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!

Whitney and Emily

I had one goal for the weekend.

Write a five page essay for my American Literature class. This quest started with abandon when I jumped out of bed on Saturday morning texting an all-points bulletin to everyone I knew asking to go to breakfast. I would have a little pancake action, and then sit down to write five stunning pages on Angie Dickinson… or Emily…. I confuse the two all the time.

My breakfast plan quickly changed to lunch after I slid through a round-a-boot/traffic circle and smashed into the very hard curb. I spent the remains of the morning doing my best Chrissy Snow impersonation as my friend and hero, Mike the gracious mechanic replaced my bent outer tie-rod So… really, I couldn’t write about Angie or Emily in a dealership’s alignment bay?

After a thank you lunch for Mike, a quick trip to Old Navy…. and a trip to another friend’s house to re-tell my story of tragic icy roads, it was time to write. After a nap.

Upon waking I heard a twitter buzz--when Whitney died--

I sat in a coffee shop reading the works of Emily Dickinson (because there isn’t a lot of literature on Police Woman) thinking about the tragic life of Whitney Houston. She was my first gay boy dance diva crush. The first record I ever bought. As my cassette tapes of her music were worn out, I bought them again on CD. I purchased Whitney’s albums again when iTunes started selling downloadable music. We started, as I started to like music.

Emily’s fascination with dying and death creped from the page. I found myself wanting to don all black Victorian garb. I wrote a five page critique of Emily Dickenson, yet it was really about my love of an aging pop star.



Because She could not stop for coke—
It kindly stopped for her—
The hotel held but just our idol—
And Immortality.


I would have been better off writing about Angie Dickenson's role on Police Woman.

Justin Utley

Have you heard Justin Utley?

Justin Utley

From his mission travels for the Mormon Church, Justin spent years involved in the Church's same sex attraction reprogramming or “conversion” therapy program. During this time, his life was as a Mormon singer and songwriter, touring America singing to mostly religious and faith-based audiences.

Considering my own struggles with the Mormon Church I was amazed and excited to read Justin’s journey. Justin became an activist for civil rights and for GLBT equality. He began to speak out against the Mormon use of "conversion therapy" as he toured America again, this time as a role model for anyone struggling with the Church and spreading the truth about the sham therapies that faith based religious groups dispense.

I first experienced this hunky, muscled performer at Denver’s Pridefest and have been a fan ever since. Check out his website for tour dates and links to buy his albums, like his new one Nothing This Real. He is also on Facebook.

 
JustinUtley.com  
Justin Utley on Facebook

Ellen and JC Penney

I went shopping at JC Penney today.

I guess didn’t realize that there was a store, literally, down the street from me. I wanted to say thank you to the department store for supporting Ellen DeGeneres and standing up to the campaign brought on by the angry conservative organization, One Million Moms in their attempt to have Ellen dropped as a spokesperson.

Why this angry organization chose JC Penney and not the entire ocean of other things that Ellen has endorsed is beyond my understanding. I guess the hate group’s boycott on Blue Tang didn’t have as much headline grabbing sensationalism. I was ecstatic to see that JC Penney arose to the battle cry and stepped up to support Ellen.

The best way for me to support this, after calling JCP and thanking them, was to do what I do best, go shopping at the one hundred year old chain store, headquartered in Plano, Texas. The funny thing was that this “boycott” put JC Penney back on my radar. I never really realized that they had a nice new store ten blocks from my house. Now, it’s on my list of neighborhood stores.

Yes, I’ll admit that I had to think about what the heck I’d buy in a Penney’s until I spotted the Sephora counter and stocked up on Philosophy’s microdelivery exfoliating wash. I then wandered around and was surprised at what a great store the Ellen had introduced me too. Now I have clean skin, Sweet and harmless Ellen is more of a role model of what is right in America, a corporation stood up to yet another bigoted, angry hate group, and most importantly JC Penney has a new customer.

Click here to go to GLAAD.org and show your support of JC Penney and StandupforEllen. Or Make a personal phone call to JC Penney's customer service department. Their numbers are 972-431-8200 (customer service) and 972-431-1000 (corporate headquarters) and say "thank you" for doing the right thing.

Snow Horse

When the television news announced, Thursday afternoon, that there was a massive storm heading towards the tri-county area, and that the storm front was to dump massive amounts of snow, I giggled with glee. Late Thursday night, I sat in Chili’s watching the snow began to fall.


I really do love snow storms. The best part is when the television news shows “those crazy runners” out in Washington and Cheesman Parks, running in the snow. Layers of Lycra and fleece keeping them warm yet sinewy. I want to be one of those sinewy, stretchy runners gliding through the snow packed streets.



What I imagine...



The snow fell for fifty-two straight hours. I was chopping at the bit to suit up and head out. After homework was done, that is. My chances to tromp through the falling show fell through as I watched the sun come out through my office window and I still had a textbook in my hand. “Fine! No big deal, I’ll complete this four page essay and then head out.” On Sunday afternoon I sat at my coffee shoppe, proof reading my essay. I had one eye on the page, the other on the people running by, coming from the park. I couldn’t take it anymore as I slammed shut the computer and headed to my car to suit up.

 

What I look like...



Changing like superman into my lycra super suit I bolted up the city blocks to the park. The streets were almost dry and I was giddy with excitement as the thirty degree air burned my nostrils. I jumped onto the parks running trail and was quickly met with packed snow. “No problem,” I thought, “this is soft to run on, like the bounce of a treadmill.” Soon I found that the packed snow had melted somewhat then re-frozen as other runners have tramped it down. The divots and uneven surface made it harder and harder to run smoothly. Halfway around the park I begin to feel like War Horse, running through the muddy trenches of No Man’s Land . One wrong step and I might have twisted an ankle. Or thrown a shoe.

Exhausted of the uneven stride, and the horse analogies, I clomped back to the main street and made my way back to my car. What lesson did our protagonist learn? Go for a run first. Before every other runner has time to pack down the snow, homework can wait.

Escape from Boys Town

I spent most of yesterday working at my remote office. Meaning, I spent the day shopping for Puma branded items at the coffee shop on 9th and Downing Street.

At some point, when I was lost in a world of trail running performance shoes a gentleman named Don walked up to me to strike up a conversation. Although, I know Don very well he started the conversation the way he always does, “I can’t remember your name, hi I’m Don.” He has started his conversations with me like this for eighteen years. Give or take a year.

When I was a skinny ingénue-like twenty-two year old, I needed to find a new apartment and in a quick manner. I can’t remember the details of why I was so under the gun to find a place, but there you have it. A boney kid in search of a new pad. On my hunt, I responded to Don’s advertisement in the back pages of the Westword newspaper. I showed up promptly at the appointed time and tried to disguise that I had taken that day’s shower in a McDonald’s bathroom sink. Don owned a row of tiny apartments and after a lengthy tour and being interviewed he explained that I didn’t have enough provable credit to get the apartment. He then proceeded to start stroking his bulge through his pants. I would have provable credit if I proved my credit. I did not prove anything that night.

Ever since that night, around once a year, Don randomly approaches me as if it’s our first meeting. For eighteen years. Yesterday, as I dreamed of new Pumas, he again tried to “stroke up” a conversation. I calmly started to reminisce about how it seemed like just yesterday I was a kid in desperate need of an apartment, and how he was in desperate need of me presenting my ass. I then inquired if he was still a landlord. Like a “Boys Town” kind of landlord.

I wonder if next time, he will remember my name.