Kicks Like Sleep Twitch

It has been days since my iPod randomly played The Editors Papillon. I've been running ever since. 





It really does kick like a sleep twitch. 

Dog Time

For the last month, I have set my alarm clock for 6am. For the last month, my dog has his set for 5:15am.

Starting at 5:15:03 the Shar-pei I adore has decided that morning walk time begins with a stroll up the bed and onto my chest. I will suddenly feel a pressure on my chest, then a wet sensation on my eye. This comes from a wet nose being inserted into my cornea.

I still set the alarm clock every night in the outside chance that Mr.Furry decides to take a holiday. That maybe I'll get to "sleep in" until six. I guess I'd miss that happy feeling of not wiping sleep from my eyes, but dog drool.

I really shouldn't complain, I do enjoy our sunrise walks. Just me and the dog.

Cory Hart

On Sunday afternoon I did something I hadn’t done in years. I cruised down the isles of my favorite used record/CD store. This is when it hit me; I hadn’t hung out at “my” music store in millennia.

The morning host of satellite radio’s GLBT channel informed me last week that the weekend fell on “Record Store Day.” This is a day to celebrate independent record stores across the world. On this day and age, with the huge conglomerate music stores long vaporized, we seem to have only these smart and passionate, independent music stores. This niche market is the only choice other than the streamlined online purchasing of your favorite tunes. 

As I flipped through the racks of aging CDs I couldn’t help thinking how long it had been since I had graced a music store. I became an iTunes zombie immediately after a birthday present of my first iPod, way back in 2004. Since then, the plastic jewels cases filled with artist’s presentations have vanished from my world. The convenience of clicking “Buy” took away this simple, yet religious act of digging through the racks of albums, making me forget how the act was incredibly cathartic.

Standing in the musty air of music’s ancient temple, I thought back to my first album. The very first record I ever bought was Cory Hart’s second album, Boy in the Box. I had just moved to Houston, Texas and discovered a record store in Houston’s Galleria Mall.  The attempts to hide the album from my Mom led to her think it was satanic “devil worship” music. Little did she know, the attempt to hide album was because I was desperately in love with Cory Hart and was convinced the 3^rd track “Never Surrender” was written just for me. Never Surrender was Cory’s attempt to convince me that it was okay to be gay. That I should never surrender; soon I would be out on my own with the freedoms that would go along with being an adult.

Of course, that was not the case. Cory was just a Canadian musician, who still to this day produces music with his wife. He will never know how he got me through my freshmen year of high school. Yet, discovering a scratched-up jewel case with his sneer looking back at me, I asked him. Does that even matter?  He gave me my theme song, not just for a Polo and acne covered freshman, but really for life.

I sat in my bedroom last night, listening again to Cory Hart’s album.

Honeypot

Mumbai Irony

Today is my last day of class before summer break. Two finials, and two papers to turn in and I am done. The feeling of excitement is overwhelming.

The finals (knock on wood) will be a piece of delicious cake. One hundred questions about Literature’s impact on modern writing in my American lit. class, and one hundred questions on creative writing sentence structure. Which, if my professor read this blog, I just might fail. 

Last night, confident that I had completed my two term papers early, I went to print my masterpieces.  Click-whirl-click.  I heard my printer go through its start-up noises. Then… nothing. Thinking I was out of paper, I investigated. My happy little printer was flashing something on its screen. “Printer head fail!” It screamed. “Oh, well… my ink must be out. After a trip to the Uber-Target I gladly installed fifty bucks worth of ink. As I closed the lid, it stated, “printer head fail!” Thus began two hours of downloading new updates from the website, speaking to an adorable young man named “Keith” from Mumbai, and making the sign of the cross over my non-compliant/non-Christian printer. After all of that, “Printer head fail!”

Keith seemed sympathetic to my desperate need to print my a five page paper based on Hamlet’s Ophelia descending into madness, yet didn’t comprehend my analogies that my printer was now, my Hamlet. I even quoted Ophelia’s death monologue to Keith, as my Lexmark printer was my own personal Hamlet. Driving me mad.

As a non sequitur, may I make it known that you meet the most interesting people at Kinko’s around midnight. God I hope that “non sequitur” is on my finial exam. Along with irony. 

All Men can be Heroes

Wooly Steve

I just might have a new addiction. After my addiction to Fabergé egg/door stops collection that is.

On Sunday, I found myself back at my dealer. I said I would not walk in the front door, then it was to "only look" but I knew. I knew I needed the rush of standing on that tiny platform as an Ukrainian man took chalk to my nether regions.

There is a certain rush you only get from buying a new suit.

You can mix the gitty-glee of "balls to the wall"* shopping spree, with the manliest pursuit of being surrounded by wool. Add in the elderly gentlemen that want nothing more than shove a tape measure up your bum, and you have manly ecstasy.

As I stood there, incased in wool, letting the former Eastern Block tailors work their magic of trimming away the fat, and disguising the fat, I realized why "brides" squee about their dresses. This thought made my spine quiver. When the head tailor was done re-arranging my balls, I asked if he had a cigar. Or maybe a Dos Equis.

