Eric Ray, Here is One That Loveth Thee

Over the weekend, I sailed to the Greek Isles with hopes of getting my hands on a good ouzo for a change (I'm growing weary of this vinsanto and biscotti, really, these Italians need to diversify a little). Anyway, after docking the yacht, I found myself wandering around an obscure little neighborhood in search of, well, I didn't know what I was in search of, actually. Something different. A change. A break from the norm. A flash of lightening in the dark of night...Something like...

Eric Ray.

I stumbled upon a quaint cafe/karaoke club called "The Smarmy Whole" and discovered a man sitting hunched-over at the end of the bar, clad in a tight blue leisure suit and holding a cigarette. He glared at me. I don't know how long I stood there, staring at him, but I couldn't move. I wanted to inform him that his attire was extremely dated but, I couldn't. I tried. I was frozen. It felt like forever. I didn't know what to do so, I asked him if he was the bartender. He took a drag from his cigarette, glared at me, put the cigarette out, turned away and walked through a door in the back of the club. My heart sank. Frozen and horrified, I managed to turn toward the exit. Then the music started.

Out of nowhere, the lights dimmed, a disco ball began to turn and a stage with shiny streamers was brilliantly illuminated by purple spotlights from up above, as if by an angel...

I stood, watching, wondering what the hell was going on here.

Then, there he was in all of his glory. My God, I could hardly breathe!

He performed for me, a lip-sync version of an obscure song...I was the only one there, but he performed for me. And I didn't have to order him to. He wasn't on my payroll...wasn't interested in bigger Christmas bonuses or extra vacation time...

The manager burst through the kitchen doors, shut the music off and began screaming at this Divine Creature in front of me. Then I realized that my dear Eric was Greek. Did not speak a word of english. I was incredibly frustrated. These foreign languages are becoming a serious problem in our modern world. Hopefully our efforts at Globalization will soon cure this international social affliction.

So here I am. Back in Rome, dreaming of my dear Eric Ray. Wondering what makes him tick. What is underneath that nylon/polyester cubic zirconium-studded suit? There is something about him. I am admittedly helpless, drawn-in by his product-laden hair and eyeliner, bling rings... my God, just altogether a radically different approach to this life...and he does it with such style!

If I could, I would whisk him away...to Las Vegas...where we would have an impromptu marriage. It doesn't help that Paris is egging me on. I've always dreamed of donning a beehive and white go-go boots this way but...this type of display would not be appropriate for a woman of my standing.

And, my father would kill me. "Whatever happened to that Quick boy?" he always says. "Daddy, you play golf with him nearly every other week. Please stop asking me." Why must our parents always pull at our most vulnerable heart strings?

I have instructed my assistant to contact Mr. Ray on my behalf, in order to present him with an offer that no one in his position could refuse.

I await his reply.