A Dose of Realty

There is a phenomenon about vacations. It doesn't matter how relaxing, how fun, how long the vacation is, the second you go home you feel like crap. I was ready to return to the cold and snow and high taxes and emotionally unavailable men of Chicago. I turned on my phone after having it off for a week. I had the usual e-mails and text messages. I also had a message from my manager telling me I wasn't getting laid off after all, so that happened. Then I had the pre-new-year-booty-calls. Some men, rather than make resolutions, make revolutions. Every year at the same time they send their annual holiday booty calls. These well wishes always arrive unexpected and usually unwanted. I think, in some way, they think that the new year is a baptism and every year your slate is wiped clean so might as well get the booty in right before the ball drops. Let me introduce you to the newest addition to the Encyclopedia of Undatable Men:

10 Month Revolving Door Man

Meet the man that everyone in Chicago has had a 10-month relationship with. Every year he is in a new relationship by Valentines day, and single by Thanksgiving. Starting with the Macy's parade he starts humping everything but the fire hydrant in research for his next 10-month relationship. If you know a man that you get a call once a year every December from he is likely a 10-monther. Your only cure is so give in and date him or move to another city. This man usually has a job that requires early mornings or lots of travel, and the constant view of his back walking out the door is really just foreshadowing the end of your relationship.

I deleted the messages I would usually reply too because there was a much more pressing matter at hand, the only real man in my life: Gucci. And from a domestically challenged man to a fully domesticated one, I returned home to kitty. Upon arriving home I was pleasantly surprised to find that everything was as I left it and no evidence of urine. I turned out all the lights and took out the black light wand. When it comes to Gucci's bladder coming home every night is like the first five minutes of a Law and Order episode.

Gucci followed me around as I scanned the floor of the apartment with the black light. Kitty inspection went well, no urine anywhere, although I did find a left over spaghetti sauce stain next to the desk. Gucci seemed to be happy and well cared for, especially since I left elaborate and whimsical instructions for his care:

The Perfectionist's Guide to Caring for Kitty

1. Kitty prefers a schedule. Cats are creatures of habit and routine and a prone to OCD tendencies. Therefore, kitty's schedule must be rigidly upheld or he will annoy you and or pee on something expensive. Kitty likes to rise at about three in the morning and go for a run; due to limited space this will involve him running back and forth and making a lot of noise. At five AM sharp he'll attempt to wake you, and once again at six AM. At seven he will climb onto your belly and knead you with his paws this is your last and final warning before he knocks over a lamp.

2. Your day starts with refreshing kitty's water bowl which he has kicked numerous pieces of food into rendering it undrinkable. He will insist this is your fault for inexplicably placing the food bowl near the water bowl. At this time you will also want to ensure that the bottom of the food bowl can not be seen, if this is the case food levels are too low and this will result in kitty chewing through the wire for your iPhone charger

3. Before showering or relieving yourself you must brush and groom kitty. Stick your nose into his coat and inhale. If he smells like fish he is clean, this indicates he has eaten a mouthful of food before grooming himself. If he smells like pee he is dirty and must be dry shampooed before grooming. He will probably bite you when you do this and will expect to be fed his special stinky food after.

4. You are now required to provide kitty with at least twenty minutes of petting lap time. You're not allowed to move even if he digs his claws into you. During this time you are allowed to watch television but only CSPAN, which is kitty's favorite.

5. Finally, it is time for the removal of cat poo and pee from the litter box. First, vacuum the surrounding area of litter that kitty has kicked outside of the box. You must then carefully lift the lid of the box and immediately clean with bleach wipes. Then, use the scoop to skim for hard clumps and flush them. Flatten out and smooth the litter, think of it as kitty's special zen garden.

6. Kitty now insists on being played with for no less than fifteen minutes. You will throw the mousy back and forth until he sits down from exhaustion. He will rest a minute and expect to resume play. You must continue this cycle for the rest of your life.

7. Finally you may leave to tend to matters of lesser importance like your job or social life. But you must return within eight hours or the kitty will panic, eat all of his food and pee on a shoe in his hysteria. Upon returning you must provide more lap and play time.