Okay, so I have a wool addiction. I have come to terms with this. It's harmless. Well, besides the damage to my credit card.



*trade mark saying by that umber sexy Aussie, Kez.

My Ex, Hamlet

I have one, final paper due in my college literature class before summer break. The topic is to examine a new view on the most popular work of Shakespeare's Hamlet.

What the hell can a nerdy-gay-Mormon forty year old say about Mr. Hamlet that hasn't been said, to death? Alas, poor literary critic! Term papers of infinite jest,of most excellent fancy.

Well, I'm finding there is not much I could possible add to this well-worn topic. This week I wrote three pages on how I dated a thespian and helped him prepare for the role, by mentally getting him into a "mindset" of Hamlet. This support manifested itself by quizzing him on the protagonist's lines and a lot of blowjobs. I ended up deleting the three pages. Nobody needs to know how I “supported” a bearded man in tights.

With more research, I decided to take the approach of examining the ingénue role, the potential wife of Prince Hamlet, Ophelia. What gay man can’t identify with this noble woman of Denmark? We have all tried to get with our own Prince of Denmark, yet after finding that we have become a needy bottom, the jerk projects his creepy Mother issues off on to us. Before you know it, we are sitting around with friends, crying into a beer uttering statements like, “He took me by thewrist and held me hard; 
Then goes he to the length of all his arm… because hesaid he all loved me and junk.”

As gay men we have the possibility of having a tragic heroine inside of us.  Not because we as gay men are weak, but because of our sometimes warped view of loving men during our first exploration of same-sex attraction. The impression of gays as callous sexual predators can sometimes be overwhelming to someone first coming to terms with their ownsame-sex attraction. Thankfully, unlike the weak character in Hamlet, modern gay men gravitate out of this tragic ingénue role and no longer allow the classification of tragic caricatures.  We may not understand fully why our Prince is treating us badly, but we are not going to throw ourselves into a lake. Hopefully.

I will write about Ophelia. About this Shakespearean character’s struggles with Hamlet using her and then tossing her aside when his home life got complicated.  But, really my term paper will be aboutyoung gay men.  When coming toterms with love, without role models to guide them, how easily it is to base their self-worth in another’s opinion. That is until they see that what matters most is their own self-worth.  

Brain Freeze

I started my new position with feverish abandon. This means that my brain has been overly filled with learning new work information and trying to change my habi-trail from working at home in my underwear to re-applying the suit and tie. This has not left a lot of time, brain power, or will power to blog.

I am finding that all the strange crap that rolls around in my head hasn't been able to be poured out onto the Stevie B. blog page. This has caused a painful brain freeze of strange Stevie ideas. About the time i felt my head exploding, I discovered one thing. It's not that I like to blog, it's that I must. Like a shark who can't stop swimming. If I stopped blogging, I'd die.

With suit and tie Steve settling into place, let us return to our regularly scheduled blog.

MacMaze

As I picked up my car from the car wash, I noticed that my Apple logo sticker was badly faded. Being an Apple-head it’s important that my shiny white Apple sticker be prominently displayed in the rear window of my vehicle. A faded and worn out sticker is a good indication that it’s time to buy a new MacBook.  Like a pop-up timer in a turkey.

It has been in the back of my head for a while that I may want to replace my trusty sidekick. An aging gracefully white MacBook that has been my closest friend since late ’06. Mostly my thoughts of a new Mac laptop are driven by the massive amount of papers I’ve been writing for school. I need to buy an updated version of Word, so really now that I have a typical gay boy Apple-zombie problem I might as well just buy a new computer.

Remember when Apple retail stores were like libraries?  Quiet and respectable places where the Apple staff would greet you with eager anticipation.  Now, they’re like the grand Turkish bazaar. Hoards of people hungry for all things Apple.  I found a Macman on my latest visit to the sleek white Apple temple and started to decide which of the shiny electro-happiness would be correct for me.  It is harder than I thought.  I finally decided to not decide.  Pending more research whether I need a MacBook Air or MacBook Pro. And so my trusty ol’ white Mac Book is still by my side. My Apple sticker fades more everyday as my car waits for a new white window sticker. 

Thick Neck Steve

The last time I put on a work dress shirt was the end of May 2011.  My work dress code since then has been comic character T-shirts and gym shorts.  Washing and underwear was optional.  Now, I am returning to an office setting for a new job.  My days of working from home are done, and not a minute too soon. The gym shorts will only be good for the gym and the dress shirts will be coming out of the closet. Literally.

Yesterday I pulled every bit of work attire and completely reworked my closet. The dress shoes were under massive layers of Pumas, and I found the suit jackets and white shirts so far back I had to use a machete to get through the Structure polo shirt section. They were just hanging there in plastic dry-cleaning bags, thinking they were never to be worn again.

After trying on the ol’ work wear, I discovered two things: My waist is smaller, which is great, but my neck has gotten much larger in a years time. How the heck does someone lose weight everywhere, yet gain weight in their neck?  So, I’m a thick neck?

