I've Got This Round
Page 13
We slipped into our crowded lobby elevator just as it was closing, pushed up against a couple of people in full special-effects makeup and masks and ridiculously huge fake weapons, a ninja, and a nightmare-esque Harajuku nurse. We were safe. I mean, safe enough considering I was currently standing beside a guy in a metal mask holding a flail above me. Just a casual, medieval ball covered in spikes dangling over my head. NBD.
“That was close,” Alx said, trying to catch his breath.
“I know! Could you imagine?” The rest of the elevator remained silent, but I didn’t care if they could hear us. We had our invisibility cloaks back on. “Like, what if someone asked us what we were doing there? Oh, ya know. Just being two sketchy adults watching other peoples’ children dance in spandex with coffee cups full of vodka.”
The doors opened to the third floor, and Alx stepped out. “So fun hanging,” he said before the door closed. “Let me know when you want to go spy on children again. And next time, don’t act like we’re meeting for the first time, bitch!” The doors closed, and I was left alone with the Comic Con’ers. The only thing more quintessentially awkward than being in an elevator with strangers as Muzak faintly plays is being in one that’s completely silent.
DING! The doors opened, and I stepped off by myself, happy to be away from the mayhem of it all.
“Excuse me, Mamrie?”
I turned around, expecting to find that I’d dropped my room key, but—wait a sec—how did they know my name? Then ol’ Spikey Ball asked from behind his sheet metal mask, “Can we take a picture? I’m a big fan. I won’t tell anyone about the kids.”
In that moment, in an elevator full of what looked like the first round of rejects from a Gwar audition, I knew I was the biggest freak of all. A convention pro who’s anything but conventional.
Backstreet’s Whack, All Right!
THERE’S NOTHING BETTER in life than a good documentary. I love a rock doc, a bio doc, an underdog doc. A doc about docks, doctors, Doc Holliday, you name it! I will find any excuse to go to a film festival and spend the days watching documentaries. Film festivals are my happy place. You watch movies all day, go to a delicious dinner, schmooze at a party with an open bar, wake up hungover only to grab a massive coffee (with Baileys), sit your ass back in a dark theater all day long, get dinner, and then go back out to parties to do it all again. It’s like the plot of Groundhog Day but with more swag lounges and less Andie MacDowells (depending on the festival).
But sometimes I want to get my documentary on in a more relaxed setting. As in, I’m going to have to watch one at home without a Q&A with the director like a damn peasant. That’s where my friend and fellow documentary enthusiast Joselyn comes in.
Every few weeks, Jos and I will text each other to see what veggies we have lying around in the fridge and then figure out what we can cook up together. We call these “inventory meals.” It helps clean out the fridge, and Lord knows, I’m a fan of anything that resembles a cooking competition. Here’s an example of this menu building challenge:
JOS: Woman, I got quinoa, a couple of sweet potatoes, a shit ton of cilantro and citrus, and an onion. Whatchu got?
ME: Siiiiick. I’ve got a can of black beans, some baked tofu, radishes, and tomatoes. Let’s make cilantro lime quinoa, Mexican veggie and tofu bowls, and I’ll quick-pickle the radishes for some added crunch and acidity on top.
JOS: Fuck yes. See you at 7.
This is adult female friendship in a nutshell. We cook and drink and settle in front of the TV with a bowl of yumminess, a big glass of sparkling rosé, and a doc on deck. This particular evening, we were extra excited about the night’s viewing. The subject of the doc wasn’t a pressing social issue or the life of some niche artist—nay. This documentary was about none other than . . . the BACKSTREET BOYS.
Let me just say out of the gate that back in high school, I liked my boy bands the same way I like my and my girlfriends’ menstrual cycles . . . *NSYNC. Sure, Timberlake’s ramen noodle curls looked like he was one bouillon packet short of a college dorm room feast, but that didn’t matter to my fifteen-year-old self. And don’t get me started on that “Bye, Bye, Bye” video.* But, guys, Backstreet Boys: Show ’Em What You’re Made Of is a game changer. In one hour and forty-one minutes, I went from like to love with these dudes. Their band name did not hold up, because they were boys no more! They put the MEN in docuMENtary. Especially Kevin.
