10 Things
I've Never Done and Probably Never Will
1. I have never seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
No desire.
Friends would urge, “Oh, you’d love it, Eric. Everyone dresses up like the film’s characters. They even throw rice at the movie screen during the wedding scene.”
You don’t say?
If I want to join a cult, I want it to be somewhere tropical, like Jonestown, where we can sip refreshing Kool-Aid. Or maybe a cult offering a free pair of Nikes, an all-inclusive trip to outer space, and eventually my salvation. Again, cocktails included. But to sit among a bunch of wannabe thespians at midnight, where I most certainly would have to buy my own beverage from a pimply-faced teenager? Pass.
The only midnight movie I recall with fondness is when my friend and I went to a midnight showing of whatever was showing. We sat next to two unknown high school girls and spent the entire movie making out.
Damn if that stranger-girl from another school didn’t give me a hickey. And I already had a steady girlfriend from my high school, and the next day was Valentine’s Day, and I had to somehow back out of our planned date.
I guess I can’t say that I’ve never gotten a hickey. But rest assured, I never got another—not just because it created a dilemma that required the highest level of sensitivity and creativity to slither my way out of a volatile situation. No. It’s because a hickey is ridiculey. What’s the point —unless you’re a vampire—in sucking another’s neck to draw blood?
2. I have never denied that I have licked another’s eyeball.
More than a few times. Don’t judge. It’s awesome.1
3. I have never typed “lol” in any message whatsoever to express laughter.
I recall a time in the early 90s when AOL chat rooms were all the rage. I was comfortably chatting with an unknown, unseen woman. She typed the “lol” a few times, and I had no idea what it meant. So, I asked, and she told me, laughing out loud. I wrote something to the effect of Interesting, because I always saw it as symbolic.
I explained that lol looked to me like a glyph of a football referee signaling a touchdown.
From that point on, anything she or I wrote that the other found funny, we’d type touchdown, or TD. We played it up. It got to where an extra point would be awarded if something were slightly funnier than usual. If it was hilarious—like today’s LMAO — I’d type 2-point conversion. We altered the internet vernacular, expressing laughter exclusively in football terms. It was a blast. AOL was a blast—until it metastasized and became an untenable cesspool rife with debauchery and predation.2
After much fun and worthy conversation, my internet friend asked me why I was in the chat room named BBSW.
I wrote, I don’t know. What is BBSW?
She wrote back. It stands for Big Beautiful Single Women
Oh, I didn’t know that, I responded. Well, I guess I just like smart, humorous, engaging people… fatso.
She typed Safety! Then, she indicated she would punt back to me and that we were going into overtime. We chatted for another two hours.
4. I have never jumped out of an airplane.
I once wanted to. But now that we are not permitted to free-fall unless accompanied by some stranger riding on our back, I have lost all interest.
5. I have never had a hamburger with bacon on it.
I hope I don’t need to explain how dumb that is. I mean, pig and cow on the same sandwich?
6. I have never gotten a tattoo.
I don’t get it.
I don’t mind when other people get them. I especially liked the inked eagles on the prominent biceps of men from my youth. I also think that a well-executed “sleeve” has artistic merit. It’s just not for me. I’d be afraid I’d regret it. I know many young women who got their “tramp stamps” will—when they gain some pounds and begin to wrinkle.
Can you imagine all the Gramma Britneys at the pool with their grandkids having to explain that, “No, I’m not Chinese,” and, “Did you know that swimming pools used to have diving boards when your great-grandfather was a child?”
“Nana, what? Whose driving bored?”
“Never mind.”
If I had to get a tattoo, I might get a question mark signifying my inability to decide on a design. Perhaps when I’m seventy, if I last that long, I’ll get a bunch of question marks tattooed all over my body as if I were the Riddler. The guy at the morgue would be puzzled for sure.
7. I have never purchased a Madonna album.
It’s not that I don’t like Madonna. I always thought she was a relevant, talented pop star. I just never really needed to hear her on purpose. In a dance club, on the radio, sure. But to buy a whole collection was never something I considered.
My favorite Madonna song is Vogue. And I’ve downloaded it to listen to when I choose. For me, it is the quintessential house song of my generation. It is lyrically uplifting. She sings, “Beauty’s where you find it. Not just where you bump and grind it.” Vogue is an exemplar of musically complex feel-good-grooveyness.
