The Tebow Beard

“Yer [sic] sporting a Tebow there!” Said the fifty year old man sporting the dice themed Hawaiian shirt behind me in line at the coffee counter.

The “high-roller” was pointing to my beard, sans a moustache. As I turned to the cashier and handed her my debit card “No! I’m Amish.” I said this in a huff; the gentlemen stammered not knowing what to say to someone of the Amish faith. Drinking Starbucks, in a gambling casino.


Being Amish, I don’t normally spend time in the casinos nestled in the Colorado Mountains. Years spent by multi-national gambling organizations, blasting away entire mountains, paving over an entire mountain valley to make a smooth foundation for massive hotels and restaurants, all to supply an endless supply of Hawaiian shirt clad gamblers a plush carpeted oases to spend their cash. They went through all that trouble, I should use it more.

 

I happened t be in this gaming temple because my Father is in town for the holiday. Although there are casinos in Boise, Idaho it’s nice to visit other casinos in your travels. For us it was how we spent our Boxing Day, two Sisters and the Dad. Out for a wacky time.



The Kitler!



I suggested the casino that had a Starbucks, because the only money I had planned to waste was on a Venti Caramel latte. This is when I ended up with a Tim Tebow beard. Great, the man that show-boats his direct line to Jesus Christ and Jesus’ apparent love of the Denver Broncos, now has usurped the Amish’s beard? Does he plan on destroying it for the world like Hitler and his cats? No one can sport a jaunty tiny stache without someone saying, “Ooooh, really? A Hitler?” Now if you choose to don a beard without the trouble of fur on your upper lip you’re going to be called a Tebower? Hand me a razor.



Christmas Evie

It's time for our annual message from Evie Harris.

Merry Christmas, Mary.

Ron Moore

This morning I got to the point where if one more person wished me a Merry Christmas I was going to force feed my garland down their throat. Then, out of the ether I received this comment on a blog post I did at Christmas time in ’08. It was about my memory of Ron Moore, a gentleman I dated back in the Middle Paleolithic period. Reading this comment and my post reset my mid-December priorities. Funny how that happens, just when you’re at your most cynical, memories of loved ones can slap perspective into your head.



Ron Moore



"Nice to read your memory of Ron Moore. I never met him, but he was an idol of mine way back in the 1970s, when nude photos had just become legal and legit. I had a bunch of his photos from Western Photography Guild, and I thought Ron was the handsomest man on the planet. What really wowed me, though, was his ease and comfort with his own body. He wasn't a pumped-up muscleman, thank God, but he had a beautiful natural physique that he was happy to share with the world, and he looked like a really nice guy. I still have the photos. I'd like to read more of your memories of Ron. Enjoy the holidays! "

You can read the post here.

RT

When two men decide to share their lives together they have to remember that when it’s all said and done, they are men. And men have needs.

Every gay couple must have “the talk” to discuss the level of boundaries that they are going to allow in the relationship. Whether they base their relationship on monogamy, some level of quiet openness, play only as a couple, or totally open. They say that “open” relationships take the most amount of trust and faith in the solidness of your partner and the foundation of the relationship. I believe that any level of spending your life with someone will take the same amount of trust.

I hesitate to refer to these differing types of relationships as layers, yet I believe that the next layer to relationships would be a Triad. Having more than one intimate relationship at a time with the knowledge and consent of everyone involved. Insert gay Mormon joke here.

I am not opposed to triads. Although I can barely remember one birthday card, and shopping for two Christmas presents might send me over the edge. Not to mention that I  already sleep on the edge of the mattress because of bossy dog that takes most of the bed's prime real-estate, I’m not sure how I feel about another person.

I’m rambling on about this because as of Friday night at 9:00 PM I was thrust unknowingly into a triad relationship. The new addition is a muscle brute named RT. The other half, my other half brought a 2012 Dodge Challenger Classic into our happy home.

How can I compete for attention?

Saturday early; I’m pulled from my book and coffee for a ride in RT. As we race endlessly up and down the empty streets in our fictional town, the “other half” says, “I so love you!” “Ah, I love you to.” I say as he strokes the six gear shift knob. “You do? You really love it as well?” He half-heartedly asks as he downshifts.

“Take me home.” I flatly respond.

Can three-way relationships really work? I ask, as my two other parts of my triad plan on discarding all Christmas storage to make more room in the garage for the love fest.

The Yellow Rose of Dickinson

I really didn’t sleep at all last night. I was up worrying about a blog bud and his choices. It’s funny how cyber-friends work. You chat on line, interact almost daily, yet you never really meet the person. When they go through a hard time you want to jump in and help, even if it’s just a hug or a smile. Then you remember that they live on the other side of the planet.

