My name is Eric Frost. I am a comedian/writer/Illustrator. Really I just create whatever comes to mind. I had this site made because I have so many thoughts and explosions erupting in my head that people have said I put on paper. The website is the modern version of paper.

Sometimes I need to sit down and draw it out meticulous with every line, shape and form. Sometimes I want to explain myself, to be understood and accepted and I preform those ideas on a stage. And sometimes and idea rolls around in my head to such annoyance that I figure if I regurgitate these thoughts onto paper or PC I can just stop thinking them all together and move onto the next.

I was and am cut and polished from Charm City cloth. I had lived in Baltimore for most of my adult life before traveling the 188 miles north to New York to have a better chance of acceptance and success.

I grew up in suburban Baltimore, if it’s not already obvious I was not one of the cool kids. To be more fair I wasn’t one of the nerds either. I was the kid that the cool kids hung around until other cool kids showed up and than they would try to sneak past my house on the way to the party I was dying to go to. I kept to myself until I went to college in North Carolina where I got to reinvent, or actually invent and be myself. Now I share all my thoughts to everyone and who ever doesn’t like it; tough shit. Some of my friends have still stayed with me along the way and they are family.

I have preformed in Magooby’s Joke House, the Myerhoff, Philly Laff House. I have opened for Kevin Hart, Mike Epps, Rich Vos and Tony Woods.

Defining Art

From what I can tell, throughout history mankind has struggled with how to describe and categorize art. I mean there is no mystery as to whether or not to consider the Sistine Chapel art but what about a carefully organized bucket of trash? How is art to be interpreted? Can or must something be considered

art solely because it’s creator intended it to be? Should we add a clear line in the sand between art and fine art? What makes one thing “art” and another “an art”? These are the questions I’m going to try to tackle as concisely as possible before I go hit a show and then get loaded tonight. Because I’m a bartender and Monday is my Friday. It’s a sweet deal because all the amateurs aren’t out, they gotta work in the morning.

The biggest problem I’ve encountered in my chats with random folks from all walks is what gets included in what we consider “art”? Why does some pompous tool with a scarf get to paint a green number 4 sideways on an eight foot canvas and that’s art, but some of these comic book artists who are perfectly representing human musculature and pissing all over the limits of perspective get scoffed at and shunned from the museums?

I think I’ve figured out how to settle what’s what with a very simple and concise statement.

Art: Anything created with the intent of being art. 

   Anytime someone is trying to create art that’s what it is but sometimes a desk is just a desk you hippies…

But while I feel that covers what we can consider “art” I think we need to further still add a distinction between what is any little toddlers finger smudges and the things that have been created that have left us stuttering awestruck at it’s magnificence. So fascinated with it’s author to rip this creation from the inner workings of the universe that we allow them their absurd eccentricities that we would otherwise diagnose as utter insanity.

Fine Art: Something that when viewed by strangers can be appreciated without explanation and can’t easily be replicated with few exceptions.

  Let me brake down the statement piece by piece. Don’t worry I’ll do it quickly because I’m getting thirsty.

“Something that when viewed” means it has to be able to be seen. Making a baby isn’t “art” (unless you’re religious, then I guess it would be God’s art) but it can be classified as “an art”. Comedy, while an art form is not “art”, it’s “an art”.

Art: Is the product, the object. 

  This doesn’t mean it necessarily needs to be tangible or be able to be held. Computer art still fits within the original definition.

An art: Is the act, the process

  Any process can be art if while in the act you are passionate and take pride in what your doing. So sex can be art or you can just be some horny asshole that shouldn’t have pounded all those margarita’s before you hopped in the next with that lagoon creature you woke up next to.

“Viewed by strangers” covers parents liking their kids smiley face stick figures, while I’m sure it’s cute and it’s most assuredly art, maybe even the first steps of a future Michelangelo, it’s not fine art unless strangers who aren’t clouded by their previous attachments and emotions like it too (sorry Timmy).

