Suburbia Sucks

Another small snippet from Ch.8 in the upcoming book:

Life in Suburbia is like living in the twilight zone. Much like my environment at work, I often times end up feeling trapped and frustrated with my daily life in the suburbs. Of course, I realize it’s my choice to currently live in my parents’ house in exchange for saving a few dollars. I’m beginning to see a pattern of giving up my mental health and potential happiness in exchange for money – which is something I never wanted for myself.

Recently, I found myself outside of a Starbucks in the quaint and over-priced Potomac Village suburb of Washington, DC. This is where I live. And this is where many people choose to live. Everywhere you look, you’re surrounded by symbols of status and money and power – characteristics that are violently sought after by the modern-day family wanting to reach that perfect spot amongst others living the “American Dream”. As I sat outside the Starbucks with my friend Stephen, I noticed a sign posted above a lamp post. “Notice: Smoking is banned in this area by law of the Montgomery County Fire Marshall. Premises is patrolled and violators will be fined and convicted.” I began to wonder whose job it is to patrol the premises of this small village shopping center, searching for the riff raffs and hoodlums that dare light a cigarette in public. Surely the Fire Marshall was too busy saving kittens and rescuing old ladies that have fallen in the bathtub, so who was in charge? As I sipped my five dollar iced skim latte in the fresh outdoors, I looked over at Stephen, who happened to be lighting a cigarette.

“What are you doing? Doesn’t that sign say you can’t smoke here?” And as I spoke those words, I simultaneously realized I had fallen into the suburban trap. Obeying every rule and law and sign posted within a wide circumference of your surroundings. This is an understood rule of living in the suburbs. No arguments – just pure submission in exchange for an orderly life of freshly painted parking spots and expensive colorful landscaping.

“Yeah, that’s what it says. But I do it anyway. It’s an outdoor spot, wide open with fresh air. But it’s entertaining to see what happens when I do this.”
“What do you mean?” I said, with a slight look of confusion on my face.

I’ve known Stephen for 13 years, and I often times find myself confused when he speaks. He’s burly and moves with excess motion, swinging his arms and legs violently and taking charge of each sidewalk like a bull elephant in the wild. He’s always been someone with little regard for rules and regulations, so his behavior rarely astonishes me.
“You’ll see,” he replied, grinning mischievously.
And as he lit his cigarette and took the first puff, it became clear to me exactly who patrolled the vicinity.

“AHEM. Excuse me! The sign clearly says ‘NO SMOKING ALLOWED!’”
As I peered behind the lamp post, I noticed a middle-aged woman holding a small Yorkshire terrier. She was sitting on one of the wooden tables provided by the Starbucks for customers to enjoy their luxury lattes, but she had taken advantage of the complimentary seating to groom her dog and read the latest issue of Washingtonian Magazine. As she glared over, Stephen continued smoking.

“That lady sounded pissed.”
“Yeah she’s the same type. Different lady but same attitude – they feel like it’s their duty to enforce the stupidly placed rules because they spend their days shopping online and reading CNN.com so they can feel informed and accomplished. Fuck her,” said Stephen, as he blew a plume of smoke and made a perfectly shaped “O” in the air.

“SIR. EXCUSE ME! That’s VERY rude to partake in your disgusting habit in front of the rest of us,” she continued. I quickly pictured what this woman would have done had she been confronted with the site of a young male monkey masturbating in public directly next to the Starbucks. It concerned me to think she was the type of woman that would approach the monkey and, in her thick Jewish northeastern accent, demand that he stop touching himself in public, as it’s a disgusting habit.

We walked 5 feet past the sign towards the sidewalk to relieve ourselves from the incessant squawking that relentlessly flowed from this woman’s mouth. Mere seconds later, I noticed a father walking by with his young daughter. He was attractive and impeccably dressed, and I imagined him being a successful entrepreneur that married young and started a family with his high school sweetheart immediately following his graduation from an Ivey league university. As he walked by, he shot a dirty look and coughed incessantly. “Gross!” he announced, as he forcibly hacked up a lung and held his daughter slightly closer to his side. It was difficult for me to grasp the reality of what was happening. How could it be that I, along with my slightly demented friend, were the only ones that noticed the outlandish reactions by our fellow suburbanites. Had we exchanged the lit cigarette for a freshly used heroine needle and passed it around in a circle, the reactions would have remained exactly the same.

One by one, I witnessed multiple people pass by in disgust as Stephen puffed his cigarette and nonchalantly recited a story to me about the new type of bondage porn he’s recently been into.
“These people are robots. Did you notice that I could talk about anything I want and the only thing they notice is the cigarette in my hand? Next time I’m going to talk about my affinity towards bestiality, and I bet the only reaction I’ll get is a loud cough and angry demands to extinguish my cigarette”. He was right. It was as though someone had taken me out of the fishbowl and given me the opportunity to look from the outside in. So I took a cigarette and joined Stephen. And one by one, the angry suburbanites climbed into their over-sized SUV’s and drove past us, polluting the air with $100 worth of premium gasoline to get their kids to and from soccer practice. And as they drove past, Stephen and I waved our hands in front of our faces. Coughing incessantly.

Invitation to See Me in L.A.

Dear Stephanie Gwyneth Ruth Eugenia Baker,

I will be in L.A. from this Thursday morning until Monday morning. Please arrange accordingly for us to see each other - preferably topless. MOST preferably topless and slightly intoxicated. Also, I miss your breasts and have not seen the newly reduced ones, for which I'm anxious and a bit perturbed by. I would also like to share that I might have very little energy - because seeing as how no one in Hollywood really eats or does anything remotely strenuous with their lives, I've been living off of half a pack of tic-tacs for the last week - with the occasional acorn I steal from the very mean squirrel that lives outside my window. Seriously, she's a bitch. Regardless, I hope I look as delectably emaciated as Sarah Michelle Gellar and/or Lindsay Lohan (but without the wrinkles and crack cocaine look that seems to be popular with the youngsters these days).

I'm also kind of a celebrity now, so the paparazzi will be following me around to take glamouorr shots and I don't want a rumor spreading on Perez Hilton that my slight "baby bump" indicates a newfound preganancy while I shop with Sandra Bullock in Beverly Hills. That would be embarassing seeing as how I'm not dating anyone and I've had my ovaries removed and eggs frozen some years back. Also, bring cheese.

Xoxo,
Andres

***

Omg. You have NO idea how much I miss you. Sooo I am free Friday night and all day Saturday, but I do have to work Sunday (stupid students moving back into the bldg). What plans do you already have? I am about 35 miles east of LA (nothing you want to do here, I assure you unless you want to eat at an all vegan restaurant or take a tour of the Claremont colleges). Oh, have I told you I'm vegan now? I just thought I should give you a heads up as I can no longer eat gluttonous amounts of cheese with you. I assure you I am the same cynical, sarcastic yet oddly compassionate short girl just with slightly smaller breasts and fewer cravings for cheese.

What are your plans? I am happy to come meet you somewhere that's more LA-esque than suburban Claremont at a time that's good for you.

Xoxo,

♥♥ Slightly reduced titties

PS my haircut is asymmetrical now. I thought I should warn you of the dangers of grad school (being too poor to afford a haircut around the entire circumference of one's head). Just didn't want you to be too alarmed.
***

Dear Slightly Reduced Titties,

I'm saddened, but not very shocked, that you're now Vegan. It seems that California does this to people. You move to the West coast and either chain yourself to trees and animals or become a bulimic windsurfer. Either way, it seems like a fabulous life. However, how do you live without cheese? And Milkshakes? And anything else that comes from the lovely tit (pronounced 'Teet') of a female cow. Also, how will I be able to spot you upon arrival to our meeting spot (which will inevitably be somewhere glamorous like the urine soaked friendly streets of Venice beach)? Don't you drive a small hybrid like everyone else over there? I'm also wondering - do your newly reduced breasts mean there will be less milk produced? In addition, if your feeding milk from your body to a small infant and/or starving homeless man, does that still make you a vegan? After all, that IS dairy.

And no worries about the haircut - mine is asymmetrical as well but only because I got drunk and attempted to shave down my sideburns. You're in good company.

Still though, bring cheese.

Xoxo,
Andres

Hunnay, wha you like today?!

It wasn't so long ago that I remember my mother taking me to Cartoon Cuts at Lakeforest Mall for my monthly haircuts. It was one of my favorite things because I was always intrigued by the transformations that came along with a haircut. She'd hand me over to the hairdresser who proceeded to plop me on top of a giant plastic elephant where I would remain until the haircut was over.

"Ok listen," I'd say with authority to the hairdresser. "I want to look just like Zack Morris on Saved By The Bell. I don't really care how you do it, but make me blond and make the mushroom cut a perfectly straight line. I don't care for AC Slater so please don't make me look anything like him."

Saved By The Bell was my favorite show in 4th grade, so obviously I had to look like my crush - Zack Morris. "Sure thing sweety. I'll see what I can do," she smiled, as though just to appease me. In reality though, she was doing the haircut to her taste because, as she presumed, what does a 9 year-old know? Of course, 30 minutes would pass and I would look nothing like Zack Morris. By the end of each haircut, I was furious.

"Mom, she didn't make me blond and the mushroom line in the back is not nearly visible enough! Why did you pay the lady?!"
"Andres, you're being rude. Stop the tantrums or no Burger King for you!" my mom would say, in her thick Spanish accent. Burger King was her solution to shutting me up, which in turn allowed her to shop for hours while I quietly scarfed down french fries and nuggets near the kids area with my 88 year-old grandmother. Although frustrating, the entire process of the haircut was relatively simple and worry-free for me. We'd come in, I'd make my demands on top of a plastic animal, and my mom would pay. Being a kid was so care-free in that respect.

In my older age, I've grown to fear haircuts. Not because of the actual act of cutting my hair, but because of the barbaric process of choosing a stylist. Over the years, I've bounced between salons and hairdressers the way one might shop around for the perfect home. My hair is very simple to cut and style, so the stress involved in choosing a stylist is beyond me. A few years ago, I wandered into the Hair Cuttery at Kentland's in a hurry. My normal stylist at Bubbles, Joy, was booked. I hate having to make an appointment for a haircut - something that takes ten minutes. It's not a root canal, and I'm more of a "Walk-ins welcomed" type of guy.

"Herro, how can I herp you?" said the nice Asian lady behind the counter. According to her black nametag, her name was Amy.
"Yes, I'd just like a simple haircut. I don't have an appointment."
"Ohhhh no probrem! I not busy I cut your hair very good! Ten minute!"

