Homosexuals and Jeep Repair

Through a series of unfortunate events, I received huge dents in my front bumper, and back bumper of my Jeep, Wrangler. My front bumper, was dented during my first and last visit to Tom's Diner. The back bumper got destroyed thanks to a drunk unemployed man in a rusted-out Subaru. A drunk unemployed man who spent the time waiting for the cops attempting to buy me off.... with the crumpled up fives in his wallet. Needless to say, he got hauled away, I got an insurance check.

Thankfully the damage on the front and back of my precious Jeep was completely isolated to the bumpers. And, if I haven't mentioned it yet, my handsome (and available) roommate is a Certified Jeep/Chrysler mechanic. Mr. Handsome was able to locate two new bumpers. This was easy because Dude/bros that buy jeeps take the first opportunity to rip off their bumpers to replace them with steel welded jobs with winches and lights attached. The factory ones get tossed. Unless they're  needed for Steve's Big Gay Jeep. So... score.

Saturday night was spent hanging out in a repair bay of Mike's Jeep dealership. Who knew to people could laugh so hard; especially in the act of car repair.  By late Saturday night, I had shiny new bits of plastic, Jeeps calls bumpers, bolted onto the Jeep.

Lets see how long they last....

Not-a-Soul Man

I believe that I might not have a soul. 

This conclusion comes from a consistent problem in my life. One were I don't exist to certain necessary inanimate objects we all intact with daily. I don't register to electric eyes. Touch-less faucets seem like a futuristic and technological miracle. One simply places their hand under the spout and water starts flowing like magic. I always think that I am not smart enough to move in the right way to trigger the motion sensor. It's a presence sensor designed to detect the presence of hands under the spout and turn on the faucet. When you remove your hands, the sensor tells the faucet to turn off.  When your hands come within a few inches of the lip of the spout, infrared light bounces off your skin to the detector, which sends a signal that turns on the faucet. They're easy enough technology. But countless times, you can find me in the airport men's room waving my hands like a flustered chicken attempting to register to the stupid faucet. 

This was proven to the roommate after he bought one of those "touch-less" trashcans for the kitchen. He has had hours of enjoyment watching me act like a cat playing with a laser beam as I attempt to have the lid raise. Doors refuse to open as they don't see me coming. If it has any kind of electric eye, it will be blind to me. 

I really don't know all the technology of how these things work, I just assume it works off the human soul. 

Back to Class

"I am honestly shocked that my summer is over." I said this out loud as I dusted off my MacBook and cracked open its neglected case. I haven't touched my computer in months. In the same way that I have not worn jeans in months. It was a summer of shorts. It was a summer not thinking about my education.

I sat at the dining room table and logged into my first Fall class.  ENG 221: Creative Writing. This course teaches techniques for creative writing. Explores imaginative uses of language through creative genres (fiction, poetry, literary nonfiction) with emphasis on the student's own unique style, subject matter and needs.

"Why did I sign up for this class?" I said out loud. I am not creative. I can't write. I was right then I decided to write as much about the Nazi's as possible. This is mostly because the class is online, and we have to "peer-review" each other's work. It is also, as I scanned the class list, filled with inspired, yet frustrated Soccer Moms. So bloody epic atrocities it is then.

Our first assignment was to write a simple scene with tension. I turned in this...

The large man in the uniform barked again.

“Ma’am move into the scanning area.”

She was frozen in terror. Her weak and feeble legs, the ones that were once strong enough to carry her quickly across that field in Poland, refused to move. The legs that saved her life by outrunning the German’s dogs. The legs that fearlessly out ran uniformed German soldiers. Now they were frozen in fear.  It was her Grandchildren, which talked her into leaving the safety of her bedroom. To take an airplane to see them. She didn’t understand what this uniformed man wanted. She peered up at him. Tears began to flow.

“Oh, geesh.” The TSA agent whispered as he rolled his eyes.  “Move into the scanning machine, everyone has to be scanned.”  The security officer will never understand how his actions mirror the actions of other uniformed men. In a similar line, back in Poland.

Day Off

My favorite day of the week is Saturday. Yes, this is not breaking news. I'm sure most people would say the same. Maybe this ground-breaking news is based upon the blip of time where I had to work retail. There is nothing like working retail that will make you grateful towards the little things in life. Grateful for the time when you are out of retail and have weekends.

So, big shock my favorite day is Saturday. This is based upon having the freedom of choice. A day where I can decide all that happens. Yesterday, I stayed at the gym for as long as I wanted. I went to lunch wherever I wanted.  It was just an awesome day of freedom. The only scheduling I did was when I got my haircut by the amazing Ambrea at Floyd's.  I cannot suggest, and refer her enough. If you are in the Denver area, and are a fan of awesomeness, have your hair cut by Ambrea at Floyd's Barber Shop on Colfax and York.  Although, I'm convinced she is trying to get me to look like Macklemore. Dinner with a friend I never get to see, at my favorite Chinese restaurant, a walk through Cheesman Park as the sunset. All good things. These are the ingredients for a great day off.

The only better time of the week is Sunday mornings. That fuzzy headed time before real, authentic Sunday begins. If I was to have my full choice in the matter, I would be able to share this time with someone. But, hey. Details. 

