Grade B

It took forever to get my grades from the Fall semester. To be honest, I did horridly on one of my my finial papers. I’m not just saying that, like a sixteen year old after theater tryouts. I really just plagiarized and patronized poor Karl Marx. This is a new level of classes. The whole semister was depended upon only three major papers. No “class participation” no “extra credit” just my questionable writing skills to make the grade. But still...

Jeep Steve

I have been thinking about buying a new car. Although it seems I just bought my Jeep Wrangler, it’s been four years. It boggles my mind to type that four years have passed since my Jeep was brand new. I love my Jeep, but the itch for a new vehicle grows larger with each passing day. I mean, I would keep my knobby tired, super cool friend forever. But, change is also good. What is catching my eye, you ask? Well, something that is the furtherest thing from a Jeep; a VW Wagon. The Alltrack, actually. But, yes. It’s a station/estate wagon. About half the size of the Wrangler. 

For some odd reason station/estate wagons appeal to me. The sport ones anyway. There’s this cool. I don’t care what you think vibe. Kind of like a Jeep. Just in a different direction. Other than the Douche Bro. aspect people attribute to a Jeep in traffic. 

I guess I should go test-drive the Alltrack again and make sure I can live the next four years sitting so low in traffic. And whether I can give up that butch feeling that comes over me when I enter Chessmen Park in a 4X4. 

I’ll never Forget You!

I broke down and bought a new phone. No, not the IphoneX. There’s something unsettling about the face recognition thing. But, that is a delusional blog post for another day. I really had to buy a new iPhone because of the huge mistake I made upon buying my old phone. A 6S+ with a tiny amount of storage. Dumb I know. This meant not being able to have any apps on my phone, like the Blogger app. After a daily pop-up stating I couldn’t take a picture because my storage was low, I went to the Apple store. Now I’m all about the 8+. With the largest storage they offer. 

The hardest part was the giving up on Michael Phelps.

See... back during the London 2012 Olympics,  I saw American swimmer, Micheal Phelps for the first time. Every time he casually entered the swimming facility, he was sporting Sol Republic head phones. I ran out and bought a pair. I’ve been wearing them ever since. But..... the new phone doesn’t have a headphone jack for the cord; It’s all Bluetooth.  Yes, there’s the adapter. But, it’s not the same. Also yes, during the Rio Olymics, Phelps wore wireless headphones. But, the impression was already made. 

It’s time so say goodbye to my Sol Republic headphones.  The era has passed. Goodbye old friends. I’ll sport wireless Bluetooth and think of the glory days. 

Defending Socrates' Virtue

In my mind I am waging a heated war. In my mind.

 

The unlawful combatant that is preemptively attacking my reinforced boarder, you ask? My Ancient Philosophy Professor. Okay, so mostly I’m killing him twice weekly with my mind powers. Okay, so I’m mostly staring down his evil gaze whilst he attempts to teach me Plato’s Republic. Yes, I’m learning new definitions and arguments for how we as a society define our concepts of “intent” verses “action” but, still that’s not the point. I hate this professor with every fiber of my knowledge yearning being.

 The most important thing to pass along to you in this blog post is that, yes; it is widely known that Socrates liked his guys young. Real young. But, in Protagoras, by Plato I have learned that Socrates was not a Pedophile. It is clearly written that Socrates’ latest boyfriend has a beard. Stating that his taste in men is when the beard first grows in on the face. But, heaven forbid you bring this fact up in the middle of class! This Professor sure likes to box up the world’s strongest and most quoted philosopher as a boy licker. Lasers shot from my eyes. In my mind.

 Okay, this isn’t really the reason I want him dead. It is because I wrote an eight page paper on the concept of Akrasia. You know, the state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgment through weakness of will. I stopped myself from using example of dating dudes ten-fifteen years younger to explain this concept. Instead maintained a professional tone. At the end of this project I submitted a paper I was really proud to complete. I got a C. Okay, a C-. I would share with you why I got such a low grade, based upon his full-page hand written tear down, but I cannot possible read his handwriting. I can make out “I know you can do better than this…” What??? You don’t know me!!! Jerk. Upon my failure to read his comments, he then announced that he will not review any student papers. “Not my policy.” He stupidly announced.

I have one more paper to write before the semester ends on the 13^th of December. I’m sure “I can do better” not that I know what that is.

 

Ten Years of StevieB

Today marks the tenth anniversary of the Nice to see StevieB blog. Blogging, remember blogging? A strange fad of the 00's and for me personally a decade-long explosion of keeping a digital diary. Yes, ten years have passed since I began to post my angst and joys, and a lot of stuff has moved my life forward while I blogged away.

My very first entry, ten years ago today,  was set in the wild frontier days of online life for humanity.  I wrote about ending a relationship; the one I thought was going to last forever. Since that first post about the last of that relationship, I have met that person's forever-forever and danced at their wedding with a guy who is the best thing that has happened to me.

So blogging was just a mere fad of the 00's. And yet, there seems to be a new generation of bloggers. Twenty years needing an outlet which is deeper than Snapchat and Instagram. Like they invented it. Back in my day we had to log into our tower desk top G4 Apples to blog. Not as easy as just telling Siri what to post on an Apple ten.

