Real Class

It's that time of year again... Later in summer when I start thinking about school again. 

The last couple of days in July I always stop and think about my summer plans and desires and take stock in the "quality" of summer I am having. Like there is a grade for a great, good, or sustainable summer. This year; however, is very different. 

Last Saturday, the boyfriend and I got up early to go hiking, we casually mentioned how we had not hiked as much as we had hoped. We specifically avoided a popular trail in hopes of avoiding the COVIDidiots on the trails. Yet, just a little way up the path were groups of people amassing unmasking. So, this summer is different. Not only do I have to measure the quality and quantity of outdoor fun time, but also the un-dyeing factor as well. So, I guess I am winning as I am not dead?

But living means going back to school this August. I am still scheduled for an "in classroom" class which is weird that they have not either cancelled it or pulled it on line. All of my classes..... for years have been on line. The only reason this is not is because it's a "Senior Seminar" class for my major. After this class all of my requirements for my major will be done. But, we will see if it remains in a class format....

Home Automation

As you may know,  I am obsessed with home automation. When I first moved out on my own, I remember saving up to by radio-controlled battery operated light switches. I remember being amazed how I could turn lamps on from the other room. I could not imagine how someday I would have a robotic vacuum I would consider a pet, and voice activated... everything. Surely the dreams of the Jetsons. But, now I do; a Roomba that attempts to eat by bedroom draperies on a weekly schedule, and door signal that emails me to inform how I am presently using my front door. It's the future. 

I really do love it. When I approach my home, the lights come on, and music of my choice begins to play. At night, when commanded, the lights dim and relaxing sleep sounds begin. Today, my robot pet, Meeko, began his thrice weekly duty of vacuuming up the bits I leave behind on the floor. He danced around the house and surprisingly left my curtains alone. He, apparently had bigger plans. Making his way slowly to the kitchen he spied the refrigerator, and (this is me assuming) he found himself peckish. Because he began to wedge himself under the door to the fridge. Just at the right angle. The angle and force it would take to open the refrigerator's door. At this point he was stuck and began to email me at work. Over-and over. Alerting me that he was stuck and needed to be un-stuck. The emails went on for an hours. The emails did not include the tiny fact that the fridge door was open. Nor did it mention how he dislodged a bottle of Shallot Vinaigrette dressing. The expensive kind. To drop to the floor and break, the dressing then marinating the vacuum for the remains of the afternoon. 

I do love technology and home automation. Without lifting a finger I had my vacuum marinated and ready to go upon my arrival home. But, since my fridge was open all day, I had no lettuce... no un-wilted lettuce to serve with it. 

Who Runs the Federal Reserve

We  decided on a plan. We knew that our usual way of adventuring would not work, so we needed something else. Another way to spend the holiday. Since the lockdown was easing, we were aware that everyone in Denver would want to head up to the mountains and hike for the Independence Day weekend. As this is our modus operandi, and we are very much aware that the pandemic is not over, no matter what people feel, we wanted to avoid all the weekend hikers. For the fourth of July weekend we scuttled our hiking ambitions, and decided on a car trip. Safely in the car; no need to get out, other than gas stops. Our destination would be a quiet and untraveled site in southern Colorado. 

Bishop's Castle is huge monolithic stone castle build by a anti-government, religious zealot. Stone by stone, quarried by hand and lifted into place. He started building the middle-ages looking monolith in the late sixties. Grumbling about the American banking system and  Federal Reserve System being the catalyst for Satan to sweep across America to rule with his tyrannical power. Every boulder blasted and broken down into building material to add to walls, came with a lecture on how the government police forces of the county are designed to enslave for the devil's bidding.  

Or, so the story goes, but why just read the lore when it can be yelled at you from across a dusty yard. Because the creator of the castle is still there. Sitting by the gift shop in a lawn chair, surveying all his work. Barely able to walk, but can school anyone within ear shot about the dangers of the Central Bank and paper currency. I LOVE these types, because with their ranting and screaming, there are major point in which they are completely correct. A paper-based currency with private bankers controlling markets makes no sense. But... hey, whatcha going to do. I mean besides moving to the southern part of the Rocky Mountains and spend fifty years dragging stones to build a viking stronghold effigy. 