“Oh my god, he’s like the band dad! I love him!” Joselyn said between forkfuls of tofu.
“You can tell how much they really care for each other,” I said, refilling our glasses. “I just want them to be happy! Especially Kevin!”
When the final credit passed the screen, we were cheering. I was officially in love with the Backstreet Boys, ten years too late. It’s like when I fell in love with Paul Newman in fifth grade after watching What a Way to Go! before realizing he was an old man by then. Crushing. To this day it’s still hard for me to walk through the salad dressing aisle without old feelings resurfacing.
I rolled home from Joselyn’s that night with a Tupperware of leftovers and an airtight crush on the BSB. I laid in bed farting reading a very thick, smart-person book, but I couldn’t get the doc out of my mind. I needed to know more about my newfound crushes. So, I took to my laptop to give the guys a quick Google. Maybe there would be pics of them getting together for a fun weekend or doing something adorable like having a picnic complete with three-legged races. I bet AJ would make a joke about how he doesn’t need a partner because he already has a third leg . . . as in his dong, I thought, delighted in this completely made-up scenario I was creating for my own pleasure. I clicked on that Google search, and what popped up changed me forever.
“Backstreet Boys Mediterranean Cruise 2016!” What in Kevvy Kev’s name was this?! I researched further. Apparently for five years running, the Boys had done a special cruise through the Caribbean with their superfans, each night putting on different performances and theme parties. This year, however, they were taking their maiden voyage across the Atlantic, for a trip leaving from Barcelona and docking in Cannes and Italy, before returning to the City of Lisps.
I immediately called Joselyn to share this news, which, if you are friends with me, you know means serious business. If I was being kidnapped by a drug cartel and had a moment to call the cops, I’d probably just text 911 “Ack! Totes being kidnapped! SOS ASAP! TTYL!” out of convenience. She answered.
“Jos, you’re not going to believe this, but in two months the Backstreet Boys are doing a cru—”
“I’M ALREADY PRICING OUT FLIGHTS!” she yelled, cutting me off.
“It says here that there’s a party with the Boys every night on the main deck. Holy shit! We could party with Kevvy Kev!” I screamed.
“And on the last night, they give an acoustic concert in the main hall. BSB unplugged!” she shrieked, with the sound of her laptop keys tapping feverishly in the background.
It was settled. In T-minus two months, we would be on a giant boat with two thousand BSB megafans, setting sail from Barcelona. Sure, we were going to have fun, but we were also going on a mission. Come hell or high water, Joselyn and I were going to meet and get a picture with Kevin.
Before I knew it, I had landed in Barcelona. It felt extremely surreal as I stood in the aisle waiting to deplane. What kind of idiots travel halfway around the globe to go on a cruise with a boy band?! Before I could further ponder whether this was a huge, and costly, mistake, I was snapped out of it by a thick Pennsylvania accent. “Howie is gonna remember you! Quit being an idiot, Chrissy!” I looked back and saw exactly what kind of other idiots would travel for this cruise. Behind me stood a mother/daughter duo, both rocking matching Steelers hoodies and speaking at a volume usually saved for Heinz Field.* The poor guy who’d been sitting beside them was staring at the exit like a dog with cheese on its nose, just waiting for the signal to go for it.
After trying to block out Mama Steelers collecting enough chin hairs to fashion herself a Howie D voodoo doll, I couldn’t have been happier to spot Joselyn coming out of customs. I grabbed her and changed her direction, shielding her from the horror that I had just witnessed. One of us needed to be unscathed.
That night, we popped from one tiny tapas bar to the next. In one particularly adorable one, with our table covered in cocktails and papas bravas, we started to mentally prepare for the cruise. Up until this point, it had been a whirlwind idea that seemed ridiculous. But we were here, damnit, and fewer than twelve hours from boarding this ship show.