Happy anniversary to me. Ten years and I am just as cool as the post-Hipster generation sharing life as they begin to explore the world. Me? Yeah I too feel like I'm ready to explore the world. Or continue to explore the world.    

Rent

I despise the musical Rent.  I understand as we have celebrated the twentieth anniversary of this award winning show, it’s a part of our LGBTQ tapestry. Even more than that, it is a true representation of life in one’s twenties. Attempting to discover how to become comfortable in one’s own skin. But is it? I too was in my twenties, shocking I know. There is an age of discovery when you are out on your own, finding a place to stay warm. How to function in a society that does not care. Rent is a mirror held up to America to force everyone to see HIV. To see true loneliness, helplines, and inner strength. How in modern times the simple act of paying rent was the pure definition fighting to find a place in this world. But is it? The opening number of Rent is a declaration of how regardless of how society defines them, they’re not gonna pay, they’re not gonna pay last year’s rent; this year’s rent; next year’s rent.

Now, I understand this declaration. I do. I was out on my own in the middle of high school. Attempting to get up and go to high school while living in a flop-house filled up with homeless homosexuals. Hiding stolen jars of peanut butter under my bed so I could have dinner. My twenties would see me in a series of run-down scary-ass apartments. Progressively getting better as my jobs paid more and my education progressed.  Slowly working my way through my twenties. Avoiding, unbelievably, the HIV virus, and the rats that lived in the apartment dumpsters. There is one thing I did do differently…

I paid my fucking rent.

There is one thing that always struck me as odd while attempting to find make a home for myself in my twenties. Moving from place to place. These scary ass apartments had one thing in common. They were filled with people that did not know how place their garbage into the dumpster. Bags of trash would always find their way next too, adjacent, but not into the trash cans. As I left my twenties and moved into my thirties, I also left the type of apartments that white people point to and make cases for Urban Renewal. Yet, even as my monthly rent skyrocketed, there were still those bags of garbage that don’t make it into the trash cans. It just goes to show that every social-economic class has its inconsiderate A-holes.  From paying rent in can goods to a possible pedophile named Rick, to automatic bank transfers for $2000.00, some declarations in our twenties do not change society.

Now I live in an apartment that overlooks a golf course. A statement that cannot be conveyed without coming off like you are attempting to sound pretentious. So, yes. Golf course on one side, but turn to your left and you will see the city’s loudest commuter train link. Down the block you see the low-income housing. Where all leases include the legal statement, “you must install a dinette set and console television upon your balcony.” We have a pocket of luxury, and we are allowed to enjoy it for the monthly price of a new Honda Prelude in 1978. Yet, still that stack of crud sit next to dumpsters. Last week a fully decorated Christmas tree, sat next to a happy (if not befuzzled) snowperson. A true Christmas in July. My roommate taking beaming selfies with each exciting pile of shit then sending them to our management company.

I guess I am viewing the musical Rent through the eyes of someone in their mid-forties. I still feel it is trite and sensationalist. Yet, if I squint I can see the twenty year old terrified that a virus was stalking me, and how I stepped over bags of trash next to dumpster as I left for yet another waitering job. Not knowing if I was going to make next month’s rent. Some things, even if you perform a song about them, do not change.

 

Bad Meowance

For many extenuating circumstances I have an office with a private bathroom. At work. I mean, I also have aprivate bathroom at home; but, that’s more common. At work, I understand how this is an uncommon luxury that I am afforded. Every day I am thankful for this. Having my own bathroom in my own office. To celebrate this I spend a lot of time in my private bathroom. Some of my blog posts… may… or may not be written whilst enjoying this luxury.

During this time, I like to sing. By this I mean, since I’m alone on my own time, and there is all the tile around the acoustics are amazing. So why not sing? Well, there is anendless amount or reasons NOT to sing. My song book is limited, along with my talent. The only song I really know is Lady GaGa’s Bad Romance. It is not because I particularly enjoy Lady GaGa; in fact I can’t stand her. The only reason why I sing Bad Romance is thanks to my Ex. Yes, it was a “bad romance” but, mostly because upon the release of this song, he spend countless hours attempting to teach himself the tune on our living room piano. For hours at a time…. Hours upon hours.

 I don’t know the words to this song any more than anyone knows the words to The Battle Hymn of The Republic.This doesn’t bother, nor stop me as I prefer to meow. Like a cat. Not sure how the choice was made. Like the meowing is more musical or fitting to the song than say…. barking, or hooting like an owl. Sitting in my bathroom. Meowing.Bad Romance. At full volume.

This morning, the person who has the office next door, asked a concerning question in our Morning Meeting. “Is there a cat in the office?” the replies around the table were a conclusive “No,why?” She continued that she distinctively heard a cat crying for help. “Like it was trapped somewhere.” I wanted to probe with questions like “Did it sound in tune?” “Did this meowing sound like a pop tune you enjoy?” But, I remained silent.

The office staff is now on the lookout for a trapped cat. Possibly dying by its death rattle. But, definitely in need of serious help.  