I had instantly fallen in love. Fast, cheap, and ethnic. Just the way I like it. For the next 3 years, I would visit Amy once a month every Friday for my haircut. I loved walking in and seeing her levels of excitement sky rocket. "Andrea! How are you!? Take seat I be with you in minute. Just finishing Fat Joe," she'd say, as the overweight balding man named Joe would stare back at himself warily in the mirror. I wondered if Joe was even his name. Judging by the look on his face, I'm certain that "Fat Joe" is not the official nickname he had presented himself with upon meeting Amy. Each haircut, Amy would ask me the same questions as though she had prepared a speech prior to my arrival.

"You go on vacation yet?"
"Yes I'm going to the beach next week."
"Oh my Godddddddddd you so lich!!!"
"No I'm not rich. I just like to throw away my money on cheap haircuts and travel."
"AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH You funny! I bet girlfriend love you!" she'd say. Amy always laughed at everything I said - no matter what. I could talk about a news story related to a dead baby that accidentally swallowed a bag of narcotics and she'd bust out in high-pitched hysterics. An evening spent with Amy was the perfect boost for the weekend every Friday.

Because of this, I was horrified one afternoon when I entered the Hair Cuttery and found that Amy was not around.

"Can I help you?" said the new Asian girl with far better English.

"Yes, I'm looking for Amy. Is she around?"
"Oh she just left. But I'm free. My name is Jodie, I'm the head stylist. I usually require appointments but my 7:00 canceled so I'm available."

How does one become a lead stylist at a Hair Cuttery? The fact that she requires appointments for a $14 haircut annoyed me, but since I was desperate I gave in.

The second I sat in her chair, I felt instantly guilty. Her station was directly next to Amy's station, and I couldn't help but feel as though I was having an affair. I found myself quietly mouthing the words, "I'm Sorry" to the pictures of Amy's small Asian children taped over the mirror of her booth.

"It's nice to meet you, Andres. Please sit back and relax. I will take care of you today" Said Jodie, as she massaged my temples. It was clear to me that this was now a huge predicament I was in, as my feelings for Jodie became more intense every second that passed. By the end of the flawlessly executed haircut, she handed me her business card with floating kittens sprinkled all over it.

"See you next month, and remember what I told you about the new product I gave you. Use it sparingly but dazzle your tips with it so as to stimulate the hair folicles. It will give more shine and volume to your look and accentuate your facial featuers."

Holy shit. This lady was the real deal - I felt as though I had just undergone some intense spa treatment and lazer lipo. All for only $14 plus tip.

A month later, I was nervous as I walked into the Hair Cuttery. I had scheduled an appointment with Jodie at 7pm on a Friday, and was hoping and wishing that Amy would have gone home for the day. As I walked in, I was greeted by Jodie and, directly behind her in my line of sight, was Amy.

"Oh herro Andrea! Take seat I be with you right when I finish with baby Jane!" yelled Amy, as a fully grown adolescent girl apparently named Jane sat uncomfortably confused in her chair. In moments like these, I become very awkward and terrified - leaving me often times speechless. "Ok I'll wait here," I replied. Why did I just lie? I know it makes things worse in the end, but I had no other reaction. It was like second nature.

Eventually, Jodie motioned me towards her chair and I reluctantly followed. Like a creepy serial killer, I leaned over to whisper in Amy's ear. "Amy I'm kind of in a hurry today and I know you're super busy because you're just the best stylist in here, but is it OK if Jodie takes care of me today?" With a confused look, Amy nodded her head and said, "Of course, Andrea. No probrem. You go on vacation?"

The next 25-30 minutes were the most uncomfortable of my life. As Jodie went further and further into the haircut, as though she were some sort of Asian trapeze artist with magical hands, I could see Amy's demeanor change. Like some desperate geisha, Amy would intermittently cut into our conversation. "Andrea, I know you rike vacation. I no see you in rong time! How is work? I bet you go away with your girlfriend to tropical paladise or Vegas. I rove Vegas I go with my husband to pray gambring games!" Jodie would uncomfortably smile and say, "Well, Andres, I'm glad you came to me before your vacation. You're going to look spectacular." I sat uncomfortably as the two Asian women battled for my love and affection. If only my real-life relationships were this glamorous.

By the end of the haircut, I walked hurriedly to the counter to pay. What I failed to also realize was how similar both Jodie and Amy looked. In my hasty attempt to leave the ambushed set-up of the Hair Cuttery, I accidentally tipped Amy instead of Jodie. The only way I realized what I had done was when Amy blushed and said, "Oh tank you Andrea! Come back so soon and see me ok?" Fuck. I had mixed up my Asians. Not only that, but I loved Jodie and was giving her an extra $15 as tip for an awesome haircut. I cursed myself as I walked over to the real Jodie and shelled out another $15 to make-up for my stupidity. Suddenly, my $14 haircut had resulted in $44. I don't even have $44 worth of hair to cut, but I exited quickly and vowed not to return again. I just couldn't bare the thought of choosing between my beloved Asian stylists. I learned long ago from many romantic comedies that if you love someone enough, you put their happiness before yours. This is exactly what I had to do with Amy and Jodie. I didn't want to break their hearts and cause Asian mafia wars within the walls of the Hair Cuttery, so I left and never returned.

A month later, I walked down the street from my office on 19th and Penn and stumbled upon "David's Hair Salon". As I walked in, David greeted me and pointed me towards an older Asian woman named "NaNa". Here, I received the actual BEST haircut of my life. NaNa even shaved my eyebrows and sculpted my neckline as meticulously as possible. I felt as though my own grandmother was lovingly cutting my hair. I paid $40 for that haircut (including tip), but I left happily knowing I now had a new Asian woman to mend my broken heart.

When I returned to see her a month later, I was met once again with David, the owner. "You're looking for NaNa? She's not here today, but I'm free and would be happy to take you." Reluctantly, I agreed because I was leaving for a gay weekend in Rehoboth the following day, where it's startlingly tacky to show up with a lion's mane on your head. So David cut my hair, and did an AMAZING job. I paid him $43 dollars and, as I walked out the door, he said "See you in a month!"

I knew right then and there that I would never be back.

What if?

I decided recently that the best way to go about promoting my book and my stories would be to really focus on this blog. Since most of my income goes towards plane tickets and the excessive consumption of cheese and alcohol, I can't really afford to hire someone to design a website and make my blogs more popular through a google search. I rely on my friends and their friends and my family to share my stories and essays if they happen to find them entertaining - and I'm ever grateful that I have such a loyal group of readers that enjoy coming back and being a part of my life. That being said, you guys seem just as sadistic and twisted as myself. I enjoy it.

Often times, people have no idea how to locate my blog or get to it. To make things easier for everyone, for the extravagant price of $9.99 I purchased a domain and called it www.22tolife.com

The meaning behind this is simple. We all share the same frustrations when it comes to life, jobs, relationships, and growing up. It can be really fucking hard, but I've learned that the more difficult things in life come with the greatest rewards. And the more I've written and discussed with people, the more I learn that we share so many more common experiences and fears than we can ever imagine. Success doesn't come easy - nothing does. But I've found that doing what you love and enjoying the things that fulfill you can be the most rewarding feeling on earth. And that's why I write.

We're never alone with our uncertainties, because everyone is afraid of the "What ifs". Sometimes it's easy to lose sight of the fact that the "What ifs" are what make life interesting and fun, and the more I've gotten sucked into the corporate world and adult life after college, the more I've lost myself in worrying about the "What ifs". Somehow, I've convinced myself that I have too much to lose when dealing with any major decision. Thus, I've become comfortably stagnant, like so many of us. And what if I leave that comfort zone?

"What if I leave my job that I dislike?" Well, you'll find another one. "What if I struggle?" You'll survive. Because you have to. Everyone has struggled at some point or another. "What if I click on 'complete purchase'on this travel website I'm booking my vacation on?" You'll feel a sense of satisfaction in being able to go wherever the hell your heart pleases.

I can't tell you the number of times people have told me, "I have no idea how you travel so much. I sit on the internet with a web page open for 3 days showing a flight I was about to purchase, only to find that when I muster enough courage to click 'Purchase ticket', the session has expired - and I end up going no where." Life passes by so quickly - and I realized this when I blinked my eyes and 3 years at my first job had gone by. When I first started, as a temp, I remember thinking "I'm taking this 6 month contract, saving my money, and moving to California." I remember after 6 months being offered a permanent position to replace a girl that had left. And I remember asking my then boss, "How long was the girl before me working here?" and laughing in my head when he replied, "2 years." - because I knew I would never last that long. That was 2 years ago this month. Life rarely goes as planned.

Let's be honest - working a 9-5 office job can suck. Rarely do we meet someone who is passionate and enthusiastic about sitting behind a desk reading emails all day and attending 10 different meetings for an asshole boss or client. Unfortunately in life, there's things that we have to put up with because whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, we learn something. The past few years out of college have been tough for me. It's been a constant battle of confusion, frustration, anger, sadness, loneliness, happiness, debauchery, and every other feeling or emotion that a human being can possibly have. Growing up, or rather being a grown up, does not come easy.

When I was entering the "real world" at 22, I remember feeling like I had been handed a prison sentence: 22 to life. I thought, "Is this all that's left? My desk, my cubicle, and the occasional happy hour that we all pretend is the highlight of our weeks as adults?" So I took off on adventures - weekend trips to wherever I could afford to go. And as I went, I learned that my life didn't have to be the prison sentence I thought it did. True, I needed to work because it's what was expected of me. You finish school, you get a job, and you support yourself. It's just expected of an upstanding adult. As a kid I had always had a sense of adventure and curiosity, and I loved looking up and seeing a plane fly by, wondering "I wonder where in the world that's going? And are the people in there excited to get there?"

My frustrations with the 9-5 corporate life grew, and the only venue I had to regain control of my life was my love for travel and adventure. This blog started as my coworker's way of keeping an account of my crazy and often times unbelievable stories and/or ramblings. Which in turn became a way of allowing myself to maintain a small perspective of who I really am without becoming lost. This, in turn, became a book. The stories will be new and different, but the underlying theme has remained the same: work to live, not live to work. And laugh as much as possible. Americans spend at least 40 hours a week at work, that's 2,000 hours a year (including 2 weeks vacation, for those of us lucky enough). That's a fuckload. Each of us, at one point or another, will find ourselves feeling trapped and imprisoned within the confines of our buildings or fast-paced life. We can complain (which I've done a lot of) but, more importantly, we can regain control of our lives and find what really makes us live

If what I've learned resonates with even one person, and what I've written in my blog and in my book reaches one person who can relate, and if I can transport someone away from their desk or overwhelming life and make them laugh if even for a few minutes, then I've found fulfillment in what I do. Yes, I'm still working at my job. Yes, I still feel frustrated and sad and happy like everyone else, depending on the day. But that person a few years back has come a long way in attempting to figure out life in your 20's. It took me years to find what I want to do and where I want to go - and I still really haven't. Just a vague outline of an idea. But in doing the things I dislike in my professional life; I stumbled upon something I love.