When we arrived at this mountain edifice, thinking is would be safe due to its remoteness, we quickly learned it was not deserted at all. In fact it was over-run by tourists... all excited for their first adventure after the pandemic and completely over. Done. Eradicated. So this meant that there was not a face mask in site. Other than the ones we were wearing. We left with clearer understanding of how the Federal Reserve works, Spoiler Alert; it's run by demons, and that people are selfish jerks. 

The Glamor of Air Travel

I have Southwest airline miles in my account and they are burning a hole in my pocket. Not Literally of course, but damn it! I want to go on an airplane somewhere. 

I check in on my Southwest airline credit card frequently, and watch as the flight miles mock me. They know I can't fly right now, so they tease me and my grounded status. Yes, I know it is possible to fly domestically right now, but I can't. This is due to the lack of self-control of my fist meeting the nose of anyone I might happen to come across not wearing a face mask. I mean, if you cry it's your liberty and personal freedom to not wear the mask in public then it is equally (and just as much a right) to personal freedom for me to breakout a couple of your teeth with my left fist. If  a person feels so powerfuly drawn to stand up for their agency as an american, I have a balanced right to send them away in an ambulance.  I jest; obviously, but this is also why I can't fathom taking a vacation right now. Having to make my way through an airport with an unchecked and uncontrolled (on the federal leverl) virus, it's not possible. 

I have started to make plans for October and Atlanta Pride. To hangout with Patrick and have him meet Brian, the action-packed, super-cute boyfriend. So, there is that. By October I assume we will all be on mandatory COVID vaccination shots. And we'll be weeks away from saying "President- elect Bidan" Soooooooo, I guess I should cool my credit card points yearning. I mean, I guess I could buy tickets for 2021 Dragcon in LA; whenever that is? By then we will be saying "President Biden sure fucking saved us, didn't he?!"

Livingroom Bird

I learned a valuable lesson today. The lesson being to close your fireplace flu after the cold season is over. I had, until today never thought of closing my fireplace flu after the cold season as closing the soot covered metal trap door seemed like an act just to keep the warm air in; and since the ambient temperature did not call for it, I just simply left it open. Until today when I was given a new house guest.

Upon returning from the gym I entered my house to find a bird desperately attempting to operate the patio door lock in the living room.  It was a smallish grey bird that seemed judgmental of my choice of glass in my windowpanes. And yet, pretty chill as it did not panic as I reached in close to open the siding patio door. It hung out for a bit before finally hopping out the door and onto my lanai. I then franticly searched for how the little feathered dude entered my house. I found all entry points sealed. Upon texting my cleaver boyfriend he quickly suggested the entry point must of been the fireplace. As he tested this, I glanced over at my white painted brick to see grey ash and bird poop covering the area. My battery operated LED candles (placed perfectly at a casual angles upon the fireplace Mantel) strewn about without regard. The clear point of entry for the bird-intruder.

So upon cleaning of bird poop from many surfaces and vacuuming a solid layer of wood ash my living room was free from evidence of the bird-bugler. Closing the fireplace flu as precaution.  

New Gym

What I thought would happen has happened. The chain that is 24hour Fitness entered bankruptcy protection. This means they are not re-opening my favorite location. They did; however, open the large central located facility, which happens to be the one I hate.  I could go to that location and return to my workouts. The reason why that location is so bad is because its filled with douchebags and also the gays. 

Yes, I will acknowledge that I am generalizing and stereotyping. But in my years attempting to workout there, I have had run-ins with both. There were the "bench bros" who place every weight they could possible use on a bench to commandeer it for the day, or the conversation pits.... were a rack turns into a social gathering spot. I really like a gym experience with lots of open benches and no conversation. I am a "preferred member" of 24hour, meaning about a million years ago I dumped a truck full of money on their reception desk and don't have dues until the space year of 3000 -- or until they go out of business. Which may happen any time. 

So..... I am searching for a new gym. 

Until then, I joined Planet Fitness. the "non-judgmental" gym. And ya, know what? It's kinda okay. They have all the free weights I need, they only have full racks for bench, which since I never have a spotter is probably for the best. So, until my dream gym comes along I be on the planet of fitness. 