Hockey Star turned Cop Finds a Yellow Lab

I am being haunted by mybad choices.

In the timeframe ofterminating my last relationship and my current dating my boyfriend status Imade some really bad choices. You can see this reflected in my lack of bloggingas well. It was a time of re-thinking and reflection of what made Steve, Steve.During this time I was also doing traveling for work, and I needed some-sort ofcomfort. Now, a more exotic man would have turned to drinking. Or, maybe aninvestment of a tattoo. As many people have demonstrated in life, getting inkinjected into their skin is a perfect way to come to terms with change in theirlives. If I would have been more cleaver, I would have inked a dragon onto my bulgingupper arm. Instead, it turned to something much worse and self-destructive.

Audiobooks.

Okay, not just yourstandard audiobooks; Gay. Romance. It pains me to even admit it here, but yes.I was addicted to Audible.com and their painfully wide selection of gay romancenovelas. I can’t really remember much about this time span. It was thankfully short-lived.I also cannot re-tell any plots, other than that they were painfully formulaic.It would typically be a straight identifying hockey player who owned a farm,or maybe a cop who had his wife die. Sometimes it would be a ranch owner, maybea ranch owning cop that played hockey in college. In these stories there was alsowas a buddy; maybe they played together on the college team, or went throughthe academy together. The buddy was always heterosexual identifying as well. Longstory short (pun intended) never knew…. feelings…. explore… implied betrayal…. reconciliation….adopting a stray yellow lab (so fake, like a yellow lab would ever be a stray) andthen the most perfect Christmas would happen. Anyway, these books taught me to loveagain. Blah.blah.blah.

I have recovered from mydays of dark habits. And have gone on to become a functioning member of society. But, it seems my choices will never befree of me. As I skim through my Audible account I am constantly reminded. See,with an Audible account you can delete books from your phone, or table, butthey will never be truly gone. They are always list under “Your Account Books”The only way to destroy any trace is to delete my account and start over. But,this means I will delete many good books. To remove The Truth as He Knows It I must also delete all of my AldousHuxley.

I would have kept this myprivate shame. But, then I borrowed my Boyfriends car. Well, he was out of townand I was driving it to get detailed. I synced by phone via Bluetooth to listento some tunes while driving. This meant that when he returned and wehopped into his car, months later. My phone somehow usurpted his phone. Myphone did not start playing Rammstein, no.  It decided to play chapter twelve of The Heart as He Hears It. A touchingscene of Chad coming to terms that a hockey player/cop can really love his bestfriend on many levels including a level based upon anal.

I have not heard the endof it. A constant reminder of how I have gay romance at my fingertips is fed to me on a daily dose from many friends.  It may have been easier if I hadjust covered my arms with ubiquitous and played-out tribal tattoos.

 

 

Pulling a Differential

Last week I went with Becca, and the Boyfriend, Naveen, to get mani-pedis in beautiful downtown Boulder, Colorado.  This is a standing appointment we have as friends on a semi-monthly basis. As this time it was in Becca's town of Boulder we ate Indian and wandered over to the nail salon. Now, when we do this Becca gets her toes and hands done, Naveen gets a pedi and polish, and I get just a pedi. Every appointment I see the ritual play out. Becca and Naveen approach the polish wall and debate the best and cutest colors for their soon to be pampered fingers and toes. And every time I decline to join the fun.

 It is not that I am against men having polish, I am just against me having polish. Take yesterday as an example, in the gym’s locker room. Bright orange polished toes popped out of a work sock and my first thought was, “Really?” a grown man with painted toe nails. Not that I am attaching any feminine verses masculine traits. I do not believe that a painted nail is a feminine and should not be associated with manly-men. I just about standing out. Being a peafowl at my age. Twenty years ago I would do anything to make my uniqueness stand out. Bottles of Sun-in Hair Lightener Spray came to their end in my hands. But, now I content with eight versions of the same grey tee-shirt folded neatly in my dresser drawer. So it still shocks me daily since our last trip to mani-pediland. Yeah, know… since the bright orange toes are mine.

I tell the lucky people in the public realm that are exposed to my Safety-orange toes that I am just waiting for the polish to grow out. Like the polish was against my will. Like I was held down by mob of Vietnamese nail techs. When I was in the junkyard… pulling a rear differential from a ’73 Torino.  “They came out of nowhere and softened my cuticles and applied two gel coats before I could fight them off!” But, now that I think about it, Neither Becca, nor Naveen even mentioned me getting polish. I guess I wanted to be adorable.

Godzilla

I made Mike and the boyfriend, Naveen, sit through a Godzilla movie yesterday. It was Godzilla verses Mothra. No, Not the awesome classic 1964 version. It was an odd sort of remake from 1983. I am finding that both on Hulu and Netflicks, first run classic movies are disappearing faster than King Ghidorah into deep space. (That’s fast). It is exceedingly tough to find and good classic movie. Even ITunes is losing its collection.