22toLife is up to each of us. It doesn't have to be a prison sentence, and nothing is ever permanent. If you find yourself wondering why it's taken 3 days to purchase a trip you've been thinking about for months or years, or debating the "What ifs" of your life decisions, then those 3 days will turn quickly into 3 years.

While I've been adventurous these past few years in terms of traveling and escaping my Monday-Friday life, I've also been reluctant to leave my comfort zone. I've sat around waiting for the "perfect opportunity" or "the right salary" that can take me to a whole new level. But my best friend said something that struck a chord in me a few days ago. He asked me, "How much is your happiness worth? 10k? 5k? If that's what's keeping you from moving to a place you've wanted to move, or breaking into an industry you've been wanting to try, or doing something completely new, then you've put a price on your happiness." Suddenly, my fears and doubts of the "What ifs" eased.

So if 22toLife is how you feel - how much is your happiness worth???

I hate feeling as though I'm preaching, because I'm the last person on earth who should be telling others how to live. I drink too much, I can be quite selfish, I'm completely inappropriate and often times offensive. So I'm certainly not a perfect role model for success and happiness-not all of us can be as glorious as Oprah. But if I can offer any insight or opinion on my personal experiences through stories and humor, along with my often times crude perspectives in my own journey on figuring out my own life, then hopefully my writing can be as much a venue for others as it has been for me. There's still those "What ifs", but hopefully I'm learning how to face them somewhat more valiantly.

And what if no one reads this? And what if I start over? And what if I have no friends in a new city? And what if I go broke? And what if I make it big? And what if I don't? And what if I make a mistake? And what if that mistake leads to something great? And what if I get lost? And what if I never look back?

And what if, what if, what if, what if...?

Email Nation

Last weekend I ventured into Manhattan to purchase underwear.

In reality, though, the original intent was to interview for potential jobs. I had spent a better part of 2 weeks relentlessly contacting companies in an effort to schedule interviews for that particular Friday that I had planned on being in the city. When I say I was relentless, I truly mean that I came fairly close to having a restraining order placed against me by a handful of recruiters. Here's how I see it: If you ignore my emails, I will simply be forced to call you and practically recite my cover letter out loud over the phone. Not only do I find it idiotic that I'm required to write a cover letter, but I find it even more perplexing that the very people who asked for one don't even read it. I know this because they often times have no idea who I am. When I call, I can hear the fat fingers of Tim the recruiter typing furiously on his computer searching frantically for my resume, taking small pauses to sip his $7 Starbucks latte. Had he read it in the first place, I wouldn't be forced to stoop to such levels. I know we're all busy, but I feel 2-3 weeks is ample time to sort through applications and at least create a "Yes" and "No" pile.

Luckily, I'm quite shameless when it comes to competition and let's face it, applying for jobs in NYC puts me at quite a disadvantage, as I'm now helplessly competing against a plethora of overly educated, overachieving Jews and Asians. Honestly, how many 25 year old lawyers and executives named Adam Rosenberg does Manhattan really need? I'm far too complacent when it comes to furthering my education and seeking any degree or certification at the moment, so I commend them for their efforts. My approach, however, is far simpler - desperately claw my way to the top by forcing others into believing I'm competent. And if that doesn't work, I'll seduce a CEO.

My wishful thinking is that if everyone just stopped going back to school for more degrees, we can all be equally appreciated with nothing more than a Bachelor's. Much like the 60's and 70's. But since everyone has unanimously decided that higher education and enormous debt is the more intelligent route to pursue in exchange for real-world experience, our bachelor's degrees are now relatively worthless. Eventually, the Masters and PhD will be as well. Before you know it, we will all have 10 diplomas lining the walls of our cardboard box homes, because the only way to get a job will be to have some special talent that differentiates us - like playing the Cello or having no gag reflex.

So for two weeks I shuffled through a list of my most desired places to work that I had sent an application to. Included was a cover letter tailored specifically to the company I was applying to. In reality, though, all I did was change the name of the company. Because who has the time to sit and write cover letters for every job you're applying to? I'm a busy man and there's a lot of reality television on my DVR that needs catching up on. I pride myself on being able to discuss a plethora of different topics - from the state of the global economy to the repetitively obnoxious "on and off" relationship of Sammi "I'm a dumb desperate bitch" Sweetheart and Ronnie on the Jersey Shore. In my opinion, a sign of a truly intelligent person is one that is well-versed in both ends of the spectrum.

Why, then, is it so difficult to garner a response from a potential employer? All I was asking for was a chance to interview or even meet informally, but from the responses (or lack thereof) that I received, you would think I was going around asking for free handjobs or selling discounted coupons to a Mexican bestiality show.

The unfortunate reality is that the job market is competitive and cut-throat, and you learn that most companies rarely give a fuck about your resume and cover letter that sit lonely and untouched on the bottom of a massive pile. It's discouraging, but it's true and always has been. Therefore, I got creative. I Googled companies and found contact info for HR recruiters and CEO's, grew some rather large balls, and shot them emails. I even went as far as creating a Linked-In profile to send the CEO of one company an email asking him to meet with me. But no matter what I did, no response. Since I have a hard time accepting when someone ignores me, I became increasingly assertive and pushy. This annoys me because I end up feeling like a used car salesman, but it's really the only option you're left with.

In the days leading up to my Friday in Manhattan, I had managed to secure 3 interviews, both formal and informal, in an effort to make my time worthwhile for the day. That Thursday, I emailed one of the companies to confirm my meeting the following morning. To my complete and utter lack of shock, I received no response after 2 different emails politely asking where and when we would be meeting. Around 10 PM that same night, I received the following email from my second potential interviewers:

Andres,

Unfortunately we are not able to schedule the interview for you tomorrow as previously planned, the hiring managers are still reviewing resumes, however they do have stronger candidates with more of the type of experience that they are looking for. I will keep your resume actively on file.

Thanks,
Tim

Actively on file? What does that mean, Tim the recruiter? Is there a database that they keep, similar to a no-fly list? Earlier that week, I had completed some stupid assessment for this Tim person. After doing so, he filled me with promises of interviews and opportunities, which of course got my hopes up. Needless to say, I felt as though I had been stood up at the prom. At this point it was too late to change my plans, and I remained hopeful that the last person I would be meeting with "informally" at a Starbucks in midtown would be worthwhile.

The following day I arrived in Manhattan and checked into my hotel (as my 1 friend was out of town and my other friend had no A/C in her apt. If you've read my "Excessive Heat Warning" post, you will understand my reasoning for shelling out 144 bucks for a hotel room). I quickly emailed the guy I planned to meet to confirm our 4:30PM Starbucks meeting. Earlier in the week, it had been nearly impossible to garner any sort of response from this guy. This time, however, I received a response 2 minutes later:

Hey Andres,

As it happens, I'm pretty busy this afternoon. We could always try for sometime during the day Sunday or next week. Not sure when you are around until, but let me know.
- Steve

Fantastically enough, I was now left with 0 interviews and a $144 hotel bill. So I walked to Soho, shoved 2 enormous slices of Pepperoni and Sausage pizza down my gullet, and went shopping. I stumbled upon the notorious UNIQLO store, a Japanese version of H&M. Here, I purchased breathable undershirts (to control my sweating problems), breathable underwear (to protect against chub rub), and a $19 shirt that I could say "Oh, well I bought this in Manhattan" if someone chose to compliment me. The Japanese think of everything, from seafood flavored potato chips to breathable underwear. And for that, I am thankful.

As I walked around the city, I found myself in a fury of rage each time I passed a "young professional" chewing on their $14 salad on a park bench. Why did it seem that, for me, it's been increasingly difficult and degrading trying to even have someone sit down and interview me? It seemed so easy for these other people. You would think I'm attempting to land a job in Paris and apply for French citizenship. This is NYC, which is located in the U.S., which is a 3 hour train ride from my house, where I have full rights to work as an American citizen, and which is seemingly the most impossible city on earth to find a place that will pay me a mediocre salary so I can live in a shit hole shoebox of an apartment and eat Ramen noodles from a dented Styrofoam container. But to me, it's where I feel my next step is - maybe a place where I will finally come alive. And who knows, maybe I'll change my mind. But for now, I will sit at my desk in my comfortable Japanese underwear and freshly aired torso - sending emails with my resume and cover letter and waiting patiently for a response.

Richard

Below is a small excerpt from one of my book's upcoming chapters. Enjoy!

Have you ever met someone that is so painfully dumb, yet so incredibly genuine that you can't help but invite this person into your life? That's exactly how I would describe Richard, my grandmother’s housekeeper/handyman. Richard is 45 years old and comes in a very compact little frame. I can’t imagine he weighs much more than a kiwi. On any given day, Richard will adorn a different hair color that he proudly boasts was done professionally by him. Often times, he wears an old hat and an assortment of t-shirts, pants, and shoes that are at least 4 times his size. Adding to this his high-pitched voice, child-like character and goofy demeanor, Richard clearly sticks out no matter where he goes. He speaks fast and unintelligible, yet his facial expressions and hand gestures are what effectively communicate his ideas the most. Let me give you some background on Richard, who just so happens to be my purest source of entertainment each time I visit Paraguay. In all of my worldly travels and people that I’ve met, I am most intrigued by Richard.

Richard is officially retarded. Well, maybe not in the actual diagnosable sense, but I'm convinced that there's more than a few wires loose up there. Richard started his life in an orphanage where he grew up having little, if anything at all, to call his own. From what he has shared, he's told me he used to sleep in parks and perform odd jobs to survive his adolescent years. As a 45 year old adult now, he has the maturity level of a 13 year old girl at best. I say girl because Richard is a flaming homosexual. He'll never admit it, but one conversation with the man is like speaking with the gossiping neighborhood old lady. My great uncle Oscar doesn’t care much for Richard and openly harasses him due mostly to his homosexuality, but also because he’s just a grumpy old man with most likely a small and non-functioning penis. My grandmother and Richard, however, have a very interesting relationship. To me, it seems as though they are more like sisters rather than boss/employee.

