think "Rhianna's Intervention" when choosing diamonds for the punch bowl. Shine bright like a booze bowl.

3) Since we're on the diamond-encrusted punch bowl already, let's talk refreshments. Let's not get this twisted in ANY way at all. It's an intervention, not a...what's something you don't drink at? Waiting in line to get a drink. It's not that.  There will be booze. Like, fancy tropical drinks with tiny umbrellas and leis that are not made of crate paper (seriously y'all, don't do it). But, I hate theme parties so there needs to be an assortment. Whiskey bowl. Fancy drink bowl. Turlet wine bowl. Fireball ice sculpture.  All of it. I imagine, if you know me at all, you know I want everyone and their mother at this thing and with that comes the knowledge that there's ZERO chance I'm going to like everyone attending. So there will be booze. No drugs because this isn't an intervention for a punk band full of 45 year olds.  Booze. In pretty glasses. Make sure the event locale will allow glass in their precious basement, if you guys are gonna berate me about my addictions, I'm not drinking out of plastic.

4) The intervention itself. Tears. There will be tears. Not from me, I'm a robot and I don't cry unless I look fat in any of the facebook pics that we post later. I want letters, heartfelt letters. Damning letters, tell all my secrets (but please run these secrets past me first, lives are on the line here). Marriage proposals, "If you get clean, we will make this work, I promise" kind of stuff. I've SEEN "Intervention", I want hello kitty stationary and ghosts from my past.

OOH! NEW ONE!

5) I want special guests. Lots of them. Hide them in closets and make them dress super stupid so I laugh at them when they come out, instead of being horribly horrified that you found the mailman I touched inappropriately when I was a teen because I was really happy to get my 10 CDs for a penny (seriously, I want that guy there, we've got things to talk about).

6) There has to be a moderator. And here's how I'm picturing it. One of you dressed like a sexy librarian in a porn.  At any time things get boring or out of control (I expect both) just undo that hair bun and shake it out. Please and thank you. Moderator should be chosen by drawing straws and by having a "who knows eric better" contest. The loser, I want as the moderator....because I don't care to hear your half-assed letter if you don't even know if I like Huey, Duey, or Louey better.

7) There will be plenty of dance/drink breaks. Maybe a DJ that only plays 90s R&B. I want that guy to write a letter too because if we're not already, we should be friends.

8) The ending. Some of you have been around during some very dramatic, ridiculous outbursts in my career. And we've all laughed it off...over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. When the sexy librarian asks me if I will accept your help that you are offering to me on my beloved day...you may want to be ready for the truth bombs and make sure none of that glass is anywhere close to me or to your eyes.  This will be my theatre degree finally put to use. It will be Lady Macbeth meets Ernest Goes to the Mental Ward.  And just typing that sentence makes me wish it was December right this second.

9) If you WANT to buy me a plane ticket to somewhere to entice me into going on a "vacation", I will probably take it.

I know I've put a lot on you. But ya know, when you're a child and you dream of something for so long, you just want it to be perfect. Something you tell other people's grandchildren about.  I want to wear a pretty ball gown and be showered with love/with affirmations about how my actions have negatively affected your life. It will give me great joy going into my 33rd year of torturing the people I love.  I'm thinking I may need a wedding party for this too, like a groomsman and all that to stand around me and look pretty during the whole thing. So, in closing, don't destroy the only dream I have left. Just don't do it.  No pressure. And just to nail the money into the doorway (is that a thing?), I may act out just a little more so that you feel this is a much needed thing in my life.  Just fair warning.

Love,
me.

The Shrinking Cat

"you have to let your eyes breathe for a second, dude"
The cat had obviously come to me for advice
Why else was he perched so intently atop the couch
I sensed I may have been reaching a tad,
yet the cat,
taking another lap of our favorite merlot,
mulled it over for a heavy almost-minute
--paced--
--lapped--
--paced--
before writing "Nevermind"
in the air with that tail of his
                 the one I swear
                 is a petrified snake stapled
                 right to the cat's butt area.

Hence, the "defeated" filter on
all my Instagram selfies lately.

I began to mull over my place in this chair no cat could ever take me seriously
I blinked, letting my eyes breathe
--paced--
--lapped--
--paced--
before moving to the couch
sad about
movies i hadn't made time to see and
my own war on children growing up to be
cowboys
(I mean...
  the fuck???)
The cat jumped in my chair
and before knocking over the bowl of our
favorite merlot
Wrote "It's not always about you, dude"
in the air with that horrible, horrible
tail of his.

Today, I yelled at a pickle.

I did.  And after it was all said and done, I felt bad about it. Like, I was really starting to think maybe that the pickle didn't deserve some of the harsh words I flung its way (pretty sure I said something insulting about its mother's vinegar). Then I started thinking that maybe I was just transferring some of my anger about other things going on in my life onto said pickle.  So I sat down in a corner at work. Made a list of things the pickle did that annoyed me right next to a list of things other people I may be mad at have done recently which may have caused me to lash out.  It was very cathartic, the list.  I got a lot out of me. I should probably be fired from my job for spending about an hour in a corner deciding whether or not I was REALLY mad at a pickle but...that's America for ya.