When my brain is squirming late at night, I fall back on an eternal question in life. “Have you noticed Emily Dickinson poems can be sung to ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’"?

I can spend hours pulling Emily Dickinson poems out from the recesses of my tiny monkey brain and getting them to fit to the tune of the old Texas hymn.


Here's some examples...

BECAUSE I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me;
the carriage held but just ourselves and Immortality.

StevieB. On Ice

Yesterday morning I was psyched about getting to go for a run.


The morning temperature was in the teens, and I found the running paths were completely covered with ice and snow. This was like Christmas to me, I love being out in freezing weather. I layered up my gear and switched to the knobby running shoes for off road, inserted my ear buds under two layers of cap and ear protectors. I set out to run through the ice covered trees and the sound of crunching snow under my feet.

Halfway around the park I encountered an intersection that was a solid sheet of ice. I gingerly navigated the mirror-like ice while mumbling my mantra “walk like a penguin, walk like a penguin.” I’m not sure when or why I began chanting this mantra, it was eons ago. I started to laugh out loud as I realized my rant about penguins not having anything to do with Christmas, then there I was evoking their ice walking prowess to stop the inevitable fall.

My concentration broken, I started to slide. Like Bambi on ice really, my legs stretched out in my running spandex. Sliding completely across the intersection I hopped into the snow along the curb. I quickly looked around. Not a soul in sight. No one saw my amazing show of athleticism and dumb luck? Drat.

Feeling amazingly full of myself, I spent the day feeling superior to winter and anything is can throw at me. I then retold my running triumph story to a friend I ran into as I left watching a football game at our local bear bar. Upon showing off how cool I was, I turned and slipped upon the ice and clumped down to the pavement.

That’ll learn ya.

December 11

Thanks to Jerrod for this.

December 10

On the tenth day of December...

 

 

 

Photographer Jeff Sheng's amazing Don't Ask, Don't Tell

 

Jeff Sheng Photography

http://www.jeffsheng.com/

 

 

 

Where Y'all From? Bitch.

It’s time to open the little door mark “nine” on your advent calendars.

Yesterday was the last day of class before the holiday break. I feel relieved to have my tests done, yet strange to not have the structure of school. I’m not great with changes in my habitrail. I might go stir-crazy until spring class starts. All that time spent at my gay coffee house without chapters to read. Torture.

 'I'm from a place where
we don't end our
sentences with
prepositions."

For some odd reason my English classmates had started to bond in a way I’ve never seen before. Like a group trapped during jury duty, or exhibiting Stockholm Syndrome they started to form a unity. Last night my last final was a time of release; I was surprised to be met with Christmas cards and homemade cake from my fellow classmates.

The big haired gal with the obsession for acrylic sweaters wanted to have my Facebook contact. Really, you didn’t get my Designing Women- How to remember prepositions tool, yet you want to be friends on Facebook? I’m very sorry, if you never saw Designing Women, we can’t be friends.

Before the test began, the hugs came out. As if we survived weeks after crashing our plane in the Andes. Resisting the urge to demand that a classmate stop pressing her man made fibers against my person, I brushed off the Facebook requests to deflect onto the final. Still this was better than the 19 year old guy, for whom showering is a monthly option, showed up to my first class, declaring his drunkenness, and wanting to squeeze my arms, “hard and slow.”

I guess I underestimated the power of school stress and test anxiety. Or just crazy people.

Finally Steve

Today is finals day.



I have two papers due and several major tests to take. As you might guess I was up late studying last night.  I was up into the wee hours re-reading the implications of Martin Luther on the Scientific Revolution and his stance on intransitive verbs. Maybe the intransitive and transitive verbs are for my creative writing class. It’s all a blur.

Evil coffee maker, you want me to fail.
Don't you?

My focus on finals carried over to this morning when after starting the coffee and walking the dog, I was greeted by the entire pot of coffee flowing across the kitchen Pergo at me. I suspect that I did not put the coffee carafe in far enough letting the hot coffee flow in a title-wave towards my delicate constitution. This spurred my cleaning ritual to sanitize the entire kitchen. Seeing my mad cleaning spree the dog wanted to join in and helped by licking up a large amount of the coffee tidal pool. Completely buzzed on Hazelnut coffee, my Chinese Shar-pei is then ran around the house rearranging the furniture and asking me to take him for ice-cream. In his heavy Chinese accent.


My belly is now full of coffee, my kitchen is obscenely clean, the dog has fallen into a K-hole, and I’m ready to cram the founding of Britain’s constitutional monarchy into my small monkey brain. After I study that, I should really study up on subordinating conjunctions.

Obsessed with Scott From Obsessed: Still

I wrote a somewhat innocent blog post back on the 21 of July, 2009. This particular day I had watched the pilot for the TV show Obsessed on the A&E channel. The post was how I was obsessed with the first storyline, “Scott” an incredibility hunky germaphobe dealing with mysophobia, a pathological fear of contamination and germs, and how the phobia was overcome by therapy.