I now have an entire wardrobe of dress shirts that cannot be buttoned at the neck. This is kind of important, because I need to sport a tie.  They really need to make a dress shirt with a Sansabelt like option for the neck. Sans-a-collar?  Maybe I just need to go on a crash neck diet. I know that rushing out and getting liposuction in my neck may cost just as much as replacing all of my shirts. Until then, I will be the nicely dressed chap grabbing some lunch with some of the other gals from the typing pool whilst my head turns blue from lack of oxygen. 

Integrity

I have been speaking about integrity a lot lately. After much thought I decided to leave my happy work from home job with the US Navy and move forward with my career.

When I transitioned my job from a bustling office in a Department of Defense office building, to my home office, I was thrilled. My own hours and my own plan. Then, I came to realize that I was just on my own. This is when I decided to move on, and back to a busy office.

Interviewing is an odd part of your life. It's half, self-centered self-promotion, and half being the dorky kid wanting to be picked for the baseball team. But, one word came up in all my interviews. Integrity.

I believe it was my second apartment. Being just a dumb twink, money was tight. Before I knew it I was late on the rent. I walked slowly to the Manager's office after finding a notice taped to my apartment door. The manager of 1160 Ogden Street was a massive woman who once was a massive man. Like a first generation transsexual or tran 1.0 she was happy being a big beautiful gal. But, that day she wasn't happy to hear that it would be three days until she got rent money.

This is when she taught me about integrity. Integrity, is the only thing that can not be taken away from you. You can give it away, but it can't be broken like your will, or deprived like your freedom. Your integrity may be all you have. Sometimes it will be all you need.

I thought about the trans-apartment manager as I sat with the Director that was looking to fill an amazing position. I retold my thoughts on integrity. I left out the part where the police showed up in the middle of the night to haul off the trans-manger due to her embezzling thousands of dollars of property management funds, but hey, it was still a great lesson.

It got me the job.

Just Keep Running

Yesterday I grabbed my new Puma NightFox TR running shoes, and headed towards the gym. I bought these visions of green and blue Puma technology in January and have kept them in their own special carry bag since then. I like to keep my running shoes in pristine condition and only wear them during actual running. This of course, makes me one of those nerds walking into the gym with a bag of shoes slung over one shoulder.


As I drove to the gym, ready for some quality time with a tread mill, I started to mull over why my “strictly running” shoes were not the answer to my shin pain. Even with all the support and cell technology built into these shoes I was having the same problem. Heel strike. I have never been able to really change my stride. It has improved; my crippling shin splints have decreased dramatically with training how to run on my forefoot instead of smacking down on my heels, yet after any amount of running I still had soreness and pain in my lower legs. This is due to the tendons and muscles surrounding the tibia being unable to absorb the shock I force this muscle group to absorb in my bad running form.

When researching how to correct my stride and relieve my pain, I found that proper foot landing during running was critical, but improper footwear, including worn-out shoes can also contribute to shin splints. This is when I started treating my heavily padded Pumas as if they were my children. My new kids were disappointing me. I thought back to an article in Runner’s World* about barefoot running. Proponents of the barefoot movement argue that barefoot running is healthier for feet and reduces risk of chronic injuries, notably repetitive stress injuries due to the impact of heel striking in padded running shoes. Figuring that I would try anything, I stopped off at my local REI store. After no less than five associates warning me to break them in SLOWLY, I strapped my new Vibram FiveFinger shoes on and headed to the gym.

The United States Army recently banned the use of Vibram FiveFinger toe shoes for image reasons* I can see why, they… take awhile to get used too. On my walk from the car, through the locker room, and to the treadmill I had four people stop and ask me how they felt to wear. In spite of the friendly sales associates at REI warning me that if I didn’t break them in slowly my feet would fall off from pain, I hopped on the treadmill and took off.

I would like to report that my feet did not, actually fall off. Today, they feel… amazing actually. My normal feeling of shin splints is non-existent. The barefoot feeling forced me, without me knowing, to land correctly on the treadmill’s belt. Yes, these shoes force unwanted attention down to my toes, but with the help they give me running I’m okay being a toe exhibitionist.

Pain au StevieB

It started on Friday morning. That twinge you get deep in your jaw. Something was wrong, horribly wrong in my mouth. I realized quickly that a filling I had replaced around a month ago had turned against me.

I will spare you the tale of woe, if you have ever had a toothache, you know of the pain and utter ouchiness. What I will tell you about is when I called my Dentist, late on Friday; he prescribed heavy painkillers for the weekend. Steve. On Vicodin.

Late Friday night, after huffing my Vicodin happiness,  I found myself sporting gym shorts and a wife-beater standing in the candy isle of Walgreen's (chain drug store.) I was looking madly for “pain au chocolat” because when I get high, I either turn French or into Eddy Monsoon. Not finding chocolate croissants in a small town drug store, I stumbled upon a dog bed. It was shaped like a Homer Simpson stylized doughnut. My laughs turned into snorts when I thought of my dog lounging in the middle of the glazed treat. My snorts stopped as sadness covered me, I wanted to buy the silk-screened doughnut, but I was convinced I’d get pink frosting all over my hands. When expressing my sadness, I was escorted quickly out of the store.

