Monday, April 14, 2014

Procrastinate

I have only three hundred more words to write on my first of three term papers. As I sat at the dining room table today, I saw the end in sight. Yet, it is a rough and tumble three hundred to still complete. There is not much more I can say on Philosophy from a Feminist perspective. So far, I’ve purchased two pair of jeans from Amazon, Googled “Pedant T-shirts/floppy gym shorts,”  changed the bed linens, completed three loads of laundry, Oh…. and wrote this blog post. So sue me if it goes astray. 

If I don’t complete the three hundred words, I will be forced to canceled a lunch plan I had with a very sexy boy. So…. really, I should be exploring Feminist Philosophy…..

…I really like the Levi jeans that have the longer back pockets. So, I bought some pairs. On line. Guess I see how they fit when they arrive, I am concerned for the D-bag factor. Or the "over forty year old attempting to dress like a twenty-five year old" because that could easily be the case. Welcome, one an all to StevieB's midlife crisis. 

Oh, I got new Pumas. I have really stopped counting how many pairs of running shoes I own. I do know that I’m out of closet space and I now need to keep Pumas in my oven. 


Alright, back to writing…. wish me luck. 

Monday, April 7, 2014

Oscar Pistorius: Hero Worship

My obsessions are numerous and bizarre. Like seeing a porn star wear Pumas; then buying Pumas every six months for three years. Or seeing the marks on older cars windshields where the wiper blades have worn a pattern, so hand washing my windshield every day for four years. Or, recently really liking guys in their twenties due to my fear and loathing of growing old. Wait, that’s neurosis and narcissism.  Completely different. 

Lately, while the world is obsessed with the fait of Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 and the amazing media coverage and strange conspiracy theories, my obsession gene is turned elsewhere. My dear Oscar. South African sprint runner, Oscar Pistorius. Now, I don’t like the word “obsession” in this case, it seems dirty somehow. It’s more like a deep unending love that is only one-way and will never be responded to or returned. 

While watching the track and field portion of the 2012 Olympics, I watched with the world as Oscar Pistorius, a South African sprint runner struggled to participate in the men’s 400 metres sprint.  Oscar Pistorius competed in the London Summer Olympics as the first double leg amputee. 

After that race I became obsessed with this amazing man’s struggle to overcome obstacles.  When I got lazy about running, or really any perceived obstacle I used Oscar for motivation. Tired and not wanting to drive to the gym, I would think of Oscar the amazing athlete.

My hero even wished my a happy Birthday via Twitter:



My hero got me through some tough times. One day I heard my heroes name on television.  “Oscar Pistorius accused of premeditated murder of girlfriend by South Africa prosecutors.”

The continuing court case stuns me with every news cast. The court is opening to the world his complicated life. Texts from the slain Reeva Steenkamp show the anger and control issues that Oscar portrayed. One of a jealous and cruel boyfriend. Other news casts focus on Oscar vomiting in the courtroom and physical distress in the retelling of his beloved Reeva’s injuries. Spending emotional days on stand crying repeatedly, apologizing to Steenkamp’s family. Every day in court he is emotionally and physically exhausted. Even with my skewed lust filled eyes, the defense of why he shot through a bathroom door, killing Reeva, simply falls down. 

I obsessively watch any report I can find. 

There is a philosophy that your heroes will disappoint you.  That is true. In this world, if you obsess too much, you just might make immortals out of mortals. 



Oscar Pistorius

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Spring Snow

Last night I barged into the local Subway sandwich shop as they attempted to close. The heavy rain had begun to switch over to snow. The type of heavy wet snowfall we get in Colorado, right as winter gives up the ghost and lets Spring move in and set up shop. 

I entered the Subway to pick up dinner.  My eating habits haven't changed since they were established as a twenty five year old bachelor. Around nine o'clock, when I head for home from wherever I happen to be, I typically stop at some fast-food joint to pick up fuel.  Fuel that is balanced on my chest, and to be administered as I stretch out in the middle of the bed like a swastika. In my twenties, I would read a book as I pulled French fries out of my chest cleavage, now it's my iPad, usually trolling Scruff. 

