Cuppy was able to land a new CW job. And with that came all the perks of new employment: A brand new pony. New cube. New friends. And most importantly, a new start.

One of the things that attracted Cuppy to advertising is that it’s his medicine. You see, he’s sick. When he was a small child he was diagnosed with wanderlust.

He’s always been able to manage the disease, but it wasn’t until he started writing that most of the symptoms started to fade. (1)

There’s a nervousness that creatives have to manage daily. It’s boredom. It’s yearning. It’s insecurity and doubt hidden beneath a thin layer of attitude and arrogance. Creatives come to work and exchange their ideas for praise. For recognition. They work for awards. They work for the art. They aspire to do great work because they believe in their ideas. Yes, we want sick amounts of money. But money will never drive a successful creative career.

Remember the story I told you before(2), about how creatives are like a bunch of insecure teenage girls? When Cuppy told his new creative recruiter about his last job, she really listened to him. She looked past all the whining. The constant months of complaining. She heard and understood that at his old agency, he wasn’t valued.

Jokingly, Cuppy emailed her and said “They never tell me I’m pretty. His new recruiter wrote back and said,

“Oh Cuppy, you are beautiful.”

He accepted the job that day. Now he’s saving up for a big ass truck.(3)

—

(1) Symptoms include: infatuation with novelty, a strong desire to travel, an inability (some would call a gift) to commit and a penchant for things in life that are designed to be temporary.

(2) Tell Me I’m Pretty

(3) Down in Texas, big ass truck is local parlance for most any truck not on blocks.

Cuppy’s grandpa lived in Old Gun, VA and more often than not, we’d find him luxuriating on our porch – even on times when Cuppy and I were not home. He’d be smoking, drinking whiskey and even though Cuppy made him an ashtray at a Color Me Mine(3), he insisted on extinguishing his butts directly on the porch’s wavy grained cedar planks. Around the rocking chair he claimed as his own, it looked like someone had neglected to connect-the-dots.

Now to call Cuppy’s grandpa a character would be an insult to people with even the slightest inclination towards restraint and decorum. But you gotta take Grandpa TC for what he is – and that man is one ornery tin cup.

Grandpa TC, “What on God’s green earth is a ‘friend with benefits’ Cuppy? Isn’t that what you call your Cousin Ashlee? “

Cuppy, “What? No! Cousin Ashlee is my cousin. Vomit. But anyway, it’s kinda like dating a girl, but without all the bad stuff that comes with attached to that whole deal. Basically, you get to leave whenever you want, do whatever you want to whomever you want and if she ever asks you if she looks fat in her jeans you can say yes without hesitation.”

“Oh. Well we had that when I was in high school. It was called ‘HAVING A FUCKING GIRLFRIEND.’ You’d kiss girl in homeroom and by the time third period rolled around she’d have all her shit moved into your locker. When you’d walk down to lunch she’d wear your varsity jacket and all your friends would laugh and throw rocks at you. It was fucking horrible. You kids have it so easy now. Running wild and free with your STDs and what not. Back then you’d get stuck with ONE girl. And that was it. No options. No choices. No searching your little girl feelings to see if you two were meant to be. ‘Meant to be’ back then meant she was the girl that lived closest to where you lived. Shit, how do you think I ended up your Grandmother? Friends with benefits – bullshit. You should be thankful girls even look at your ugly mug.”

“Wow Grandpa. That’s the most romantic and tender love story I’ve ever heard. It’s like ‘The Notebook,’ if all the characters were drunk and angry the entire time.”

“Son, you do know you’re the reason your Father left your Mother, right?”

“Thanks Grandpa.”

And that’s basically what Grandpa TC was like – when he was mostly sober.

—

1 That porch could  have easily held five Mini Coopers.

2 When we moved in the estate was vacant as it was tied up in the ECD’s bitter divorce settlement to his then 3rd wife/ex-mistress/babysitter/skank du jour.

3 Now I’ve never been to a Color Me Mine, but I’d love to buy a beer for any guy ballsy/dumb enough to think that would be a great first date.

We’ve also partaken in a time honored autumn tradition here in Michigan – going to a cider mill. But Cuppy and I have added a little Texas swagger to the tradition — whiskey.

Now going to a cider mill on a brisk and sunny autumn morning tends to be something of a family friendly activity. We found this out the hard way. Apparently Michiganites will call the police if you drop trou while screaming “Gimme my cider bitch, my donuts are getting cold!” I guess the big guy (who looked very much like the late Big Pun) working the apple press was none too fond of being called bitch. I am sure if he were not behind a fenced in area squeezing apples he would have easily killed Cuppy and I. But to our defense, our donuts were getting cold and he was taking a damn long time to get our cider did.

