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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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.

Merry Christmas! You're Fat!

It's a vicious cycle: make money, spend money, make money, spend money. Well, in order to do the making money-part I have to keep up a somewhat respectable look in my workplace which found me finally breaking down and buying some new pants at Target the other day.

This is a big deal folks. I have not bought pants for myself in quite some time, in fact I despise clothing shopping for myself SO much that I avoid it at all costs and usually live off hand-me-downs from friends who shop too much and are weird. I also have very high anxiety issues with crowds and being in situations where I am unsure of the mapping. I need to know exactly where to go, down to the exact location of the clothing rack where my particularly needed pants will be. GPS that shit! I need to run in and run out like some sort of Clothes Ninja! The same applies to shopping for baked goods. Or I just wanted an excuse to use "Cookie Ninja!" in the blog.

Anyway, so a good friend of mine offered to go with me (because I lack the ability to do most things alone...oh...and I do not have a vehicle in which to transport myself to Anxiety Hell). The neighborhood Target was, in my mind, unusually crowded and busy. I quickly retreated into my safe zone which consists of me gripping the shopping cart with all my might and singing a medley of Diana Ross songs to myself until everything is okay. It works. Try it. I suggest starting with "Chain Reaction", "Why Do Fools Fall in Love?", and then a torch-worthy "Theme From Mahogany"...anyway, I'll save the rest for my Anxiety Cure Book (Coming Soon?).

My thoughts starting racing:
"Why is it so busy???" Did they know you were going to be here??? Are they here to laugh while you try to find the pants rack??? Maybe everyone in Memphis just had to pickup a few things and this is a happy accident running into me like this! Lucky them, I need to find someone to laugh at soon! How about that guy? The one trying to hold up shirts to his chest AND eat a food court pretzel at the same time? Yeah! Him!...Nah, I'm just jealous of his pretzel"

...that went on for at least 9 aisles as I randomly threw things in the basket just to give a normal vibe off. Then it hit me! This Target had just re-opened after having some major exciting construction! Everyone is here to check it out! I was pleased with my revelation and immediately thought, "people are easily amused and kinda dumb" when my friend turns to me and says, "You do know it's Christmas time right?".

Oh.
Yeah.
Duh.

Finally...the pants! It was a mad house of old ladies in the men's clothing section yelling things to each other like "I'm pretty sure Charlie is still a Husky!" as Charlie pretended to look at white socks. Charlie, I remember those days of my mom saying "Where is the Husky section for my Husky child who will surely never suffer a 4 year eating disorder and get dangerously thin because I like to use the word Husky so loudly and very often" (I did but as this blog points out, I'm over all that now...and no, I'm not blaming my mother).

Oh yeah...the pants! I was sure of my size but just to be EXTRA sure and to avoid ever ever EVER having to walk into a fitting room and prolong my time in this hell, I went a size up and reassured myself that wearing a belt will remedy any extra room. Yay! Pants purchased. Breathing normal. Home in time to get ready for work.

As I start to pull my already-a-size-too-big pants over my legs I notice we are running out of stretch way too early. Hmm? Maybe they're bound and I have to release all the extra room. Tug-tug-tug. Nothing. Well, obviously my undergarments (which included long johns cuz it's damn cold) are too thick. Remedied. Going commando in my new pants will bond us quicker. Tug-tug-tug. Hmm.

At this point, I'm starting to break a sweat. My #1 hated thing at Christmas time. Especially because of pants. So i do the laying on the bed trick. I get the pants up to my panting stomach and just as the button and button loop are about to make sweet love with each other...something hits me in the eye. I immediately thought it was the button and we were done for. I would have to call in to work "too fat for pants". Nope, not the button. Even better. The zipper had broken loose of its zip line and tried to blind me. I don't blame it, I would want out of that situation as well. I apologize zipper, my crotch is not a great way to get acquainted.

No zipper. No pants. No self-esteem. I WENT UP A SIZE DAMMIT!