Last night was typical. A twelve inch sub of some sort, and a six inch for breakfast the next day. A bachelor has to plan head, I would think. 

Last night, I ate my sub one handed as my iPad was held in the other. Then, I ate the other sandwich after midnight as I sat watching the heavy wet snowfall hit my window. Spring will be here soon enough. 

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Monday Night Gym Time

Don't stomp your little last season Nikes at me, honey.

This week I've been on Spring Break. Although in years past this would prescribe a road trip, this year's road trip never materialized. The freedom of not going to class on Monday night gave me a brilliant idea. It's Monday night at 5pm, I'll go to the gym. Somehow, the perils of going to the gym on a Monday evening somehow escaped me.

Picture it; Dallas 2002. Steve walks in to the weight room of THE gay gym in fabulous and unique brand new shorty gym shorts. It's a wall of gay boys sporting the same brand of shorts.  After carving out some territory in front of the mirror for some arm curls I begin to flirt with a fellow gym bunny. Wearing the same style of shorts. We were hitting it off nicely, despite the completely over crowded gym. This was, until he mentioned how hard it was to work out on a Monday night after a weekend of Special K. When I agreed, but offered that I was a Cheerios guy, I received enough laughter and judgment from every gay within a ten foot circle to leave the weight room quickly. I was thirty and opinions mattered.

I haven't worked out on a Monday night since.

When I walked through the gym this week, the memories of how hellish it is to attempt to workout on a Monday hit me like a wall.  Followed by a "fuck it" I'm working out. It went well, since I'm not used to having to "work in" with people (as I usually hit the gym around midnight) it was kind of nice to actually interact with other real humans. Only one little queen attempted to toss shade.*  This happened  when I was apparently taking to long with a bench. I spouted, "don't stomp your little last season Nikes at me, honey" to the laughter of him and every gay within a ten foot circle.  I'm forty and opinions don't matter.

*look how topical I am. 

Friday, March 21, 2014

Maintaining the Mean

I am not a fan of clutter. This may be part of my homosexual training in “clean surfaces.” Part of the homosexual agenda that pushes a simple and clean esthetic, and to force straights to no longer keep their toasters out on the counter, or large bowls of decorator soaps on the back of toilets.  Pushing and forcing our agenda on America. An agenda of tasteful design, simplicity in form and function. When clean design solves a functional problem as simply and elegantly as possible, the resulting form will be carried to success by the gays. 

That being said, I had a personal intervention last night…..




Yes, I am working fifty hours a week on top of going to school. I still should be able to keep my desk clean. Yet at the bottom of the pile is the box my Mac came in… over a year and half ago. And that’s the issue. When I purchase fun toys, I don’t want to part with the box. Like unwrapping and unboxing is such a high, I don’t want to just toss out the package. If it didn’t just smack of effort and crazy, I’d be one of those “unboxers” on Youtube. Those people that video the unboxing of any new electronics, and post it to YouTube. If I start, I welcome any smacks to  the head. 

So, I just keep the bags and/or boxes to hold onto the thrill of opening the new item. Well, it may also be warranty and return purposes. That doesn’t mean I must leave them on my desk so I may contemplate when I should be writing a paper on Aristotle’s philosophy on happiness in human nature (no irony there). 

Yet it does bring the reason why I still have the bag for my Coach wallet. “Happiness depends on ourselves.” Aristotle enshrines happiness as a central purpose of human life and a goal in itself. A new Coach wallet, although completely shallow in its happiness, makes me happy. Aristotle argues that virtue is achieved by maintaining the Mean, which is the balance between two excesses. I don’t depend wholly on wallets Swatches for happiness, they’re tiny treats for working fifty hours a week and going to school. I maintain the Mean. 


Now if only I could get the bags and boxes off my desk to maintain my clean desk… that’s another issue. I am not a fan of clutter. 