“I have no idea what to expect,” Joselyn said, taking a long swallow of her negroni.
“Well, based on the folks on my flight, it’s gonna be a doozy. Oh! I know. We should check the hashtag on Instagram. It’s gotta be #BackstreetCruise or #BSBCruise2016. Something like that.”
We asked the bartender for the Wi-Fi* password and tried to connect. It was slower than a snail on quaaludes, but eventually we were on! And OMG, was it a goddamn gold mine. People had been using the hashtag for months in anticipation of the cruise. We were straight-up poseurs compared to these die-hard fans.
We went in hard on those tags. I’m talking a deep dive of Instagram history. There were fans who had been on every BSB cruise since its inception. Fans who were meeting other fans that they had befriended from across the globe. Fans who were coming halfway across the globe solo! We picked out three favorites and gave them nicknames. . . .
KEVIN’S ANGEL: This woman was sporting a perfect tat of our beloved Kevin’s face on her left biceps and none other than Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s main squeeze, Angel, aka David Boreanaz, on her other arm.
NICK’S CHICK: This curly blond cutie couldn’t be more obsessed with the baby of BSB. She had photos from upward of thirty meet-and-greets on her profile, spanning back through multiple Nick hairdos.* This one threw us off, because the girl looked like a beauty queen: tan, fit, bright smile. But despite being able to get probably any guy she wanted, this hottie couldn’t be harder for Carter.
MISS’TERIOUS: This fan didn’t show favoritism toward any one of the guys in her IG feed. She did, however, demonstrate a huge love of face-altering phone apps. I’m not talking about the ones that smooth out your crow’s-feet or plump up your lips a little. I mean the ones that give you full fake eyes and hair a la Toddlers and Tiaras. Every single photo used these filters, so it was virtually impossible to know what she actually looked like, besides having a distinctive labret piercing. To give you an idea of how doctored her photos were, here I am after using the app.
I’m sure you think I’m exaggerating about how bad the photoshopping was, but it was this level awful. Obvs I changed the labret for a lip piercing so as not to cop her style.
We boarded the cruise the next day ready for the adventure ahead. As we made our way down the narrow halls to our room, the scene felt familiar. Pairs of girls were standing outside their doors, decorating them with printed-out photos, construction paper, streamers, the whole Michaels craft store mother lode.
“Oh my god,” I said to Joselyn as I stopped in front of a door covered in a world map with a tiny glued-on airplane showing a flight path from Florida. “This is just like the first week of college, when girls rush sororities.” All down the hallway, girls were bustling about, decorating, singing, talking. This was a Backstreet Boys Sorority Semester at Sea.
After dropping our stuff off in our matchbox-size room, we headed straight to the bar, passing the pool deck along the way. Now, here is where the whole idea of a cruise is messed up. When you think “cruise,” you probably think of tropical weather, neon bikini–clad girls dancing to “Rump Shaker,” all the top visuals from MTV’s The Grind. This was not going to happen here. It was fucking freezing. I don’t know why I didn’t put together that maybe the Mediterranean wouldn’t be the warmest place in May. I just assumed you go on a cruise and it’s tanning time. Not here. If you went out in a swimsuit for more than twenty minutes, you would look like you were doing some Laura Palmer cosplay.
But the strong gusts of wind and constant misting of rain and ocean water were no reason to not drink like we were on spring break. We headed to the bar in the ship’s Mexican restaurant. “Ohhh, this jalapeño margarita sounds good,” I said, passing the table tent menu to Joselyn. “Make that two of them,” she said to the unamused bartender. I turned to Jos, but before I could dive into my idea for how to find Kevin, I was stricken with shock at our bartender’s technique for making margaritas.
Guys, as a former bartender myself, there are few things as horrifying as when you see someone pick up one of those dehydrated bottles of sour mix. Use fresh juice, for godssakes! Do you see a parrot on my shoulder? These aren’t the pirate days, but I still don’t want scurvy.* But I tried to block it out, to not be a bartending snob. That is until homeboy dropped the drinks in front of us. I looked at that glass like I was just given my Fear Factor challenge when I realized that these “spicy margaritas” were made with . . . PICKLED jalapeños.