My grandmother comes from a German background as a result of her grandparents emigrating from Germany to Paraguay in the late 1800’s. She’s stalky, fair-skinned and tall with red hair and a large bunion on her right foot. The bunion has been there for as long as I can remember, and I’ve come to consider it as part of the family. I often times wonder how she’s able to wear normal shoes given the size of this particular bunion, but she always seems to successfully mold each shoe to the peculiar shape of her foot. Physically, my grandmother and Richard are complete polar opposites. She also has a very stubborn and strong personality and enjoys running her household much like a German airport – clean, efficient, and orderly. There’s a staff of two housekeepers who cook and clean, an attractive gardener who comes once a week, and then there’s Richard, who basically does any leftover chores and provides entertainment for my grandmother on a regular basis. In short, Richard sweeps the sidewalk in front of her house, watches soap operas, and changes the occasional light bulb as his main job duties. While my grandmother puts on a tough front, she holds one of the kindest and warmest hearts underneath it all, and this becomes most evident around Richard.

Often times my grandmother and Richard get into arguments over which soap operas to watch. “Richard you have work to do and I want to find out who killed Rosario in this week’s episode of Amantes Diablos” she’ll scold. “But, Senora, I want to find out who is the whore that slept with Magdalena’s husband and aborted the bastard baby in Dos Amantes!” he’ll beg, using his hands to gesture his dramatic plea in a high-pitched voice while staring at her with eager eyes like a child begging for candy at the check-out counter. Of course, my grandmother has a soft spot for Richard and often gives in, but not without intelligently bartering first. “Fine Richard, you can watch the first 20 minutes, but then you need to trim the branches of the mango tree because one fell on Delia the other day and I’m tired of her blaming my house’s imbalanced energy field after every piece of fruit that falls on her head." Of course Richard will always reluctantly agree, but not without stating that her house and overall well-being would be a disaster if not for him. This is untrue for a number of reasons, as Richard is notoriously clumsy and unreliable.

In my most recent visit to my grandmother's house in Paraguay, I found out that Richard had left and never returned. My grandma explained that she had embarked on her routine summer trip to see us in the U.S., leaving behind her cell phone for the housekeeper to charge while she was away. She had also left 2 weeks pay for Richard, on top of extra money for the tutor that she had hired for Richard's reading lessons. Again, Richard isn't actually retarded; he's just one of those people left behind by the educational system and society. So, my grandmother had made a deal with him that she would pay for a tutor if he promised to stick with it. Upon her return, my grandma found that her cell phone and all of the money intended for Richard and his tutor had disappeared. Presumably, it was Richard who had turned himself into a petty thief and stolen my grandmother's cell phone. It was strange to notice how my grandmother didn't actually care about the missing contents, but seemed to care more about the fact that Richard would leave her in such a way. Needless to say, I could sense some strain and tension in my grandma's relationship with Richard.

While I was at her house, I began to notice that every morning there would be a fresh batch of avocados in the kitchen. These particular avocados were hard and yellowish in color and sat on the kitchen counter like plastic ornaments that no one gave a second thought to. After a couple of days, I asked my grandmother why she had decided to buy so many avocados that weren't even ripe. "Oh I didn't buy these" she responded. "This is Richard's attempt at making up." It turns out that for the previous week, Richard would arrive every morning at 7am, ring the doorbell, and leave a bag of freshly picked Avocados at my grandmother's front door. The housekeeper, Rosa, had mentioned that she had witnessed Richard carefully approaching the house the way one would approach a bear in the wilderness, quietly look around, and place the bag of avocados by the front gate. After doing so, he would ring the doorbell and run like hell, flailing his arms like a rabid bat all the way down the street as he negotiated the cracks in the sidewalk with his oversized shoes. This had now become his morning ritual, where he had reasoned that a daily bag of avocados was the perfect way to make amends with someone you had stolen from. I begged Rosa to inform Richard that I was visiting and would love to have him stop by. She relayed my message and told me that Richard would like to stop by, but he is afraid of my grandmother yelling at him. My grandmother laughed as she cleared the space on top of the fridge for the 500 avocados, and instructed Rosa to tell him that she promised she would not yell. Richard then had Rosa inform us that he would be stopping by the house the following afternoon at 4pm sharp. I could see the look of subtle joy on my grandmother’s face at the thought of her sisterly confidant returning for an afternoon of entertainment.

The following morning, I awoke to find Rosa preparing an avocado salad for lunch and was quickly reminded of Richard’s afternoon visit.

“Don’t forget the 4pm visitor we are receiving today!” I exclaimed to my grandmother as she walked into the kitchen.

“4pm? Who’s coming at 4pm?”

“Richard! Remember? You promised not to yell at him”

“Oh, Richard is coming at 4? It had completely slipped my mind” she lied.

My grandmother made her way to the table, pulled out a chair, and slowly sat next to me. After a few moments of silence, she turned to me and said, “What the hell am I supposed to do with all of these avocados?"

She then proceeded to tell me numerous stories involving her history with Richard, all of them involving some sort of humorous outcome that she found entertaining. Apparently, there was one time that Richard had requested to borrow an umbrella to fight off the afternoon rainstorm on his way to the bus stop. “Go into the garage and there should be an umbrella in there for you, Richard” my grandmother told him. A few moments later, she heard him holler his usual “Bye Senora! See you tomorrow!” The door closed and my grandmother, along with Rosa, made their way to the living room window to watch Richard leave. Sure enough, the site they saw was not a letdown. Sashaying confidently down the street in his baggy pants and bright blue XXL Old Navy shirt was Richard, holding an enormously large blue pool umbrella that was gargantuan enough to house a family of 10 on a camping trip. A short time later, Richard returned to the house with a dazed and confused look on his face.

“Senora, I had to come back because my umbrella wouldn’t fit in the bus and everyone was staring at me! The ladies at the bus stop asked me why I was carrying an umbrella that is 3 times my size!”
My grandmother laughed and said, “Richard, that’s because that umbrella is from America and they haven’t seen anything as fashionable and useful here. They were probably just jealous. Here, take this small one and go catch your bus.”

When my grandmother retold the story, I couldn’t quite imagine the size of this umbrella without seeing it for myself. I had decided then and there that I would ask Richard to re-enact the scenario during his afternoon visit.

**Read more about Richard, along with pictures of his visit, when the book comes out later this fall!**

Thanks College

I hate job hunting. It's my most hated thing in the world behind laundry, cleaning bathrooms, and adult kickball leagues. Honestly, as an adult I'd rather be drinking a beer at home watching re-runs of "King of Queens" than kicking a ball with other adults who think they're important because they have a $35K/ year job as an assistant on the hill to an obscure representative from Idaho. I've also found that if you start something off with "no offense", it basically clears you of any responsibility for the statements you make. As in, "No offense to my hill staffer friends who play adult kickball and work hard every day to change the library book rental laws of Ward 6 in Boise, Idaho".

When applying for jobs, though, I can't stand the actual process of degrading myself. What I mean is that it's an ugly reminder of just how mediocre life can feel when you're part of corporate America. You send a cover letter explaining how excited and honored you are for the mere opportunity to apply for this particular position, followed by the valient effort of having to sell yourself and your skills to a stranger in hopes of future compensation - much like a prostitute. Most of my time is spent having to sift through long and overly enthusiastic job descriptions on various websites falsely taunting me with advertisements like "Are you tired of commuting and long hours in the office? Well here's your chance to work from home PART-TIME in your pajamas and make up to $300K/year!!!!" Of course I'm tired of commuting and working long hours and wearing clothing or brushing my teeth for work. THAT IS WHY I'M HERE. These people know this and play into my already tainted view of how life in your 20's is a fucked up game of chasing the corporate carrot. We're always trying to move to the next level and improve ourselves to get that higher salary and that promotion, which is not entirely a bad thing. But what is frustrating is that we were never taught that hard work and intelligence don't guarantee you anything. In school, if you work hard and possess some semblance of a brain, you're guaranteed to move to the next level and eventually graduate with a diploma and a picture of you shaking hands with the Dean who just mispronounced your last name. In real life and at work, it's never that cut and dry.

I often times wonder why there wasn't a college course offered to help you handle the politics and realities and responsibilities that come with "the real world" after you graduate. The course should be called "How to not desperately claw your eyes out despite all the fucked up shit you see and hear on a daily basis at work for the next 40 years of your life." Every last person would be able to look back on that course and relate. Instead, we get Calculus, English 101, and false hope that we will find the perfect job with a great salary and live happily ever after as a reward for our 21 years of school. That's one hell of a $240,000 trick that us highly educated people fell into. But hey, at least I got to black out 3 times a week and take naps at 2pm.

So in my almost daily search for "The perfect job", or at least one that gives the illusion of perfection, I find myself feeling consistently inadequate and somewhat degraded. I can apply to 100 jobs and hear nothing back, leaving me to wonder if I'm doomed to walk through the doors of the same building for the rest of my life. But in the case that one employer does respond, I'm bombarded with questions about my experience, education, and knowledge/skills that they may or may not find useful for their company. And in the event I pass through those hurdles, I may be invited for an in-person interview where I'm forced to lie about "Where I want to be 5-10 years from now". 5-10 years from now I'd like to be retired and swimming nude in a desolate carribbean beach being massaged by a pygmy, but I've found that most employers frown upon that response. Therefore, the correct response is "5-10 years from now I'd like to be in a position where my experience and knowledge of emerging markets and global economic trends, along with my natural abilities to lead and motivate others in a cohesive environment, direct me towards opportunities in a managerial role that will foster overall growth and success for myself and this company." And after all the B.S., you shake hands and (if you're lucky) receive a call from Bill the Recruitment guy telling you that your interview went great and they'd like to hire you for a full-time position at a whopping $43k/Yr. Well geez, now I can afford that Hyundai Accent I've been dreaming about. (No offense to Hyundai drivers)

So for now, the search continues. But at the end of the day, I can be grateful that I have my framed college diploma as documented proof of my eligibility to successfully read a job description, click "Apply", and eagerly wait for a phone call that may or may not come. Meanwhile, Snookie has just shown her tits for a million dollars and Justin Bieber has auctioned off his first pubic hair on ebay for charity. Hard work really does pay off.

Could be a crackhead....Or a thickheaded Christian

A few weekends ago I found myself immersed in the various levels of ugly that made up the crowd at the Baltimore pride parade. My immediate reaction upon arriving at the parking lot where the tailgating was taking place was to drink as quickly and heavily as possible. That was the only way I would be able to survive staring at this type of crowd for an extended period of time without feeling completely offended.

As the music blared and the lesbians grilled, I looked over to see a small child hoisted onto the shoulders of a very drunk mother who happened to be jamming out to 1998 hip hop. I know for certain that I was frightened by my surroundings, so I can only imagine what was going through that poor child's head. Simultaneously, a woman who embodied the very essence of a crackhead was flailing her arms back and forth in an attempt to dance and seduce an adjacent lesbian with a tattoo that read, "God made me pretty". How ironic. I can't help but think God must have been having an off day or got distracted sending Jesus a text message when creating her.