Monday, March 17, 2014

John Grant Doesn't Love Me Anymore

To reward myself  for surviving midterms, I finally purchased one of those radios that link directly to one’s iPod. By making it through all of my midterm papers and exams, I mean being able to bullshit on the topic of John Locke’s Natural Rights theory in five pages without doing any research what so ever. I received an 85% percent on the paper, but since it just screamed of effort to which I employed none, I’m proud of that 85%. 

I do love my iHome clock radio. It has a magical quality that seeks out the most ironic song on my playlists and gently wakes me up to that needed song. As my mind is an underdeveloped monkey brain, that song gets stuck in my thoughts and I end up singing it all day long. Yesterday is was Kylie Minogue’s - Your Disco Needs You.  All day….
Your disco, your disco, your disco needs you
Your disco, your disco, your disco needs you

We're sold on vanity, but that's so see through
Take your body to the floor, your disco needs you
From Soho to Singapore
From the mainland to the shore


It does wonders for my much needed happiness levels. Well… lately I’ve become utterly obsessed with John Grant. You should check him out, amazing singer-lyricist. His music is haunting. But be warned, some complete dickface broke his heart. His new album, Pale Green Ghosts is exorcizing all that pain. I discovered him listening to the title track, there was a line that read “I take 25 and 36 to Boulder” which seemed odd to me since I was taking highway I-25 to I-36 to Boulder. It was love ever since. My IHome and iPod; however, decided to play Why Don’t You Love Me Anymore one morning. 

I feel like telling everyone To fuck off all the time
'Cause they don't know.
Why don't you love me anymore?
Tell me--why don't you love me anymore?


Which is fun to sing running around your place of business. It’s funny because it’s true; I do feel like telling them to fuck off all the time. Irony. One day I shall marry John Grant. 


Sunday, March 16, 2014

The Asian Grandmother

As I approached the front door to my gym tonight, I came across an elderly Japanese woman, probably in her late nineties, with her hands extended in front of her clapping. Her hair was a little matted, jade jewelry clanked as she wiggled. She appeared to be like every Japanese grandmother I'd ever met.  At first I thought maybe she was applauding my efforts of dragging my dried up carcass to work out. As I approached her smiling face I began to think "Wow, somebody cares. Someone is glad to see me today. I can do this!!!" I was overcome with happiness as I came close and realized that the smile on her face was directed onto an imaginary spot somewhere above my head. Most likely, she was communicating with some unseen thing, or entity.

 By that point I was happy. It. No longer mattered if an ancient Asain grandmother was cheering me on. Her complete happiness sparked the flame inside of me. I worked out happy. As I left, she was still standing there. My good wishes fell on deaf ears. 

Friday, March 14, 2014

Running Non-Stop

I just might of survived mid-terms. Even after I received an email yesterday from my Ethics Professor stating that I uploaded my seven pages of quasi-halfhearted paper on Kant -V- John Locke in Pages instead of Word. Sometimes I forget to convert to a MS world. All and all, I'm still breathing. This was on top of my work getting crazy and forcing me to work way more on craziness than I like. 

That being said, I have carved out some quality athletic shoe shopping time. It's a sad addiction, I'll scope out cool shoes on the "Dudes" at the gym then go buy them at my first oppertuity. The sales clerk at my Sports Authority in Cherry Creek Mall  is now sending me personal emails on any new runners. 

I dated a guy, back in Dallas, who had his credit card on file at The Throckmorton Mining Company; I thought it was a little sad. Now I understand why he did it. 

Gotta run, there's a sale at Sports Authority. 

Friday, February 28, 2014

Our Lady J

It happens after every Big Gay Cruise. I become obsessed. 

I become completely obsessed with one of the entertainers on the ship, and turn into a crazy fan girl for the next year. Kylie Minogue was first introduced to me on a gay cruise, back in the day. Deborah Cox was on another vacation. Even Dixie Longate was the subject of one of these obsessive episodes. Dixie spurred on driving across the countryside months after the on-board Drag Queen Tupperware  show,  with seven other homos just to see this drag Tupperware show again. That might be considered kind of crazy. 

