Not-So Muscle Bear

There is something horrible wrong with Google. For some idiotic reason, when you Google "Gay Muscle Bear" you get the following results....

A nice sampling of smoking hot muscle. Until you get to a photo of some idiot holding a toilet seat cover up to his head. What the hell is that doing on a page of muscled up fur beasts?? I believed it was some how linked to my 2009 post, read here. Most likely is comes from that smokin' hot Aussie, Kez's blog. 

Either way, it's an embarrassment to all gay muscle bears. And I apologize. 

Panda Express

I spent the entire day yesterday writing my term paper. I have entitled it my Mos and po-po paper. Not realizing that I had wasted an entire day sitting at the dinning room table with nothing but the dog staring up at me, around seven p.m. my stomach decided it was time for me to stop clicking away on the keyboard and throw some food in it.

Without considering the social norms of good grooming, I grabbed the Shar-pei and headed out onto the streets for nourishment.  I have a level of guilt for patronizing the new Panda Express fast food chain that has opened up recently. I have always dined at the locally owned and operated Chinese take-away, but after a day of writing in my sweat pants, I feared that Mr. Wok would assume that the zombie apocalypse had begun, and this particular zombie had a taste for Asian brains, and I would be shot in the head. One should not fear being mistaken for a zombie and shot just because one desires chinese food, but one should also take a shower and remove ten hour old Pop-Tart crumbs from one’s beard before heading out into public. So I went to Panda Express. They don’t judge.

As I did my zombie shuffle up to the “Order Here” sign, the guy behind the glass sneeze guard smiled and said “hey, we chatted on Scruff!” peering into his dreamy blue eyes and swimmers build wrapped in a fast food uniform, I recognized him as well. My stomach and other bits growled. I thought, it’s Mr. “watts up” and “your hot.” Pondering his very bad grammar, I quickly thought, who am I to judge the proper use of you’re verses your? This hot twenty-two year old wants to give me his egg rolls. Under the panda embroidered polo shirt is a six-pack that thinks I am hot. I smiled my best “How YOU Doin?” smile and ran my hand over my right pectoris muscle covered by my coffee stained tee shirt.

I then grabbed my to-go bag and retreated out of the restaurant like a defeated Mongol warrior, yet giggling like a Japanese schoolgirl. 

Lose the Suit

I decided recently that spending my life sitting in a cubical under florescent lights hammering away on resumes is not the life I need.  I have been in the boring, yet safe human resources field for twelve years. Change in my life was clearly needed.

Yesterday I had my first interview for an amazing new job. I adorned my “interview suit” and headed to a local health club for a management position. As I sat down in the waiting room I sized up my competition. Clearly I had been in the corporate world a little too long. It quickly dawned on me that of the ten other interviewees; I was the only one in a suit. Being a health club, the standard dress is polo shirts and khakis. Everyone around me, including the staff conducting the meetings, sported athletic wear.  As we began the interview, I was asked why I wanted to leave a comfortable office job for the chaos of a gym. I tap-danced through my beliefs of always wanting a crazy job with the buzz and excitement. The standard questions you give in an interview, the ones I’m usually asking, were easy to answer. It’s funny and very true that the hardest person to interview is someone who has worked in hiring and recruiting.

Sitting in the Manager’s office in my imported power tie, and after I unintentionally corrected the interviewer’s knowledge of labor law, we both attempted to see if I was not a square peg being forced into a round hole. She asked about my passion for the fitness industry. I did my best to explain that I’m really just a gym guy.  I truly live in gym shorts and tee shirts and I’m most happy out on my bike or at the gym. At the end of the interview I had the overwhelming urge to rip off my tie and shirt and show my hole filled undershirt.

The lesson I learned is to dress the part. Dress for the job you want.

We will see if I get a call back. 

Thick Neck Steve

The last time I put on a work dress shirt was the end of May 2011.  My work dress code since then has been comic character T-shirts and gym shorts.  Washing and underwear was optional.  Now, I am returning to an office setting for a new job.  My days of working from home are done, and not a minute too soon. The gym shorts will only be good for the gym and the dress shirts will be coming out of the closet. Literally.

Yesterday I pulled every bit of work attire and completely reworked my closet. The dress shoes were under massive layers of Pumas, and I found the suit jackets and white shirts so far back I had to use a machete to get through the Structure polo shirt section. They were just hanging there in plastic dry-cleaning bags, thinking they were never to be worn again.

After trying on the ol’ work wear, I discovered two things: My waist is smaller, which is great, but my neck has gotten much larger in a years time. How the heck does someone lose weight everywhere, yet gain weight in their neck?  So, I’m a thick neck?