Me. Shopping for
pain au chocolate.

Saturday found me filled with determination. I was going to the International Auto Show even if I was jacked up on painkillers. It only comes but once a year, so really I HAD to go. I whole-heartily endorse going to car shows hopped up on the drugs, it makes the shiny cars… “real [SIC] pretty.” Although I did ditch the guys a couple of times, once to spend ten minutes in the cab of a Dodge Big Horn convincing myself I owned it, and another time to spend time pondering if I just drove out the side door in a Wrangler anyone would even notice. I think, fun was had by all.

Finally, Sunday came. After a massive pancake breakfast and a trip to a local vintage electronics trade show, I finally slowed down enough to change shorts and head to the gym. This is where my body over-ruled my “man ‘bout town” attitude. As I changed into my gym shorts I fell back into the bed. Eight hours later I awoke. My jaw was killing me.

My weekends are usually non-stop. Even if they are hazed over, drug fueled, Stevie pumped full of Vicodin, goodness. Determined to keep my busy stride, I just really needed to stop and listen to my body. I was; however, very entertaining to my friends. So, not unlike Eddy Monsoon.

Spring Break Beard

Today is my last full day of Spring Break. The only impact it really has is that my “spring break beard” will have to be tamed soon. I liked the fuzziness; although, today I think it changed from lazy college student to homeless man.

Thai Me Up

I have found myself addicted. Again.

I go through phases where I cannot get enough of one type of food. Last fall I stood in front of my favorite, and recently closed, Japanese fast-food restaurant and shook my fist and the locked front door. I had been eating lunch there almost every day for six months and without even consulting me, they closed the location. The betrayal of closing my favorite restaurant helped me spiral down into a cheese pizza tirade that lasted four months.

Although I still visit the cuisine of Japan regularly, I have gone to Thailand to find love. Peanut sauce and curry love. My fascination with the food of Thailand has grown to the point that I’m now the love slave of a nineteen year old Thai boy, named, Chad. I am at the point where I’ve visited his family’s tiny restaurant so many times that Chad now puts in my order as I walk through the door. As he places my over sized plate of chicken and veggie stir-fry, with extra peanut sauce and crispy garlic, he says, “Your favorite, Keith!” He calls me Keith, but that’s okay. Because I love him, he brings me spicy Thai peanut sauce.

Yesterday I found that I am cheating on Chad, as I have started to teach myself Thai cooking at home. After spending thirty bucks in the “Oriental Food” section of my local grocery store, I have all the ingredients to make a  เตะตูด Thai curry. Ya know, coming from a nerdy Mormon boy, I think I'm learning how to make a great stir-fry. This weekend there will definitely be a trip to Sakura Square and a shopping spree for more supplies. Please, don’t tell Chad. He’s sensitive.

International Auto Show

Ah, Spring. It is the time of year when a young man’s thoughts turn to love. Well, most men anyway. My thoughts turn to the upcoming International Auto Show. Like the swallows returning to Capistrano or gay men booking gay cruises, spring signals that it's time for new vehicles to be drooled over at the annual auto show, coming to town this weekend.

I’m not sure who started the rumor that gay men don’t like cars? Whoever said that gay guys aren’t butch enough to be Gearheads needs a good smack in the head with my Prada bag. Now, granted that most gay gearheads may not want to get down and dirty with gear ratio or pressure displacement, but if you want your bearings packed, look for a gearhead gay. It’s not that we, as a people, don’t necessarily like to work on cars, it’s that we have better taste and lust after cars for the aesthetics along with performance. Ask any gay to name Ford’s line up verses Audi’s nameplates and you’ll see.

This is why, coming weekend, the auto show at the convention center will become the hottest pick up spot in town. The gear-moes will be out in force, shopping for, or just drooling over their new crushes. Of the four-wheeled and two leg kind.

If you need me this weekend, I’ll be sitting in the cabin of the new F-250 Diesel. Or maybe the Dodge Ram 2500. I like them big.

 
 
To check out more information about the Denver Auto Show, click here.

Spring Break

I slammed my eight pages of writing down on the Professor’s desk and suddenly it became Spring Break.


In my creative writing class I started to hang out with the cool dudes. I think this is funny because sitting with the dudes would never have happened in my past rounds of education. I like to think it’s because I’ve connected to a couple of them in the gym. Most likely it’s because of our group projects. I like to actually read our assignments and give feedback during class discussions.

As one of the cool kids, last Thursday, we sat in the back of class discussing what we were going to do for Spring Break. There seemed to be a theme of non-shower sittin’ on the couch chillaxin. There was also a lot of mountain road trip talk. This is when I would have said “finally starting the Erik Larson novel and replacing the garbage disposer.” Something told me that this sounded lame even in my standards. Something in my head just clicked; I whipped out the iPhone and my HRC credit card. Finding the Best Western in Santa Fe that some friends were staying at, I booked two nights. Just in time to say, “I think I’m going to head down to Santa Fe, New Mexico for a while, chill out there.”