Subsequently, we’ve been banned from the cider mills in Franklin Village, Plymouth and Northville. Our pictures are predominately displayed in the store fronts of each mill if you need further proof. Now bringing a handle of whiskey to a cider mill at 10am may be frowned upon, but we’re from Texas – how else are we supposed to stay warm?

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Cuppy’s week did not start well. On Monday he found out the money that would have covered his salary for the upcoming year was used to fund Hanz the freelancer’s hospitality rider (1) at The Ritz Carlton Banks Hotel.

On Thursday, Cuppy got scooterjacked in Hamtramck looking for a new apartment for us. I guess one of the AD’s thought it would be really funny to tell Cuppy that Hamtramck was the safest and most affordable place to live in Detroit. Now Cuppy has to walk to work and though he won’t admit it, I can tell he is still a bit traumatized by the ordeal. I mean the scooterjacker did threaten to microwave Cuppy if he didn’t hand over the scooter.

Then Friday night happened. I think the best way to tell you what happened on Friday night is to just tell you how I found Cuppy Saturday morning. When I got up, he was passed out on the couch. No shirt on, just wearing boxers. The smell of night old vomit was ripe in the air. It was pungent and my eyes squinted in disgust as I walked towards Cuppy.  Then I noticed a piece of saran wrap taped to his lower back. Upon closer inspection, I realized Cuppy had gotten a tramp stamp.

This is what the tat looked like:

SIGG+

When I woke him up, he mumbled something about how his new AD pals convinced him to get a tat, but he couldn’t recall if he really got one or not. After assuring him he did in fact get a tattoo, he rolled over and that was when we were both shocked to find all these melted spots on his chest. This mystery was solved a few days later when Cuppy finally remembered that he had spent the night sleeping in some doorway in Royal Oak and only woke up when he felt the searing heat of the sun. I say searing because Cuppy was startled awake by a couple kids who were standing over him with a magnifying glass. Turns out the smell of burning styrofoam is even more disgusting when it’s your own skin.

I propped Cuppy up, gave him a six-pack of Grape Pedialyte to chug and genuinely asked him what the hell was going on. As he struggled for words, his emo death cab glasses started to fog up and I saw a single tear roll down his face as he mumbled something about Cassie moving away. He sat there for a few quiet moments then feigned ambivalence about her departure.  Then he played it off and said he couldn’t remember anything that happened the night before because he was pretty sure someone had dosed him with Roofalin. I told him he was obviously still drunk because that was the plot of The Hangover.

He passed out again and left me to the precarious task of scraping vomit off the ceiling.

—

(1) For those unfamiliar with the rock star lifestyle, riders are specific lists of requests made for the comfort of rock stars before their shows. Usually they contain odd and very specific requests for transportation to and from airports, lodgings, venues to assorted requests for backstage/dressing room food & drink, entertainment and staff.

It’s rumored in the 80′s Prince’s rider always included midget paparazzi so he would always look heroically tall in his pictures (the man is 5’2″ without an updo or heels), purple M&M’s and a transgender unicorn that would distribute said M&M’s to fans fawning and adoring backstage.

When I asked him what was wrong, he started muttering about how he can’t stand the new rock star creative freelancer his agency brought in from Germany. Apparently the guy is so eccentric he demands to be paid daily in Czechoslovakian rubles. And he wears purple Crocs. With striped finger-toe socks.

From what I gathered from Cuppy’s rant, the guy’s name is Hanz and he’s this uber-euro Solo cup.(1) It seems most people think the guy is somewhat of a douche, but apparently his flip cup and beer pong skills are unrivaled. He’s been called Hasselhoffian, thus the ladies at the agency are all over him like a James Chu shoe sale.

I think the real reason Cuppy is all chaffed is because of Cassie. She’s this sassy lil’ Starbucks Tumbler Cuppy’s been fawning over like a little lamb. They’ve talked a bunch since Cuppy started working there, but since Hanz’s arrival, she suddenly can’t remember his name. Remarkably, she’s quite aware that Cuppy makes less than the plastic tray that sits by the register at the company coffee shop begging for pennies.

Dra.Ma.

—

(1) Get it? Hanz Solo. Classic.

The conversation, as it usually does these days, ended up on the “special care and treatment” of creatives. A phrase Cuppy borrowed from one of his creative directors. Those who don’t know Cuppy don’t realize his penchant for rambling, so I asked him to focus.