*insert Wilhelm scream here*
The only time a pickled jalapeño should be in a drink is when you eat your taco directly over it and that shit falls in. Jos could see I was horrified, but at least we were horrified together. “Cheers to Kevvy Kev and possibly the weirdest five days of our lives,” she said before we clinked our glasses and took a mouthful of vinegar. “How are they?” the bartender asked monotonously. “Amazing!” I said with a face that can only be described as those YouTube videos where a baby tries a lemon for the first time. Nothing like a margarita that tastes like sour syrup and quesadilla! We took them to the face, then had a few (safe) vodka sodas before hearing the music start up on the pool deck.
Each night brought a different theme party, the first one being “Bon Voyage.” Supposedly people dressed up for the parties, but we were doubtful. “Here’s for tonight,” Joselyn said, handing me a sailor hat. “I also brought feather boas for ‘Casino Royale’ night, tiny Oscars for ‘A Night at the Cinema,’ and lace gloves and masks for ‘Fifty Shades of Backstreet,’ the closing party.” Good Lord, Jos was a peach. She knows that I love a good theme, but I had been too distracted to pack correctly, what with my life imploding and my living out of my car/suitcase and constantly traveling and whatnot.
Yes, those are BSB hats and sweatshirts. And as you can see by Joselyn’s face, we were an equal mix of excited, terrified, motion sick, and drunk.
“Do you think people will really dress up?” I said, downing the last of my drink. “I hate when people half-ass a theme party.” When we walked out to the pool deck, my question was answered. Everyone was in costume . . . barely. And by that I mean, holy slutty Halloween, Batman! The deck was filled with booty shorts–poppin’, tits-up sexy sailors. It was as if booking the cruise came with a 50 percent off coupon to “that section” of Party City, and Joselyn and I were the only two who didn’t get the memo. These girls were going hard to get the Boys’ attention.
We started to make our way through the sea of seawomen but were stopped in our tracks as soon as we heard the first measure of that first BSB single, “We’ve Got It Goin’ On,” come out from the damp speaker. Those sailors screamed and rushed the t
iny stage so fast, you would’ve thought it was a mutiny. One by one the Boys appeared onstage, each rocking a crisp ship captain’s uniform, with Kevin bringing up the rear. “Kevvy Kev!” Jos and I screamed in unison, clutching each other out of excitement but also because the wind was smacking us around.
Onstage, Howie grabbed the mic and started speaking to the crowd. I think they welcomed everyone to the ship, but I couldn’t really hear above the screaming. These women were losing their minds, and voices, like this was 2001 and they had just been invited up from Times Square to the TRL studio. Joselyn and I stood there, waiting for the Boys to bust into song, or a synchronized dance routine, anything. But nope.
After Howie was done with his speech, the boys just kind of danced around the stage aimlessly, mouthing along to whatever pop song was playing over the speakers. They’d take turns walking to the edge of the stage and taking selfies with fans before breaking away to continue lip-synching along to Usher’s “Yeah!” or whatever other decade-old pop song was being blasted. This went on for a half hour, the entirety of which Joselyn and I spent being very confused by what we were seeing. It was like a low-energy Lip-Synch Battle between five noncompetitive people. Or, thanks to their excessive use of lackadaisical groin thrusts, the third shift of a non-Union Magic Mike tour. Didn’t matter, though. The women were bringing the energy of a bachelorette party, fawning over every tired move and face-palming others out of the way for their chance at a selfie.
“A photo with Kevvy Kev isn’t going to be as easy as we thought,” Joselyn said as she watched a woman attempt a crowd surf to get to the front of the stage.
“I have faith,” I said. “But it’s not gonna be tonight. Maybe later in the cruise, when everyone has already gotten selfies with them. Right now, they are hungry for their first kill.”