With my fresh new caribbean tan lines and new years eve approaching I bet you think I had finding some man candy high on the priority list, and you would be one hundred and ten percent right about this. But next the the match.com tab, in an equally desperate browser, was the craigslist job postings. When I returned from the caribbean I was met with some harsh weather and harsher realities. After new years I was going to be off the schedule. Although in an act of inexplicable cheapness I would not be laid off, just simply not scheduled for any shifts or compensated in anyway. It was time to look for a new job.

It was official I had lost everything in the matter of a year. I lost my apartment, my man, and now my job. I thought of where I was a year ago, buying a tuxedo to go to the Equality Illinois gala with my ex, looking at condos, planning a whole life that would never materialize. Burberry shopping sprees, Jonathan Adler,  Prada loafers, Pall Malls, bottle service at Pump Room. Now it was designer kitty litter, Home by Target, Pall Malls, and filling out applications at Pump Room. I knew that I'd be back on the schedule in march but there was a part of me that felt the finality of the situation. As I writer I know better than anybody when one chapter is coming to an end. Everything started with the restaurant job. In 2011 when I quit my job medical billing and quit my relationship for a the exciting life of brief tumultuous affairs and cash tips I knew that this was just another chapter and it like everything else would come to an end.

The restaurant was slow anyway this season. The hotel rooms empty, the staff lethargic. I had felt this coming for some time. Maybe it was like a comatose state. My body was alive but my brain had ceased to function. The restaurant had turned me into a zombie, a vegetable. And when it was time to pull the plug I felt nothing. My spirit had already left the building. Emotionally I had lost my job weeks ago, it just took a while for the restaurant to be sure this server was never coming back to life; in a lot of ways it was like all of my relationships upon ending, sudden, unexpected, and draining. My last weeks I saw the light drain out of this place that was once my second home. It longer felt safe, secure, happy and warm. What was left was the cold shell of a restaurant, something sad and hard to look at, like a euthanized dog; it looked like an old friend but there was just nothing left of it.

And my job wasn't the only thing coming to an end. My lease was up in March. It was time to find a new place for me and kitty. I pulled up my Bank of America accounts. I had a CD maturing in two weeks. I had put the money away when I though I would be going to grad school. With the money I could have taken half a year off, traveled, possibly met a husband in Italy. But then I looked at kitty. The thought of moving from apartment to apartment every year, never sure of where we'd live next and if it'd have carpet. No, I needed to find us a home and settle. It was time to find not just an apartment, but a home.

I called up my broker, an old fling from my college days to find me the deals. I though it would be like house hunters where you find the perfect apartment and there's a dramatic bidding war at the end where everyone ends up happy and living in a deliciously furnished town home.

"So this is our first unit, listed at 135," Broker said, holding open the door for me. Lets take the tour of property one, in a very desirable address on Cornelia. Take note of the vintage laminate parquet floors and lackluster tile in the kitchen dating back to the early seventies. These crusty grey wood-ish floorboards will look scrumptious under your shag rug from Brown Elephant. Through the entry way we'll find a scavenged kitchen. Note how not only are there no appliances, but there are no countertops and it looks like they tried to take the ceiling too but it wouldn't come all the way off. Your second hand bedroom set will personalize this already quirky one bedroom, try to ignore the squatters and crackheads that were living here right before the bank came to shoo them out and estimated that this gate way to shabby shabby chic living was worth a hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars. "This is a fixer upper."

"A fixer upper?" I had gone from harsh realities to harsh realty.

"It needs work," the bank agent says.

"It needs more than work. Joan Rivers need work. This apartment needs labor. This apartment needs to go into labor and give birth to all the fugly. It's in shambles. Who was the last tenant Lindsay Lohan?"

"Well, it's the cheapest unit in this building. You wanted a deal, this is unfortunately what you get with most of the bank-owned properties."

"Okay, I changed my mind. I don't want a deal anymore. Show me a hundred year old apartment that some old lady is living in where everything is wrapped in plastic."

"You want to live in Oak Park?"