Observe the creature in its natural
environment. *

I was obsessed partly because of my own bizarre cleaning rituals that rule my life. It is completely fair to say that I was also enamored by the utter hotness of Scott. Who knew that two years later it would still be the third highest linked/Googled post on my blog? Hundreds of hits have turned it to the top Google result. This has supplied me with endless emails asking if I know anything more about this Scott guy.


I have received stolen snapshots of Scott shopping for produce, driving, and buy Apple products. It’s like he has turned into a gay Big Foot. Sightings from his natural environment, blurry photo evidence of vague existence. An urban legend for the muscle worship crowd.




It is kind of odd how stalkerish behavior works. Once a month I receive an email pleading to share any information I have, to swap photos and share details. Each time I respond with, “If the guy wanted to release information, I’m sure you’d be the first to know…” I receive some sort of response requesting that I keep them in the loop. Loop? There’s a loop?


So go forth hunky gay big foot! Be free to wander quietly in your natural habitat. Don’t let the muscle worship Queens hunt you down. Run free! 

*The above photo appears to be the property of Scott Barnes Photography. No infringement is intended. Please visit sbarnesphotography.com 

Flock Me

On the sixth day of December…

The temperature plummeted to negative ten last night. I figured that this would be the ideal environment to march through the wilderness and chop down a Christmas tree. Nothing will break my lack of Christmas spirit then relentlessly tracking down an innocent tree and cutting it down in its prime.

Okay… so the other half stopped me from pulling the axe out of the garage, and instead decided to go to a garden center. It was a real rustic garden center. A manly garden center. We marched up and down outside in -8 degree temperatures for like five minutes before we headed into the green house for hot chocolate and carolers. But, I drank my hot chocolate out of a butch paper cup.

I picked out a flocked tree. Yeah, I never thought I’d like a flocked tree, but I fell in love and I figured anything to help my bah-humbug mood as of late.

It’s pictured very naked. Since I have finals all this week the lights and shiny crap will have to wait until the weekend. All things considered I’m deeply in like with my tree. Flock me.

The Annual Christmas Rant

Ahh, December 5th. It’s time to gather around and listen to Uncle Steve’s annual Christmas rant…..

WHAT THE F*#K DO PENGUINS HAVE TO DO WITH CHRISTMAS!?!?

Have you seen the inflatable, glowing Christmas crap that everyone displays on their front lawns? Big billowing snowmen, elves, and insidiously happy penguins. Seriously, What the heck to penguins have to do with Christmas?

At night it’s quite a cute little scene. A winter wonderland all blown up and bopping around to the forced air whooshing up their butts. During the day it’s another story, driving through any upscale neighborhood it's a reenactment of Jim Jones goes to Christmas town. Dead, flat elves and snow people scatter the lawns like a mass suicide cult hit the North Pole. A massacre of merriment. One half-inflated penguin dragging its self off the lawn coughing out,  I only live in Antarctica and parts of South America why am I even here?

Aaaaaaaaaghh!”

Snow Running

December 4th. 

I discovered a new high last year. It was late in the season, so this year I get all winter to enjoy my new fetish. Running in snow and twenty degree temperatures.  

I finding it a great way to gently ease into December.  Since my running path takes me next to the Denver Botanic Gardens I can enjoy the twinkling lights in the snow... 

The bundling in layers; however,  I'm finding is problematic. Just when I have five layers of Under Armour on I usually discover I have to... go. That and I'm frightening the squirrels.

Snow

December 3rd

Snow has started to fall in its robust attempt to make December look like December. It did a good job.

Bah, Humbug!

December 2nd


I’ve always been gung-ho about Christmas. Way before Thanksgiving I’m warming up the staple gun, ready for the outside lights to be pulled from the garage and installed above the inflatable snowman on the front porch. Stopping myself from bugging everyone around me about when their trees are going to be installed in their living rooms.

This year I’m struggling. For the first time in a long time, I just don’t feel it. I guess it may have started around the time when I was mocked for wanting to go to our town’s annual Christmas Parade. My suggestion was met with ridicule. It opened my eyes to the folly of the season. Putting up outdoor lights really is a lot of work. An afternoon spent in the cold. Trees, wreaths, and scented candles just appear to be clutter.

I’m quite hoping that I’ll move past this never-before seen stage in my universe. I’m sure I will. Once again understand that standing in the cold is worth seeing Christmas lights. I just might go wander around the Christmas tree lot like Charlie Brown.

Perchance to Dream… of a Datsun

Is it December already? Time to start flapping open your advent calendars.