I went to work that night with my old torn pants on. I stuffed my face with lard and have since given the pants to the cat...they will fit her soon if she keeps eating like that.

Conclusion: If anyone buys me clothes for Christmas, you will have to go up 2 sizes! And then I will kill you. Hide your children because this year I will be PANTS-LESS FOR CHRISTMAS!

Dirty Duerr is Comin' Soon...bitches

I'm a very busy guy. That being said, I feel I have no creative outlet in life. After saying that, I'll tell you a story.

My 10year highschool reunion was last weekend. I fasted for 100 days like Jesus did for his highschool reunion on only beer and Makers Mark and noisy sunchips for stamina. I was looking...the same just much drunker. I brought my partner in crime along for the ride so if all else failed (and it did) I knew I'd still have a great time.
Hotel room, police encounters, double bacon cheeseburgers, fireball after fireball shots, and a lot of acting a fool later...we forgot to go to the reunion. (Sidenote: we are nowhere close to the point of this blog so get comfy)

The ride back to Memphis was full of beer and a lot of talks about my new cartoon series about a yard gnome and his friend yard jesus and their fights with evil mister lawn jockey. Suddenly, as most things happen with me, I realized that idea was idiotic but that what I really want/need/must have before I go postal is to be on MTV cribs showing off things like my room where bikini bitches wait to have expensive liquor poured all over them and my arts and crafts room (that's what I call a wine cellar).

So I've been writing rap songs. Daily. T and I (not TI...he wishes) will soon hit the hiphop world hard with our beats and dope rhymes and outlandish outfits. And you may think I'm joking and maybe at one time I was but shit ya'll...being a wannabe rapper is fun as hell!

Taking posse applications soon. Youtube will be where I debut the song "Dope Dick" and well...I'm pretty much too hard for most of you now. I'd say I'm sorry but that just wouldn't be very street of me.

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The perfect way to bring down the crime rate.

It's no secret that I work in a restaurant. Two, in fact. Well, at one of these particular eating establishments (which I shall refer to as Slaggy's because it's my blog and I can do what I want)...so at Slaggy's every now and then the Court system or whoever brings in certain juries for their dinner. 15 or so people all followed around by police escorts whenever they go to the bathroom or get up to pick their nose in private or whatever people in juries do.

Well, today at Slaggy's I just happened to go over and take a nice long look at the "citizens" in this jury. The "group of persons sworn to render a verdict or true answer on a question or questions officially submitted to them". Now, I understand that this is supposed to be an impartial mix of all different types of voting citizens in the community but to me it looks like they go down to the local nuthouse and let everyone out for a field trip for a couple of hours. These people are THRILLED to be out in public but I agree with whoever decided it was against everyone's wishes that they be seen or integrate with the public at all...ever.

There's the crazy woman with sticks in her hair poking at Slaggy's sugar caddies like they might attack her at any second and she wants the Splenda to know who the boss is at the table (Spoiler: It's the Splenda). There's the guy hitting on the crazy Splenda-fighting-stick-haired woman. There's the one normal woman sitting in a corner eating cheesecake and you can just tell she's about to burn something down. And then. Then there's the best of all...

There's the woman who, when her salad with vinaigrette is brought out she stares at it for a long time...stares at it a little longer and says "Did I order this? To tell the truth, I'm not really sure what I ordered. Is this ranch?". "No, ma'am it's Vinaigrette". "Is that what I like? Is that what I ordered? Hm...Okay!".

So here's a little thing to keep in the back of your head next time you are contemplating a felony of any kind.

DO YOU WANT THE FATE OF YOUR LIFE RESTING IN THE HANDS OF THE WOMAN WHO DOESN'T KNOW IF SHE ORDERED RANCH OR VINAIGRETTE ON A SALAD SHE'S NOT EVEN SURE SHE ORDERED IN THE FIRST PLACE??? DO YOU???

I rest my case your honour.