I now have an entire wardrobe of dress shirts that cannot be buttoned at the neck. This is kind of important, because I need to sport a tie.  They really need to make a dress shirt with a Sansabelt like option for the neck. Sans-a-collar?  Maybe I just need to go on a crash neck diet. I know that rushing out and getting liposuction in my neck may cost just as much as replacing all of my shirts. Until then, I will be the nicely dressed chap grabbing some lunch with some of the other gals from the typing pool whilst my head turns blue from lack of oxygen. 

Pain au StevieB

It started on Friday morning. That twinge you get deep in your jaw. Something was wrong, horribly wrong in my mouth. I realized quickly that a filling I had replaced around a month ago had turned against me.

I will spare you the tale of woe, if you have ever had a toothache, you know of the pain and utter ouchiness. What I will tell you about is when I called my Dentist, late on Friday; he prescribed heavy painkillers for the weekend. Steve. On Vicodin.

Late Friday night, after huffing my Vicodin happiness,  I found myself sporting gym shorts and a wife-beater standing in the candy isle of Walgreen's (chain drug store.) I was looking madly for “pain au chocolat” because when I get high, I either turn French or into Eddy Monsoon. Not finding chocolate croissants in a small town drug store, I stumbled upon a dog bed. It was shaped like a Homer Simpson stylized doughnut. My laughs turned into snorts when I thought of my dog lounging in the middle of the glazed treat. My snorts stopped as sadness covered me, I wanted to buy the silk-screened doughnut, but I was convinced I’d get pink frosting all over my hands. When expressing my sadness, I was escorted quickly out of the store.

Me. Shopping for
pain au chocolate.

Saturday found me filled with determination. I was going to the International Auto Show even if I was jacked up on painkillers. It only comes but once a year, so really I HAD to go. I whole-heartily endorse going to car shows hopped up on the drugs, it makes the shiny cars… “real [SIC] pretty.” Although I did ditch the guys a couple of times, once to spend ten minutes in the cab of a Dodge Big Horn convincing myself I owned it, and another time to spend time pondering if I just drove out the side door in a Wrangler anyone would even notice. I think, fun was had by all.

Finally, Sunday came. After a massive pancake breakfast and a trip to a local vintage electronics trade show, I finally slowed down enough to change shorts and head to the gym. This is where my body over-ruled my “man ‘bout town” attitude. As I changed into my gym shorts I fell back into the bed. Eight hours later I awoke. My jaw was killing me.

My weekends are usually non-stop. Even if they are hazed over, drug fueled, Stevie pumped full of Vicodin, goodness. Determined to keep my busy stride, I just really needed to stop and listen to my body. I was; however, very entertaining to my friends. So, not unlike Eddy Monsoon.

Blog-shy

My first thought of Twitter was that it was just randomly shouting into the dark. Spurting 140 characters then watching the traffic of porn stars and early adaptors speed past. I didn’t understand the attraction, why were all these porn stars and narcissistic celebrities just blurting out “I forgot how much I love pickles!” for the known-world to read?


The first Blogger.



In my eternal quest to be one of the cool kids, I trudged on trying to “get” the avant-gardeness of being a Twit? Tweetaphile? Twttererererer? Like jumping into a swimming pool in Florida; there’s always the chance that a wayward alligator may be resting at the bottom, yet you jump in anyway. With my Über social awkwardness tucked under my arm, I jumped in and began to see it as a way promote myself, a billboard for all things… blogger me. I quickly realized that Twitter was just a series of advertisements for people, a 1984 Apple commercial for people’s egos. But, for me it has become a place to hang out virtually with the “my dudes” talking dirty, and flirting.

If Twitter is hanging out in the garage, getting dirty with your buds, and Facebook is sitting with your family in the living room, blogging must be spending time in the study. Relaxing on the couch, talking one on one. Laughing and retelling old stories about each other. So, it was odd to find myself last night stuttering at a simple question.

“What’s the name of your blog?”

This was asked by my English Professor. We were discussing my thoughts on the Mormon Church, and he asked if I ever thought of writing my story. Without thinking I mentioned that I have a blog and write about it ad nauseam.  Now, I have never shied away from telling people about my little backwards corner of the net, without getting too metta, I clammed up.

There is a place for everything, twitter with its unruly rugby team mentality, blogging, and English class. At that moment I stood frozen, like trying to pee next to François Sagat. You know he’s going to look over, and he has seen a lot of other dicks…. This was the very first time I felt guarded about my blog. It was a strange feeling. A feeling I don’t really care for, yet it was the same feeling I had when my niece asked if she could follow me on Twitter. Having an English Professor read your formal term-paper is one thing, sitting with him in the study as he does it is quite another.

Escape from Boys Town

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

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

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

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

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

Tina Louise will Never Forget Saab

Saab Automotive has declared bankruptcy. Those selfish Swedish jerks. What are upper-middle class gay Homos going to drive now?