This also include whomever you’re shacking or wish you were shacking up with. Of course after you allow someone to thrust themselves inside you they’re going to all of a sudden “get it” and think you’re brilliant. Also if you appreciate the “fine art” of someone you wish to plow your opinion is now null and void on that artist no matter how many degrees you have. I think this last part is why when I go to an art gallery (very rare) I gotta stare at all those “green fours” I was talking about.

“Appreciated without explanation” People should be able to like the piece of art in question without being told why they like it. An explanation of a particular piece should enhance the already growing feeling of appreciation for the piece in question.

Don’t get me wrong, when one of those “green fours” or four crumpled pieces of loose leaf in a trash can are sold for the big bucks there is no fine art, but there is definitely “an art” happening. The silver tongued grifter convincing you of that shit stained canvases historical significance is an artist for certain. Hustling is one of the worlds oldest arts. And convincing an entire art community that some splatters on canvas that any rubberheaded retard could do in a homeless shelter is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars is a fine hustle indeed.

“Can’t easily be replicated with few exceptions” This is really simple and frankly and anticlimactic finish to what I hope were some pretty interesting ideas. If anyone can do what your doing it’s not “fine

art”. If any average Sally or Joe can duplicate your work it is by definition, average. The exceptions are obviously art forgers which ride in what I can see as the only elusive gray area between it being “art” or

“an art”. But hell, nobody’s perfect. If I was that clever someone would be paying me to think of this shit.

Well if you made it to the end thanks for reading. All feedback is appreciated, any holes you can kick in the theory will only make it stronger. I want to write more but I feel some “Irish True, Tullemore Dew” calling my name.

The Ugly Duckling

Everyone remember the story of the ugly duckling that all the other ducks made fun of until it turned into a beautiful swan and then flew away. Well that’s exactly what you want when you are searching for a woman. You want the now beautiful swan that used to be a ugly duckling…

You don’t want a girl who was gorgeous in middle and high school. They were instantly liked due to their beauty and never had to comprimise or develop a personaltiy. Everyone always liked and agreed with what they said because we wanted to fuck them (I did too but it never worked). They go through life with no adversity until that bubble of beauty bursts and then they run out of gas only find out that cars now run on electric.

On the other hand when as young is not a perfect ten she has to grow more. Sure the perfect ten will find a wealthy man to marry but she is the same chick that will get traded in for a younger model once that new car smell goes away. Because the ugly duckling had to use her personality to gain acceptance and friends she will eventually have more to offer. She had to find gas and learn how to fill the tank herself. It’s kind of a give a man a fish, teach a man to fish sort of thing.

It works basically the same for men. Trust me I know, I never got laid in high school. Literally I lost my virginity at senior week. I was a rambling, socially awkward 5’2″ Star Wars fan with baggy pants and buck teeth till I was 17. I was the kid whose “friends” convientely forgot to call every friday night because the “cool” kids at the party they were going to thought I was wierd.

Maybe a personality is similar to the human body. The more you work it out the more in shape you are. The more in shape you are the more the opposite sex or same sex (didn’t forget about you gays) will find you attractive. The more you have to fight and work out how to be accepted and liked the more mentally in shape you are. The better equipped you will become to handle how beautiful individuality can be and the more you will recognize it in others. However if you never had to work it out you would be the most beautiful book with blank pages.

Think about it. Being “cool” in high school is because the most people liked them. And because the most people liked them it gave them confidence and that confidence made you want to be like them. You didn’t like them specifically, you envied that body language.

But besides being attractive what made them the most popular in the first place. Well in politics it’s not knowing what to  say, it’s knowing what not to say. It’s being the least unique you can be in order to be palatable to the greatest number of people. So cool kids were kinda like the politicians of high school.

It’s like all the cool kids are 50 Cent, it sounds great, no reason to dislike it but there’s absolutely zero substance. If he has any it’s not in the album and he sells millions of records because of it. Then you listen to Talib Kweli and hear substance and individuality.