Now, I have said many times that I have horrible taste in movies. When Mike the roommate, and/or Naveen settle down with me to watch a movie I wince at the thought of watching any mainstream movie. I will watch it. But, the sound of my eyes rolling may interrupt the experience. I understand that there is a given small amount of 1950’s – 1970’s Science Fiction movies in the universe. This means that my choices are limited, but even with such a small genre you would think that platforms such as Hulu or Netflicks would have a wider selection. Or… still have a wide selection. Because they did. Before they got cool.

 

 

Eighth Grade

In eighth grade I felt that friends were the most important element for maintaining life. Not food, or water, not even air. It was having a group of friends. Now, of course this is just like all thirteen year olds. So, this statement is not ground breaking, but in junior high it was. When I was thirteen, I had a weird collection of friends. This circle; however, did not include the most important person in my life, that being Kyle Harris. He was, and I was completely sure of this, the perfect example of what I needed in a friend.  

 In life, you do not need to bring up in conversations how smart you are. As in, how much education you have received. People do not need to know your diploma status. These things are self-evident. If you have a Masters in the Social Sciences this knowledge will gracefully glide across the table.  No one needs to be beat in the head with a diploma. This also holds true for being a friend. Friendship, or being a good friend cannot be forced. Well, it can, but it never ends well.

 This was the case of Kyle. From Fall until early Spring I struggled to enter his realm of friends. Although Kyle and I would occasionally hang out, and I thought we had fun together in the eighth grade level of buds; I spent countless amounts of energy blending in with his other friends. I acknowledged they were way above in my social standing, but, boy did I try. There were many times I begged my Mother for new cable knit sweaters, as Kyle’s buds had already seen the twelve I had. Every move was calculated on how I could force my person into group social situations. I was sure that Kyle and I were solid, but yearned for him to put a good word for me, so I could join their table in the lunch room. Still I sat with my collection of freaks in a six-month old knock-off Ralph Lauren sweater.

On a freezing March morning I approached Kyle as he sat with the friends.  I tried to push into the group and be part of the conversation. This was met by couple of other guys quickly telling me to beat it. As I accepted their advice I attempted to remain cool and wander off. This is when I overheard Kyle say “yeah, he hero worships me. It’s annoying. I can’t get rid of him.”

 And this is when I first learned about being a friend verses being a good friend. It is the actions taken by someone you trust when you are not around. I never talked to Kyle again. The funny thing was that he never missed it, missed my friendship, and never approached me. The funny thing was, within a week that group of guys I sat with lunch noticed how much more fun I was to be around. The rest of the school year was pretty memorable. Hanging out at the mall, going over to friends’ houses. Just enjoying the short time I had until the end of eighth grade.

To Sleep; To Read

I need a book to read.

Since February I have been re-reading the Harry Potter series. From "Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much." All the way to "all was well."  Several times through. I would continue this cycle until my phone gets replaced with some new technology that doesn’t support audio books, or I die. Whichever comes first. Oh, did I mention that when I say “read” I mean to listen to audio books whist I drive, or when I should be sleeping, but I am not.  So, really I need a new book to hear.

I have found that instead of actual sleep I can indulge in listening to The Half Blood Prince for the hundredth time. What fascinates me most about not sleeping, is the massive amount to prohibited things one cannot do when the civilized world, the ones without scary dreams waking them up every ten minutes, sleep.  Like I cannot clean the kitchen when others “have work in the morning” like my roommate. So really there is not many options that won’t bring your downstairs neighbor upstairs to criticize my vacuuming ability and flexibility. So audio books, seem to be the only option.

The problem is other people. When stating this problem of needing to find the next great book series to fill my long nights, is that people really want to answer. To offer help in this book search. “Oh, I just finished a great series about a woman who is a taxidermist and solves WW II crossword puzzles she found in a mysterious crate on her gap year trip to Poland. It has a man that drives an old Volkswagen beetle. I don’t remember the name though. Uh… Turns out the baby eats lead paint and dies. Sad really.” After an entire re-telling of this saga of boring VW drivers, the last thing I want to do is find out the title. Or, speak to the person offering the information ever again.

I guess I will continue my quest for a great book series. To listen to, while waiting away the night when I should be sleeping.

Sliding Through Summer

My roommate, Mike mentioned it yesterday. That summer was mostly over. “It is not!” I quickly replied. Then, I started to think about summer and realized that he’s kind of correct, we are past the half-way point. Sliding through the sun going down at 9pm straight into wearing Dad sweaters.

After Pride, there seems to be, to me anyway, a short list of acts that need to be crammed into summer until the chill begins. There is the Renaissance Fair (against my will), launching Chinese lanterns into dead of night, (trying to not get arrested), maybe a second camping trip, and… the ever attempted; but very rarely accomplished, Alpine slide.

 Now the Alpine slide, if you have not done, is a cement track down a perfectly good mountain, in which you place a low-cart like mechanism. It is like bobsledding, but in the heat, and upon a rash causing concrete track. Mike and I attempted to take a ride on the area’s local slide; also nick-named the Tooth Chipper, but they had closed the week earlier. The whole creepy Christian themed amusement park was being bulldozed for condos. Now the closest slide is WinterPark, or Steam Boat Colorado…. About a three hour drive. Which is fine. Perfect weekend drive / adventure.