Me: “Stop. Elaborate. And I’ll listen.”

Cuppy: “Well, we creatives…we have needs.”

“Like?”

“It’s kinda hard to explain. But regardless of gender, creatives are most like – teenage girls.”

“Tweens? You’re serious?”

“Think about it. Have you ever met a teenage girl that was truly and utterly comfortable in her own skin? Think about all their insecurities. The constant gnawing obsession with body image, looks, beauty, style, social status, relationships, feelings and emotions. It’s all so much. And no matter what they look like, all teenage girls want to be told they’re pretty. That they’re special. That in their own way, they’re unique and beautiful. And it doesn’t matter if she’s the most popular girl in school or the girl everyone calls ‘Canklesaurus Rex,’ I think they all feel like there couldn’t possibly be another person in the entire world that could understand what they’re going through.(1)

Creatives are no different. They want people (read: everyone) to pay attention to them. To treat them differently. To simply acknowledge that they’ve burdened with the gift of creativity, therefore, they are not only allowed but entitled to certain privileges and perks. I myself am partial to Egyptian terry cloth linens that would adorn a ‘creative only’ bathroom and fresh guava and papaya smoothies.(2) The latter to be served, of course, in a ‘creative only’ bar at the center of the agency, (so all the non-creatives can walk by and be toates jeal) sectioned off with velvet ropes and an ornery bouncer named Ovaltine Jenkins.”(3)

“Your point was?”

“Ever notice that teenage girls take extra care in decorating their rooms so it quite literally spells out exactly who they are? Why do you think they write, bedazzle and curly cue their names onto EVERYTHING? With creatives, it’s exactly the same. Everything we wear, say and do has intention and thought behind it. Sure we may look like we just woke up all greasy, disheveled and hungover. But trust me, it took us an hour in the morning to get that look just right.

And like tweens we need our privacy. Not from each other, but specifically from non-creatives. We covet our nooks, crannies, lofts and bubbles that allow us the physical space to concept and create. And honestly, we’d love nothing more than to have an obscenely large neon sign declaring which areas of the agency were strictly reserved only for creatives. So the suits can have their cubes and fancy tucked in shirts. We’ll gladly take our special corners stocked with bean bags, slides, scooters, teeter totters, red bull and cigarettes.

So yeah, I’m a creative and I admit I’m kinda like a little girl. I know I’m special, but I still like to hear it every once and a while.

I’m just saying, with creatives, make us feel special and we’ll gladly stay until 2am and crank out some amazing work. And if you still need to call us whiny babies behind our backs, please, go right ahead. Because as long as you buy us pacifiers with our names on it we’ll be completely happy. Just don’t give them to any non-creatives, ’cause that just cheapens the gesture.”

“Are you still talking to me or your imaginary talk show audience?”(4)

“Whateves. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I’ll see you later.”

“Where are you going? It’s 1am.”

“Where do you think? I’m going to get a mustache tattooed on finger, dumbass.”

—

(1) Teenage boys know they’re a dime a dozen. They get to fart and burp at will. It’s expected of them. It’s a much simpler life.

(2) Speaking of delicious treats. For the love of all that is good and chocolatey, does it really need to be said that agencies must have a constant supply of imbibables and ingestibles available 24/7?  Ideas don’t just appear from nowhere. When creatives have spent countless hours staring at the ceiling, praying for divine creation, we must reconnect our synapses with carbs and sugary-caffeinated sustenance.

(3) If you’re not watching Psych, then what are you doing with your life?

(4) Cuppy constantly practices (out loud) speeches and stories he will tell Oprah when he makes a name for himself.

I mean, seriously, I have a Bachelor’s and Master’s degree. Cuppy? He’s a fucking cup.

But I will give credit where it’s due. Cuppy is an amazing writer.(2) Last week he was accepted into a prestigious internship program as a copywriting intern. Though the ad agency is not well known, even to those in the industry, their clients have national and even global presence. A fact that has already started to affect Cuppy’s relatively demure demeanor.

As long as we’ve known each other, not once has Cuppy ever been called smug. But yesterday, I caught him wearing a Starbucks sleeve. He also stopped wearing his contacts after he had another intern draw dark-rimmed glasses on him. I lol’ed and told him he looked like a paler, rounder version of that chubby guy from Death Cab. Then I pointed out that the pen that drew the glasses were probably not prescription, so although he might look stylish, I assured him he was walking around as blind as Conan’s old masturbating bear.