I think when your young most kids are strickley thinking with their dicks and as we get older we realize the things that make you really like a chick are the things that make her different then everybody else. The things that make her unique,that only you get to observe gives her value. Everyone gets to stare at her.

I recently ran into a girl in New York that I used to sleep with in Baltimore when I was younger. When I was younger all I would’ve told you is how mouth dropping, retard hot she was and talk about how good the sex was. Meeting her this time I talk about a whole different list of things. How she was quirky and looked up with doe eyes, shit like that. It’s not that the sex hasn’t crossed my mind ( at least ten times while typing this sentence) it just isn’t the only thing I would be concerned with.

Maybe it’s not that you need to be unattractive, just not cool.Maybe having a period of feeling unaccepted and alone prepares you and you should be greatful for that misery.Maybe without darkness you can’t appreciate sunlight. Or maybe I am completely off base and just trying to validate my shitty experiences during high school. Maybe all those born drop dead gorgeous cool chicks in high school were the most interesting, deep, well read woman on the planet and just didn’t share any of that facinating redderick with me because I was just some tiny twat they didn’t give a shit about. But I doubt it.

Until about six hrs. ago I believed the infuriatingly disrespectful assault on my senses was a person on the train or any other form of public transportation blasting their headphones at full volume. The only satisfaction I would get was that I could actually see the brain cells being blasted out of their head with this dollar store cheap voluntary version of electro-shock therapy. It gave me some solace.

I would have swore on anything that nothing could be so intentionally vulgar. Had I the power I would have sent people on crusades to fight in the name of this injustice. Sure foreigners talking on the train is annoying but they don’t mean it. Yes getting trapped in the empty car with the homeless man is wretched, but only for one stop. But people that just blare there rap, metal, techno, whatever drive me insane. I dream of using the cord as a garrot and squeezing out every last selfish breath. Until six hrs ago I believed there could be no greater evil on any A train. I was wrong.

Much like in history when people believed the Sun revolved around the Earth, when people believed the world was flat, when people actually believed that politicians cared about their constituents I was unaware of what the truth actually was. Until six hours ago.

I initially felt lucky because it was around four o’clock and I got a corner seat. I immediately turned on my phone and began breezing through word searches when I heard a phone ring. Distracted from my game I looked up to see who the hell had cell phone service in the subway. It was much worse.

I look to the source of the noise and it takes me a second to realize and digest what is really happening. This vile bitch is playing a video game on her cell phone on full volume with no headphones! All I hear is ching, ching…. ching, ching, ching.

I think I literally stared blankly at her for a few seconds before I processed the information. I thought I must be dreaming, no one could be this rude. This wasn’t some silly seven year old who didn’t understand what he was doing, this was a full grown late twenties women tapping her fake fingernails on the screen of her smart phone. So now the noise is ching/click, ching/click, ching/click.

I look around to see if anyone else is as unnerved as I am and sure enough I look across and the guy and the girl across from me are thinking the same fucking thing. I contemplate saying something to the inconsiderate bitch but the scowl on her face tells me that is probably exactly what she is waiting for. A excuse to go all HAM and act a fool over her own shortcomings. Her lips just sat rested in the pursed position. Like she was both angry and concentrating on the demanding button tapping she was sharing with everyone. Ching/click,…..ching/click, ching/click.

After a few stops I notice the noises have stopped and it’s just the background music for the game. I look up to see the guy and the girl ( I would call them a couple but I think the guy was gay) chuckling. Half smiling I turn slowly to my left to see this evil creature is sound asleep. She is slumped straight over her phone as if was about to drool on it.  I smile and look across the subway car and we exchange glances. I smirk and say “it’s the little things” and we laugh.

The music is still going so clear my throat, this jolts her up enough to turn the game off her phone before she drifts off to sleep, this time tilting her head back against the subway car.