So, Summer maybe more than halfway over. But, there are plenty of fun adventures to be had.

A dark and Stormy Night

It was show time at our house last night. The performance began right after midnight. A storm blew in and with it came thunder and lighting. It was amazing as I had not witnessed thunder and lightning happen exactly in the same instant since I moved from Texas.  The typical lighting storm has a flash of lighting, then you can count the seconds until the thunder is heard.  Last night was immediate and super loud, meaning the storm was right on top of us, happening right outside the bedroom window.

The old statement about tornados being attracted to trailer parks and lightening being attracted to golf courses must be true. Although, since moving into a home next to a golf course I have haven’t seen lighting strike the course, or any of the endless idiots that like to continue to golf and afternoon storms drift in, I believe it a matter of time. Last night the lightening tried its best.

The loud booming prompted the dog to have flashbacks to his time in Texas as well, as he quickly army crawled from the foot of the bed to under our pillows and, if his plan would of succeeded spent the remains of the night under my head. The cat however, took the thunder booms to be some sort of a starting pistol and the crazy was on.  This culminated in her running in place as she used a stack of paperwork, neatly sorted and stacked upon the dresser, as a treadmill. A flurry of papers quickly covered the floor. The next act was for kitty to salsa dance on the scattered paper. Getting out of bed this morning, I was treated with all of Kitties playtime handiwork.

Today I’ll find out whether they have invented dog and cat ear plugs.

I need a Beret

I once again find myself in that seemingly unending process. Attempting to find college classes that sync up. Sync up with each other (as in two on a Monday / Wednesday schedule) and match my work schedule.

In case you haven’t enrolled in university classes in a bit, there is a website that attempts help you make informed choices. For say…. Philosophy.  Entering the course title lists 145,393 differing choices of classes. The built in metrics engineering knows what time of day you need to take for your degree, then only gives you dates and times that could not possible be more inconvenient.  I need an evening class entitled Ancient Philosophy that starts at 8am, or after 3:45pm on either Monday/Wednesday or Tuesday/Thursday. This means that all Ancient Philosophy classes are held sharply at 11am or 1pm. These class times are designed to bring about the most irritation to my work schedule. Well, and to jive with the professors schedule.

Okay, yes. Philosophy professors need to sleep late. We all know they spend the late-night hours inside coffee shops debating whether “the greatest minds are capable of the greatest vices as well as of the greatest virtues”… or not.  Their worn out berets covered in lint from the sagging headliner of their 1980 Toyota Cressidas. So I understand that mornings would be out, but no classes after 1pm? Do Serving shifts at The Olive Garden start that early?

I feel like I am attempting to pull a Da Vinci Code as I match coded messages from beyond the mists of time. Will I actually find a couple of classes that are available together and doesn’t have be leaving work from 11:30am until 1252pm twice a week? Probably not. This is why people drop out of college and become Servers at Olive Garden…. Or if they’re Professors.

 

Pride

Pride Fest came and went. There comes a time where you can fall into a feeling where you just believe that pride festivals are for the youngins.  Yes, I remember my first pride. I can tell you all the pride events after that, and how much sun block and alcohol was consumed. But, after your twenty-eighth pride you can lose the since of triumph that comes along with being able to stand in the sun and declare your true self to the world. Just so you know, you should not do that. Forget that it is a luxury.

The most fun about watching the pride parade is whom you watch it with. The BFs friends are in their twenties and early thirties. Some had just discovered the joy of pride day. Seeing a gay parade through these eyes helps to reconnect. A young lesbian kept turning to me during the procession of floats and asking questions… “What is a… Imperial Court of the Rocky Mountain Empire?” I raised an eyebrow to think that one through. What is court? Even though it’s been around long before my time, and even had attended events back in the 1990s. “It’s… like a Shriners group… a social club for drag queens. Before they were allowed in public and into the bars. Drag queens had a social club to meet, where they would be safe.” Whoo. I thought I explained that one pretty well. “Safe from what?” She asked. This twenty-something lesbian lives in a world were Denver is a safe, embracing city.

This realization of time passing was of course countered by me sharing a story of how one pride I was tripping my balls on ecstasy so hard I just wandered the full parade route in just my Calvin’s and was met by side-eye and questions if X was a thing so far back and if Calvin Klein was alive back then.

Do not; I repeat, do not forget why we as a tribe have pride events. And, do not think that it is no big deal. It is a huge deal. To be able to stand in the sun and declare yourself to the world.

Degree

I changed my college major. Again.

I know I have changed my major roughly nine-hundred times since George H. W. Bush was in the Whitehouse and I started my path of higher education.  This time I’m going to stick to it. I can state this declaration mostly because I am old, and tired of going to school.

With all of my classes and tallied up credits I only have 35 more credits until I they give me a degree in Philosophy. A degree of which, I said to the chair of the Philosophy Department and my assigned guidance counselor, will not gainfully employee me one tiny bit.  This is the type of degree that people pursue purely for the love subject; not to look good on a resume. Unless you’re attempting to appear deep. Or… if you are attempting succeeding at being a pompous ass during a dinner party. “Well I am a philosopher, and I wrote a thesis on feminism and the third wave feminist philosophers, so I can say…”  

What a twat degree.