This last vacation was no different. 

I have been living and breathing the music of Our Lady J


Born a fay boy in a Mennonite style upbringing within the Pentecostal Church; it seems her only outlet was the piano. Fueled by her own obsession with Dolly Parton, she delivered an amazing show on board the Big Gay Cruise. Since then, I have lived and breathed her music. Yesterday I caught myself singing along, out loud, to her song Elegance at the gym. Picture it, a line of dudes at the mirror pounding away at the free-weights, and a bearded queen in the middle in an Oregon Wrestling t-shirt burning out the 55lb dumbbells on bicep curls singing… 


I stand for elegance. I live for elegance.
I breathe for elegance. I’ll die for elegance.
I stand for elegance. I live for all things beautiful:
Taste, culture, polish, performance, grace, and dignity.*

That will learn those gym rats something. I highly recommend checking out this amazing singer. 



Our Lady J website Where you can listen to her new album



*http://www.ourladyj.com/Our_Lady_J/lyrics.html

Monday, February 24, 2014

Home Again

I woke up this morning reeling with what just happened. The whirlwind dream vacation I had just participated in, was over. Back safe and sound on my down pillows, in my bedroom, with a Chinese Shar-pei standing on my back. 

For the last twelve days I was in gay paradise. I’d wake up to toss on running shoes and baggie shorts to find my way to a full-spread buffet breakfast. Inhabited by attractive men. A environment where the chafing dishes matched the number of men to kiss. I could sit a table alone, or join any number of close friends that were also on this journey. The floor To ceiling windows bathing my world with Caribbean light. 

This morning, I had to give an extra long ear massage to the dog. Then, drag my extra thick sweatpants and Uggs on to my tired frame. A long walk down to our local green space was in order. Harley and I have done this walk countless times. Today I seemed different. True quality time with the pooch I had missed. 

On the Big Gay Cruise I had signed up to have a massage every day.  I had facials, seaweed skin treatments, and hot steam saunas. All while meeting new friends, and reconnecting to old ones. Today, It’s me and the pooch remembering how to operate the coffee maker, sitting at the dining room table clicking away on the computer, and listening to the music I had purchased while on the great ride. 



It is great to be home. 

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Don't Eat Me, Mister Bear

Wednesday night on any cruise seems to always be "Lobster" night. The night when the ship's main dinning room serves up amazing lobster dinners. 

I had been looking forward to this dinner for awhile. Dressing up and having  a formal dinner with the family. My mouth watered as three large lobster tails were gracefully served in front of me. As we began our culinary masterpiece, the table of friends started to discuss the hilarious stories of attempting to cook the pinchie crustations. You know the stories, having lobster races, the screams as they get tossed into the boiling water. 

Within three bites I started to think of what I was eating. An un-lucky lobster that had his dreams and aspirations ripped from his massive and pincher like claws.  Maybe he too had dreams of completing some-sort of nephropidae type of crustacean college. Who was I to take part this this murder? 

I handed my plate to a table mate and ordered another salad. 

After telling this tale of tail to Patrick, this appeared on my cabian door...


Friday, February 14, 2014

Pool Time

I can't tell you how much I enjoy laying naked on a pool float in the middle of a gay guest house pool. I might be the only person in history that goes to Florida and does not visit the beach. I for one, think the beach is over-rated. Why get sand everywhere when you can lay in a clean pool with naked gays on lounge chairs casually masturbating. It is ironic how one can do that and complete a crossword. Multitasking at its best. 

I've discovered a couple of things; South Florida is home to most of the gay fifty year old men with chain arm-band tattoos, and there are more gay sushi restaurants then in Japan. I'm not complaining, just an observation. Who am I to judge, since landing in this stat I've only eaten chicken fingers and ranch dressing. I am now being compared to a seven year old. 