I often times find myself wondering why lesbians are so disheveled. Strangely enough, all of my lesbian friends actually happen to be attractive and at the very least slightly feminine, but every single pride event I've ever attended, no matter what city, is flooded by lesbians that could easily be mistaken for overweight plumbers or heavyweight champions. Baltimore was absolutely no exception. I swear at one point I looked over and saw two different lesbians scarfing down a hot dog without so much as a single chew. For a group that is so opposed to weeners, they seem to take great pleasure in shoving them down their throats without shame. I suppose I can identify.

In general I find that gay pride parades bring about every type of lesbian and/or gay that very few of us would actually be "proud of" per se. Nevertheless, I can appreciate the sense of camaraderie and community during these types of events. It reminds me of a real life family, where you realize that you don't choose to have ugly or obnoxious family members, you just accept them as an inevitable reality and move on. That's relatively close to how I feel about the gay marriage issue. If you don't like what you see, just look the other way. I found myself having to do plenty of that in Baltimore, and it's just a part of life. There will be times where you don't particularly care for the environment or lifestyle or people that surround you, but it's never an excuse for interfering in the lives of others. I'll be the first to admit that I can be a judgmental prick. My day in Baltimore was filled with reverberating thoughts of "I didn't know such levels of ugly and trashy could exist and be morphed into one person". But in those instances, if I wasn't staring out of curiosity and entertainment, I just looked away and kept it moving. For those people that oppose gay marriage or the gay lifestyle in general, I can only say this: If you don't like gay marriage, blame straight people. They're the ones that keep having gay babies.

For me the logic seems simple. If you have a problem with the gay lifestyle, then don't be gay. You can hide and shelter yourself and your precious children in a bubble in suburbia but guess what, sooner or later Todd and Chad will be moving in next door with their black lab, Vietnamese baby, and VW Jetta parked in the driveway. Sorry to burst that bubble. But, it doesn't stop there. They will recruit your children for play-dates with the Vietnamese, bake you an evil quiche, sow you some curtains for your bare windows, and saunter away the hopes and dreams you had for living in Pleasantville. Before you know it, you and your spouse and all of your children will be partaking in musical theater and embracing the arts while living a life of evil and sin without even realizing it. The world is changing and I believe the views and perspectives of human beings in general need to evolve as well. In the end, we are no different than animals. Animals have evolved for millions of years to adapt to changes and become fit enough to live and thrive in their environments. What makes us different? What is it about change that scares people so much?

Some of the reason behind the "logic" I've heard spewing from the mouths of conservatives and religious zealots is that the Bible says homosexuality is an abomination. Well the Bible also says that adultery and divorce and pre-marital sex are all grounds for dismissal from The Kingdom of God...yet I see Sarah Palin's 17 year-old daughter, Bristol, embracing her love for the male genitalia and then discussing it with Barbara Walter's on The View in between breaks to breast feed her baby. The world is a sadly hypocritical place. It must be nice to pick and choose to believe what you want based on convenience, and then condemn what you disagree with based on ignorance.

Presidential hopeful Michele Bachmann and her husband, Marcus, are actively involved in the "Conversion Therapy" movement, where a person with homosexual tendencies can actually "pray away the gay" through therapy and religion. It astonishes me that highly educated (allegedly) individuals like Michelle and Marcus can simultaneously be so sheltered and idiotic. Perhaps a better use of their time would benefit from counseling ignorant Bible thumping Midwesterners to use condoms, monitor their cheese intake, and stop the obesity epidemic that's driving up healthcare costs. At the very least, that area of the country would benefit from condoms and a detraction of hideous genetics being spewed out from the vaginas of 19 year old mothers (No offense to those hot, cornfed and moderately educated Midwesterners. Hollerrrrrr!)

In short, I would love nothing more than to place Michelle Bachmann or Anne Coulter amidst a crowd of New Yorkers in Times Square and allow them to speak for 10 minutes about their views on gays. I would televise the event and hold nationwide bets for an ultimate jackpot to the person who can guess how many Louis Vuitton purses, Alexander McQueen shoes, D&B sunglasses, and Skinny Girl Margarita bottles the gays could throw at them in the span of exactly 10 minutes. Whether they like it or not, the gays may be queens but they are also relentless, catty, and vindictive. It's a perfect tri-fecta of evil used for survival that would not exist had people like Coulter and Bachmann just kept their mouths shut and possibly their legs closed.

And since we're all entitled to voice our own opinions I can wholeheartedly say this: I'd much rather attend the wedding of the crackwhore in Baltimore exchanging vows with the morbidly obese tattooed lesbian, officiated by a scantily clad Tranny in a thong and lace bra, instead of the backdoor redneck fiasco shotgun weddings that take place all across America intended to represent the "sanctity of marriage". Whether we like it or not, change is coming; and you can either embrace the evolving ways of society that represent fairness, progress, and equality, or swim against the current and drown amidst your own stupidity and false pretenses. I just hope that the Bachmann's, in the thick of their endeavors to preserve America, took some time off for some swimming lessons.

Excessive Heat Warning

It's days like these that I fear most. Those summer days where the temperatures soar and the humidity clings to you like like a relentless ex that you want nothing to do with. Days like this make me angry at myself. They truly and honestly bring out the worst sides of me.

I hate the fact that I sweat far more profusely than the average human. I hate that I'm forced to wear dress pants and a button-down shirt to work amidst excessive heat warnings. I hate the metro, the crowds, the pavement, the sun, the shade, the warm disgusting breeze blowing the sweat off my face. Most of all, though, I hate that at any given moment, I can look up or down a street and find one of two things: a girl in a sundress wearing flip-flops and sunglasses looking minimally bothered by the oppressive heat, or a strikingly thin gay man wearing the gay summer uniform - a torn tank top/wife beater combo adorned with a picture of a child actor from the 80's that barely constitutes as clothing and fully exposes both nipples but is still sold for $20-$30 bucks at American Apparel, slightly rolled up and/or frayed jean shorts, and excessively large and colorful high tops that look cheap and worn yet, in reality, cost $400 from an online sale at Barney's.

I get angry at both because I'm in dress clothes and it's unfair. Why can girls show up to work half naked during the summer and I can't? Why do they get to wear open-toed shoes while I'm forced into black socks and ugly loafers that literally taunt me every morning while I dress? Who the hell made these rules? And above all, where the fuck are all these gays going dressed like that? Am I missing out on some type of Tuesday mid-morning rave on U street? New York is even worse. Do the gays even work there? Did they all get the same memo that black leather gladiator sandals is the only acceptable form of footwear within the confines of the 5 Burroughs of New York?

All these questions race through my mind as I look down at my watch and realize that my dress shirt is soaked, my balls have suffocated and retaliated with anger in the form of chaffing, and I'm late for my 9-5 life. There's few things worse in life than sweating completely through one's work clothing and arriving to the office looking as though you've just stepped off a river cruise during a monsoon in the Amazon. My anxiety and levels of discomfort in this type of weather are not unfounded....

A couple of summers ago, I was going through my usual phase of "Fuck this place I'm moving to NYC" mentality. I had applied to numerous jobs when, out of the blue, a small sports advertising company contacted me for an interview. "Finally!", I thought, as I emailed them back confirming a date and time to meet. My plan was to hop the Chinatown bus from DC to NYC on a Thursday evening and spend the night with my friend Candy at her apartment in Long Island City before my 9am Friday interview. Her apartment was conveniently located within walking distance of the place, so I was proud of myself for my quick last minute arrangements. "This'll be easy" I thought to myself. "I'll be there in time for a late dinner with Candy, get some rest and wake up early for my interview and then head back home in the afternoon". Of course, my life as I've learned never goes as planned.

When I arrived to Penn Station on that Thursday evening, I noticed on various flat screen TV's a CNN headline that read "Worst heatwave in over a decade to hit Northeast cities tomorrow". In my mind, I brushed it off thinking that I would just surround myself in air-conditioned spaces for the next 48 hours. No biggie. I hopped on the subway and headed towards Candy's place in LIC to change and head out for a drink and some food. Upon arriving, I walked into her apartment and was met with a blast of heat far more sweltering than the outdoors.

"Holy fuck your apartment is like living in the slums of Mumbai, except without the unlimited supply of cheap curry and human shit on the streets!". Candy's apartment was nice and big, but grotesquely un-airconditioned.

"I know" she laughed. "There's no central AC and I haven't really needed a window unit until now". Great. I had conveniently forgotten that most people in their early 20's living in NYC and supporting themselves have barely any money to eat, much less afford an extravagant luxury such as a window unit. In an effort to escape Satan's lair, I suggested we go to a restaurant and hang out for a few hours.

In my mind, 10:30pm is a reasonable hour to return to an apartment and expect for the interior to not feel as though you're being wedged into an overweight bus driver's crotch. Unfortunately, Candy's apt was still a sweltering 88 degrees inside. I took a cold shower and a shot of vodka and settled into the leather couch in the living room where I would be spending the night. I opened both windows next to the couch in a desperate effort to have some type of cross breeze. I'm not exaggerating when I say this was amongst one of the worst nights of my life. I tossed and turned until about 1 am, at which point I peeled my soaking body off the leather couch and headed towards the kitchen. I opened the freezer and attempted to climb in, but only my head would fit. I then opened the refrigerator to cool down my legs and balls and began to imagine myself as a frozen pork loin basking in the glory of freezer burn. After passing out with my head in the freezer and balls near the milk, I made my way to the sink, turned it on, and furiously splashed water on my face and chest before heading back towards the leather couch.

Following a few more hours of tossing and turning, coupled with the incessant rumbling and shaking of the above ground train running directly next to the living room window, I began to panic. I realized I had only a few more hours of solid rest before my interview, but I was sweating so profusely that I actually considered walking to the nearest hospital and having them admit me for dehydration and heat exhaustion. At least that way I could find some relief. Seeing as how it would be difficult to make an interview successfully wearing nothing but a hospital gown, I began searching for a nearby hotel. In moments like these where I'm so exhausted and uncomfortable, I lose all dignity and would have walked to the nearest Holiday Inn wearing nothing but underwear and a moist towel around my head had I been able to find one. At one point, I honestly feared I would pass out and drown in my own pool of sweat. The NYPD would peel my dead body off the couch the following day, and I would join the small list of senior citizens and mentally handicapped victims on the headline of the NY Times: "Extreme Heat Responsible for Death of 3 elderly, 1 Mentally Disabled child, and 1 Large and Sweaty Giant Pussy of a Man". So I can't handle extreme heat as well as others...I know this and I have accepted it as my fate. Pussy or not.