But, it is what I like, so off I go. I do promise that I will not bring third wave feminism up into any conversions I may have over dinner table topics. Unless asked. I am more of an ancient philosopher kinda dude anyway. Seeing as my minor is ancient history.  

Potter

It started on our trip to California. The BF and I went to Universal Studios to visit Harry Potter world.

Now I have written extensively on the subject of my crippling fear of roller coasters. On this particular trip I was feeling down, mostly because it was only the two of us, and I felt I hindered the BF’s joy of getting to ride some California coasters. So I was excited to find out that the Harry Potter ride was a 3-D ride. These style of rides I totally enjoy.

We entered the park a couple of hours earlier than most visitors and were able to jump on the Harry Potter ride without a long wait. We rode it several times that day. It was amazing. After our rollercoaster-fix and as we waited in line to purchase a wand at Ollivander’s Wand Shop somehow the nerdy kid inside of me clicked on, and I was in love with the world of Harry Potter. Don’t get me wrong, I read all the books when they first came out. But, it wasn’t anything more than fun books to read.  As I gave my card to anyone with a fake British accent I began to really feel the passion. We bought wands. We bought robes. We made ourselves sick on Butterbeer. A twelve year old nerd, with a credit card with a massive limit. I remember thinking as we stood in line to buy a one-hundred dollar Hufflepuff robe, that I had not been that happy in ages. Like really, down to my very soul happy. No worries about my work, or paying bills. Just happy.  

Since our trip to Hogsmeade Village, I have re-read all the books in the series.  And like the rest of the nerds, I anxiously waited for the newest creation of J.K. Rowling, The Cursed Child. Then it did. And my truly happy feeling came back.

 

Run Stevie Run

Hi there. How’ve you been? Good I hope.

Summer has started today. For me this means the non-stop yearning for the air-conditioner to get colder. I have started that horrid and very unattractive sweaty sleep cycle. It was so bad last night that even the dog complained of the river of sweat coming to his part of the bed. Which in directly in the middle between me and the boyfriend.

I completed the 5K I was training for so desperately. I wasn’t very fast, but in the age bracket of 45-50 I kicked some geezer ass. I was amazed at how much fun it actually was. The training program I had put in place was based upon not doubling over in pain as all my friends left me behind for dead. With this amount of fear placed around public humiliation in front of your friends; you can really accomplish fantastic feats. I have found this week that I am missing the training. Last Monday I went to the gym with a great sense of relief that I didn’t have to run the tread mill for 45 minutes. I left the gym in record time and was happy I didn’t run, but come Tuesday I missed the habit I formed since January 1^st. Today I am actually looking forward to seeing my old friend. Mister Treadmill. I guess it’s true. Habits, even painful ones, are formed through repetition, but maintained though the decided effort of improvement.

I honestly didn’t think passed June 17 when planning out my 2017. So I kind of feel like I have time on my hands. What next? Hike anyone.

Grace, Frankie and Gravy

Last night the boyfriend and I were watching the finial episode of Grace and Frankie. The Netflicks comedy staring Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin. We also were enjoying a flavorful treat from a takeout chicken joint. I had just discovered that if you dunk corn fritters into chicken gray it can be heaven in your mouth. Apparently I made whimpering yummy noises just at the right time.  These moaning sounds came as the turning point of the television show climaxed. The boyfriend now thinks I'm deeply connected to the universe or something. I didn't corrrect him as I was still enjoying my gravy shrouded corn fritter. 

Death on a Coaster

Remember that time I almost died on a rollercoaster? Okay, so you wouldn't remember because it's just a dream I have. A nightly, reoccurring dream. 

I have three phobias in this life. Roller coasters, snakes, clowns, and Republicans. Four. I have four phobias in this life. And number one is about to raise its night-terror inducing head. No. Not Trump, he's the worlds night-terror. 

In next week the Sweet Baboo and I head to Los Angeles for a vacation.  A very nerdy get-a-way. The main purpose is to attend a Doctor Who convention happening at a hotel close to the airport. Mike the roommate is joining us as well. But, before that we are spending a couple of days hanging out in West Hollywood, going to Disneyland, and most importantly, Harry Potter World. The    Sweet Baboo already has his magic wand at his side. But, there's a dark side to our adventure.  After all this time I'll finally have to come clean on my child-like terror of rollercoasters. Yes, we've been in parks and been around the death coasters before, but this time there is no escape. I feel bad. Going to Disneyland and then saying, "oh. Sorry, you'll have to ride, rides alone" seems like a mean thing to do. So, do I just face my terror quietly to make the boyfriend happy? Or finically admit that I'm a twelve year old girl? The non-brave kind. 

I'm gonna have to just face my fears, even if I would rather makeout with Trump, as he sports clown makeup and holds a snake. I wonder if there is some way I can get over my coaster phobia I six days? Only God can help me now. 