I'm enjoying the guest house, even if it has many rules. No "play" I'm the hot tub. And one must remove the "good" sheets before play. It's like staying at your aunts house. If she was running a gay guest house. 



Thursday, February 13, 2014

Day One

First day of vacation. We arrived to a massive Florida style rain storm. As we pulled in to the front parking lot of the Guest House late in the evening, and listened to the voicemail from the owner stating the keys to the room were in the mailbox, I was "elected" to get out of the car and locate the room. As a drowned rat, I carried the luggage into the guest house. Officialy the vacation began. Yay! 

I set out today with a trip for the gym. God, I've missed an all- gay gyms. I worked arms, as Fuzzy worked the gym. Upon leaving, he knew every guy by name. 

Now it's time for some clothing optional pool time. I won't be posting photos. 

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Florida!

Vacation time starts..... Now! 

After staying up all night packing my suitcase, then helping the homosex partner with his, I am ready to catch a plane. I'm so ready for this. 

 

Thursday, February 6, 2014

Coffee Break

Let me just say, there is stress that happens before any big trip. The planning, the packing, fake 'n bake visits, and the wondering if you have enough tank-tops... It's stressful. I had attempted to start the packing process yesterday, but that process was quickly halted this morning.

In Fuzzy's sleep deprived state, he had left a half-full cup of Starbucks on his night stand. This is strictly firbidden in our house hold. This is due to past experiences when the dog has helped himself to the forgotten/forbidden fruit. 

This morning as I entered our office to toss one more item into my suitcase, I found to empty cup. In the middle of my suitcase.  Harley, the precious,  had pulled everything off the nightstand to get to the coffee. He couldn't get the lid off, so he forced his tongue into the little hole in order to get coffee out. At one point, it seems, his tongue got stuck. Hilarity ensued. As the dog chose to stand atop my suitcase to remove his tongue. The contents of the coffee is now in my suitcase. And, the dog is ramped up on caffeine.  

Thursday, January 30, 2014

Book Worm

There may be only thirteen days until I leave for our massive gay vacation, and ten more work days, but there are four more school days until I’ll miss two important assignments. That means as I sit naked by the pool at our leather themed vacation guest house, my junk wont be getting sun as I will be typing away on a paper about Socrates’ conversation with Euthyphro.  Picture it, a Fort Lauderdale gay hotel; pool side…

From porn
to pedal 
“Why thank you, and your muscled hotness is amazing too” I’d say looking over the top of my Macbook, returning a complement from a former porn star turned natural grocery store owner, “could you… you know what would be really hot… is if you could define your thoughts on the ‘Devine Command Theory’?” 

For some reason, every guy in my fantasies happens to be muscled former porn stars who took their fortunes to open some kind of environmentally responsible business. Like a Colt model-turned bike shop owner, or “after several years in the frat porn genre, making his way to open a vegetarian restaurant. I guess muscled green entrepreneurs turn me on. But, that’s not important right now…

What is important is that I will be completing a five page paper on the issues and theories of Ethics while Mister Twelve-pack-turned-organic-farmer enters the cabana next door. 

Damn you, Epicurus!!!! Your theory on enjoyment of life is wrecking my theory of getting laid by an ex-Sean Cody  star. 

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Tumble For Me

Hey! Have you checked out my Tumblr page?

NTSSB.Tumblr.com


Oh... It's not safe for work.  At all. 

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Pre-Birthday

Next Tuesday is my fortieth Birthday. Again. In fact, I will be turning forty for the third time. It is all in my plan to only age by fives from now on. I will be forty until I turn forty-five, then it will be forty-five for five years until I celebrate fifty. This really isn’t a vanity issue, because I am already finding this...