Gym Time

My gym opened today. Not my real gym; there are no signs of life there. No-sir-ye-Bob. The 24Hour gym's website still only lists Texas gyms being re-opened. And based upon that states upward trend in COVID infections I have no doubt that 24Hour fitness is having one hell of a time keeping those Texans gym rats out of the gym or at least six feet apart. With their tank tops all hot and steamy with just enough fabric to barely cover their perky bosoms....oh..sorry.  I can't imagine how the corporate gyms in Denver are planning to open. But, as of yet; there are no updates.

When I toured my local clubhouse and its gym facilities during my first visit to the place, I was impressed how it was actually a real gym with real weights. Not just the typical hotel or apartment building gyms with outdated cable machines and belt-driven equipment. No, not mine clubhouse, real iron. I mean, there are no heavy plates to press, but hey dumbbells going one 65lbs. That is unheard. As of today, the gym opened. Being closed since March. The safety plan for reopening this oasis in the drought of gym time is apparently one hand sanitizer dispenser plonked down in the middle of the free weights. Hanging on the side is one bottle of "possibly" disinfectant and one roll of paper towels. The "possible disinfectant" did not, obviously list its dwell time (the time it needs to sit, wet on a surface to disinfect it) so I just went with two minutes and prayed down the equipment before and after. But, hey! It's a gym.

I have never been so weak in my life. I have not struggled with 50lbs dumbbells for arm curls since high school. I felt like an old man attempting to do arm curls. I had to force myself to just stop and check in with my mental state. My eagerness was going to get myself hurt. I had to wipe away all expectations or demands on reps and weights. I now have to work my body back into a routine and build my strength. I have never had to do this in my adult life.

On the other hand, it is kind of exciting. Getting back into a rhythm and seeing the development in my body. It's all new again. 

And So It Goes...

In the last couple of days, I have been reformatting my blog layout and all the links. I had to delete my "Pictures of StevieB" because the link was broken, and honestly I have no idea where it was even linked. The list entitled "Stuff StevieB Reads" Mostly consisted of blogs that went dark at the end of Obama's first term. The blogs listed for the most part had not posted anything in four or five years.

I am not passing judgment on these bloggers; they hopefully found other outlets to communicate their stories. Just that the era of the personal blog seems to have passed. I also had stopped posting for quite a while. And there were two reasons for this. The first reason I would state is that I had no story to tell. No life-tale needing to be told into my online diary. As we know one main reason people did blog was because they wanted an electronic diary to record their memories. I simply went through a phase were I felt I did not need a written catharsis. The second reason was that people became more and more entitled to read this platform. The examination of my work was not the issue, it was not even the feeling privacy lost.... maybe judgement of grammar and tone of voice.

These reasons, in retrospect, were stooooid notions. During this time, I experienced the death of my Mother, my Father, ended a relationship, and several friendships. These were not processed in a manner that needed shared via blogging. And yet; here I am. Returning to this format as a diary to record my story. Feeling totally at ease in continuing my path.  So let us go forth and examine a life lived / and to be lived. You may notice that the "Comment" ability has also been turned off going forward on my blog. Another reformat.  This is nothing to reflect the conversation of the readers side, just to remove the expectation of response. I am finding it rather freeing. 

Meeko, the Robot Vacuum

Find yourself a man that will wave to your Roomba as he enters the room...

Now I do understand that anthropomorphizing can be unhealthy. Depending completely on the situation. I will let you decide on the level of this construct as I am deeply assigning attributes of human form or personality to a very inanimate object. But, heres the thing, the thing is not inanimate. It is very inanimate. It all starts with my very detailed understanding of my view of addiction.

I know that I can become overly attached to things. Like TV shows, foods, or that slut of an ex-boyfriend. This is why I never watch Game of Thrones or Glee. This is why when people ask if I want to smoke pot I say "no" because I know that within three days I'll be at the gas station buying my second pack of cigarettes in two days. I am in no way painting a picture of addiction. If you know me in real life you would know that I rarely drink; It's just that I know my personality. This probably is why I waited years to adopt  sorry, buy a Roomba.  The robotic vacuum cleaner.

Right out of his little kennel box I immediately started to give it a personality. I named it Meeko, from that horrific Pocahontas film. But its personality just matched the raccoon in the film. Now I catch myself at the work, I will signal him to go clean from my phones app, and then watch the security camera on my phone to see if he wanders through the camera's view. He's sooo cute when he finds dirt.