But things have not been easy for us since we moved north of the Mason-Dixon Line. It’s colder here. Both the weather and people. But the one thing I could always count on was our conversations. They were intellectual. Insightful. I used to relish our middle of the night mental trysts that allowed us to escape, for even a few hours, the physical poverty of living in a small disheveled motel room. Our talks now are compulsory and emotionless.

Now Cuppy only references obscure music groups(3), only wears American Apparel and insists on calling me “Cuz.” Though we  are struggling to get by,  he tells me he must purchase the latest iPhone tout suite as it is standard modus operandi for anyone who wants to be taken seriously as a creative.

I don’t know much advertising, but I’ve always heard that the creatives at an agency were the biggest babies. That they constantly need attention, care and nurturing. Sadly, I’m starting to see some truth in this stereotype through Cuppy. Now I wouldn’t necessarily call them all attention whores, but if the STI fits.(4)

I’m not sure what to do, but I don’t like the changes I’ve seen in Cuppy over the past two weeks. They’ve been numerous. And they’ve been dramatic. Skinny jeans. Piercings. Tattoos. A penchant for wearing ridiculously ugly 80′s accessories. But most annoyingly, an ambivalence that manifests itself in the one word response Cuppy has taken to answering all my inquiries.

“How was your day?”

“Whateves.”

“Did you sell any work?”

“Whateves.”

“What do you want for dinner?”

“Whateves.”

“Will you please just talk to me? Why are you being such an asshole!?”

“Whateves. Cuz.”

Fed up and pushed to my limit, I posed as a pizza delivery person yesterday and walked into the agency to snoop around. What I saw, horrified me. I’m afraid to say that Cuppy has fallen in with the worst lot: art directors.

—

(1) I actually work two part-time jobs. My first job is at a Benji-Hanna, a Japanesertainment restaurant. The chefs prepare exquisite cuisine and amuse guests with their culinary acrobatics. My job title, officially, is “Shrimp Tail Catcher.” I wear a white chef’s hat that is hollow at the top and then move from table to table as the chefs toss discarded shrimp tails atop my head. I am also required to bark and clap like seal as I perform my duties. Not that it needs to be stated, but my social calendar has opened up quite a bit. My second job is working as a temp. At a temp agency.

(2) For someone who is sans arms.

(3) I know for a fact that Cuppy has all of ‘N SYNC’s albums on his iPod.

(4) Creatives yearn to suckle from the teat of glory and recognition. And it is a craving that must be satisfied daily. It’s how they remain creative. I can understand that. It’s why I excel at knitting and am ranked number 2 in the state.

There are new wonderful and exotic smells here. I believe Cuppy and I may live in close proximity to culinary genius.(1)

We have a great feeling that things will go well this summer. We hope we’ll only have to stay in this hovel for a few weeks. After that, we’ve heard there are more humble abodes in a magical place called Grosse Pointe.

We aspire to have enough pennies saved to afford a cardboard shelter on the water next to these giant ships docked at port. Cuppy and I have discussed at length and we believe that these great ships are used for whaling. We came to this conclusion from the odd bits and pieces I have gleaned and overheard at local gambling saloons.(2)

I have heard many proprietors say that those that live in Grosse Pointe are quite blubberous and live off the bounty that lesser creatures of the ocean provide them. Like plankton filtered though baleen, the small and weak are sacrificed for the greater good of the plump, as they in turn become more plump, like the butter ball turkeys of yesteryear.

As I wedge a chair against the door to keep it jammed shut, Cuppy has taken to hiding in the corner of our small home when the sun has gone down. He fears for his safety. And his concerns are justified. My greatest fear is if I am unable to earn enough wages, I will have to put Cuppy down. I would rather he go quickly, than watch him suffer the indignity of slowly rotting away over the next 1,000 years.(3)

—

(1) We arrived at this hypothesis from the constant screams of exuberance next door of  “GAWD DAMN IT Chef Boyardee! Again!?!?” This chef’s cooking must be divine to warrant such blasphemy.

(2) Cuppy’s kind are not allowed in this type of establishment. He therefore had to wait outside with the other cups. On many nights, I dream of the day this kind of segregation will end. (We are however, staunch supporters of the separation of Church and Steak.) A day when cup and man are seen as equals. Where we both can be accepted, simply, as children of this beautiful green earth. Styrofoamism is in fact, an ugly disease.

(3) Styrofoam is remarkably resilient, except against fire. So please grab the cigarette out of Cuppy’s mouth if you catch him smoking.

Cuppy “My <3 is a shadow of epic sadness.” (I apologize. Cuppy can be quite emo at times.)

In some circles it’s known as Windsor’s Afterbirth.

We are more than frightened.