After flirting will an amazingly hot guy I re-read his Scruff profile. That’s when I saw the “Age limit is 35” sign posted to the front door. Remember that Snoopy cartoon where Snoopy is attempting to travel across country and faces anti-dog segregation in public spaces? I thought that was just an allegory for racism. Now I know how people facing this type of overt segregationist views felt.  Okay, not really. But, the blood did stop pumping from my over thirty-five year old heart for a bit. 


It is really that in this day and age I cannot be bothered going to every social media site and changing my age. It took my like ten minutes to remember my Big Muscle Bear.com password, just to change my ten year old photo to a five year old photo. At least now I’m not sporting Z. Cavericci. jeans. So, if you ask me my age, just add up to four years. And know that I am aging gracefully. 

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Three Weeks

It's just three weeks until the big gay criuse. This means my dietary intake has been reduced to lettuce and dust. Well, and coffee.

I decided to buy one of those "motivational" swimsuits. The type that I'll never really be able to look good wearing, yet I walk by five times a day, as it sits atop my dresser mocking me. "I will let the Caribbean sun see you, Speedo! I will" I just need to eat as if I was Karen Carpenter. 

*swimsuit not representative
 of how Steve will look.  
In my food deprived state, I have realized how un-prepared I am for this trip. Other than my speedo. Last night, I realized The reservation I made for a rental car for Fort Lauderdale was promptly deleted by me. I had zero information in regaurd to the reservation. Thankfully I had used my credit card points to pay for it, so I called the helpful credit card elves to find it for me. Yay. 

If you need me for the next three weeks, I'll be at the gym. I'll be the one with a trail of empty Slim-Fast cans behind me and a glazed-over pre-cruise lack of carbs pallor.






Friday, January 10, 2014

Steve of the Forest


I'm finding that I am spending some of my new year the same way I spent 2013; wandering around the  big box athletic/sports stores. There seems to be an endless supply of Under Armour base layer or Nike Dry-Fit gear that I NEED to buy.  Daddy needs new Asics Gel-Nimbus. 

It was during one of these trips recently that I stumbled upon a great deal.  50% off a new Coleman tent. Not since the camping disaster of '07 where a river began to flow through my old tent, have I had the desire to own a dome of nylon and fiberglass. As I glazed upon the happy sport lesbians on the bag, so conTENT to sit around in fleece, drinking hot chocolate from tin cups, and sharing their womanly feelings as they soak-up the Great Outdoors, I realized that I needed to return to the wilderness. Steve of the Forest! 

So I bought a tent in January. It won't be long before I load up and move out to the Rocky Mountains that mock me with their beauty every day on my commute to work. Now I say "look out mountains! I going to come sleep inside you!"

Monday, January 6, 2014

Hamlet's Happy Outlook

Happy 2014. 

Yes, I did start out this year with a major part of the circle of friends we call family slipping skin and tearing away this mortal coil. I’m attempting to see it as how lucky she is to be able to toss away the troubles of daily life and the strife. In these times, as in most changes in my life I turn to the "To be, or not to be" monologue in Shakespeare's Hamlet. As he was a righteous dude. 

As I drove to work last Thursday, a police car, the officer holding up a radar gun directly at me, so much so that I could see how he was squinting, pegged me going fifteen over the limit. At least I thought so, until I kept driving and he didn’t move. Wheeeeew. On Sunday, the highway was completely frozen-over when a pick-up truck traveling in front of me started to fishtail. After completing two 360 degree spins the truck head straight for me. Inches from my hood, he strangely started to spin the other way. 

Yeah, it’s going to be a good year. Considering it’s only five weeks and two days until the big gay cruise. And, most importantly in my world, the gym has not been overwrought with resolution makers. Wheeeeew.


“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” 

― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Thursday, January 2, 2014

Faith Ranoli

Today, I lost a friend. 

Ranoli, a larger than life lesbian, ghost hunter, home inspector, was the first person to help me become that man that I am today. 