I finally awoke in a fit of anxiety as the sun beamed onto my face. I looked at the clock on the wall. 7AM. At this point, I knew falling back asleep would be impossible so I stripped off my clothing and headed towards a cold shower, figuring that 2 hours to dress and walk 1/4 mile to the interview would be ample time. Have you ever experienced stepping out of a shower and dressing yourself in formal attire in a blistering hot room? It's a feeling I think everyone should experience at least once in their lives to connect with our ancestors from the previous centuries. Had I lived during their time, I would have gladly enlisted in the military and volunteered myself to be amongst the first line of defense in a deadly battle. If that didn't work, I would forcibly engage in lewd sexual acts with someone riddled with bubonic plague.

As I strolled out the door in my damp suit, I headed towards the Quizno's on the street corner. My plan was to walk 15 feet and then quickly duck into the nearest shop for temporary relief before continuing on. It was 8:15am and the temperature was already creeping towards 100, and if I arrived to the interview early enough I could enjoy a few moments of peace in an air-conditioned lobby. Imagine my disappointment when I arrived a half hour later to find this newly constructed building made entirely of windows and a half finished lobby. With no AC. At this point my anxiety crept up as I knew for certain that my interviewer would take one look at me and think I was a homeless businessman living out of his car and wearing the same filthy suit covered in sweat marks. As I made my way to the 9th floor, I opened the office door and greeted the receptionist.

"Sorry about the heat in here, our AC doesn't seem to be working these past few days."

"Oh no worries, I was accidentally pushed into a sewage pond on the way here so AC is the least of my worries right now" I smiled, as I sat onto an all-too-familiar leather couch. Moments later, the interviewer appeared and led me back to his office which, of course, was also comprised entirely of windows and no blinds. Luckily, he was sweating as incessantly as me as he sat and began the interview. I can't say I remember much of what happened, as I'm fairly certain I may have blacked out at various points during our discussion. Regardless, I left the building and headed quickly back towards Candy's apartment. When I opened the door, I found Candy's roommate sitting in the living room watching TV.

"How can you sit in here it's like 90 degrees?"
"Oh well it's nice out here my room is FREEZING. I slept with the window unit on all night."

Upon noticing the look on my face, she asked "Did you sleep ok out here? I wish you had said something I have an extra air mattress in my room you could have slept on".

Trying my best to not kick the bitch in her ovaries, I gathered my belongings and headed out the door. The thought of taking the subway to midtown and waiting 3 hours for my bus was overwhelming to me. At this point I was so desperate for relief, that I hopped on the internet and booked a flight from JFK-DCA which would depart in 4 hours. Fuck the bus. Happy with my decision, I hopped on the airtrain and got off at the Delta terminal of JFK where I could finally relax in the AC and grab a drink. As I entered the terminal, I was horrified to find large industrial fans scattered strategically throughout the building.

"AC's broken" said the large African American lady at the Delta counter to me. "We got fans."
"Yes, I see that thank you. Um, by any chance can I get on an earlier flight. Sayyyyyy right around....now?"
"That's a hundred dollaz, sir. And it's full."
"Great" I smiled, and walked away.

The next 4 hours passed eternally slow until I heard the sweet and angelic voice of the gate agent announcing the boarding of my flight. I walked down the Jetway fanning myself with my boarding pass yet ecstatic that I would soon enter the notoriously frigid cabin of an airplane. I smiled at the flight attendant and stepped on board where I found row after endless row of overweight passengers violently fanning themselves with barfbags and magazines and desperately reaching towards the air-vents above them. The inside of this cabin was, no exaggeration, a cool 90 degrees. I took my window seat and recalled the scene in that movie "Airplane" where the old lady hangs herself mid-flight. I began to wonder if my seat belt was strong enough to support my body weight. The captain announced that, due to a malfunctioning APU system, there was no AC available on the ground. IS THIS REAL? By now I could say with all confidence that I know what it would have been like to be a prisoner of war in Vietnam or Rosie O'Donnell on an African safari.

As the plane taxied and I went in and out of consciousness, the captain informed us we were number 21 for take-off and would sit on the runway for the next hour or so. Baking. What was supposed to be a 30 min flight suddenly seemed endless. I could have fucking walked home by now. The flight attendants walked through the cabin offering small glasses of water as I grabbed 3 and proceeded to dump each, one by one, on my face. The next thing I can remember is landing in DCA and taking the metro back to my dad's office to catch a ride home. As I opened the door to the car, I threw my belongings in the back and collapsed into the front seat. "Tough day?" my dad asked with a grin on his face, as I looked over and gave him the finger.

This ordeal occured 2 years ago and it haunts me still. Any time I see warnings for "excessive heat" or adjectives such as "Blistering, boiling, sweltering" and any other word that should never be used to describe the weather, I cringe in fear. Since I'm not fortunate enough to have been built with the body of a 15 year old Korean gymnast and cannot appropriately pull-off the summer gay look or a sundress, I'll be declining any invite for an outdoor gathering until mid September. I've noticed more and more rooftop bars and outdoor seating available for happy hours and fine dining and I laugh to myself as I drive by in the comfort of my AC on a hot summer day and notice two gays on a dinner date, in their summer uniforms, inconspicuously dabbing the glisten on their foreheads as their date looks away.

Is There Vodka in the Freezer?

Being a homo is not all fun and games. While to most it may seem like a lifestyle full of swanky gyms, lavish vacations, sexual escapades, and eventually a luxury town home complete with 2 dogs and/or a newly adopted ethnic baby, it can also be quite challenging. Growing up in a South American household has many advantages, but being gay is certainly not one of them. As a young kid, my parents frequently took our family to their respective countries every year.  Upon deplaning, not only were we met with loads of extended family members and oppressive heat, but we were also the subject of every single family member's criticism. On more than a few occasions, we would be called fat which, to the despair of my sister and I, became the common theme for our extended vacations down there.  Since my parents so frequently found it necessary to take three obnoxious kids on 12 hour flights to their homelands, we were able to form quite a few friendships with the kids of my dad's former high school buddies.  
 
One summer, my parents decided it would be a good idea to send my brother Luis and I to Paraguay to stay with my aunt and uncle for three months.  I was 11 at the time and my brother was 15, so my parents saw this as the perfect opportunity to deal with fewer kids in the house for 3 months.  Since my sister was only 7, the lucky bitch got to stay home.  My brother was excited to go since he had convinced my parents to enroll him in a soccer league for the duration of those 3 months.  Because of this, my mom had also brilliantly decided that my chubby ass would benefit from tennis clinics at the local country club near my aunt and uncle's house 4 days a week.  As a fat little boy with few friends, being sent to Paraguay for 3 months and forced to play tennis and spend time with my dickheaded brother sounded about as appealing as a sleepover with Michael Jackson.
 
When the day finally arrived, I started to worry at the outcome of this trip as my parents sent us down the jet-way, armed with a fanny pack and full of fear that my brother would somehow purposefully place me on the wrong flight during our connection in Miami.  My fear became real as he turned to me and said, "Listen asshole, don't annoy me or cry for mommy and nothing bad will happen to you.  In fact, let’s try not to speak until we get there."  I immediately imagined myself stepping off a plane in some remote African country carrying nothing but a fanny pack with my passport and twenty bucks in cash.  I would fend for myself by selling Chiclets on the streets and washing windshields at stop lights with all the other children.  If I worked hard enough, I could eventually afford a mud hut where i would reside by myself and study the language and culture of my local village.  After sometime, I would force my way into the inner circles of my new society and take over as king or tribes leader and live happily ever after in spite of my asshole brother.  Nevertheless, the tears flowed down my cheeks as the plane took off and left DC in the distance.  
 
 
Within the first two weeks, I had managed to successfully ditch my tennis clinics by convincing my aunt that I would be much more useful at home with her discussing soap operas and getting the housekeeper to teach me her best recipes.  I also didn’t have much of a choice, as halfway through our stay my brother and some of my so-called "friends" convinced me it would be a good idea to play goalie during numerous mini soccer matches.  Needless to say, I ended up with a broken left wrist as a result of my brother shooting towards the goal with the force of a German firing squad while pretending to be David Beckham.  Exactly one week later, my right wrist broke during a separate attempt at me playing soccer against my savage brother.  Left with two useless arms, I could barely dress myself or do much of anything, really, but at least I gained culinary experience and watched every soap opera that existed during the summer of 1996.  My parents are still convinced it was a great experience, but they're also half-buzzed as a result of their daily wine consumption so what the hell do they know anyway?
 
As we got older, our trips to South America came with a price: about 2 months of serious anxiety thinking, "Holy shit I have to lose 40lbs and buy new clothes and bleach my teeth so I'm not criticized and ridiculed by my supposed 'loving' family and friends".  My sister Daniella and I would starve ourselves in an effort to look good, but it never seemed to be enough. Luis, of course, being the ever-perfect athlete and social superstar, could down 10 burgers and some slurpees the week before leaving yet somehow manage to retain abs.  He looked, talked, and behaved like an asshole so that became my preferred method of addressing him.  
 
For these reasons, I grew quickly nervous upon receiving an email from my childhood friend in Paraguay informing me that she was getting married.  As I sat and pondered the absurdity of a culture in which marriage (of course only between a man and a woman) and reproducing were an essential part of your 20's, I decided it would be an interesting experience to go back and see some family and friends that I hadn't seen in over 5 years.  Given my track record of venturing to foreign countries alone, I decided upon visiting Buenos Aires for a few days before heading to Paraguay to be called fat and ugly and have every last droplet of self-esteem completely pulverized.   The following is an account of some of my time in Buenos Aires that I chose to re-cap while sitting in a random cafe:
 
I'm in a rustic cafe in Buenos Aires that smells funny - a bit stale if not reminiscent of the cafeteria inside a nursing home. I'm not sure what brought me to this particular one, but I'm thinking the name "Cafe Pretty” had something to do with it.  Maybe I’m feeling particularly pretty today. It's March and it's hot and I've been sweating nonstop for the past 4 days, so how I can feel so good beyond all that is astonishing to me.
 
There are smells and sounds and an energy in Buenos Aires that are difficult to describe, but it reminds me of my childhood.  I still remember always feeling hot and uncomfortable as a kid, a lot like I've been feeling these last few days.  The difference is that now I feel slightly calmer, as though the nuisances of life like heat and traffic and crowds aren't quite as bothering to me.  Don't get me wrong, this particular hostel I’m staying in is equivalent to sleeping on the surface of the sun, which makes me cranky and mean to all those around me. In fact, I've had to apologize for not being as friendly as I could have been to this one British girl but I blame the excessive heat and the fact I have to walk up 6 stories of steep stairs to get to my room.
 
