THE CULT OF ERIC (dedicated to Eric’s everywhere)
Trenlin and I on our way to The Burn
When I was a kid I wasn’t allowed pets, my parents were actors and we traveled quite a bit, so it kind of made sense to me. It did however, create an insatiable desire in me to tame things and fondle them.
It started with a female squirrel, then a hedgehog – obviously no fondling there, did you know they scream? It culminated with seven white doves that, within weeks, moved into the house. They slept with me and flew around shitting everywhere (I still have calcified bird poo in my lungs) and my father had a hell of a time getting rid of them. Eventually he sent them to Scotland after two previous attempts, the first being Trafalgar Square where, not only did they fly directly north to Golders Green, one even had the gall to take the number 13 bus. Luring them back into the cardboard box the third time around was no picnic either.
All of these creatures I inexplicably named Eric.
Including the doves, they were a collective Eric, sort of like The Borg.
Maybe it was a Monty Python ‘Eric the half a bee’ thing, I really can’t say, but it all began with a hair…
This hair sprouted out of a mole on my arm and grew at a ridiculous rate. I became quite attached. I named it Eric, I combed, curled and petted it to death until it fell out.
And so, the ‘Eric’ thing persisted until I found myself at Burning Man with the most delightful gang comprised of Quantas, Bad Doggie, Arfur and Bryn.
Bad Doggie had been gifted with the best toy, a very cute inflatable dog. “How wonderful” she beamed “A Playa pup, no muss no fuss and no fucking feeding!” Later on she was tangoing somewhere and a guy picked him up off the bar and started playing with him. “Unhand that dog!” she boomed racing across the dance floor. “Has it got a name?” he inquired trying to appease Doggie who was looking quite fierce. “Yes, his names Eric” I chimed in “Everything is Eric!” They looked at me askew.
Of course they demanded an explanation so I told them a few Eric stories.
One of my favorites being when I convinced Trenlin to come to Tesuque Village Market and look at a puppy a young Navaho boy was trying to get rid of. I left my reluctant friend holding the multicoloured bundle of edibleness at arms length with a scowl on her face. When I next had a peek outside she was cuddling him and I knew she was screwed.
Two weeks passed and she still hadn’t named him. I, meanwhile, had been silently Eric ing her.
‘Eric. Eric. His name’s Eric. Call him Eric.’ So it was no surprise to me that she caved under my psychic attack and announced “I have no idea why, I don’t even like the name, but I’m calling him Eric.” I shut up and mentally did the happy dance.
I went on to tell them about a baby lemur and some Thai prostitutes (a tale I should probably shelve til we know each other better).
They loved the stories and, fueled by their laughter, I said I thought we should form The Cult of Eric.
They’re a pretty silly bunch of people so we immediately set about coming up with the Eric salute. We finally settled on a call and response cheer spelling out the name thus:
E is for Ecstatic (because, like most, we were on ecstasy)
R is for Ridiculous Behavior
I is for I Love You (said with feeling)
C is for CUNT! Followed by the aforementioned stomping and burping.
On the night of ‘The Prom’ we had our destination in mind but as so often happens at Burning Man we got distracted by things worth being distracted by. I shall never forget….. CAMP GLOM
A huge theme camp fronted by a really happening bar. I said I’d get us some drinks and muscled my way through the crowd to cozy up to the bar, then I waited…. and waited. The bartender patently ignored me. During this I couldn’t help but notice the women handcuffed to the bar. They didn’t look happy about it, they pulled and rattled their chains with annoyance.
When he finally deigned to glance my way he demanded a joke in return for a drink, so I hit him with my best. His response was to stare at me blankly and tell me that I wasn’t funny. I thought he was joking and said “Give us a drink then” he slapped down one of those little paper cups dentists ask you to swish with and poured a splash of water in glaring at me. I was gobsmacked, I’d NEVER had anyone be so rude to me on the playa, I backed away from him to find my friends and tell them what happened. There was a group ‘fuck that shit’ and we walked outside to further explore the camp.
Right next door and set back a little we saw an old Airstream trailer covered in fairy lights, it looked inviting so we checked it out. The interior was entirely covered with bright red faux fur, floor, walls, everything, and it was the most gorgeous little unmanned cocktail bar. While smooth jazz wafted we took turns marveling at the liqueurs on offer and helped ourselves to beautiful Venetian glasses of Green Chantreuse, cognac and B&B while reclining on the red fur couches. Fortified we forced ourselves to leave this little slice of heaven and ventured into the night feeling warm and fuzzy towards our hosts.
I happened to glance back and saw something we’d missed. “Oh my God, look!’ I pointed at the bamboo bridge that spanned the length of the Airstream and stood a good fifteen feet in the air. We ran back for a closer look at what was essentially one very thick bamboo for the walkway with thinner ones for handrails on either side and supporting struts.
I know what you’re thinking but after assorted drugs and a few too many you tend to get carried away. Before we could stop them Arfur and Doggie started making their way up.