When I was fresh out of high school and new to living on my own, the only thing I knew about the gay community was sex. This first couple of years out on my own and alone was very tough. I was adrift in a new world away from the structure of the church or family and in a sea of nonchalant fucking, drugs and drinking. Tired of this drift, I somehow ended up terrified on the front steps of a church deciding to go in and join the new gay and lesbian choir forming in Denver. That night was when I met Ranoli, who saw the terror in my eyes, got me to calm down and walk into the rehearsal room. This made me realize for the first time that it isn’t just that we sleep with the same sex that makes up our community. 

As she is one of my mentors in life I listened intently to her story of how she became involved in the paranormal, her views on life, and ideas on how to truly be happy in this world. She even officiated my past commitment ceremony. I always love how she was nonjudgmental, and spoke to her story and journey without spewing to the established dogma. 

My world got a little darker today. 


Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Resolutions 2014

Today brings a lot of posts on Social Media in regard to “Resolutions.” mostly how people are not making resolutions as they are considered a bad idea. That they don’t last and are “unattainable.” This makes me think that maybe it’s more of a reflection on the person declaring the uselessness of resolutions more than the concept. 

I, for one, like resolutions. They are a plan you develop with your self. A road map on the personal goal you want to accomplish. Last year I stated:

 “I resolve to make my Apollo’s Belt pop. You know, Apollo’s Belt, also known as the “Brad Pitt muscle.”

And although I don’t have a fully functioning Apollo’s belt, I did make major strides in that area. I began to focus on this goal, and I’m on my way seeing the shaping and growing of this muscle group. So even if resolutions take longer than you hope, goals are important. 

So, I hope that you set resolutions this New Years Day. Not as lofty dreams, but goals you make with your self. Then hold yourself accountable to achieving them. 

My first resolution? Go to a local diner, Pete’s Kitchen and have a Breakfast Burrito Supreme. For me, this symbolizes the essence of having a good time, stemming from my teens and twenties when I spent way too much time at this diner. This act is more of a reminder to stop and enjoy my life.  After that? Get around to buying a Truck, not let dust settle on my bike, and to grow a Hipster beard just in time for the fad to end.  

Here are my blogged resolutions from the past: 




Tuesday, December 31, 2013

New Years Eve

Happy New Years Eve! I just wanted to take some time on this last day of 2013:

Thank you for making this year a good blogging year. Without getting all sappy, thank you. I'd totally give you one of those bro hugs right now.

I hope 2014 is great to you, if not let me know and I'll kick its ass just for you. But, I'm sure it will be great. I soon will be heading out to the New Years Eve celebration with complete optimism.
Enjoy 2014; I’m sure it will be kind to you.

Sunday, December 29, 2013

Andrew and His Banner Adds

So, ugg. No Uggs for Christmas. Which solidifies the thought that certain people in my household (along with English speaking humanity) never read my blog.  My witty hints had gone unnoticed. I cannot complain; however, because Santa in all his velvet covered silver bear sexiness did stop at the Apple store and pick me up an iPad. It wont help my collegiate backpack shrouded style as I walk down the pavement on my way to coffee, but once I’m in the gay coffee shop I can read to my hearts content on my sexy and glossy Apple product. 

I have quickly encountered a problem on my new e-reader.  I have some-sort of computer virus that quickly spread to my computer as well. A complex problem that only affects gay users of the Internet. Andrew Christian adds. Upon my first visit the Official Andrew Christian Men’s underwear website these banner adds have now found there way to every site I visit. Just one on-line shopping trip, and now he thinks we’re dating. Stocking me in some creepy banner advertisement kind of way. This morning I was on a website that had four places for adds. All four were filled with eight-packed sporting quasi-ethnic hip-hugger wearing panty clad hotties. 