It didn't get much better there, every condo in every high-rise that was listed for less that 150 either had carpeting, smelled like curry, had a linen closet where the clothes closet should have been, needed new tile in the bathroom, had avocado countertops, or was three hundred dollars for every square foot. Just when I was ready to give up on the condo search altogether we found an oversized condo on the 26th floor of a recently renovated building. It had a dining nook with a lake view, hardwood floors, granite counter tops, stainless steel appliances (all of them) and a 24-hour doorman.

I took one whiff of the enormous gaudy furniture and knew, this was the well preserved dwelling of a nit-picky old lady.

"Give me a pen, I'm writing the check right now."

"You haven't made an offer yet."

"I'm just going to write whatever you want in the box."

The Boogie Man (Belize part 2)

I promised jockstrap I'd sit in the front row of his show, which I knew wouldn't be a tough feat given that the ships passengers would probably break their neck bones if they had to look up. I arrived late hoping to have missed at least one of the numbers only to find the show still hadn't started. The front row was empty except for the guy my cougar tried to set me up with.

“Hi Zack!” He squealed.

“Oh, hi– I heard you made it to the finals of the karaoke competition.”

“I didn't think I'd see you, you missed all of the other shows. And all of the karaoke nights. And you didn't come to the teen dance party as per my invite.”

“I did so want to attend the teen dance party. And hear a bunch of show queens performing christmas musical comedy.”

“So you don't like the theater?” He looked at me like I had just killed his puppy, Santa Claus and Celine Dion.

“This is theater in it's most vulgar diseased form. I adore the theater, but as soon as theater boards a cruise ship it becomes infected with norovirus, AIDS, syphilis, anthrax and mono and has all of it's limbs chopped off and what actually makes it to stage is the mutant projectile vomit of the mutilated diseased theater. Cruise ships are to theater what locusts were to biblical times.”

“You could have just said no.”

“Look, the bald guy I was talking to at the pool today–”

“Is he gay?”

“No he just puts cocks in his mouth for fun.”

“I see.”

“Well that little knob gobbler is going to meet me after the show and he's going to buy me a drink, and then he's going to show me is stateroom, then I'm going to bend him like a stretch armstrong. That is the only reason I'm sitting through this crappy disco-themed show.”

“I think disco is fun.”

“I think you're going to make Richard Simmons very happy one day.”

“Who's that?”

The truth is there is some inextricable link between cruise ships and disco. The DJ that works in the night club, in his contract, seems required to play at least 33.3 percent disco music to keep young people off (or maybe on) the dance floor. I also noticed that he'd dug deep into the archive to surface a Will Smith album, which baffles most millennials as most of his career happened before they were born.

Disco and cruise ships seemed to have a lot in common. They shared a sense of gaudy design, sparkly things, so-so entertainment value, and encouraged people to wear silly outfits. Maybe disco had never died, it simply decided to spend decades in retirement aboard a cruise ship. After several nights of hits from before BCE i approached the DJ stand and told him to play some David Guetta for the love of god or anything that people can actually dance to.

But this Disco show seemed to confirm that the ship was lost in the bermuda triangle of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack and after six long days of groovy I was ready for at least one night of Boogie. When the show started I could tell Jocktrap was singing to me and maybe going off choreography by grabbing his crotch a little too much. It might have been the glitter, it may have been the sparkly polyester outfits, or it could have been his rendition of Blame it on the Boogie, but I had never been turned on less is my life. 

I was ready for our post show drink. I needed it to get back in the mood.

I waited at Crooners, the martini bar, for my Jockstrapping lad to arrive. And when he did he was not alone. He had brought with him not only a third wheel and epic cock block but a starry eyed twenty something from New York whose claim to fame was playing piano for the off broadway debut of Mary Poppins. This twinkie dink sat right in between us at the bar.

Jock strap told me about how earlier when he was working out in the ship's fitness center he was approached by the mother of a young Broadway hopeful that desperately wanted to meet him after he saw Jock's rousing rendition of “I'll be home for Christmas.” He agreed to meet him briefly after the show, but apparently this brief meeting wasn't enough for Mr. Briefs over here so he brought him along. I threw my drink back and got up.

“Where are you going, we just got here.”

“Look jock itch, I don't ride a tricycle. You should have just told me you wanted cream puff for dessert and I would have left you with that teeny bopper.”