What happened next would have been blindingly apparent to the un addled. As they neared the middle of the bridge it started started swaying violently from side to side, and worse, the handrail got further and further apart. Their hoots of pleasure became screams of fear as they they clung to each other and howled at us for help. What the fuck could we do?
Aside from try not to laugh too loud and berate ourselves because ‘friends don’t let friends climb bamboo bridges?’
They made it across by straddling the fucker, inching along, thighs quivering with the effort and trying not to be flung into the void. When they dismounted they were swearing profusely and casting dire threats.
These guys were seriously twisted and it was clear there was more to Camp Glom than met the eye. We approached The flogging station warily with our two friends lagging behind sporadically cursing like Tourette’s victims. The entrance seemed harmless enough flanked by two statuesque rather bored looking women, hog tied being gently whipped.
Beyond were various ‘spanky’ machines, like a chair that I sat in and pressed a button, this made a large hand smack me so viciously I wanted to forcefully dismantle it.
Close by we saw a group of people in hysterics, some on their knees and in the center was a guy wearing an orange jumpsuit and hardhat with a weird looking contraption strapped to his back. It had a long clear hose attachment which looped over his shoulder and as I watched a man stepped out of the circle pulled down his pants and assumed the position. Jumpsuit dude positioned the hose right up against the guys asshole and with a flourish he pulled the lever. A ball of flame shot along it and presumably up the guys butt because he shot into the air. We all collapsed, tears of mirth rolling down our cheeks while we waited our turn.
It’s hard to describe what it felt like, that fiery ass shot…. Sure it was hot, but it felt really good to have hot air blast up your anus. A bit later Bad Doggie – whose camp is called the Church of Behavioral Modification – strode up and demanded that he show her how to work it. He raised his eyebrows and complied, she said “Gimme that thing then bend over and spread ’em!” He performed a slow striptease for us, licking his lips while shrugging out of his jumpsuit and proceeded to take two for the team.
While he was dressing I asked his name, “Lucky Bastard” he coyly replied.
The last treat in store was THE ROASTER COASTER! A U-shaped roller coaster operated by very large men who hoisted the people stupid enough to get in the capsule, up to the top of the U with the aid of thick ropes and pulleys. Once at the top they just let go and the capsule plunged earthward, spinning madly. THEN they shot at them with flamethrowers. I guessed that was to take their minds off of vomiting copiously.
I had a grand time with The Cult of Eric and the really strange thing was that so many of the men I met that week were called… Eric!
A few days later I rode in the Critical Tits bike run (don’t ask) and when we returned to our trusty steeds Doggie had a flat tire. No problem I said flagging down an art car to take her and the bike to Bicycle Repair camp. When we got there the bloke working it was having a very nasty argument with his girlfriend and I got a serious case of A.D.D. while we waited. Just then I heard someone shouting “ANIMAL CONTROL” through a megaphone.
Now I’d heard about them but I’d never actually seen them so without thinking I ran out of Center Camp to find their truck. Animal Control is a vehicle with a large cage that cruises the playa looking for humans wearing anything animal. Even if it’s bunny ears, they snatch you up and throw you in the cage which is where you remain until someone adopts you. Funny right?
I chose a Brad Pitt lookalike in a really inventive monkey suit that had extra long arms. “Good choice” said Crash Almighty yanking out my monkey and we walked off arm in arm giggling. His hometown was Taos, NM and when I asked his name it was, of course, Eric.
It was at that moment I realized I had absolutely no idea where I’d left my bike and backpack. What I mean by this is, I was drawing a complete blank about what I’d been doing and with whom before my Animal Control experience.
On reflection I’ve understood what a remarkable thing this was – to be so consumed in the moment that you totally lose the moment before – but at the time I thought I was going quite mad. While Eric chattered on I silently panicked, racking my brains ‘where had I been and who was I with?’ FUCK!
Eric saved me by asking where my bike was and it all came flooding back. I remember hugging and repeatedly thanking him as I dragged him to Bicycle Repair camp. This confused him (as did me saying “of course it is” when he’d told me his name.
His next statement confused the fuck out of me.
“you know I think you’re really cute so I totally don’t care that you’re a guy”.
“WHAT?” I squeaked “Don’t be silly of course I’m not”
“It’s okay, really I don’t mind”
“No no” I spluttered “honestly I’m female!”
“No. You can’t be, not with that voice”
“So I’m a woman with a low voice.” “Look, small hands, no Adams apple?”
“Really it’s okay” he repeated “I don’t mind, I think you’re cute”.
Well that did it for me. No matter how hot this guy looked I found myself saying
“No Eric, it’s NOT okay because I’m telling you that I am indeed, a woman and you’re insisting that I’m not which is totally FUCKED… and…and… I think I just lost my monkey!”
With that I ran from him as fast as my ridiculous footwear would allow to rejoin my cult and ponder on the many mysteries that day had brought.
cultoferic 