I pull out my journal so I can jot down some ideas about today’s events and the two across from me have a conversation about my climbing shoes that are attached to my bag. As soon as the conversation and my writings finished I stuffed the book in my bag and put my head in my hands. I would spend the rest of the train ride comfortably sleeping in silence…

Swing Batter, batter…  

   My parents started making it obvious that there was trouble in paradise, or their sullen forgery of paradise. I don’t think they ever genuinely wanted to with each other. I would learn later on in my twenty’s sitting in my basement drinking with my father that I was the mistake that forged their listless union. But don’t fret he was still happy he had me…

   I was about eight years old. I believe it was spring time. When I picture it in my head I can still see leaves on the trees in our back yard. We had a comfy home in the county. It wasn’t quite the sticks but it was the last little neighborhood before you got there. The house was matte white and slightly uphill. It was one of those houses that appeared off center because there was a canopy styled garage to the right. 

 We had a large back yard with a few scattered trees and a large vegetable garden to the back left where villainous demon eyed rabbit would pilfer the fruits (ha!) of our labor. The back patio was cross-hatched brick tiles with four-benched wooden picnic table. My Dad let me try my first taste of beer there a few years prior I guess attempting to deter me from further exploration (as I take a sip of Coor’s Light while typing this).

 If I remember correctly my brother and I had gotten off the bus and were making our way up the drive way when the first sounds of muffled chaos pulsed out of our childhood home. Timidly I made my way around to the back door where we traditionally entered.

  My Mother burst out of the rear entrance screeching and yelling. At first it was indecipherable, and then out of the vociferous wave of insanity came words. Words eventually could be pieced together to make sentences. “I’m calling the cops!” she wailed. “He hit me, he hit me!” she announced.

 My Father then walked out during this. And I mean walked, looking at her as if he were as amazed by the furious spectacle as were his sons. My Mother, now seeing the cause of her riotous outbursts focused her speech and spittle in his direction. “You’re going to jail!””You hit women, is that it?” 

 My father even in the midst of being berated by the women he had just accosted seemed unconcerned and even docile. He quietly shrugged her off and begrudgingly nodded making his way to the front of the house towards his car. At least that’s where I assumed he was headed…

 At this point I had made my way inside my house and into my bedroom. I went directly for my baseball bat. I would like to say I grabbed my “trusty Louisville Slugger” but we weren’t exactly well off. So I grabbed the wooden baseball bat and headed out with a purpose. 

  I came out of my room, through the kitchen, out the back door, and onto the back patio. Overwhelmed with rage and helplessness I met up with him in the garage. I don’t know exactly what I said but I’m sure it’s the things people usually say when swinging a bat or any other blunt object at another person when their hurting.

 I’m not exactly sure why I wanted to inflict pain on him. This was the man who helped raise me for eight years so far. Sure he was drunk as often as he wasn’t but he always had kept his calm, explaining things over and over again never getting frustrated.

 It was probably a combination of him hitting my Mother and being angry he was leaving. It’s so hard to fairly speculate about how I felt then knowing what I do now.

 My father just put his arms up and attempted to parry as many blows as possible until he could grab me. I was exploding with rage. I was trying to use every limb available as a deadly weapon. Eventually I burned out.

 I honestly don’t remember weather or not he got in his car and left or if the cops came but it doesn’t really matter. It’s not important to the story or what I learned from it.

 My parents split up shortly after wards and my Dad moved back in with his parents. The courts agreed my father would get custody on the weekends. My Dad never made us visit, he always said he wanted us to come but he would never force us.

 During these splits one parent always tries to take the high road while the other repeatedly trashes everything about their former spouse. And my Mother was pummeling him with a verbal hammer, everything from his inability to listen to his alcohol abuse. She was relentless.

 By about this time you should be realizing that while this story is in order, a lot of the pieces don’t fit. Who hits their wife and then walks calmly out the door? Why can’t I remember any previous violent episodes? How the fuck did he get partial custody? These are all questions I would eventually ask as I got older.

 I never really asked those questions and countless others during my teen years. Like most teens I was way too invested in my own personal misery. But in my twenties I have analyzed so many aspects of my past and how it has affected me.