“We were just going to have a drink and talk I still wanted to hang out with you.”

“That's cute and all but I didn't really want to get to know you. You're a cruise performer I thought we'd fool around and never see each other again.”

“What kind of a guy do you think I am?”

I looked over at Mary Pops-in sitting behind him.

“The kind of guy that wants something low in calories,” and with that I stormed off, if only to give him a taste of what real theatricality is.

The next morning at breakfast I relayed the story to my mother, pausing at the end for emphasis.

“So what have we learned from this experience?” I asked her, “When you don't work out everyone suffers. So from now on I'm going to need you to spend every waking and some sleeping moments in the gym cruising men for me while I lie out in the sun.”

“Sweetie, the kind of guy that would go for that kind of guy, isn't your kind of guy.”

“This trip was a total bust.”

“That's not true, you bought a carton of cigarettes for twenty-five dollars.”

“But I didn't find a husband.”

She just raised her eyebrows. She was right maybe I came on this trip looking for a husband but found something else. Life is, after all, what happens when you're making other wedding plans. I wanted a husband, or at least a fling, and I got what I truly needed: something to blog about. It was exactly like the song, don't blame it on the sunshine, don't blame it on the moonlight, don't blame it on the good times, blame it on the boogie.

The Boogie Man (Belize part 1)

When cruising it's important to keep your eyes open. Because as you travel from port to port you never know what or who you'll see. On this particular lazy thursday I was pillaging the buffet for all the ceviche and guacamole I could fit on my plate. I was dining with one of the ships designated cougars. She had spent the night in the cabanas with a twenty-six year old and I had spend the night with a late night room service order of gelato. As we piled on our plates another hot dish presented himself. I watched him by pass the seafood, the pastas, and the prime rib and go to the salad line where he placed 8 hard boiled eggs on his plate.

"Look at that hot queen," I nudged the cougar.

"How do you know he's gay?"

"Honey, he's eating quinoa and hard boiled eggs for breakfast, he's either gay or Calista Flockhart."

"Go say hello!" she nudged me in his direction.

"No these things take finesse. I've also got enough food on my plate to feed every elephant in Africa for a year."

We followed him outside to the poolside tables and strategically set up camp one table away. I pushed all of my food onto the cougar's plate and nibbled a saltine.

"Great now I'll look like a pig."

"The twenty-somethings don't wake up until 2pm it's nothing but geezers and hot gays back from the gym."

"I mean, I don't see the appeal there, he doesn't have a hair on his head."

"It's called a slip n' slide. Hairless yoga gays are like a new delicacy."

"Like fois gras?"

"But less fatty. Alright I'm going to make my move." But before I could bring my plate of saltines over another guy swooped in and took my seat.

"Cock block!"

"Shh, they can hear us," I said, and reclaimed my food from her plate.

I spotted my gay several more times in the next couple days. The ship was going to port soon in Galveston and my chance at a holiday fling was looking like a holiday flop. I knew drastic measures must be taken. On a ship this large there was only one way to attract attention. After eating going back to the buffet for thirds I cut myself off from fresh fish and moved on to fresh men. Back in the stateroom I unzipped the inner lining of my luggage and strapped to the inside was a ziplock baggie labeled FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY. I peeled it open and pulled out my special weapon. Every gay man must own at least one. It is like a homing device for other gays. I questioned whether or not I would even need such a device on this trip with this crowd. It was my teeny tiny red bathing suit.

Months back I was standing in the Marc Jacobs store eyeing two suits when a sales associate came over.

"Having trouble deciding?"

"Well, I just don't know when I'll have a chance to wear this," I held up the little red bathing suit.

"From my experience when you buy a suit like that the chance will present itself."

"One hundred and fifty dollars? Hmm, it's kind of a lot to spend on something with so little fabric."

"It's on sale for a hundred."

"I'll take it."

And sure enough the chance had presented itself. I'd be broadcasting my wares from here to Honduras. When an non-european steps onto a pool deck on a non-gay cruise wearing something that looks like this:

it will force attention on to you. Think of it like high beams for your crotch. Time seemed to slow down as I made my way to the central pool deck with nothing but a little quick drying fabric and a smile. My cougar found me immediately.