It draws one instantly: its ethereal synth pitch paves the way for the layering of synthetic finger snaps, lazy bongo beats, and a patient, expectant baseline, foreshadowing the ultimate whirlwind of dance rhythms that culminate in a textural bombast of satisfying harmonics.
It’s sexy, but more so, hopeful, and boundless. It builds and delights without bore all the way to its final vocal echo.
I recollect Vogue at its peak. I was single for the first time in a long time— living alone in Akron, Ohio. In Akron’s downtown sector stood a colossal club called the Innerbelt. It was known as a gay bar, but because the city had a shortage of good dance clubs, it was also the venue for any straight person intent on pounding their feet into a floor, driven by the call of the beat.
I used to frequent The Innerbelt on weekends. It was a social cathedral. I was in my twenties, and this twenty-something was social–worshipping at the dancefloor altar.
I also reveled beating the butch lesbians at the billiard tables. They hated this; I could tell. I’m not sure if it was because they get pouty being schooled at pool, or because they couldn’t fathom that I might have been gay and found it an assault to their manhood.
One sweltering summer night, I found myself at the Innerbelt and noticed a striking blonde tearing it up center stage to Vogue. It wasn’t just that she was physically attractive. She was indeed a superior dancer. It didn’t hurt that a spotlight drenched her six-foot leanness as she buoyed rhythmically—her statuesque frame framed in a white pantsuit with bell bottoms as wide as her hips. I was smitten.
I waited for her to exit the dance platform and watched her saunter much like a runway model to the bar. I followed a few minutes later to let her catch her breath. I took my own deep breath, calmly walked toward her beacon, and started a conversation. After about ten minutes, she must have inferred my interest in her was beyond chit-chat. She looked me straight in the eyes and said,
“I’m a woman.”
“I know.”
She pushed back, “No, I’m… a woman!”
Confused, I said, “Yeah, I know, what’s your problem?”
Then she blushed, grabbed my wrist, leaned in with an embarrassed smile, and explained red-faced,
“Oh my God, I am so sorry. I thought you were gay and thought that you thought that I was a transvestite.”3
8. I have never had anyone sign my cast.
My only bone broken was the second toe of my left foot. Sustained after jumping off a nightclub stage. The doctor said that, due to where and at what angle the break was, fitting me with a cast was not an option. He told me to put as much pressure as my pain threshold could handle, and that would help fuse it back together naturally.
I flew to Palm Springs the following day with my brother to visit my other brother. I was gimpy and in pain, but I spent the week snorting cocaine, playing sand volleyball during the day, and dancing to 80s music at night, just doing what the doctor ordered. It healed up perfectly.
9. I have never donated money to a church.
My church exists on the paths I trek and the mountains I climb — literally and figuratively. And it never asks me to tithe. It is welcoming to all. It gives and judges not. It brings me to tears. It invigorates my soul. It is my guide. My debt is to praise its existence and to respect it as it does me without effort. Perhaps John Muir is my prophet.
10. I have never said “never” as a single-word response.
I never have. Not ever.
First, you have to find someone you trust. Here’s how it’s done. You have to hold their top eyelid open with your right thumb and the bottom lid with your left forefinger. Otherwise, they will blink, shutting you out. Okay, you’re not really licking the eyeball. You want to stiffen your tongue and inch your way forward until the tip contacts their eye. And that’s it. It’s over in a millisecond because when it lands, the other person will instinctively pull away. It is a sensation you will never forget. The texture is akin to touching dolphin skin, but glassier. Encourage your friend to reciprocate. When and if they do, I guarantee they will say, “Wow.”
Speaking of predation. Another time, chatting amiably with another woman online, she asked how old I was. I told her—31. Then I asked how old she was. She said she was 15. I wrote back to tell her that I enjoyed our conversation and that she was smart and interesting, but that I couldn’t continue, given our ages. Her written response was—to paraphrase— Hi, this is Amanda’s mother typing now. I am monitoring her online interactions. I want to tell you that you’re a good man… and thank you for ending the conversation once you learned her age.
I’m questioning whether she said transvestite, but she must have. I don’t remember ever hearing the term transgender back then. Plus, transgender is more about identity, not cross-dressing.
Writing that takes into account one's authentic quirkiness and good-natured bit of social anarchy is a life worth writing about.