As I crossed over into the state of New Mexico, I started to giggle. I love road trips. Live for them actually, yet I couldn’t remember the last time I took one. The nineteen year old dudes in my class think they are pretty smart using me to do the majority of the class work, but they don’t realize that I’m using them quite a bit more. I used them to realize that when you get a Spring Break, you should use that time and enjoy life.

Demolition Man

There was just enough room between the last pole of the chain link fence and the side of the house. The fence was festooned with warning signs. “Keep Out” and “Guard Dog on Duty” but I knew there weren’t any dogs. At least I didn’t think so, at any point a couple of muscled watch-dogs could have leapt from the old Victorian house. I stopped halfway between the fence line and the massive edifice, hearing only my heartbeat and Interstate 25 humming off in the distance, I trusted that if there were dogs, they would have attacked me by now.

In my youth I did this almost nightly, just to look inside the hulking manors before they were ripped from the ground. My motivation was to be the last human to walk the decks of the Titanic before the rust and water pressure turned the iron to dust. Back then I would wander around theses houses thinking of the Silver Barons that built the brick and mortar, and within days the reception parlor and massive staircases would be gone from the Earth. These 1890’s monuments, sitting in the city’s once finest neighborhood were replaced by condo buildings to overlook Interstate 25 and downtown.

Now it seems the tide of obliterating our Victorian history has turned. The thinned out herd of massive mansions, with their stone and wrought iron filigree, do not get hunted down and murdered as they sleep anymore. Some survived. Somehow. In our new, enlightened and mature sense of preserving the past, the houses that once sat in the finest neighborhoods turned skid-row has now returned back to the city’s finest neighborhood.

“I hadn’t done this in years.” I thought as I pulled a sheet of plywood from a back window. I guess I didn’t need to. “They hadn’t torn down a Victorian house in ages.”

As I made my way through the house I could see a considerable change, this particular mansion wasn’t set for the chopping block; it was being prepped for “restoration.” Fifteen years earlier I explored the house that once stood next door. In a gaping hole in the upstairs bedroom I jerked off watching the city below me. Now condos “priced in the mid-300” have taken its place.

The feel of this house was different somehow. In the dozens of house I’ve explored I felt the Green Mile death walk sensation, this feeling was one of anticipation. Looking out of an upstairs window, out at the city, I started to jerk off. As I glanced over at the next-door condo building I met the eyes of one of the tenants on their balcony.

“Guess it’s all changed.” I said to the front parlor room as I kicked out the plywood on the front door. I ducked into a homeless shelter-turned-hipster club as the cop car turned the corner.

My Furry Happy Weekend

We had three great days of sunny, warm weather over the weekend. Maybe our first truly warm days since fall, fell. You can tell that everyone was jumping on the chance to enjoy the great weekend by the hordes of people spilling into the park and jumping at the chance to go out on the town for dancing and mischief-making. Visitors to Cheesman Park were trying their best at soaking up the sunny weekend, not knowing when they’ll get the chance to feel it again. The running path in Cheesman was crowded as runners gave up the treadmill and ventured out into nature.


I watched all this unfold from behind the plate-glass of the coffee shop on 9th and Downing Street. I spent my weekend writing a paper on the topic of homosexuals and how they were portrayed in mid-century media. How movies and literature portrayed homosexuality as a sickness, something to be feared or pitied. As I typed away on the topic of self-loathing in the GLBT community, two twenty-somethings sat at the next table hatching a plan to raise funds to bankroll an awareness campaign for our local meal delivery program for people living with HIV.

I did put down the lap-top long enough to attend Bearracuda: A fun, friendly party for Bears, Cubs, and other wildlife. It’s like a circuit dance party for the happy, furry set. I’ll blame the weather, but I had an amazing time. My good friend Gary Givant was DJing and it's always a great to dance to his tunes. Gary is a Billboard.com DJ and constantly has his feelers out for new tunes; he seems to always have new, upbeat songs before anyone else. My opinion may have been skewed by the hot muscle dudes tromping around, but it seemed like just the perfect prescription to top-off the weekend.

The thesis of my paper was how our GLBT community had their identity originally formed by fear mongering, agenda driven media types. This was an attempt to drive self-hatred down into our very collative soul. It may have worked for a while, yet this weekend proved to me that we have come a long way.

Blog-shy

My first thought of Twitter was that it was just randomly shouting into the dark. Spurting 140 characters then watching the traffic of porn stars and early adaptors speed past. I didn’t understand the attraction, why were all these porn stars and narcissistic celebrities just blurting out “I forgot how much I love pickles!” for the known-world to read?


The first Blogger.