"Holy shit. I saw your ass from across the deck. You're like a lighthouse for cock right now."

"Are you sure I don't look huge in it."

"Sweetie, in shorts that small. Everything looks huge." 

"Okay, lets sit and tan and wait for the gays to find us."

It's amazing how much more attentive the servers were on the pool deck. Before I even sat down someone was offering to mist me with a chilled spray bottle of Evian. Yes, I'm serious. The servers walk around spritzing people with this:

And yes, it's completely fabulous. After my spritz he asked for our drink order. My cougar answered for us.

"I'll have a Dos Equis, and he'd like pina hold the colada--"

"Dos cervezas please," I cut her off. The server smirked and walked away."

"You're going to get dos, tres, cuatro pingas in that suit."

"I'd settle for one," I said lowering my glasses. There he was my slip n' slide.

"Adios chica, it's time to work the magic."

"But my beer?"

"I'm going to pretend I ordered it for him, now scoot so he has a place to sit. I think I saw Ashton Kutcher at the ice cream stand."

"Fine, but you owe me a beer."

Finally he came over after I shooed her away. After explaining that no that was neither my mother or my girlfriend I offered him a seat next to me. He shook of his shorts to reveal his own skimpy bathing suit. My Marc Jacobs investment had just paid for itself. And I would like to interrupt this flirtation for a quick note on authorial substitutions:

It is my usual practice to alter names and distinguishing characteristics about the men in my life to protect their identities. However in this case it undermines what is in my opinion a funny anecdote about his name. I am at a loss. My only solution is to substitute an equally ridiculous anecdote and name for the real ones. 'But why,' you ask, 'did I not simply tell the anecdote?' Good question, this brief interruption of the narrative is quite important, allow me to explain. If I had told the story you would have assumed I had changed the name therefore disbelieved the anecdote as the anecdote's humor is contingent on the name. So it is necessary to explain that I have changed the anecdote and the name to a corresponding joke, which will no longer even be funny as this extensive footnote has now set you up to expect hilarity when really the anecdote about his name would only amount for a chuckle if read on ordinary terms. This is, I'm sorry to say, why it is miserable and challenging to write nonfiction.

"My name's Jock, like jockstrap."

"That's a perfectly normal name."

"It's a Scottish form of John."

"As in long john?"

"So you're funny?"

"So you're Scottish?"

"I'm scottish, syrian, german, and jewish."

The server  returned with the drinks and more Evian. He asked if we'd like a cool down.

"I think I'll need one. Lower please. Okay mister that's low enough."

"So are you here with family?"

"It's Christmas, isn't everyone? What about you?"

"Oh, I'm a performer on the ship. Haven't you seen me in the show?"

The truth is I hadn't gone to a single one of the ship's shows. After a really awful date on the Spirit of Chicago I had a pretty low opinion of ship performers. I simply assumed they were all double shifted servers singing Norah Jones and going flat on the high notes.

"So then you're definitely gay if you sang a Cole Porter medley in a sparkly outfit. Why haven't I seen you at any of the gay mixers?"

"Oh I hate going to those things. Everyone looks at me like a pice of meat. And they think I'm slutty because I work on a ship."

"Maybe they think your slutty because they can see your balls through your bathing suit." I nodded to his junk pressing a clear silhouette into the suit."

"I just can't stand desperate guys, you know. I can smell desperation," he said scoffing. I nodded and smelled my armpits.

"I'm checking my perspiration to desperation balance."

Jockstrap agreed to meet me for a drink under one condition, I came to see his last show of DISCO, Blame it on the Boogie! He was headlining a disco themed cruise show, my opinion of ship performers remained low. But if he could smell desperation, I could smell easy, and this pickle magnet was easier than a TV dinner and just as likely to stain a couch. I decided to suck it up and see the show.

to be continued...