As I walk around this city, I see how different people’s lives are.  It's funny how at home I'm consumed by my own problems that many would classify as "petty". I’ve come to realize that although that may be true, everyone’s problems and hardships and hurdles are relative, and they are their own, which actually doesn’t make it petty at all. While I know that the woman sleeping on the streets with her kids's idea of a bad day is not having enough money to eat, while mine is "Why won’t this asshole that I like text me back?" they're both a cause of anxiety for each of us. It's stupid and trivial, but it's true.  Both of these instances can be portals towards anxiety and unhappiness which, ultimately, are no different for either me or that woman.  We all just want to be happy in the end, right?  Of course in my experience, drinking heavily and dancing like a douche bag to "Top 40" songs tends to help.
 
In a city of nearly 20 million, I still feel as though I'm a part of the energy. I don't feel lonely the way I often might when I’m at home. I like the honking and the diesel smoke and the street performers and the mopeds and the smell of food cooking on the streets- it's so different from what I’m used to that it makes me feel strangely alive- aside from the overwhelming smell of urine, which is something I can't seem to escape in DC or any major city.  It's incredible how going out of your own comfort zone can change your perspective and mood and outlook on whatever it is that made you feel uneasy in the past. For me, it seems as though each time I travel to a new country, it's because I'm running away from something or someone that caused me to be uneasy back home.  I can't help but think this is the case once again. Maybe it's just my denial, but it seems as though my worries and anxieties and insecurities and fears seem to disappear when I'm experiencing something new, so perhaps I just find myself craving that necessary break from time to time. I haven't felt as care free and happy and, most importantly, present in the moment as I've felt in the past few days.
 
Last night, I went to a floating casino where my friend Chrissy and I spent hours on the slot machine, winning and losing and winning only to ultimately lose.  There was one point where Chrissy and I had tried to re-enact a real life scenario of her very overweight stepdad consuming shrimp at an all-inclusive buffet, but when I attempted to exclaim, "This shrimp is DELICIOUS!" in my nasally obese-man grunt, Chrissy was roaring like a hyena so loudly that I spit some of my wine onto the shoes of an old Argentinean woman, which nearly got us escorted off the premises.  No matter where in the world I am, I've come to thoroughly enjoy the unmistakable look on a local's face that inevitably conveys the world's superb annoyance with loud and obnoxious Americans.  
 
Chrissy is actually one of my sister's friends that came to Buenos Aires for study abroad in college and, like any other American girl, found a boy and fell in love.  That was over two years ago and she hasn't been back since.  It seems strangely similar to my love story in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, except I'm assuming Chrissy's now fiancé, Pablo, is not a stripper or a hooker.  Maybe I just don't quite know how to pick them.  
 
In this cafe I'm sitting at, I ordered a really grotesque chicken sandwich that tasted dry and, frankly, offensive.  To make up for it, I've ordered a chocolate frappucino with extra syrup and 2 non-diet Pepsi's, and I can say with strong conviction that I’m enjoying every calorie induced sip. I've come to find that the key to enjoying any trip is to make the best out of the situation you're in because it's the only thing you can really do.  My hostel advertised air conditioning and comfortable beds, but what I've gotten is quite the opposite. My room is at least 90 degrees and their idea of AC is a ceiling fan, an open window, and a cheap white towel you can rent and use at your leisure to wipe the sweat dripping from your now entirely unattractive body.  But what can you do? Besides sleep half naked of course. Or find a stranger at a bar to go home with. I can only laugh and remember that I've paid approximately 16 dollars a night, so in the end the lack of AC won't kill me - although it might accentuate my ass hole-like tendencies.  After all, I'm only human and even under the best of circumstances I can be a real dick.  
 
My life at home seems so consumed by money and promotions and social networking and meetings and conferences and dealing with people you want nothing to do with, that it's such a refreshing thing to be able to travel 14 hours by plane and experience only the things that YOU yourself want to experience. Even if that means sweating your balls off in a third world country.  There’s so many tango shows and comedy shows being advertised and, yet, I haven't gone to one.  At first I felt a bit guilty because everyone says, "You can't leave Buenos Aires without experiencing a tango show". Really? Well, I am.  I don't want to see two people dancing far better than I ever could, so I'm deciding not to. And guess what? I don't give a fuck. I'll just watch Dancing with the Stars on TV and pretend I saw a tango show.  I've done what I've wanted to do in these past 4 days, and that's more fulfilling to me than getting ripped off watching a tango show and eating the all inclusive dinner by myself. I'd rather go to a local bar and enjoy a few drinks, or sit in a cafe and continuously lie to strangers about where I'm from.
 
I’m constantly finding that when you travel alone, it's the only time in life when you'll be truly free to do whatever you want. Don't let yourself get caught up in what others say you should be doing or seeing; make the experience your own.  There's absolutely nothing wrong with that.  I spend far too much time at home and at work having to answer to the likes of others, so do what pleases you.  The only thing that’s truly universal when traveling is this:
Watch your shit closely; these foreign fuckers like to steal.
 
Having had a fulfilling trip to Buenos Aires, I made my way to the airport for the quick flight to Asuncion, Paraguay where my mom, dad, and Luis would be waiting for me.  Before this trip I had promised myself that I wouldn't lie.  What I mean is that my friends and family in Paraguay don't know I'm gay.  This seems to beg the ever popular "Do you have a girlfriend?" question that always comes up. Whether it's my grandmother, her neighbor, a friend, a cousin, or the cashier at a grocery store, the question never escapes me.  
 
"Do you have a girlfriend?" my grandmother asked, as I made my way out of the international arrivals hall with my bags. "No, I'm enjoying the single life right now where I can drink beer and sleep around", I replied, as I leaned in for a hug. I noticed a smile across her face as she held my face close.  "That's great. I'm so proud of you!" she exclaimed and kissed my forehead.   The irony that my grandmother is more excited about me whoring myself out to women rather than confirming any type of committed relationship with another man is not lost on me.  But, I didn't lie.  I just chose not to specify that not only do I enjoy drinking beer and possibly sleeping around, but I also like to add hard liquor, an occasional joint, and men into the scenario.  This is the same approach I took when the same question was asked of me by at least 40 different people. "Do you have a girlfriend?" they'd ask. "God no! Who needs to be tied down at an age like this?!" I would reply, all the while thinking to myself that being tied down wouldn’t be so bad if it was done in the literal sense, with silver handcuffs, a leopard skin blindfold, some sort of edible paraphernalia, and carried out by a charmingly exotic Brazilian soccer player with a penthouse in Rio.
 
Nevertheless, Paraguay is an interesting paradox to me.  People there can be the friendliest and most welcoming people on earth.  Until, of course, they find out you just happen to be a homosexual. It's not that I was scared to tell anyone, but I kept it to myself out of respect for my dad.  My dad is very much a laid back, quiet, and private person.  Sure he is constantly telling terrible jokes at dinner parties, ordering the world’s most indestructible wallet off an infomercial, or telling people what a great deal he got on a fake Rolex he illegally purchased in Italy, but in general my dad is not one to air the dirty laundry. So, I kept it to myself.  My brother, Luis, however, found it incredibly necessary to bring up the subject of my gayness at various times throughout the trip.  "Wasn't it funny when that girl wanted to go home with you last night but couldn't because you like men?" he'd ask, as my parents sat with my grandmother and awkwardly downed their respective glasses of wine as though they were tequila shots.  It felt strange being back to a place I was so familiar with, yet so out of place.  I was worried I would have a harder time trying to blend in this time around, as through the years I’ve become increasingly more comfortable with whom I am.  The trick was to keep reminding myself that, while I may be a homo, at least I’m not a clan of crazy people like most of my family in Paraguay.  To say that they’re eclectic is putting it mildly.  My grandmother's side is particularly entertaining to me, as it consists of her 80 yr old womanizing brother Oscar, who has fathered about 10 kids with 10 various women, her crazy younger sister Gloria, who shits her pants constantly and pulls all her hair out and refers to her husband as “that cheating old bastard with a tiny useless dick”, and lastly her youngest sister Delia, who decorates her apartment with various artifacts including kitten statues, bird cages, and an abundance of colorful lamps.  Every trip my family has ever taken has involved collecting some sort of artifact or peculiar object requested by my great aunt Delia.  One summer when I was 14, my parents took us to Machu Picchu for the first time. While most other tourists and families seemed enthralled by the history and magic of an ancient Incan civilization, my family was too busy breaking into pairs and scavenging the grounds of the former Incan empire in search of the perfect rock and clump of soil that my great aunt Delia had so adamantly requested.  "I need the rocks and soil so I can re-balance the astrological energy field in my house" she pleaded to my dad.  "My pets are getting sick and Machu Picchu is the only place where you can find the remedy.”  When I was younger I wanted nothing in the world more than a Power Wheel convertible, but my dad turned me down every Christmas until I became too big and fat to fit in one.  Have a crazy old woman ask for a pair of rocks and some soil from a faraway land, and suddenly my dad has the whole family on all fours stealing ancient Incan artifacts to smuggle across the border.
 
As I arrived to my grandma's house, I set down my bags and entered the kitchen, where my great uncle Oscar was sitting.  "Wow Andres, you are looking pretty big.  How will you ever get married that way?" It had been at least 5 years since the last time I saw him, and those were the first words out of this bastard's mouth as he sat ominously, wearing fake black Oakley sunglasses that he uses primarily to shield others from seeing him check out anything armed with a vagina.  "Nice to see you too" I replied, trying my best not to show utter annoyance. "And not to worry, I’m not legally eligible to get married in the states anyway" I continued.  There's something innate in my personality that forces me to fuck with the elderly, particularly ones I'm related to and don’t really care for.  Something akin to what I refer to as “eldery teurettes”, where I can't control the snark remarks that spew from my mouth.  "What do you mean not legal? Are you trying to marry a black girl or something?" he asked. "Sure, something like that" I smiled.  "Is there vodka in that freezer?"
 