In my eternal quest to be one of the cool kids, I trudged on trying to “get” the avant-gardeness of being a Twit? Tweetaphile? Twttererererer? Like jumping into a swimming pool in Florida; there’s always the chance that a wayward alligator may be resting at the bottom, yet you jump in anyway. With my Über social awkwardness tucked under my arm, I jumped in and began to see it as a way promote myself, a billboard for all things… blogger me. I quickly realized that Twitter was just a series of advertisements for people, a 1984 Apple commercial for people’s egos. But, for me it has become a place to hang out virtually with the “my dudes” talking dirty, and flirting.

If Twitter is hanging out in the garage, getting dirty with your buds, and Facebook is sitting with your family in the living room, blogging must be spending time in the study. Relaxing on the couch, talking one on one. Laughing and retelling old stories about each other. So, it was odd to find myself last night stuttering at a simple question.

“What’s the name of your blog?”

This was asked by my English Professor. We were discussing my thoughts on the Mormon Church, and he asked if I ever thought of writing my story. Without thinking I mentioned that I have a blog and write about it ad nauseam.  Now, I have never shied away from telling people about my little backwards corner of the net, without getting too metta, I clammed up.

There is a place for everything, twitter with its unruly rugby team mentality, blogging, and English class. At that moment I stood frozen, like trying to pee next to François Sagat. You know he’s going to look over, and he has seen a lot of other dicks…. This was the very first time I felt guarded about my blog. It was a strange feeling. A feeling I don’t really care for, yet it was the same feeling I had when my niece asked if she could follow me on Twitter. Having an English Professor read your formal term-paper is one thing, sitting with him in the study as he does it is quite another.

Logo TV

I’m sure you have heard the news. The bell tolls for the death of Logo, the gay TV channel. It won’t be a nice peaceful death, covered in olive oil, reposing in a Beverly Hills’ Hotel bath tub. No. The corpse of the little gay TV network that brought us Rick and Steve and Jeffrey and Cole will be gutted, and reanimated like Frankenstein’s Monster. The Network will arise from the slab attempting to look like so many overly processed Housewives on the Bravo Network.

If you read my blog for long you’ll notice that I stay away from anything political, there are much better and more astute bloggers for popular news stories. That being said, when I read about Logo changing its platform, I felt as if RuPaul had just told me to “sashay away.”

Logo has decided to attempt a Bravo Network format. This grabbing at Bravo’s Housewives franchise will be mixed with some Lifetime channel and other female centric shows, along with reality shows just to make the train wreck “fabulous.” If the channel’s inauthentic reality show, The A-List was the canary in the networks coalmine. The bird is dead.

I will miss my Logo channel. It won’t pass peacefully and much as it will be murdered.

America will have a new source for faux reality shows about the housewives of mobsters, forcing their toddlers to compete in pageants as tables get flipped in arguments over the bidding of abandoned storage units. Must avoid TV.

For a short time we had a channel for us. Like when MTV showed music. My hope is that young gays will be able to grow up remembering how this channel helped them come out and not remember how The A-List made inauthentic stereotypes of our community.

Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for gayTV...

Crunchatize Me Cap'n!

I have been craving huge amounts of cereal this week. I’m finding that it doesn’t matter what kind, just cereal. I have ventured to the grocery store several times trying to find the next brightly colored box to get my fix.

Yesterday I stood in the middle of the seemingly endless breakfast food isle. A parade of cereal cartoon mascots mocking me for the staring contest I foolishly instigated with Tony the Tiger. Keeping my gaze fixed on the buff tiger, I pulled out my phone. I dialed my ex boyfriend. I was about to ask him if he remembered that type of cereal I loved to eat back…. eight years ago? Because... that’s a normal thing to phone your ex boyfriend and inquire about.

I lost the staring contest with Tony as it hit me; I needed to listen to my body. It was trying to tell me that I was in serious need of something. I did know it wasn’t a carbohydrate craving. I know how those urges that make me want to be number two in a human centipede with the Krispy Kream conveyor belt feel like. This wasn’t a carb-hole, my body needed something more. Whole grains? Fiber?

After exploring dietary nutrition information, reading about the benefits of fiber, and re-reading my multi-vitamin bottles, it dawned on me. It wasn’t my body that was making me crave whole grains, it was my head. The happiest way to escape stress has always been for me to sit in my underwear, eat Cap’n Crunch, and watch Superman cartoons.With my work and school stress this week, my head was urging me to have some underwear clad cereal time.

After going for a run, finishing a paper on Shakespeare’s, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and finishing my monthly reports for work, it will be time to unplug and watch some serious amounts of Cartoon Network. Time for me to just relax in my Under Armour with the Cap’n.

Leap Day

Today is February 29^Th. A special day on our calendars that happens only every four years. Why we have this unique day has its origins going back to the Roman Julian calendar. It was born in plot by a roman civil servant named Sosigenes of Alexandria, and his get rich quick scheme. Sosigenes, convinced Caesar to add on an extra 24 hours every four years to the Julian calendar. This was just to mess with everyone’s calendars for all time.

Alexandrians, being notorious jerks, were also cunning enough for the Caesar to fall for the plan. Caesar never connected Sosigenes to his Alexandrian headquartered calendar making company. To this day the North African empire is solely driven by making all the world’s calendars.