 I found out much later, after I had already stopped hating and had forgiven my Father that he had never hit her. They were in a heated debate over something trivial I’m sure. She got directly in his face and pinned him into a corner as he attempted to exit the argument . He moved slash pushed her out of the way so he could leave. That’s what actually happened.

  Reflecting it’s kind of watching some political debate on CNN. We could use any headline where someone jumps the gun and goes overboard. Now no politician can ever admit they were wrong just like your parents never admit to you when they’re at fault. They all treat us like eight year old kids. They think we’re too stupid or too occupied with Guitar Hero to know any better. And most of the time they’re right.

  So now this lie or misinterpretation if you want to polish it up has to stick. Making it stick will serve some greater purpose.” It’s ok if they think we want Weapons of Mass Destruction all that oil will help us maintain our superiority and that’s what they really want right?”Then they have to make a statement that ensures that no protest can ever be made. “If you don’t support the war, you don’t support our troops!” Now the other party has to just sit and wait for everyone to come to their senses.

 What’s funny is in this story my Mother was republican and my Father a Democrat. Now even though my parents generation never shares their political affiliations I’m pretty sure my Mother is a Democrat and my Dad a Republican. Conundrum… 

 Now my Mother didn’t lie and she wasn’t an evil and devious person. She was just worked up and emotional and lost it. Then once things had already gotten out of hand the ends justify the means. She wanted her kids and she would say what she what was needed to keep us. I totally understand and don’t fault her for that. Now the constant bashing for years to come we’ll write up as nobody’s perfect.

 My Father on the other hand took his time and thought more long term.  He didn’t shove the truth down our throats. He had the clarity to see that battling with our Mother would create and even larger rift between us and make the split up even worse. How strong must he have been to take that risk?

Dear Derek Jeter, let me start off by saying I hate the Yankees, I’m an Baltimore Orioles fan. But you’re the Yankee I hate the most because I have no real reason to hate you. Your entire career you’ve been a role model, a gentleman and a class act.
One of the few remaining gems in a era long forgotten where integrity and athleticism were synonymous with one another. There are probably tons of kids from the Bronx who are better people because of how you’ve carried yourself. That’s all the compliments I can give because my orange blood is coming to a boil but here’s something you might’ve overlooked.
I know that you announced your retirement before the start of the season so there wouldn’t be constant speculation and you could reduce the hassle of the spotlight as much as possible, but there are repercussions from that decision.
Think about the way the Yankees fans are being price gouged this season just to see you. I literally just checked and the cheapest ticket in the stadium for your last game against my beloved Orioles is close to $300. Now I’m not even planning on going, I don’t belong there draped in orange during your final game, that would be a dick move, but how many actual fans can afford $300 just to enter the stadium?
I fear that during your final final hat wave, a wave which culminates all that you’ve accomplished you’ll be looking out into the stands searching for that one kid to make his life by winking at him and he won’t be there… He won’t be anywhere in the stadium.
Instead you’ll see a sea of corporate douchebags and investment bankers. Guys who talked on their phone the whole game and can’t name three people in your lineup much less actually have any real love for the game. They’ll be taking “selfie’s” just to prove they were there at the game and then they’ll go home and forget all about it.
Your final game will be nothing more then a status symbol for rich people to see how close they got to the field. Meanwhile all your real fans the kids that look wide eyed from the TV screen or the men my age that remember loving you for the better part of two decades will be stuck in a bar or at that same TV wishing they had enough money to witness a event they would never forget.
Hell maybe I missed an article and you and the Yanks already have something planned for the true fans to get them into the stadium. It would be sweet if you gave away all the tickets in a front ten rows to kids and their parents and made the status mongers sit back a couple rows. But I think what’s happening here is the Yankees organization are trying to squeeze every single cent out of your reputation and character before you’re shoved to the door. And even though your a Yankee you deserve better than that…
Or maybe I’m just an asshole that has no clue what he’s talking about.