Christmas Tree

To begin our celebration of Christmas, the roommate and I decided to head to the mountains in order to get our own live Christmas tree. We had decided that we would go massively overboard for Christmas this year, so this was the first step. This choice stemmed from me having just ending a nine year relationship with  Mr. Scrooge himself, and the roommate, whom had roommates for years, never had his own celebration the way he wanted it to be done. First step? Go murder an innocent tree and drag it back to the house. I declared this trip into the woods triumphantly to the boy I’m dating, (still known as TMBBE, or “The most Beautiful boy ever” for the lack of a better nickname) as a normal, healthy super-Christmasy thing that normal people do. This is when he calmly informed me that he never had a Christmas tree before. Like ever…ever. 

My mouth dropped open. I stammered. “Like growing up you never had a tree?” He flatly informed me that no, his family had never. The next question that came out of my mouth will forever be noted as the stupidest thing I have, or ever will say. Please note the stupidity level… I said…. “But… where did you put your Christmas presents?”  Oh. My. God. There is not a more ignorant thing I possibly could of said at that point. And I said it. I was an ignorant baboon asking someone raised Hindu where they kept their Christmas presents if they didn’t have a tree. The Most Beautiful Boy Ever was polite in response to my stupidity.

What I learned is that if you take a grown man, who was raised Hindu, to a Christmas tree lot, and ask him to pick out any tree he wanted, you're going to see a lot of Christmas repression un-cork. It was non-gentile to Santa elf in 3.5 seconds. I have never had so much fun picking out a tree. 

I had spent nine years with someone who saw Christmas as a hassle. A chore that involved assembling the same artificial tree over and over. Then, suddenly I was standing in a muddy field watching someone search for the perfect tree. I watched the grin on his face grow. A grin that comes from the magical act of family going to the tree lot and taking home for the perfect Christmas. I was cold, I was muddy.  I was never so happy. 

The Omitted Octopus

It’s always fun to come home and find new presents under the Christmas tree. We have a tradition of just slipping newly wrapped presents under the tree, without saying anything to the interested party. As this year I drug out the old Chromium 1950’s tree, new presents springing up like weeds under the tree have  an aluminum sparkle upon them. 

Then, I came home to find this….

Yes. It’s a box labeled “Octopus” What does that mean?? My mind whirled. Is there a real octopus in that box. Am I getting a pet octopus? Maybe more than one. That would be cool if I did, get more than one, because then I could finally use my knowledge that there are three correct plural forms of octopus: octopuses, octopi, and octopodes. I could meet people and say, “Hey, wanna come back to my house? I could show you my octopuses, octopi, or octopodes depending on if you’re English, Greek, or Latin....” Scratch that. I should never say that. To anyone. Ever. 

I stared at the box for a while, dreaming of my pet octopi. I’d be a hit at the gay park, as I would train it to catch frisbees. My dreaming of long walks with Octavious; however, were dashed when the box was gone the next day. Apparently it was a punch bowl for a very strange friend. 

I’m left with a wanting of Octavious. My pet octopus. 

Stevie B. NEEDS Muggs

It appears to be nine days away from Christmas. This means that I’m successfully well into my plans of getting Man-Uggs, or Muggs as my present from Santa. 

As you may be aware, last year I launched Operation Muggs. Unsuccessfully. The operation failed, yet I did receive some amazing gifts. 

This year it’s war. 

See! Tom Brady wears Muggs. 

I have recruited an army of minions to begin a texting campaign. Texting things like, “yeah-know, I over heard Stevie talking about wanting new boots... something like Muggs.” Or random photos of Uggs being texted from random strangers. It’s my plan to layer the knowledge. I guess whispering late at night in the dark will help too.  “mmmmmmmmmmaaaaaannnnnn Uuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggggggggsss, Steeeeeeeeeveeeeee waaaaantssssss Booooooooooottttts!!!!!!!

And, Yes. I am comfortable enough in my masculinity to wear Uggs. Although, a friend pointed out that “all the other girls wear them with skinny jeans.” 

The Annual Christmas Rant

Ahh, December 7th. It’s time to gather around and listen to Uncle Steve’s annual Christmas rant…..

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

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

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

Aaaaaaaaaghh!”

The Down Comfort

On my Christmas list I had several things, the first thing I added was, “a high-end and high-quality down comforter.”  This was not because I thought that my lifetime companion-partner would cheap out and buy an inexpensive down comforter, it was that after seven years, I know how he would feel walking into the bedding department of the local Bed, Bath, and Beyond store. Scratching his head through his Hemi engine themed ball cap he would like to just point to my scribble of “high end” and the salesperson would get the hint.