For me, this day marks the anniversary of moving from Dallas, Texas to Denver, Colorado in 2004. Marking eight years I  living on the base of the great Rocky Mountains. Here are some other historical Wikepedia events:

1720 – Queen Ulrika Eleonora of Sweden abdicates in favour of her husband, who becomes  King Frederick I.
1936 – February 26 Incident in Tokyo ends.
1940 – Finland initiates Winter War peace negotiations
1960 – Family Circus makes its debut.
1988 – Svend Robinson becomes the first member of the Canadian House of Commons to come out as gay.
1992 – First day of Bosnia and Herzegovina independence referendum.

It is uncanny, the strange occurrences that seem to happen on this, Leap Day. I for one, will always remember where I was on the February 29, when I heard that the Tokyo incident had finally ended.

So, go forth and make your own wonderful memories today! Attempt your own coup d’état on your own Japanese ruling party.* Go witness the strange and awesome site of a day that only comes but once every four years.




*The staff of the Nice to see StevieB blog, its affiliates, and/or Stevie B. neither advocate nor
  claim any right to overthrowing the Japanese ruling power in a romantic and/or
  sexy Yukio Mishima kind of way.

Choosing the Right Family

In the summer of 1993 I stood in the middle of my Mother’s hotel room. Six months earlier I had come out to her over the phone, and this was our first face-to-face meeting. Purchasing a couple of books, I had hoped to give them to her on her visit. This was my attempt in some way to help her deal with the fall out of her nice Mormon son “turning” gay. She spoke of damnation and conversion therapy. I handed her Don Clarks’s book, Loving Someone Gay as a starting point to bridge a gap in communication and understanding. She picked up the hotel wastepaper basket and tossed the books inside.


I closed the door to her room slowly; as I did I realized I was closing another door. As I walked down the badly decorated hallway to the elevator and out the castle themed hotel, one thought came to mind:

“My Mother is a raging A## hole.”

This is when I learned the meaning behind the Maya Angelou quote, “The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them.” This is also around the time that I began to formulate my theory that you make your own family.

Out of the blue today, Dalton the BFF, sent me a text from his office in mid-town Manhattan. He needed a hug while working on a stressful proposal to revamp the image of a mens clothing line. It got me thinking; true family isn’t in titles, it’s in actions. True family isn’t how often you see each other in the bar, or link to each other on Facebook; it truly is in walking the walk. The idea that when something goes wrong, like your car breaking down, family will stand next to you and give you unsolicited support. The concept that you will get unconditional and never-ending ending support when you need it, or even when you don’t want it.

Those are the relationships that make up the family you choose.

iDench 4S

You want to see Dame Judith Dench’s breasts? Sure, we all do…

As part of my literature class, this semester, we are deconstructing classic literary works. Yesterday we discussed Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. As the group of nineteen year old girls that comprise the majority of this college course struggled to comprehend the classic, the professor decided to just play the movie.

Much to my happiness, it wasn’t the version with Calista Flockhart’s one grab at a movie career. The movie our Professor ordered up was the BBC’s 1968 version. I was excited because it featured a very young Diana Rigg as Helena. Secretly, I hoped she would just karate chop the hell out of some Athenian ass. It didn’t happen. Around the time that a young Judith Dench appeared I noticed that her perky breasts were bouncing around on screen. At this point I realized that I’ve never needed to see the boobs of James Bond’s boss.

Since I figured we were just watching the bouncy bosoms of a Dame for the benefit of the nineteen year old girls, I tuned out and mulled over my plan for an iPhone 4S. There comes a tipping point where your friends start to get better technology than you. I was more than content with my iPhone 4. Until, I received a call yesterday from the two friends stating that they are new parents of the latest version of the Apple phone. I realized that as much as I love my phone, a new and shiner one is out there for me to desire.

“The course of true love never did run smooth.”

I started to mull over the benefits to upgrading to the new version. Okay, there’s Siri. Do I really NEED to spend money to get a girl to talk to me? The other reason is the camera. Yes, it has three more megapixels than my iPhone camera, but every picture I’ve ever taken consists of me holding the camera in front of my face, in the bathroom mirror, showcases my t-shirt. Do I really need larger images?  Should I stay with my current phone and await the great iPhone 5 (which I hear will have a beverage dispenser) or upgrade.

Lord, what fools these iPhone zombies be.

As the class ended, I realized that I had daydreamed the whole class away pondering over a silly phone.  I also had eternally linked my lust for a new, shiny phone to the naked chest of Dame Judith Dench.

May the Thule be with You

If asked to complete an online dating profile, I’d say I was the “outdoorsy” type. Running, biking, and pretty much any type of activity that involves Lycra. Running is easy, a new pair of Pumas, a trip to the park and Voila, you're running. Cycling on the other hand is getting pricey to enjoy.