If I were a better blogger I’d start advent blogging, every day open another blog counting down to Christmas. Am I that dedicated? Let’s find out.

December first.

It appears that dreaming about Datsuns is all the rage, since Christopher over at his M. Monologues (NSFW) dreamed about me driving my old Datsun truck last night. I had a seemingly never-ending dream last night that I wanted to buy a 280ZX for my Christmas present this year.

In my dream I wanted to buy a Datsun 280Z as a project car. Desperate to buy this sports car I was traveling around looking a car after car to find the perfect one to restore. I hate dreams that make me work, I spent most of the dream agonizing over fuel-injection and whether I should go older and get a carbureted Z car. In the end I never did find my car, until the closing credits I was riding home for Christmas with the T-tops off and my beard blowing in the wind. Yeah, in my dream I had a long beard. Not symbolic at all.

In reality I do have an affair with this car. I just didn’t know how deep it ran. And although I won’t be getting a Z car for Christmas... this year.  I do have twenty-four more days to dream about what I do want.

Tukey Sam-wich



Man I love Turkey sandwiches. It just might be better than actual Thanksgiving to me.



Pulling out the endless supply of brightly colored Tupperware filled with yumminess. Heaven.

Turkey Blues

Oh, Thanksgiving.

As much as I love the four-day foodathon, I’m glad to be back at my desk. In stretchy pants. Our bear Thanksgiving meal, sans any kind of pants turned more respectable upon the invitation of girls. It was not lost though because they were girls with bottles of wine, so it worked out. It turned out that I was lucky I was fully clothed, two hours into cooking the turkey we noticed that the oven was not hot. The heating element had chosen that time to break. With some quick phone calls and a mad dash to the only open appliance service store in our small, fictional town I disemboweled the oven and installed a new heating element. All with a half bottle of wine in me. I truly am a gay MacGyver. Just me, a socket set and some Riesling.

My contribution to the meal was dessert, so I cranked out Cheesecake.

I baked the Cheesecake large enough so I can take leftovers to the gym and eat while on the treadmill. That way I get a good workout and a treat.

On American Thanksgiving Eve, Dalton the BFF, flew in from NY and we have enjoyed the last four days just spending time catching up on the friendship. The crazy mall trip early Friday morning actually wasn’t crazy at all, we missed the crowed and found that the Gap was neat and tidy. Banana Republic was spic-and-span. No crazy hoards had tossed the eighty dollar sweaters table on its side. I was kind of saddened to not see any carnage. Sadly, the only thing I splurged on was winter face masks for running. My nose had been getting cold, so I bought a nose warmer.

As you can tell, we were very excited about shopping, yet all and all, it was quite the weekend. Now I’m back to the gym and eating salads and dust.

Turkey Week

It is American Thanksgiving week.

I am actually a little bummed because school is on “Fall Break,” meaning that I don’t have classes this week. Am I the only nerd that likes to go to class? I guess so. Last Thursday the professor, the one who said you can get AIDS from a soda can, announced that he doesn’t really want to grade anything, so he’s going to just divide up everyone who showed up to his lectures and give them “A’s.” I guess that the sixteen page paper on Martin Luther won’t really count for anything? Just sitting in the seat will score me an “A.” Well, I still spend any free time this weekend when I was not at IKEA clicking away at the homo coffee house to complete the pages before the deadline.
My highlight of the break will be spending free time with friends. On Wednesday Dalton, my Ex turned Best Friend Forever, flies in from New York. I’m very excited to spend Thanksgiving week with him. Ever since Dalton moved back to New York I’ve haven’t had anyone to go watch Gay Hockey. If it’s a week visit filled with Hockey or the Cooking Channel, it will be fun jus to spend time with him.

This week also spurs the call from the Mom asking me to come visit her. To be preemptive, I stopped by over the weekend. Her house looked amazing, not at all I expected from an eighty-three year old living alone. When asked about the up-keep she plainly stated that “the boys” come in once a week for cleaning and maintenance. She now has a parade of Mormon Missionaries come over every week and complete a long list of chores. When I stated that she’s using them as the help, like tie wearing, Book of Mormon thumping maids, she turned very defensive. “They like to come over. They enjoy helping me out!” She said pointing a finger at her cat, for some strange reason. Moral of the story, convert to Mormonism and get free maid service.

This seems to be the one time of year to just relax and enjoy friends. The stress and worry of life can wait for next week. Now it’s time to just plan the free time, make cheesecakes and get ready for the big parade on television Thursday morning.

My Prestigious Award

I believe that I’ve finally found a person to cut my hair that I actually like.


I have a tendency to get my hair cut and then swear it’s the worst one yet. This is probably due to the fact that I hate to get my hair cut in the first place. Sitting still in a chair listing to some hair stylist drone on about their car troubles and the price of sweaters. It seems so girly to get your hair cut, and every hair cut seems to be more annoying than the last.