If you were around in the ‘ol start up days of America On Line (AOL) there was a time they attempted to cram their “start up discs” in to every crevice in the universe. Opening your mail box weekly meant ten of the CDs would fall out onto your feet. If your excavate any landfill in America, there will be a solid layer of blue and yellow AOL mailers in the late 90’s and early 00’s. For the gays, Andrew Christian underwear adds are the new AOL propaganda.  One late night visit just to “shop for underwear” and you’re assaulted via banner adds for the remains of your days with incredibly and impossibly hot, sexy and smoldering, beautiful males. Banner adds that force you to click on them and to spent hours examining the curve of these sexy lads amazing abs. Leering at their abdominal region, and those perfectly plump rectus abdomen muscles and the external obliques that form a line at the edge of massive abdominal muscles that point straight to their lower pelvis.... uh... where was I?




Yeah. I got an iPad for Christmas. And I use it to shop for underwear. 

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Crunch-a-tize Me

As I sat down to enjoy my Sunday morning bowl of serial, I started to wonder if the Cap'n real name is spelled with an apostrophe. If on his drivers license it reads "Cap'n or Captain."  Turns out, his full name is Horatio Magellan Crunch.

Either way he spells it, my research discovered that The Wall Street journal reported that the number of stripes on his uniform indicate a rank of Commander and not Cap'n. They reported that the U.S. Navy had no record of Crunch and that NCIS was investigating him for impersonating a naval officer.

The old queen. 

Saturday, December 21, 2013

The Omitted Octopus

It’s always fun to come home and find new presents under the Christmas tree. We have a tradition of just slipping newly wrapped presents under the tree, without saying anything to the interested party. As this year I drug out the old Chromium 1950’s tree, new presents springing up like weeds under the tree have  an aluminum sparkle upon them. 

Then, I came home to find this.



Yes. It’s a box labeled “Octopus” What does that mean?? My mind whirled. Is there a real octopus in that box. Am I getting a pet octopus? Maybe more than one. That would be cool if I did, get more than one, because then I could finally use my knowledge that there are three correct plural forms of octopus: octopuses, octopi, and octopodes. I could meet people and say, “Hey, wanna come back to my house? I could show you my octopuses, octopi, or octopodes depending on if you’re English, Greek, or Latin....” Scratch that. I should never say that. To anyone. Ever. 

I stared at the box for a while, dreaming of my pet octopi. I’d be a hit at the gay park, as I would train it to catch frisbees. My dreaming of long walks with Octavious; however, were dashed when the box was gone the next day. Apparently it was a punch bowl for a very strange friend. 

I’m left with a wanting of Octavious. My pet octopus. 





Thursday, December 19, 2013

The Lineage

Sometimes I’m asked how I got my independent streak. The ability to be an individual and, a little far out into wacky land. To face into the wind. Beat my own drum. Then, I open up Facebook and see pictures like this one....


Yeah, you can guess which person is my sister. This example photo was taken during her works Ugly Sweater Contest. I always answer that it’s a family trait. 

Our strong individualistic characters are due to the fact that we have a strong English family line heading back to 1622 in Somerset, England. Our ancestors were a strong family that united to stand their ground and defied the local government.  Even when the neighboring government was not really asking them anything. 


This is why our families coat of arms has the Latin saying, “factum est, usque non est super” It is not done until it is over done.



Monday, December 16, 2013

Stevie B. NEEDS Muggs

It appears to be nine days away from Christmas. This means that I’m successfully well into my plans of getting Man-Uggs, or Muggs as my present from Santa. 

As you may be aware, last year I launched Operation Muggs. Unsuccessfully. The operation failed, yet I did receive some amazing gifts. 

This year it’s war. 

See! Tom Brady wears Muggs. 
I have recruited an army of minions to begin a texting campaign. Texting things like, “yeah-know, I over heard Stevie talking about wanting new boots... something like Muggs.” Or random photos of Uggs being texted from random strangers. It’s my plan to layer the knowledge. I guess whispering late at night in the dark will help too.  “mmmmmmmmmmaaaaaannnnnn Uuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggggggggsss, Steeeeeeeeeveeeeee waaaaantssssss Booooooooooottttts!!!!!!!

And, Yes. I am comfortable enough in my masculinity to wear Uggs. Although, a friend pointed out that “all the other girls wear them with skinny jeans.”