When I traded in my SUV for fuel savings, I didn’t think twice about where my mountain bike would ride. I simply thought I’d buy a rack, strap it onto my new sleek sports sedan, and away I’d go to the mountains. As last summer approached, I purchased a trunk mounted bike carrier. I then proceeded to spend the entire summer watching my rear view mirror as my bike bounced around on the back of my car. I’m not sure what frightened me more, the bike scratching the car’s paint, or the carrier letting loose and seeing mountain bikes bounce down the highway behind me.

I hear that spring will come sometime soon; if it does, I’m sure I will have the urge to head out and bike the trails. This year I decided to give up on the trunk mounted bike thing-a-ma-jig with its straps and clamps and buy a roof rack. They look so simple, every Whole Food’s parking lot in the world is just jammed with late model Audis all sporting Yakima or Thule bike racks. How hard could it be?

Quite. Apparently. First I had to get lost on the sleek Thule inc. bike carrier website, trying to decipher styles and pricing. I gave up and headed to our super-sleek downtown sporting goods store. The outdoor aficionado’s supply store with its fake pine trees and rock climbing wall inside of it. Patrons can climb the 50 foot high fiberglass rock wall, in air conditioned comfort. If I’m going to take up rock climbing, living in the Rocky Mountains, forget nature, give me this rock wall. I want to fall four stories onto my head in full air-conditioning and with a string version of Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill playing softly in the background.

What I was looking for was a bike Jedi Master, what I found was Kip, (yes, that was his name.) I asked about their line of Thule brand car racks. Kip was nice enough to correct me that it’s pronounced too-lee not (and he signed heavily) thoo-lee. It was not, a “bike rack,” but a bicycle management system for automobiles. When I explained to Kip, that I didn’t want to “manage” my bike, just ride it, Kip suggested the website. I suggested he might take a trip off the rock wall.

Finally I did what any guy like me would do; I followed the instructions of a Lesbian Jedi Knight I found YouTube. The force was strong. Leave it to a woman who looks like she just walked out of an On Our Backs spread to simply explain a bicycle management system, It’s funny, she starting out by calling it a bike rack.

Corvette Gets Married

You get to a point in your life where have seen your high school friends get married, have families, and pretty much just grow up.

I understand that my situation was atypical for my generation, openly dating my first boyfriend during my senior year of high school after dating other boys in school.  Today it seems that it is just part of everyday high school life. Your first love, however is universal. The person you waited for after class, eating in the lunchroom together, making out in the student parking lot before school.  The horribly written love poems where I tried to compare his beauty to Pete Burns. You never forget your first love. But, you graduate, grow up, and somehow stop writing horribly written love poems.

I believe it would be cathartic for anyone to watch a high school sweetheart get married. To see them amazingly happy on the day designed to celebrate finding the love they sought. Your high school love is the person who first broke your heart, or you theirs,  yet taught you that broken hearts helped you grow up into who you are now.

I believe it a little strange; however, when your high school sweetheart’s marriage ceremony shows ups on the gay society column of Towelroad.com, a premier gay news blog.

View the link and video here:

 http://www.towleroad.com/2012/02/gwvaaroncorvette.html

And before you ask… yes, his name is Corvette. In the video he was in the blue tux… and…the red dress.

Yes. It is cathartic to watch your high school sweet heart get married. It reminds me of the kid I was in high school. The type of unguarded and immature love we have in our high school years. Maybe I should go write some horrible love poems.  

Just Keep Running

It happened for the first time. I got called young looking.


Every once in a while I have an overwhelming urge that I need new Puma running shoes. I found myself the other day needing a Puma fix, nothing serious, just a pair of running shoes to get me through the monotony of February. After ogling the Puma website I headed to Cherry Creek Mall for some serious shopping.

My old pair of purely running shoes are so incredibly nasty and dirty they have their own bag in the trunk of my car. I sit on the curb of Cheesman Park and change out of my street shoes and into these shadows of former running shoes. Mud, muck, and torn fabric. It was time for new, shiny running shoes.

Dizzy from the enticing Puma fumes as entered the store, I made my way around the amateur shoppers to the men’s section. I zeroed in on the pair I had been hunting for and asked “Billy” (the ever-smiling shop boy) if I could try on the pair of brightly colored neon striped kicks. As I laced the runners on, I half-heatedly mentioned that all the cool nineteen year olds at school are wearing neon shoes and that I’m finally going to be one of the cool dudes at the age of forty.

“Oh-my-God. You so totally don’t look forty!” Billy exclaimed with too much enthusiasm.

I tried to quickly move the conversation away from the next statement the zero percent body fat, hipster bearded homo was about to speak and back on the quality of the shoe. I spoke of the fit, of the comfort. Anything to stop “Billy” from making his next statement.

“You look really great… for your age."

There it was. A twenty-two year old baby homo just said I look good. For my age. The smooth skin on the face of the twenty year old beamed at me. This broke my stride until I reached into my pocket to pay for my new neon striped bits of happiness. I handed Billy my credit card with its massive line of credit. I may be old, Billy, but with age comes a massive credit score.

“So… hopefully… I’ll see you out running sometime…” Billy slyly said as he handed me my bright red bag.

I Choo-Choo-Choose You!