In 1986 I sat upon the curb in front of John Evans Junior High School. My Father had unceremoniously kicked me out of his truck hours earlier to attend the eighth grade awards ceremony. I really don’t remember the award I was receiving, probably something minor like Most Improved Attendance. Even then, I thought I deserved the award for Eight Grader with the Most Panache, as my style was so superior to my fellow male classmates. For the ceremony I was sporting a shirt with a handsome tie, well it wasn’t necessarily a tie, more like a scarf that I had taken from my sister and made into an ascot. The colors of my ascot were set off in my acrylic sweater vest. I held down my freshly blow-dried and feathered hair as I entered the auditorium, the other boy’s hairstyles being so horrible. I didn’t want my hair to be messy as I ascended the stage for my prestigious award. All in all, I was a fourteen year old man ‘bout town.

Finding my seat in the auditorium I noticed that there were actually three seats reserved. One chair for the Dad, one for the Mom and one for the student. All the families settled into their assigned seats. I sat in the middle seat and started to pretend that my parents were on a European holiday. Why else wouldn’t they be there to help me receive such an amazing career acknowledging award? It’s funny, nowadays when I feel completely out of place and awkward in public settings, I just click away on my iPhone, pretending I have really important people to talk too. Back then I sat and played with my perfect feathered hair.

As my name was called I went to the stage to make a speech, to find the Principal just handing the pieces of paper off the front like bales of hay. This is not how Marlee Matlin received her award? As I walked back to my three seats, a yellow piece of paper in hand, a mother of one of the other kid’s next to me took pity and acknowledged my good work, then smiled at my floral tie.

I ripped my tie off in the hours outside waiting for my Father to show up. I examined the gold seal on the John Evans Junior High award certificate and tried to not acknowledge that my Dad had forgotten to come pick me up. It was very dark out when I purposely messed my hair, trying to get it as un-coiffed as possible. Make it look like the other boys in my class. The other boys who were home, safe and sound.

For the first time I have found someone that cuts my hair and make it feel like something I want to actually participate in; of course, the person who took the guilt out me liking my hair is an alpaca breeding, Lesbian. This sandal wearing, alpaca owning Lesbian that makes me feel comfortable in my own skin. I think I might just grow my hair out.

Raw Chinese Chicken

Sometimes I’m afraid that someone will break into the house and rub raw chicken on stuff.


Last night, the Homosexual-Lifetime-Companion-Partner and I finally arrived home from our Sunday adventures. Me, I was at my coffee shop exploring he wonderful and wacky world of Martin Luther, he was roaming the countryside with his homies. Around eight, with our guts rumbling, we sought out food. This is why we found ourselves at the local Chinese restaurant. We ordered take-out and sat in the designated waiting area. I was sporting running shorts, sans undergarments, and he sported sweats and a T-shirt. A shirt embellished with his life’s motto: I SHAVED MY BALLS FOR THIS?

Time stopped. We waited.

After a long line of local towns people paraded past us, most our antagonist declaring his shorn balls knew, we still have not received our Asian themed feast. Hunger and impatience turned the two of us in to the local gay troublemakers.

“Sometimes I’m afraid that someone will break into the house and rub raw chicken on stuff!” My Partner declared to me in a loud and concerned tone. This is an actual line from the TV show, Obsessed. A young girl was so concerned with food contamination that she would padlock her bedroom door in fear that someone would break into her house and rub raw chicken on her things.

Seriously. Raw chicken.

We now use this line as a term of endearment. I turned back and loudly said, “I know, we’ll be home soon and you can bleach everything before you go back into your box.” After a couple more cutting comments about how much he hated raw chicken the tiny girl behind the kitchen dropped her pen, ran back to the kitchen and emerged with our order.

As she rung us up, she made of point of saying that she had not, at any time handled chicken, cooked or raw.

“Good! It will kill you!”

The Linen Anniversary

Today is 11.11.11

This marks an anniversary for me.

Today marks four years of endlessly rambling about the common Homosexual in its natural environment. Can you believe we have been coming together on this blog for four fricken years? The thought boggles my mind.

I’ll take this opportunity to say, thanks.  Thanks for stopping by and reading my blog and looking into my small corner of the homo world.  Four years of blogging has led me to meet some of you in real life and I’m grateful for that. It has also afforded me to built strong on-line friendships that make me happy everyday.

I can honestly say that I enjoy writing down my experiences, my fears and triumphs. To translate the mistakes I make in my daily life and post them in blog format.

Cheers mate. Let’s keep going. 

Stevie B's Big Day

I love a surprise day off from work.