I desired a new down comforter because the one on the bed was fourteen years old. It had traveled in my move to Dallas, then back again. It saw every life event in the last fourteen years and was now just a shadow of its former self.  In the last year, if you moved it just the wrong way a cannon of feathers would shoot out. A cascade or tickertape parade of down that would cover the dog an anything else the multiple holes were aimed towards. Parts of the ghost comforter where completely empty of down, just sad yellowing cotton held together by my determination.

I was odd how easily the request topped my Christmas list, as the ghost comforter did; at one point; mean the world to me. 

In the fall of 1996 I was planning to set up house for my first, real relationship. We had decided to move in together and were scurrying like happy, gay crabs to collect things for our first home. Both his and my leases happened to end at the same time, until then we would shop for what we would need. Growing up with out the simple knowledge that bedding wasn’t all animal themed acrylic blankets, I loved that our first purchase together was “a high-end and high-quality down comforter.” The future seemed so bright snuggling warmly under that down comforter.

As life sometimes happens, he became ill. We, and life abandoned our plans to live together. Soon his family stepped in to help.

On a sunny day in June, 1998 I wandered through a garage sale. It was on a well-manicured driveway of the sister who stepped in to help six months earlier. The items were nothing exciting, just your average garage sale stuff. The kind owned by single man who had succumb to a non-disclosed disease. Maybe cancer. As I walked through the discarded household items, I could feel the weight of the entire family burn into me. When the sister had organized the clean out of his house, my cries that some of the items belonged to me and somewhere jointly purchased, had fallen on deaf ears.  After filling a bag with my own clothes I picked up a down comforter lying on the cement.  I quietly shelled out $50 borrowed dollars and walked down the drive to my truck. Even though it was June, I wrapped my newly acquired blanked around me and hopped into the cab and drove away. 

For the next fourteen years that cotton bag of goose down was my remembrance of what had been and what could have been. It was a memory filled and my prized possession. As life sometimes happens, the cotton turned yellow as it aged, and holes tore in the fabric and my memory.  Holding on like a gay Miss Havisham I clung to the comforter as if it actually held the memories of my long dead relationship.

Material items cannot possess another’s memory. If you fall prey to this fallacy you create your own Great Expectations. I will always have my first love whether I cling onto an old blanket, or have the possibility to make new memories cuddled up in bed with my new down comforter, with someone I love.  

Xmas Recap

How was all y’alls Christmas/Feastiveness? Despite not having vacation time at the new job, mine was pretty damn good. Christmas Eve looked like this…

You’ll notice the gentle ubiquitous and ironic snow falling like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Just less icky. Most importantly Christmas Eve brought this…

An anglophile Christmas pudding. I can still taste the delicious treat with its massive amounts of tasty liquor. Christmas morning brought this….

Incase you are not schooled in the art of identifying Dyson vacuums in the wild, that is a Dyson in the middle of the Xmas explosion.  I also got this…

In case you’re not a raging nerd, this season I’m sporting a Doctor Who scarf. Nerd.

 

Christmas Morn'

Oh, dear God. Make the happiness stop...

Christmas Evie

It's time for our annual Christmas tradition, brought to you by Evie Harris....

Let's Go 2012

I ushered in 2012 by sitting in a hot tub under the stars, high in the Rocky Mountains with several friendly and gracious bearded gentlemen.

Let's go!

I would urge anyone who gets invited to a New Year’s Eve party held in a mountain cabin far away from civilization to definitely accept the invitation and attend. Without the constant light pollution from the city the stars gleamed brightly, as if to show off their own fireworks to celebrate the coming of a new year. The stars shining upon the mountain snow, the chrome of the four wheel drives, and champagne bottles filled me with excitement for the New Year. 2012. Here we go.

I am incredibly ready to launch this year. Today, I’m almost chomping at the bit to return back to my routine. I understand that the time between Christmas and New Years is designed to be a time of relaxation and to enjoy time with friends, yet every year on this day I’m ready to return to the habitrail that is my daily rut. The traveling to see friends, the parties, and the time spent with family is a lot of energy expelled. Take New Year’s Day, after the evening spent hot tubbing, our group meets for a gestalt breakfast then sets out on an expedition through the hinterland to collect new retail items. Unsere kampf, or our master plan is to score incredibly cheap deals on holiday items. Items to pack up with the ribbon and décor to help kick off next year’s celebration.

With the New Year finding me in a mountain-side cabin, I believe I’m ready to jump back into my world. To take on 2012 with gusto and style. So, for me it’s back to work, back to school, and back to documenting my journey here.

Christmas Evie

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

Merry Christmas, Mary.