The next few weeks were filled with quite a few awkward encounters at various bars and clubs with my friends and Luis, as I was constantly pressured to approach random girls to flirt with and, eventually, engage in some sort of awkward intercourse.  Every time I ventured out, my friends would time and again tell me to approach various females while, simultaneously, Luis would be hovering close by and laughing hysterically to himself while pretending to suck a fake dick like the giant asshole he is.  I reminded myself that I had come to see my friend Laura get married, and that I needed to just get drunk and enjoy the time I had with my friends.  Things were made a bit more awkward as the last time I had visited Paraguay five years before, it was no secret that Laura (whom I refer to as “Lala”) and I had mutual crushes on one another.  Mine wasn’t so much a crush as it was an excitement over the fact that I found a female friend in Paraguay who could be just as inappropriate and bat shit crazy as me.  Lala is the type of girl who will flash her tits to a random stranger while walking out of a NYC subway just to confuse the person and leave them wondering whether the event was real or just a temporary figment of their imagination.  It’s exactly something I would do if I carried a pair of D-cup breasts.  Because of our special relationship, people often times approached me with pity, asking me if I was happy to see Lala getting married while reminding me how great of a guy her fiancé really is.  This, of course, created a lot of confusion in my mother’s mind as she began to reminisce on my earlier years spent hanging around Lala.  “Remember how cute you guys were together? And how much fun you guys had when you met up every weekend in New York?  Don’t you think your attraction for her was just a little bit real?” she’d ask, with a glimmer of hope evident in her tone.  “Yeah mom, it was a blast.  But let me explain it to you this way: my relationship with Lala is similar to my relationship I have with a bacon cheeseburger.  I enjoy the idea of it, but eating one often times leaves me feeling sick”, I replied.  My mom glared at me, took a sip of her wine, and sarcastically replied, “Ok I get it, just making sure I understand that’s all”.  “What’s not to understand?” my dad interjected, looking over at my brother who was sitting on the couch holding up his donut and mouthing the words “donut puncher” with a huge smile on his face.  “Clearly he’s not into the egg McMuffin, so just let him stick to sausages if that’s what he likes” continued my dad, in an obnoxious attempt to find the perfect opportunity to insert one of his jokes.  I couldn’t help but appreciate the humor and utter stupidity of that entire conversation as I grabbed my suit and prepared to see my alleged childhood girlfriend walk down the aisle.  

Read the rest of the chapter and more when the book comes out!

-Andres

As the story develops...

Many of you, yes I'm referring to all 12 of my fans and followers, may have noticed the lack of new blog postings and useless rambling from me in the past months. Along with crazy work schedules and the burning desire to spend every last dime on traveling to faraway, yet often times stupid and irrationally random places, I've begun to work on writing and publishing a book. As we speak, I have entered into a contract with a small publishing company and have been working with editors and "professionals in the field" (whatever that means) to publish a collection of stories and essays in hopes that I can get at least 12 people to purchase and enjoy. I promise I will continue to update this shithole of a blogsite more often.

The book is about halfway complete, which really means nothing in the literary world because it ends when I run our of shit to say. So what the fuck is "halfway" anyway? It's just a good answer I use for when people ask me how it's coming along. For a while, I kept this not so much a secret, but a private matter for fear that it would not actually work out or that I would jinx the entire thing. Right now, all I want to do is finish the book and see it in print with a cover and my name on it, and whether or not it sells more than 2 copies (I know my parents are guaranteed to each get one so there's 20 bucks right there!), I really just want to see my aspirations for becoming a real writer come through in the physical form of a book. So whether or not it all works out is yet to be seen, but at least I can say I was able to accomplish something that's important to me while so many others never get the chance. And to be quite honest, I just really want to see my fucking face on the back jacket of a book with a description underneath that reads, "Andres is the New York Times best selling author of 'Politically Incorrect: The Various Ramblings and Often Times Worthless and Confusing Anecdotes of a Troubled Gay'. His career took off after his alleged affair with Bravo Television Exec Andy Cohen and the release of their disturbing yet best selling sex video involving endangered Japanese Vervet Monkeys and Trannies collected from various truck stops across America. Andres lives in New York with his stunningly attractive and wealthy husband Kent, 12 Shiba Inu puppies, and litter of 5 adopted Pakistani, Madagascan, Kenyan, Indian, and Guatemalan Asian babies. How he managed to find an Asian baby to adopt in each of those countries still remains a mystery."

Thanks for always reading.

Xoxo,
Andres

The Truth, and Nothing But the Truth

I've recently been thinking about the strangest things. I'm not sure if it's a product of my environment, but I've concluded that the more I've been seeing things emerge on the news, the more I've realized the type of person I don't ever want to be. Here's what I mean by this...

It was not so long in the distant past that a man by the name of Osama Bin Laden was tracked, monitored, and eventually ambushed and killed by a team of what I can only assume were extremely attractive and, in my mind, scantily clothed navy seals. From what information I've gathered, this is how I feel the event went down:

I picture Bin Laden sitting on his couch with one or all of his many wives and children, enjoying a relaxing evening at home watching Anderson Cooper on AC360 or catching up on DVR'd episodes of Glee, when all of a sudden a group of hefty American soldiers came barging in and pumped him full of lead. Or perhaps they knocked politely first - Americans do tend to feel awkward about showing up to someone's house unannounced. A phone call in advance is usually appreciated.

As our nation celebrated, I couldn't help but wonder what on earth was discovered in the world's most wanted terrorist's house. Luckily, I didn't have to wonder for too long as it quickly became evident that amongst other things, Bin Laden had an affinity for not only vast amounts of pornography (which I'm pretty sure Islam actually frowns upon, but minor details right?), but he apparently also had a slight obsession for none other than Whitney Houston, America's favorite crackhead superstar. If she's good enough for Oprah, she's sure as fuck good enough for Bin Laden. I even heard from a quite reliable source, which some may recognize as the Kane show on Hot99.5, that he even had elaborate plans to eliminate Bobby Brown in hopes that Whitney would come to her senses and realize how much of a true romantic Osama Bin Laden really was at heart. Within days, the New York Post published a fresh issue of Bin Laden developments, with the cover cleverly illustrating in bold black letters, "Osama Bin Whankin!". Instantly, I realized that Mr. Bin Laden was not the person I had always thought he was. It's delicious when you find that a man whom you thought was the epitome of an extreme religious psychopath who once walked out of a horse derby in Qatar because they started beating drums (which he infuriatingly stated was un-Islamic and offensive), is really actually into suffocation porn and black women who enjoy the occasional crack rock. And really, who isn't?

And then there's the emergence of a shocking headline on CNN that reads, "IMF chief arrested for sexual assault against hotel maid". This was phenomenal for a couple of reasons. While it's unfortunate that a poor young woman working as a hotel maid got allegedly assaulted and attacked, the details that have developed and been exposed as a result of the investigation align exactly with how I think someone should "go out with a bang". Pun completely intended. When I first read the headlines, I couldn't help but burst out in an uncontrolable fit of laughter. The image of a 62 year old overweight man quietly emerging nude from a bathroom and sporting a raging boner, like some low budget porn movie from 1988, and chasing a hotel maid throughout various rooms of his elaborate hotel suite, is not exactly how I have always pictured this man. Since I work at the IMF (and for the sake of keeping it that way, I'm holding all opinions to myself), I've been very familiar with who Dominique Strauss-Khan is. On several occasions, I have been fortunate enough to enjoy a variety of awkward encounters through narrow hallways between myself and his team of body guards. On my first week at the IMF, I recall ordering a delicious cup of Broccoli and Cheddar soup from the cafeteria. As I held my cup of soup close to my chest, giddy with anticipation of enjoying such a lovely treat yet furiously angry with myself for forgetting to grab the complimentary oyster crackers, I noticed a bulky man walking straight towards me. Behind this bulky man was a small Asian man, and next to him a stalkier gray-haired man whom at the time I didn't know was Mr. Strauss-Khan. I'm not sure how often one encounters body guards at such a close proximity, but they are not always as polite as one might think. The body guard grabbed my attention moreso than the Asian man and S-K, simply because it is rare to see such an attractive specimen at an institution such as the IMF. As I stood in the narrow passageway of this hallway, clutching my soup and attempting to look as attractive as possible by sucking in my fat and most probably blinking my lashes awkwardly, the bulky man abruptly shoved me aside as Mr. Asian and Mr. S-K followed in his tail, looking exactly as I do when I shamelessly follow a speeding ambulance through traffic. It's not everyday that you can be fortunate enough to be manhandled at your place of employment, so I wasn't all that upset by the small amount of soup that spilled from my container during this romantic rendezvous.

So the thing I find funny is that anyone, from the leader of an extremist Ismalmic terrorist group to the leader of an international organization, can be caught with their pants down. Literally. There have been numerous occasions where I've been caught with my pants down, and mostly because I'm convinced that door locks malfunction on purpose and must have some highly evolved intuition/electronic signal that is transmitted the second a person removes their underwear. Yet to date, I'm not a public figure so most people just react with a look of disgust as opposed to enough curiosity to provide more details on the incident. I can't help but wonder how someone like Bin Laden or Strauss-Khan must feel when they are caught doing something that goes completely against what they publically stand for. Of course for Bin Laden it's a bit more tricky since there is currently a bullet lodged in his brain, but I can't imagine Mr. S-K showing up to a board meeting anytime soon and saying, "These donuts are great, thanks for bringing them in Kathy. You're a doll. Love the skirt. So what's on today's world hunger agenda everyone? Oh and excuse the stain on my shirt, that's from the Boston cream......."

So when I say that both those men and related news articles represent who I don't ever want to be, aside from the obvious terrorist and alleged sexual predator qualities, I mean that I prefer to never be in a situation where people are surprised and shocked when they find out I have porn on my computer or that I occasionally enjoy chasing someone around a room with a boner. I'm a fairly transparent person when it comes to embarrassing shit. Yes, my dad has caught me using one of my multiple shakeweights that I ordered whilst drunk from an infomercial and assumed it was a popular new gay sex toy, but at least he was not shocked. Or the time I brought home a large dildo from California that was originally intended as a gift but I ended up keeping for comedic purposes and held a show-and-tell session with various friends one drunken night at my house. This same dildo was later used to slap my brother in the face in order to prove my point that stupidity and useless rambling or watching of ESPN sports highlights will not be tolerated in my presence.

So in the future, should I happen to stumble upon immense fame, fortune, or the chance to whore myself out on some reality television show, just know that I will have exposed all of my dirty little secrets before any other curious fuck gets the chance to. I will be releasing my own sex videos and hiring a private photographer to take crotch shots of me exiting a vehicle so the twigs and berries can be enlarged and properly airbrushed for publication. If I can get satisfaction from purchasing an embarrassing object that makes the cashier feel more awkward than me while ringing it up, then why would I want to keep this from the world? Had I not been inclined to pass that dildo around to my lucky friends that night or used it to slap my brother across the face, it would most likely have sat lonely and forgotten in a drawer or shelf, ironically sharing space and collecting dust with some poster of a victoria's secret model or Neve Campbell that I probably used to prove to people, way back when, that any self respecting straight man with descended testicles would love to fornicate with either candidate. Or at least hold them gently through the night and talk about their feelings so they feel respected in the morning...

And if I'm to be truthful, which is usually a rare occasion, I would venture to say that amidst anything else, I would rather be walked in on chasing someone around a room naked or watching golden shower interracial midget porn than have someone discover my dusty posters that served their purpose so well all those years ago.