All Federal Holidays for the US are posted, years in advance, for anyone to review. Whole branches of the Government, countless companies, banks, and intuitions plan their schedules off this master list.

Speaking on a conference call today, I proposed a plan for tomorrow. Giggles ensued. A common mistake by me, forgetting days off until I’m reminded. This had prompted my work-mates to start a betting pool. Will Steve forget Veterans Day? Yes. Yes, he will.

Guess I’ll take tomorrow off from work. Go hang out at the coffee shop and write a couple pages on the Protestant Reformation. Nothing quite like a surprise day off to motivate a guy in work on his term paper. I’ll have coffee with Martin Luther. Or.... Maybe it's time for an adventure, screw the Protestants and take my bike out to a nice long trail and see nature. It's a hard choice.

I always think I should print out the next couple of years of holiday and upload them to my calendars, yet somehow it takes the fun out of the surprise.

How many Loads have you Taken?

Thanks to Mike at Mike -n- the Mechanics  for turning me on to Doug Repetti's YouTube page and this....

Bare Bear Thanksgiving

While watching the Bronco game yesterday, I might I purposed an all naked Thanksgiving.


This fall, I have been included on an open invitation to go our local bear bar and hang out with a group of football aficionados. Sundays seem to be my homework day, so I mostly turn down the invite. Although this past weekend was packed with dining out among friends, spending Sunday Brunch at Pappadeauxs, I still managed to write four pages on the Protestant Reaffirmation.

With my Sunday morning run completed, dashing out a chunk of my fifteen page term paper on how Martin Luther kicked some Pope ass, and my belly full of seafood buffet I had no excuse but to belly-up to the bar and enjoy a televised football game.

Sometime during the third quarter, the conversation turned to clothing optional resorts around the country. My furry friend, Bear, travels around the world spending all his free time getting naked and enjoying nude beaches, hotels and resorts. This is the point when I invited him and his partner over for Thanksgiving. A naked Thanksgiving. As the words came out of my mouth I immediately flashed to my new dining room chairs. My new upholstered dining-room chairs. My joke turned back on me.

Suddenly I had purposed having a pack of football watching, large and hairy bears to come sit on my soft surfaces. In my head I turned into Mrs. Hyacinth Bucket. I flashed to a group of naked Onslows brushing up against my expensive wallpaper and drinking from my Royal Doulton with the hand-painted periwinkles, whilst in the all together.

Apparently I had proposed the best idea around Thanksgiving since canned cranberry sauce. I just need to stock up on trash bags. I’ll spend my turkey day shouting “stay on the bin bag! Stay on the bin bag!

Home Delivery Mormons

A roving gang of Mormon missionaries went door to door today in my neighborhood. I videotaped my reaction when they came to my door. ..




God I look terrible in pig-tails.

Luke Evans Breaks my Heart

I love Greek and Roman mythology. Upon hearing about the new film, Immortals being released this month I was counting down the days until the release. To top off the story of Roman gods at war with humanity, was the fact that Luke Evans, my pretend British boyfriend, was cast in the role of Zeus.

I admired this actor’s ability to be honest with his life, even role model a successful working actor who is out and proudly gay. In September, 2002 Evans was interviewed by The Advocate:

“ Well it was something I'd spoken to a lot of people about, including my boyfriend at the time - we've broken up now - but at the time when I just got Taboo, I knew that even though my part was a straight character, everybody knew me as a gay man and, in my life in London, I never tried to hide it. I knew I was going to have to do interviews with gay magazines, so I thought, ‘Well, I’m going to have to be open’. It’s who I am. And if people don’t like it, then I don’t want their jobs. I've never been a very good liar, which is another thing...” *

Now apparently, upon landing larger roles his, “out and proud” has been squelched for a larger paycheck. See the Advocate article here, and Queerty's article here.

I think I’ll stay home and not go see Immortals. I really have to stop letting these Welshmen break my heart.

* The Advocate.com

Snow Day

We have a snow day today in my neck of the woods. I was actually surprised as the announcement of closing schools and local businesses scrolled across the bottom of the screen on this morning’s news. There seems to only be six inches of snow, back when I was a kid we’d have to march up hill to the school bus in two feet of snow.



My house this morning.



Did I just make a statement about “back when I was a kid”?

Great. Snow bound and apparently I get old and crotchety. It is true; I grew up on a ranch, far outside of a small town. The house sat on a long dirt road and it was quite a march up the hill to the paved state highway and the waiting school bus. We were unceremoniously thrown out of the house and told to make it to the school bus on time, but either way to not come back. My long feathery hair would flap in the snow filled air as I traversed the barren, snow banked tundra. My color changing moon boots crunching in the fresh tire tracks, attempting to be quiet and not alert the coyotes.