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Caribbean (Honduras)

Many Nautical Miles away, the captain of the Carnival cruise en route to Honduras pens his journal under a desk lamp:

My Dear Friend, Captain of the Crown Princess,

I've known for many years, since we were roommates in college, that you are an exceptionally lucky man. And now again I am forced to realize this fact again as we sail, metaphorically side by side, on the same route through the Caribbean. I had thought that, when I found employment with Carnival before you that finally my luck had turned around but I now know that you were wise to wait to find your future employer. If I only had the foresight! I have just received a frantic message from the Disney cruise ship asking if there might be some emergency on the boat. It is five in the morning and they saw nearly every passenger on the deck. It brought me shame to share that it was merely a party we were unable to put an end to for fear of mass drunken riot. And now, locked in my chamber waiting for the drunken animals to tire themselves out I feel, once again, envious of your good fortune. I Imagine tonight is formal night on your ship and all of the passengers in elegant gowns and tuxedos are posing for photographs in the Piazza. We've been working round the clock for three days the keep the decks vomit and urine free. We've replaced all carpeting with astroturf and quarantined children to their rooms because of rampant nudity on the decks. 

My sister is not what I would call learned. Though she has logged as many if not more hours in higher education as me there seems to be a great chasm of knowledge between us. She looked down at her escargots.

"I don't know how to eat this," she said taking a blind stab into the buttery abyss with the snail fork. In an attempt to be fancy she ordered the escargots because it was the most french sounding appetizer. I scooped one into my mouth and dabbed up the sauce with bread.

"The sauce is really the best part, the snail is just there to soak up the sauce and be deliciously chewy."

"There are snails in these little holes?"

"What did you think escargot was?

"I thought it was a type of endive."

"That's escarole."

"Can the snails breathe in butter sauce though?"

"I don't know can a cow breathe in a pool of A1 sauce?"

"I don't like riddles," and she stuffed a dinner roll in her mouth. With her lobster course she asked what the little black thing on her plate was.

"It's probably a truffle mushroom,"I said. The waitress nodded,

"Yes, is after dinner treat," the waitress added and laughed as she walked away.

"Actually, pigs hunt them in the woods. They're called truffle pigs." We went back to our food and five minutes later my sister tapped my shoulder.

"It doesn't taste like chocolate."

"It's a mushroom."

"So they don't make chocolate out of them?"

I decided to call it an early night and head back to the stateroom to do a little reading. I was working on a nautical encyclopedia researching what to do if I accidentally push my sister overboard (take back the other side of the stateroom closet). To my surprise the door wouldn't open to the room. The keycard worked but the door felt heavy like something was blocking it. I leaned all of my weight into in and managed to push it partially open. Gusts of wind started blowing against me. When I finally got the door open enough to squeeze through it slammed shut behind me. My first thought was that we had be burgled by pirates. Everything in the room was knocked over and scattered around. Then I realized my sister had simply left the balcony door open. I ran out to the balcony just in time to see a pair of my american apparel underwear parachuting out to the gulf of mexico. After a slow drift they finally plunged into the sea where they would most likely be worn by a fashion conscious pelican. I looked over the balcony and envisioned the place where my sister would hit the water and be devoured by a whale.

From underwear overboard to bored underwater we signed up on a snorkeling excursion along the cozumel reefs. Here is how snorkeling is presented:

"Join us on a fun filled 'booze cruise' complete with margaritas, rum punch, and dancing on a boat trip out to the lush and lively coral reef of cozumel. You'll be one on one with exciting aquatic life and colorful reefs led by professional snorkel instructors in the crystal clear gulf waters. Afterwards enjoy a snack and beach time at one of our private beaches with open bar."

Here is a more accurate description of the outing:

"Come squeeze yourself on a cramped boat with about 40 other people most overweight and over 50 where you'll be stuffed into some heavily used snorkel gear and spend about 40 minutes trying to keep water from going up your nose as it seeps slowly into your leaving face mask. If you manage to stop hyperventilating for any amount of time you may be able to catch a glimpse of a turtle just before it hides under a rock. Enjoy an afternoon bobbing in the gulf with about a million other people kicking you in the face with their flippers and splashing water into your breathing tube. You will desperately need a drink after spending half of your day pushing fat children off of yourself, so we'll provide all the free watered down margaritas you can put down."

Several times one of the instructors floated over to me and asked if I needed help using the snorkeling mask.

"No, I'm usually good at holding things in my mouth."