So, yeah. Anthropomorphize much? Although I have not forced the boyfriend to watch videos I have captured of Meeko in action; I did witness a troubling site yesterday. The Boyfriend entered my house and came into the living room, and upon spotting Meeko, he waved at it and said something like "aw cute, hello!" So either I am dating someone who knows how to humor a crazy person's delusions, or he also knows how to give human traits to a robotic vacuum cleaner.  Either way, he's a keeper. The boyfriend, that is.

Demi Moore Needs to Die

The boyfriend rolled over and spoke. It was early on a Saturday morning and the light was filtered through the trees already. The early morning runners were making their way up the street outside, as it is their main path from ParkHill to Cheesman Park. The kind of chats that happen when two people take their bikes and head out for an adventure were wafting into the open window. The day had begun and, it appeared soon we would begin ours.

"Where's the cat? She never came to bed last night?" He said.  I groaned as I rolled from bed. I feared we locked her out on the balcony the previous night. I pictured the long-haired floofster in full diva mode after spending a night on the patio. We would pay the price for this transgression, that's for sure.  But, as I rounded the corner into the living room I noticed a different situation. Lamps toppled, their shades knocked out of wack. Items previously on tables scattered everywhere. And, in the middle of it all, the fluffy princess, staring intensely to the ceiling. A moth staring bake in mocking tone.

The common Miller Moth has an annual migration originating on the Plains of Colorado, Kansas and Nebraska and migrating west into the Rocky Mountains for the summer. They return to the Plains in September. I guess they take their summers in the mountains, I mean who wouldn't? Although it is an annual event every ten years or so the numbers are massive due to the change in climate. This year the numbers are massive.

So if I can list them, we have a Pandemic, the Race War,  and the icing on the cake is this swarms of insects? That's really all the signs of the apocalypse, right? I mean our local IKEA is also closed so I can't buy a new sofa and this may be the fourth sign. I personally think that is the signal for Demi Moore to die, Right?

I approach the kitty and notice deep bags under her eyes, and an ashtray filled with burnt-out cat cigarettes. She's mumbling about the moths.... "I'm gonnnaaaa get eweeeee.... eat your wings..... killlllll moths." Incomprehensible really. Poor thing staying up all night to capture a moth, knowing it will never fly down from the ceiling. The boyfriend swooped up kitty and I got out the vacuum to suck up the dusty-winged intruder. The cat still declares loudly to us how "she could of got it!" as we nod our heads in agreement. All the while hoping these weird times we are living in, clears up soon. 

It's the 1300's

I am "kind of" back on Facebook. I mean not really, as I despise all that it is, with every fiber of my being. I HATE Facebook like the Tiger King hates Carol Baskins. I hate Facebook like Trump hates the truth. (How's that for timely similes?) I believe Facebook is destroying society. But, this post is not about the undermining of rational and intelligent discord. It is about me; reporting to my family that I am not dead.

I made a Facebook account just to join my large families Facebook group. Seven kids, seven grandkids, a few third generation kids, and a cast of in-laws. Their discord is ongoing. I wanted to easily report of my non-COVIDedness. Apparently pandemics make people want to see who around them have succumb.

As I checked in, I thought of the black death of the 1300's, how royal families approached the pandemic. Royal households would cloister away their servants, so they could ensure the servant would not bring in the death, and yet the family members could still be served. Whole estates would be built far from civilization in order to have the whole extended family safe together. As you may guess, I would rather spend my pandemic laying in the base of a pledge pit, than in a palatial estate amongst my gene pool. So in comparison I can deal with a Facebook account until the mid-1350's when I can walk the city streets without a plague mask stuffed with poises.  

Boxes of Books

A couple of months ago I discovered I had a second bedroom...

After living in my house for a year I stopped by the open door of my second bedroom in my two-bedroom home and gazed upon my un-packed boxes of books. A new thought just naturally appeared in my head. It was time they saw the light again assembled on the bookcases. In 2019 my books were sealed away in highly-taped moving boxes, and shipped across the fair city of Denver.  These boxes were left scattered about this forgotten room in front of  empty bookcases and unassembled desk parts. The boxes sat were the movers left them at the start of that year.