Okay, they weren’t coyotes. But, the neighbor’s dogs were really mean and would come knock me down and lick me. Their tongue marks would freeze on my face. So, that was bad.

What I'd be doing right now,
if I didn't have to work.

Now I don’t have to leave the house, as I work from home. This also means, I can continue working as the other half and the dog join the neighbors as they organize a block snowball fight in the middle of the street. This will be followed by a History Channel marathon, tucked under the down comforter cocooned the middle of the bed.

I’ll spend my day coordinating Excel spreadsheets in my office. I guess this is payback for being able to spend most of my days in gym shorts and a pillow made late ‘80s Bobby Brown coiffure instead of adorning my thick neck with a tie and commuting to an office. So, go! Enjoy your snow day. I’ll be here. Alone. All I need is my Excel spreadsheets. My Excel spreadsheets and my office chair. My Excel spreadsheets, my office chair and my world wide internets.

Happy Halloween

It’s trick-or-treat time for the dog. This year Harley is going as a terrifying shark. Stay out of the treat isle.


Da-dum.

Da-dum.

Dum-dum-dum-dum

Daddduda!

Here is Harley’s costumes from years past:


 2010












2009



2008

Cuddle Buddies

This isn't my pic, but I love it.

Shar-Better

Apparently the dog is feeling better…

Panda and Bunny

The next episode from the ongoing saga of Panda and Bunny.  See the first episode here. 

Chicken Dog

A typical morning. Made coffee, then went for a morning walk around the neighborhood with the dog. It wasn’t until, back in the kitchen, I finished toasting English muffins I really woke up. Right about the time I placed the toaster into the refrigerator and the butter into the cabinet.

My last mid-term paper/test is today. The studying and memorizing hasn’t been that bad. What had really worried for the last month was my dog. Harley went to hop off the bed around a month ago; missing his landing did a belly roll and hurt his back. This started an un-ending cycle of pain pills, doggie downers, and expensive trips to the vet for a dog that couldn’t really walk. My Shar-pei had turned in to an un-moving bag of wrinkles.

Harley is no chicken.

About the time when the vet started talking about me giving him the financing for new graphite golf clubs, a Lesbian came to the rescue. She swore by doggie acupuncture and chiropractic. Half believing, yet willing to try anything to help my wrinkled dog, I made an appointment.

Harley stood there, looking like a pin cushion. Tiny needles covered his back and sides. He was completely un-aware as we shoved delicious treats at his face for a distraction. After the needles came doggie chiropractic. After the vet discovered two vertebras out of joint, she worked to correct the infrastructure. A couple of yelps and he was back to normal. This was a major load off my mind, because Harley the wonder dog has a Halloween costume to show off next week.

I’ve gotten back my dog, and today will mark the end of my mid-term exams. Just maybe my brain will return to its upright and locked position. But, if I keep putting the toaster into the fridge I could always go get acupuncture on my brain. It works wonders.

Lesbian Football

It was Lesbian Weekend here at the ol’ homestead.


Not the trans-gendered lesbians from last summer, new sporty models. As all lesbians meet online and carry on relationships between different states, this couple was no different. The professional opera singer lives here in Colorado. With her parents. The parents would not approve of the high school football coach she’s seeing not only not being male, but being a female. There’s also the fact that they would be “sharing a bed” in “sin.” This weekend was when the Coach came from Oklahoma for a conjugal visit.

We welcomed the Football Coach and the Opera Singer with open fay arms.

I never realized how much I love lesbian bars, and how much more I could learn about American football. Although, when I referred to it as “American” the Coach got a little possessive. On Saturday afternoon, sitting in the stands of a local school’s football game I learned more intricate nuances to the game then I thought possible.

I realized that female gay set have it all figured out. They don’t care when I point out that they’re using the wrong wine glass to drink their beer, they just want to order pizza for dinner, and they love “chillin” out to watch TV. How frickin awesome is that. Although, we did rent The Bridesmaids and they spent the whole weekend screaming, “It’s coming out of me like lava!”

Nevertheless, fun was had by all. Now I just have to figure out how to get coconut and tea tree oil body lotion out of 600 thread count sheets.

Desk Top Friday

Pac's Panda

Patrick over at Pac's Pad is under a massive amount of work stress this week. I thought I'd try to convey that amount by having a cuddly Panda dramatically interpret his last Blog post:

Running With the Dead

I really need to run more.


One of the best things about running is the ritual. I am a man powered by rituals. If I have the ability to incorporate a ritual, or Habitrail, into my life I’m more than happy to spend days memorizing and ingraining it into my small monkey brain.

My running habitrail is early Sunday morning, lapping around Cheesman Park. I’m amazed how beautiful and quiet the park is, I am always amazed how the trees are perfectly aligned even after their planting one hundred and twenty years ago.