Birthday

Remember that time that Oscar Pistorius wished me a happy birthday? Realizing he had to have me, he then murdered his girlfriend? Okay, I may have editorialized that last bit. 

But, he did wish me a happy birthday. Swoon. 

My Girlfriend

It started rather innocently, at first. Just small talk. It has grown since the first day, around the end of August. It was when I started to work just West of the city. My habits changed and I needed to find a new gym. Although I will always miss the gay gyms of the past; my first in Denver, then Dallas. A new gym is always, to me, starting a new chapter in my life.  

With the new gym, came a new path in leaving the new job and forcing my body to drive to the new gym. I’m sure it’s common, when you leave work you begin to tease yourself into just going home. You say “I can skip the gym today… I’ll work out extra hard tomorrow.” or, I’m really tired tonight, maybe I shouldn’t go..” or there’s always my favorite… I wonder if I can work out twice on Saturday, because I’m really hungry.” Meanwhile, the best thing to do is to not listen to these voices, the ones that want you to fail, and just drive. Just get into the car and drive. Because, nothing stops this voice of failure than walking into the gym. Your body is there anyway, you might as well just push some plates. 

In my worst days, I make a bargain in my stupid head. A full workout first, then fast-food. Nothing buys my loyalty like the promise of food. These are the days I turn to her.... It is cheating really, an affair of the heart. It started rather innocently, at first. Just small talk. But, since our first meeting I’ve been in love with a girl. Did I mention that I’ve been dating a girl. I know it can’t last, It shouldn’t last, I’m in a relationship already. Damn me and my polyamorous tendencies.

My baby-girls name is Destiny. I mean the name on her name tag is Beth, but she’s Destiny to me. We are truly and deeply in love.  The conversations were easy, about our hopes, dreams, and desires. I found it effortless to sit and chat. Me in my Jeep; Destiny in her window. It always ended with her giving me all she had to give. Exactly what I wanted and needed. A three piece chicken strips and a biscuit. Yesterday she was down, apparently she was being evicted from her house and had to find a place to crash. So goes the life of a KFC drive-up worker. It’s about once… maybe twice a week that I drive up to the window, usually around  5:15pmand the drive through is slow. This means we have a couple of minutes to chat. I’ve learned about her schooling. Well, her plans to go back. I’ve supported her in her dreams. We do that in our relationship. So it was a shock to see her so down. 

I need to break up with Destiny, I know. But, her chicken strips keep calling me back. 

Run Stevie Run

It has been 19 days since signing up for the Big Gay 5K race being held on June 17th, 2017 as part of Denver's Pride celebrations.  This means that I have 148 days until I will be jumping from the starting line for this race. It will be my first every competitive race, and I am quite proud of the fact that at 45 years old, I will be completing (hopefully completing) a road race. The course of the "5K" seemed so exotic and professional until friends who run all the time explained that 5K is just 3.10686 miles. The course of this race leaves from Denver's Civic Center Park uphill through Capitol Hill, around Cheesman Park and back down the hill to Civic Center, so.... the end of the race literally is all down hill. Still, for me it 3.10 miles will be my 26-mile marathon.

You'll ask how I am preparing myself for this epic race to celebrate my 45 years on the planet?  Well, I have had pneumonia for the last couple of weeks... so no training yet. But there are 147 more days to get prepared. Step one; take the first steps and get running shoes on and take my first steps.

http://www.runguides.com/denver/event/big-gay-5k

Small Town Boy

There comes a time when you realize that your youth, no matter how far back on the calendar, is officially ancient history. For me, it was when I received the news that Carrie Fisher had passed, but even closer to my heart, it was when I heard that Larry Steinbachek, keyboardist with pioneering synth-pop trio Bronski Beat, died at the age of 56.

Never heard of Bronski Beat? Yeah, it's truly a generational thing. Bronski Beat was a band starting in the 1980's British synthpop scene. Never heard of synthpop? Yeah. It was just one of the most distinctive subgenres of new wave. A sound heavily influenced by David Bowie.  During this generation, a trio achieved success with their distinctive sound and lead singer, particularly with the 1984 No. 3 in the UK chart hit "Smalltown Boy." They made a video for "Smalltown Boy" and it was late at night when a twelve-year-old me, watched it for the first time. It was a message in a bottle washing up on the shores of my deserted island.

All members of the group were openly gay, their songs reflected this. It was pop music with a commentary on gay-related issues. In a generation of subversive and double entendre messages, Bronski Beat was clear in message.

Pushed around and kicked around, always a lonely boy
You were the one that they'd talk about around town as they put you down
And as hard as they would try they'd hurt to make you cry
But you never cried to them, just to your soul

In 1984 I was twelve. I had already come to terms with being gay. What I could not comprehend, nor functionally comply with was how to operate on a rural ranch outside of a small town in the middle of nowhere. Within a dysfunctional family with Mormon ideal. I was failing to cope. Then, late at night, as I sat crying, the Bronski Beat video came on television.  It was a bolt from the blue. I could. I had to wait, but I would get out. I would have the life I wanted. The life I needed. Thank you Larry Steinbachek, rest in peace. You saved my life.