December 11

Thanks to Jerrod for this.

December 10

On the tenth day of December...

 

 

 

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

 

Jeff Sheng Photography

http://www.jeffsheng.com/

 

 

 

Flock Me

On the sixth day of December…

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

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

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

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

The Annual Christmas Rant

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

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

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

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

Aaaaaaaaaghh!”

Snow Running

December 4th. 

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

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

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

Snow

December 3rd

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

Perchance to Dream… of a Datsun

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


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

December first.

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

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

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

MEGATRON

And we’re back…. Whoo. Thought the Christmas break would never end. Days sleeping in, having fun with friends. Thank God that’s over. Well, next Monday anyway, I went into the office yesterday. Yeah, tumbleweeds started blowing across the lobby. Today I work from home, typing in the nude. Love it.

We took the tree down in record time this year, about twenty minutes after we came home from Christmas. Mostly because we needed the floor space, also because I get really depressed when seeing a tree sans its pressies, speaking of which here’s Steve countdown list:
Let’s countdown Steve’s top five best but, incredibly nerdy Christmas presents….
5) Two words: Carpenter Jeans
4) A red T-shirt with the word COMMUNIST printed across the chest.
3) Season eight of DALLAS the TV series
2) A Police Call Box print T-shirt
And the number one pressie...
1) Transformers underwear, with MEGATRON printed across the ass.

And before you start asking for a photo essay of Steve rump inscribed with Megatron, I’m not that kind of girl….Okay so I am. Yes! Stop asking I put them up later…

I hope y’all had a great time of it. What’s the plan for New Years anyway? Are you hosting one of your famous parties? Can I come to your house and eat all of your shrimp cocktail?

THE GREAT CHRISTMAS TREE DEBATE

I can now say that the Great Christmas Tree Debate is over. For this year.
When you’re coupled off the best part of having a relationship, other than the connubial rights is having someone to go with you to bring home a Christmas tree.

When a was a little fagglette, I dreamed that one day I would have a big hairy guy to drag the taped-up cardboard box from the basement and put our little tree together piece by piece. In our well appointed house with its name-brand appliances. Okay, I was that “type” of little gay boy. Sue me, as I grew older the only thing that changed is that hauling your tree up from the basement is not nearly as romantic as going out to the wilderness and chopping down a fresh, live tree. When I lived in Dallas, I drug Dalton through hours of Texas mud, to find just the right green symbol of Christ’s birth to axe murder. Oh, the smell...the smell. You could just smell the season in the air.

It came as a shock last week when the other half calmly stated,
“We should just buy a tree…yeah know… to have, then we don’t have go get one from a cold lot from a registered sex offender, just to have it die on us?”

Blasphemy!

And so started the great debate, real or fake plastic. Oh, the tears and the high pitched whining. The endless crying. Begging. The non-stop begging. It was just embarrassing.

Nothing worked on that man. But seeing as we have a healthy relationship we soon came to a compromise. Beautiful and real one year, gross, dumb, fake the next. See compromise.

Last Saturday, we walked out of the Uber store with one amazing 12 feet ready to assemble symbol of our harmonious life. We had to get 12 feet tall, because anything shorter would just be a cop-out. What? I’m a size queen. For trees that is.

DGMC and Ron Moore

I went to the Denver Gay Men’s Choir concert last weekend. This is part of my master plan to do “all things Christmassy” if it’s festive and gay, I want to be there. It’s my plan to not miss anything this season. It’s also my plan to drag my friends kicking and screaming along for the sleigh ride.

The concert was good. The scenery was the best part, snow covered trees everywhere.
(I hope you just didn’t miss the subtlety of that comment.)

Chrissy and I played “find the toupee.” We search the 70 gays looking for the dead cat splayed upon heads. We found three. If you’ve ever been to one of these you’ll know that this is the most entertainment you might get. That is if you're ill-cultured and haven’t an attention span, like me.

In the program was the ubiquities list of troubadours. On the adjacent page were the DGMC angles. This is where they list every member that has past. Skimming this list I was struck with one name. Ron Moore. It hit like a ton of bricks slammed against my brain. He’s been dead for more then ten years, but still it cut like yesterday. Ron Moore and I dated eons ago, yet every day with him rushed back as I sat there in my pew. Ron was International Mr. Leather in 1984, but we happen well after his reign. Isn’t it funny if you let your mind wander and start thinking of all the guys we’ve lost during the siege. What if they just weren’t ripped away from us? How would the community look in 2009?

I know, sorry. Thinking this way will drive you crazy. But, in a way this is why I’m running around not wanting to miss any holiday sparkle. Because I can.