The excursions mostly took you through cookie cutter ports and beaches that all looked exactly the same. This part of the caribbean was like a bizarre twilight zone where everything looks exactly the same as it does back in the states. Every port had the same bar, the same made in china wares at the gift shop and the same vendors walking up and down the beach selling you beads, coconuts or massages. You almost have to do excursions because the port towns are so generic and boring. If you leave the port town you find nothing but cab drivers that will rip you off and run down villages where people are alternately trying to sell you something or ignore you. The cigarettes have weird pictures of dead rats a neck stoma holes. And the shopping is mostly pointless unless you want knock off designer clothes or whittled pieces of wood in the shape of monkeys.

I wandered around the port in honduras after spending the day at a monkey sanctuary where I failed to donate my sister to the spider monkey exhibit and had a very unsatisfying conversation with a parrot.

"Hi bird. Hello? Hello birdie?" The parrot just stared at me. "Hey bird hey."

"Hola," the parrot said.

"Oh you speak spanish, that makes sense. Hola."

"Hola," he chimed back.

"Como estas?"

"Hola," he said.

"Estas bien?"

"Hola," he said again.

"So you don't really speak anything, you just know that one word."

"Hola," he said. Another tourist came up,

"Aww, chiquito pajaro, lindo pajaro."

"Hola," he said again.

I stopped in a Fat Tuesdays and ordered a Barena and a pick of cigarettes. I ran into one of the older gay couples. They wanted to know how my search for a husband was going. It wasn't looking good. But I had to tell all the juicy stories of love found, love lost and love made. Older couples followed the exploits of singles like men follow their favorite sports teams. I told them about the supposedly straight guy that whipped it out in the urinal next to me in the nightclub bathroom.

"What did you do?" They asked, eagerly on the edge of their seats.

"I told him if mine looked like that I'd keep it to myself."

"Tough break."

"I'm being set up tonight, apparently the winner of last night's karaoke competition is going to the night club tonight. My ladies are gonna hook me up."

 I had befriended a bunch of party girls and cougars in the night club thinking that maybe they would know where all the hot young gay men are. Or at the very least they could point me in the direction of the bi curious straight guys. In the mean time at least I had a group to dance with and bum cigarettes from. I met the smattering of busty southern belles at 2am in the Skywalk nightclub. The texas women were lounging around with cleavage and virginia slims abounding.

"Ladies where's my man?"

"Oh he's right over there, tall, curly hair, I'll wave him over." They waved over Manny, a choir singer from delaware working on an off broadway production of Newsies.

"Can I get you a drink he chirped?"

"I've, uh, got a drink-- maybe later?"

"Okay, well, I'll be over there," he indicated a gaggle of teenagers in the corner trying not to get kicked out of the night club.

"Well?" one of the belles said.

"He was a cutie patootie!" a cougar added.

"He's nineteen! Or younger!"

"Still cute. And he'd probably let you do whatever you want to him," another cougar said.

"I don't want to do whatever I want with him! I'd break him in half."

"I hear you, I like to roughhouse."

"Can't you just find me one decently attractive man in his thirties?"

"We're all straight, dude," one of the guys said. "This one guy did whip his thing out in the restroom. He was probably gay."

"Ugh, not that guy."

"Yeah dude, it was pretty small."

It was then that the token straight 'dude' and the token gay guy befriended each other. He agreed to be my wingman if I agreed to use my preternatural ability to attract beautiful women to get him laid. I told him I try not to use my powers for evil but I'd see what I could do.

And on the other end of the gulf:


My Dear Friend, Captain of the Crown Princess,

Tonight we ran out of tequila, whiskey and all flavors of vodka except blackberry. The parties have gone on for four days now. Most of the passengers, including some of my crew have stopped wearing clothing. I look out over the gulf and see nothing, blackness all around me. I know in my soul that I am doomed the tragic circumstance of hauling sexually rampant twenty somethings from port to port for the rest of my life. I've turned to scotch to ease the pangs of captaining a floating brothel of booze and promiscuity. Tonight your passengers are probably enjoying five course meals and Christmas Caroling  in the aft deck. I await your communication. I have never felt sea sickness before but I imagine it feels much like the knot I have in my stomach now. I must away, I've just received word that there is a naked riot in the food court.