Even after I participated in a Denver Ghost Tour, last Sunday, and was re-reminded of the close to two thousand bodies left over in this runner’s paradise. The perfectly aligned trees are from the city when they turned their largest cemetery into a beautiful park by removing headstones and planting grass seed. Very industrious.

As I strode down the paths of trees, I always find it the best part of my week. My ritual of running, in the park, with the trees and a thousand 1880’s prostitutes and cattle-thieves.

I do, however, love running so much that I want to do it more often, yet running on the streets of my small fictional town doesn’t have the same endorphin rush. The countless suburban streets, the development company so long out of business that even their signs advertising the luxury neighborhoods has long since fallen to the ground. The streets and cul-de-sacs without houses, just empty housing lots returning back to fields.

The clean, black asphalt is perfect to run on for miles. Without the worry of cars or… anything interfering with my runs, this may be the problem. Right out my front door and off to the maze of under-developed neighborhoods doesn’t have the correct ritual.

I do need to run more. I guess that part of the inconvenience of the twenty mile drive to the park with the trees and the one hundred and twenty year old dead prostitutes is the ritual.

Freezin' Steven

It was that time of year again. It seems that it comes faster every year.

The time, once a year, when I winterize the house. Not the whole weather strip, drain garden hoses, and other manly pursuits of home maintenance. More like pulling the light comforter off the bed and bringing out the heavy down comforter from its Space Bag induced summer casket.


See?  Doesn’t this guy look freezing?
He needs a down comforter.

Pulling out the heavy blankets means that I can finally crank open the bedroom window and slide under my over-sized down comfiness. I also did my annual trip to buy new pillows and new sheets to add to the comfort level.

Part of this tradition is wrapping the bedroom’s air vent in foil; this is to block the furnace from blasting heat into the bedroom. Making the bedroom as I sleep also suitable for preserving meat. I wonder if there’s a correlation?

This morning was the first, really chilled morning. The dog had reenacted his time in a German POW camp and tunneled his way down into the sub-layer of warmth. The Dupioni wafted as it half heartily covered the frost covered window.

 It was freezing.

During my thought process of how amazing sleeping in a cold room is, I always forget how frickin’ horrible it is to get out of bed and traverse the ten feet to the bathroom.

Study Aids

I have been spending every waking moment lately studying for mid-terms. “Wow, mid-terms already?” you ask. I know!

I am having, lately, a huge problem with my western religions Professor. Not the class, I’m getting along swimmingly with western theology, It’s the fact that he’s a sixty-four year old dick bag. Yesterday he was drinking a soda in class as he discussed the Cluniac reforms of the late 800’s. He sat his soda down in front of me and said, “don’t drink my soda, I have AIDS.” My reply was, “Wow. How 1980’s of you.” He stopped, realizing that I was not joining in the joke, “If you really do have the HIV virus, you must really already know that it’s not passed through saliva on soda straws, if you don’t and that was a insensitive joke from the 1980’s I don’t appreciate jokes that are based on ignorance.

He told me to lighten up.

I will. I’m going to ace his class then report his ass to the university. Not for his ignorance of HIV, but for the thousand other misogynistic and raciest, faith based garbage he’s spewing.

Maybe I should take a break from studying for mid-term exams. Just a little bit.

Marching on the Appian Way

When I lived in Dallas, I rented a house on Appian Way. It wasn’t the Appian Way, just a close reproduction, sans the whimsy.  It was a tiny stone house that backed up to a creek. It was amazingly quiet, as it was just me and my roommate.

I wasn’t ever formally introduced to my roommate, he was a shifty character. Mostly he would stand at the end of the hall, late at night. Tall, dark and translucent. Me being me, I decided that my black, shadowy friend, although he wouldn’t chip in a dime for rent, needed entertaining.

Sometimes I’d put on an impromptu play involving current events of the day. In some sort of way to translate the outside world to a shut-in, in song and dance. Sometimes I’d re-enact famous stage shows, just a little one man show for the purpose of humoring the un-quiet dead.

I handle stress in strange ways.

Mostly because I was such a bad singer, the ghost roommate would disappear and try to ignore me for another week. One night I was on stage, pulling out the stops in a marching band montage. I was hot that night, and I went for the big finale, I started into a marching kick routine to Don't Rain on My Parade not realizing that the dogs were also running from my general area. They were fine with the ghost, just terrified of me. This is when I slipped and fell onto the hardwood, slamming my right shoulder. As my shoulder hit I thought I saw stars, instead it was every light in the house flashing on all at once. I distinctly heard laughter coming from down the hall. Everyone is a critic.

The muscle in my right shoulder has never been the same, and as I tweaked it again yesterday at the gym, I thought back to my original injury. Oh, yeah. marching with spirits on the Appian Way.