Dog Sitting

Last weekend my best friend spent his precious time off dog sitting. He was amazingly dedicated to the task as well. When I urged him to just toss a Swanson's Frozen Sliced Beef Dinner through the back door and come cruise for boys with me, he would hear nothing of it. I got a raised eyebrow when I suggested giving the dog, whom he was assigned, no dedicated, to care for, some Benadryl so it wouldn't notice that his temporary caretaker was off putt-putt golfing. Some people take their jobs so seriously.

I was asked to dog-sit three times in my life. Each time hilarity ensued.

Back in 1994, I was asked to watched the dog of an elderly gay guy, well I thought he was elderly. Looking back he was probably the age I am now. He had one of those fluffy yappy dogs. I took the two week job, because I needed the money. Also, my roommates at the time, decided that it would be better if they never saw my face again. So staying at a strange man's house, whom had a dead kitty taped to his head, was the best option. It wasn't a real dead kitty. It was just that his toupee was so cheaply done, it looks like a cat had died upon his head. The two weeks of dog sitting; however, went exceedingly well. well... the one tiny thing was that I jimmied open the locked cabinet where the unused dead cats were stored and fluffy attacked some of them. Guess he thought they were filleted felines as well. I came home late one night to find dead, dead kitty bits all over the house.

I was never asked to dog-sit again.

I was asked by a friend to come over to his house and meet his partner and their dog. They would be gone one week and wanted me to stop over twice a day to feed, and let the black lab out into the back yard. Seemed simple. The first day after happy couple left, I let myself into the house to check on the aging lab. As soon as I entered the house, all memory of our meeting was gone. Kind of like some dates I've had lately. Suddenly, I was a complete stranger entering the house to utter shock and horror. Kind of like some dates I've had lately. The lab freaked. It then proceeded to hide in a closet. Every day. All week. It didn't eat. It wouldn't go out side. When I was gone it would release its evil upon the antique area rug right in front the closet. If I attempted to dislodge the terrified creature from the closet, all sorts of terror, filled with biting and deep growling would ensure. Again, not unlike my dating life. The happy couple returned to find their dog, ten pounds lighter and a family heirloom rug destroyed.

I was never asked to dog-sit again.

The last story of my dog sitting trilogy still gives me shivers. I spent ten days watching a Basset Hound in an upscale townhouse in Dallas's Turtle Creek neighborhood. The owner of the dog, was a friend, and Cadillac Salesman whom adored his Basset, named Dudley. One afternoon, as one does when one has the keys to a brand new Cadillac and upscale townhouse, I went to cruise for boys.  After bringing home, and playing with the found boy ass; I mindlessly toss my condom onto the floor. Dudley gulped it up. Without going into dramatics I had to reach my hand into a Basset and grab hold of a used condom and yank it out, before the dog swallowed. With a slimy dog slobber enhanced grasp I pulled out the filled condom. Somehow the rubber exploded.  Dudley... swallowed.... I still can't see a Basset hound without thinking that one... uh... my.... okay...

I purposely never asked to dog-sit again.

And this is why you don't ask Steve to dog sit.  

The Fair is a Veritable Smorgasbord

Last weekend the Roommate and I went to the Denver County Fair. Because it is August and that is what you do. Attend a County Fair. Although, it being an urban centric fair it was diffrent than the fairs I have attended in my past.

When I was a kid, I have no idea my age, maybe eight-ish, I entered the county fair in the only competition I possible could of been qualified. Although, in my defense if they had a shag carpet vacuuming contest, or bath towel folding competition back in 1983, I would have smoked the other competitors. I would have received, no doubt several blue ribbons. Because even at eight, I was a marksman when it came to reseting our 300 pound Kirby vacuum cleaner from low pile to high pile. I could swap out the brush bar for the crevice hose in 27 seconds flat. This personal talent; however, was lost on my Father. He also didn't seem impressed how I could keep two bath towels, two hand towels, and two fingertip towels,  perfectly folded and constantly hanging on the bathroom towel rod used by seven children. My two major talents gone wasted by unappreciated Mormon rancher Father.

Instead of having the first eight year old boy to  have a grand sweep of all the "Good Housewife" ribbons. He pushed me into "Rabbit Care." Think of the bragging rights my Father missed. "Well, my boy placed first in the Swag & Jabot sewing contest at last year's fair." He would  brag over the General Tire service counter, as he rung up a local city councilman. Instead, he had to settle on explaining how his son was the one kid that didn't get a ribbon, due to letting his rabbit loose in the middle of the 4-H judging contest. Bunnies were cute and all, but nothing compared to my innate talent to cutting down corduroy pants to make kicky summer shorts. A self-taught prodigy. I bet to this day, I could pull and replace the dust bag out of a Kirby Sentria without letting a single dust-bunny loose.

I thought of this, as I wandered around the Denver County Fair. Hoping against all odds there would be a just one Good Housekeeping competition.  Just a side stage somewhere that was one contestant short.  I guess it is for the best. Attempting to re-live your past just is not healthy. Instead, I went to taunt the Rainbow Vacuums salesperson.

Damask And Zombies

Happy Saturday. In case you're playing along at home, keeping score on Steve's sleeping habits. This morning I awoke to an email from Macy's informing me that my order of 600 thread-count damask stripe sheets, in artic white, had been confirmed. I didn't cancel the order, because my taste, apparently, whilst I sleep is high. If I say so. Better than the night before which involved a screaming panicked Steve whom was running from the zombie apocalypse.