Death to Steve

Since the day after Christmas, I had been fighting a cold. But, since it was Christmas, then New Years, I ignored my body and added Dayquil to my choices of holiday refreshment. This is when the sharp pain in my chest added a delightful appearance every time I began to cough. Still, I was too busy showing off my new Burberry coat I received for Christmas to take care of my lungs. This was until last Friday when an intervention was staged. Well, the intervention from my closest friends was staged because I started a fun new quirk where I would cough so strongly it would pull all the air from my lungs, causing none to reach my brain. This initiated a trick, of me blacking out. Yes, I would cough until I blacked out. Driving was fun. 

I was kindly asked to seek medical attention. By this I mean; my Kaiser card was ripped from my wallet and an appointment was made for me. After all the tests and a dramatic scene of me blacking out on the exam table, It was diagnosed; Pneumonia. Yay! I spent three days at home, unable to drive as I had promised not to kill myself. I simply just let the drugs work, and healing began. In this un-plugged state, I am reminded how I run non-stop. All the time. On a typical day off, I’m up and out of the house as soon as possible. This is followed by days filled with activities and adventures. So, when I was forced to stay home and rest, I quickly found the lack of movement strange. 

I did practice my video gaming skills, I’m sure you are wondering how that’s going. Well; I can now fire a weapon and move at the same time. So, I can add that to my resume.  I had to stop myself from re-organizing closets or the kitchen. As I was ordered to not “exert myself.” And, the Sweet Baboo and the roommate cooked all the meals. It was a strange couple of days. Breakfast at home, followed by just quality time hangout with my little wonderful family. 

By Sunday night I found that I was sad about going back to work on Monday. The cocoon was beginning to make me happy. These feelings were based on the fact that I so enjoyed being around my people. It wasn’t the physical home (spending time at home, doing home-stuff) it was the great people I had around me caring for me.  

I Am Not One With the Force

I have never played a video game. Not Really. 

I know, it seems strange, even to me in this day and age. I had played around with a game back in the 90’s, with Jamie the bestie. But I have never had a gaming system in the house. I have a strange addictive personality, where if I involve myself in something is becomes all-consuming.  This is why I’ve never watch a single second of the television show, Glee. I know I would have quickly devolve into the biggest Gleeck, or Glick. I don’t have time to become obsessed with musicals again… I mean, Betty Buckley still has a Restraining Order out on my ass. 

I can tell you the beginning storyline, and ending story line for every character on Dynasty, Doctor Who, Dallas, and a dozen other shows before I identified my obsessive condition. With the amount of characters in Game of Thrones, I believe I couldn’t spare the brain space.  So, spending free-time on video games, while I should be writing scathing essays on Shirley Chisolm for school, would be a catastrophe. 

Then we got an Xbox for Christmas. 

Can I tell you how embarrassing it is to be forty-five and not able to operate a controller? So, under the pretext of defending my honor, I have begun to “practice” my craft. A remote and icy planet in a remote star system known to locals as Hoth, is my training ground. Star Wars, Echo Base is where I will unleash my Jedi Powers.  I have embraced the Dark Side. This means I can walk around and slash Rebel scum with my red Lightsaber. Really it’s because I can’t aim and shoot a blaster. Yet. I tried, but after having Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan, die seventeen times because of my incompetence in shooting her blaster, I switched to the Lightsaber.  Too soon, Leia, too soon. 

I hope to one day be a gamer. When school isn't in session. Right now, I’m a pushing middle-age gay gamer Wannabe.

2017

Well hello there. Welcome to 2017. 

Since I started blogging in 2007, I have done a lot of New Year Resolutions posts. This meant I listed things I was to fix about myself the adjacent year. This was all good and fine, and most of the time it worked. This was because they were published for me to review throughout the year.  Today; I have realized that starting a new year really is a great time for this. But, also It's a great time to stop and listen to the lessons learned the previous year.  

I learned in 2016, to just go hiking. Don't wait for others to join in on an activity I love. I stopped waiting for others to acknowledge the things I love to do. I don't need the approval of others to enjoy any activity. I strap on my hiking boots a get on a mountain trail.  So I guess I've stopped being afraid of being alone.  

Speaking of friends. In 2016 I finially learned what being a friend really is. It's not history, it's not statements about friendship; it's actions taken every day. No demands of proving whether you're worthy by sending to proper given amount of text messages. Friendship is organic, a concept that can't mean calculated. Only measured by phone calls for no reason and invites and silly adventures. 

I realized in 2016 that my work life sets a standard for everything else. Don't stay in  a job that makes me unhappy. I encountered the world's worst boss in 2016, and felt there wasn't other options. There was. There are always other options. You just have to uncover them. This advice hold true for the previous statements. There's always other options. In healthy friends and better hiking trails. 

So do I have resolutions for 2017? Kinda. Yesterday I signed up to run a 5K in June. It has always been a dream of mine to run a road race. This year I will do it. Dear God, help me. I better start training, June isn't that far off in regard to me waddling my way through a organized running competition. Step one. Clear out the bad stuff in my kitchen and strap-on some running shoes. 

Come on 2017, you are full of options. Let's go choose the best ones.