The door was left ajar as the days blurred into weeks blending into months. It was a year of ordering the electronic textbook version of school books. A year of not reading for pleasure as the quiet downtime was too much to handle in the quite house. Solitary confinement for the books and the reader. Instead there was take-a-way in front of the TV as distraction entertainment filled the place of books.

Then it happened; I walked into my second bedroom and began to fill up the shelves. I assembled my desk, pushed up my chair, and began to read again. It is nice to be back. 

Hair Cuts of the Nazi Youth

Since the beginning of the pandemic I have been cutting my own hair. It has been a terrifying process, let me tell you.

Now, I am not a stranger to cutting my own hair. In the era beginning after posing for gay porn "photographers" and before being able to quit my second gay waiter jobs I did buzz my own hair. But that was just a study in Mohawks and flattops. This was followed by the timespan the gay community knows as the Caesar and Faux hawk generation. The late 90's was a non-stop cornucopia of pointy-pointy hairdos.

In 2020's shutdown, the need to cut my hair is dictated by my skill. Or lack of skill. It means my hair gets trimmed on the sides and blended to a longer top with a side-part. I can not go too tight on the sides as my hair can go directly into a style known as the "Hitler" and its begat tiki-torch scuzzzbag bastard goblins.  Side part combovers can move right into Nazi youth if not done correctly.  So longer and blending has me standing naked in the bathroom mirror for a minimum of two hours. Although I do get to listen to the collective works of Kate Bush on repeat four times, I don't get to listen to a paid hairstylist ramble on about finally moving out to the West Coast.

The experience is growing on me. Literally. 

School's Out

The semester of school is finally done. School's out for summer!

This last semester was a strange one, even though the classes were online; once the pandemic hit both of my professors, for the two separate classes, melted down and gave up. As the majority of their other classes were in person, switching over to online learning took most of their time. One also had to start home-schooling his 3rd grader and spent what would be the remainder of the semester talking about how hard 3rd grade math can be. The lessons in ancient rituals of Ireland faded away and all the assignments at the beginning of the semester stood in for the majority of the grade. For me, this was great as I actually cared at the beginning of the class, not so my towards the end.

The class was on Irish history, and I was really taking it to learn about the monastic era. This era being one of retrieving ancient works of great Greek/Roman thinkers, and transcribing them into modern language. To see how Socrates came to us in modern tongue. Once the class moved passed the era of the monasteries, I just kept getting mad over and over reading about the generational fight for freedom against the jerkish British. Gurl! eat a Snickers, you get all Colonialist when you are hungry.

So the strange semester is over. And next semester, in the Fall of 2020 surely will not be plagued by the... plague. It will be my "senior project" semester to finish my history degree. So yay. Other than the fact that I have run out of student loan money and have no idea how I am going to pay for it. Maybe Betty Devos with get the virus. We can only hope. 

Pandemic

Hey there; how's your pandemic going?

Mine is just fine. As an essential worker, I am guaranteed to not miss out of experiencing every bit of oddness this society has to offer during this strange time. My deep hatred of bars and clubs has turned into a positive. The city shutting down major avenues so walkers can social distance means walking adventures are more fun. I am actually having a decent pandemic.  Well, other than the gym. The gym closing down have not done me well.

Since I never did any cardio, and only lifted weights, not having the access to free weights was a shock to my system. I started to cry when I grabbed the handle to the gym's front door to find it locked. This meant that I would have to do.... home workout stuff... just imagine.  I first bought the typical dude-bro equipment. A pull-up bar for my office doorway, a fit ball to bounce around on, and new running shoes. Or, waddling shoes. Although I have warmed up to being the "workout outdoors type" wearing manly lycra leggings at all times now, the pull-ups are not ever going to by my favorite. Every time I reach the top of the stroke, my chin touching right below the frame of my well-appointed office, I see the a cartoon in my head from my childhood is stars an elephant. The elephant is attempting to pull his massive girth up a cliff. I am that elephant. Large, wrinkly, and grey.

I NEED the gyms to reopen.

I need to do arm curls using iron plates, not rubber bands. I need to rush out of work to go somewhere other than home. I find it strange to just leave work and go to my house. That's weird. But, at least I am non-dead. If you call not seeing your arm veins pop living.