So, I got it all figured out. And I decided to be a man.  That "feeling bad"-thing was eating away at me so I knew I had to do the right thing and apologize. However, I couldn't very well apologize to that particular pickle because it had fallen on the floor (the reason I was upset with it in the first place) and been trampled at least 19 times since then.  So I went to its family.  A lovely looking bunch of pickles floating around in a bucket in a freezer. I told them how very sorry I was and how I didn't mean those words that I spewed at their deceased kin (all pickles are related, correct? ugh, now I have to make a Pickle Family Tree next time I have an hour at work to kill) ESPECIALLY the part about the vinegar. "Your vinegar smells delectable, I can tell from here", I told the bucket.  I assume the mother was somewhere in there to hear me apologize or at least that the Daddy Pickle would pass the message on when she got back from market or whatever pickle moms do.  I explained to them that the pickle was dead BEFORE I yelled at it so any lawsuits they were trying to bring up in their pickled brains were null and void.  "Slander" is a bitch word for bitches anyway. I left, feeling better...though I think the eggs were judging me a bit.

Whew. Conscience was clear.  My day had just begun and I already felt like I had conquered the world and been the better person by owning up to my faults.

Today I yelled at a pickle.  It was totally the pickle's fault.  Today I apologized to a bucket of pickles.  None of this makes me a "saint" or a "hero" like you all are thinking right now. But it does make me 100% sure I may be losing whatever grip on reality I had when the week began. C'est la pickle.

Party Fail (An excerpt)

**The following blog post is an excerpt from a thing I'm working on called I'll Come to Your Baby Shower...for a Price: How I Became Rich Being a Novelty at White Girl's Parties**
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They told me to bring my favorite recipe to add to a cookbook or something (I never really paid attention because usually it just says "Bring Liquor!"). This time, instead of half-assing it or coming up with a joke recipe,as per usual, I asked around. I asked every person I thought was competent with a stove. To me, "Competent with a stove" means "can turn it on without lighting the house on fire". The extent of my culinary skills are hard boiling an egg...and that is only with heavy supervision. So,I toiled over this recipe thing because I REALLY liked this particular white girl who was getting hitched...or having a baby...or celebrating her quinceañera (once again, never really paid attention...BRING LIQUOR!). Finally, a good friend of mine gave me some crazy thing from her great great nanny or some shit and I was off! Dressed in my finest jeans and t shirt I skipped merrily to the party and was greeted with the usual fanfare of "OMG A BOY AT A PARTY OF GIRLS OMG!" (t-shirts available soon!) and set off to find the wine. Lots of small talk and wine later, it was the dreaded GAME time. But this time I was ready.

Normally, when GAME time comes the hostess looks at me and says "It's okay if you don't feel comfortable playing, just...be funny or something". Like I don't fucking know why I was invited...girl, I was up all night writing jokes for your dumb party, don't tell me how to do my job. But, as I said, at this particular Girl Party, I was gonna be cool and play along and only make a few witty comments. Get ready for Sincere Party Guest 2.0.

So, it was my turn to put my ah-mazing meatloaf casserole card into the holy grail of wedding cookbooks. I skipped merrily (it's the only way to travel)to the front, big grin on my face. When I approached the hostess, I noticed the girls were all on the edge of their Pier One Imported cushions. What the hell? Was I about to
get CARRIE-ed? I put it in...they all giggled (just as I did when I typed "I put it in"). And I sat down nervously when one girl I have never seen before in my entire life (or possibly have known my ENTIRE life, I'm really not good at remembering anyone, ever) shouts "READ IT!!!! REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAD ITTTTTTTTT! I CAN'T WAIT". Ruh Roh.

When the hostess started reading it out-loud, I realized she was setting it up like one of those "A Man Walks into a bar" jokes. "Put the meat in the bowl"...the room shifted, HERE COMES THE PUNCHLINE! I found more wine and watched. And didn't breathe once. Then it happened. The entire room grew quiet, giggles ceased, and I heard someone (it may have been me) say "...Oh". And they moved on. I had failed. I had broken the spirit of the party. Everyone knew what my presence (or the presence of any boy at these parties) was supposed to stand for and I spat all over it...and not even on purpose! If it had been on purpose, I would've taken great joy in this moment. Instead, I was going to have to finish off that table of wine and go home and buy things on eBay until I was happy again.

This is why,when I am hired (paid or not) to attend your Girl Party, I will not participate in your games. But believe me, I will sit on the couch and make as many snide-crass-witty-as-hell comments about everything and everyone that you can handle. I promise. Sometimes I even fall down your stairs into your mother-in law (more on that later!).

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"