There was a time when you would walk down Cedar Spring Avenue in Dallas, Texas and you would find the streets lined with Saab Convertibles. Row after row of boxy, vapor-locking convertibles. The running joke at that time was the easiest place to pick-up a sun tanned gay boy wasn’t the baths, but the Saab service waiting area.

My realization that there was a tendency for the Mo’s to drive this unique vehicle came after my first date of the third guy I dated upon moving to Dallas. As he pulled up I realized that he was sporting exactly the same car as the last blind date. And the same car, in a different color as the one before him. Like a gay boy’s Groundhog Day.

Strangely, the three Saab dates were as photocopied as their cars. On the last, I sat in the leather covered passenger seat trying to retain my ingénue aloofness as the early evening humidity enter-twined with gas fumes and circled around us. A quick joke about every gay man in Dallas having bleached blonde highlights to match their bright yellow Saabs was still lingering between the seats. To change the subject I ask about his hobbies, outside of highlighting his surfer blonde hair. His remark about loving Tina caught me with surprise.

As we turned onto the highway, I started to dissect his statement about Tina over and over in my head. I found myself turning into James Lipton, if he were to interview an actor in an open-top on a busy beltway. Why would this guy be so adamant over his love for Tina Louise? Sure we all loved her as Ginger on Gilligan’s Island, and when I adamantly agreed with how much joy Tiny had brought into my life, my date responded as if he’s found a kindred spirit. I just didn’t understand what this guy saw in an aging television actress.

After that date, I made a pack with myself to never date another guy who drove a Saab convertible. My third date in a new city and I was already judging men by the cars they drove. For quite a while I was hard on myself for being shallow, that not associating with Saab owners and Tina Louise fans was just me not opening my horizons. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that the date with the Saabs had taught me countless lessons. Less about the type of cars that people drive, and more about people who are desperately in love and hopelessly devoted to Tina Louise. And, yes. It was a full three years later that I learned that Tina was slang for crystal methamphetamine.

The Yellow Rose of Dickinson

I really didn’t sleep at all last night. I was up worrying about a blog bud and his choices. It’s funny how cyber-friends work. You chat on line, interact almost daily, yet you never really meet the person. When they go through a hard time you want to jump in and help, even if it’s just a hug or a smile. Then you remember that they live on the other side of the planet.

When my brain is squirming late at night, I fall back on an eternal question in life. “Have you noticed Emily Dickinson poems can be sung to ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’"?

I can spend hours pulling Emily Dickinson poems out from the recesses of my tiny monkey brain and getting them to fit to the tune of the old Texas hymn.


Here's some examples...

BECAUSE I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me;
the carriage held but just ourselves and Immortality.

Stevie B's Big Day

I love a surprise day off from work.


All Federal Holidays for the US are posted, years in advance, for anyone to review. Whole branches of the Government, countless companies, banks, and intuitions plan their schedules off this master list.

Speaking on a conference call today, I proposed a plan for tomorrow. Giggles ensued. A common mistake by me, forgetting days off until I’m reminded. This had prompted my work-mates to start a betting pool. Will Steve forget Veterans Day? Yes. Yes, he will.

Guess I’ll take tomorrow off from work. Go hang out at the coffee shop and write a couple pages on the Protestant Reformation. Nothing quite like a surprise day off to motivate a guy in work on his term paper. I’ll have coffee with Martin Luther. Or.... Maybe it's time for an adventure, screw the Protestants and take my bike out to a nice long trail and see nature. It's a hard choice.

I always think I should print out the next couple of years of holiday and upload them to my calendars, yet somehow it takes the fun out of the surprise.

Marching on the Appian Way

When I lived in Dallas, I rented a house on Appian Way. It wasn’t the Appian Way, just a close reproduction, sans the whimsy.  It was a tiny stone house that backed up to a creek. It was amazingly quiet, as it was just me and my roommate.

I wasn’t ever formally introduced to my roommate, he was a shifty character. Mostly he would stand at the end of the hall, late at night. Tall, dark and translucent. Me being me, I decided that my black, shadowy friend, although he wouldn’t chip in a dime for rent, needed entertaining.

Sometimes I’d put on an impromptu play involving current events of the day. In some sort of way to translate the outside world to a shut-in, in song and dance. Sometimes I’d re-enact famous stage shows, just a little one man show for the purpose of humoring the un-quiet dead.

I handle stress in strange ways.

Mostly because I was such a bad singer, the ghost roommate would disappear and try to ignore me for another week. One night I was on stage, pulling out the stops in a marching band montage. I was hot that night, and I went for the big finale, I started into a marching kick routine to Don't Rain on My Parade not realizing that the dogs were also running from my general area. They were fine with the ghost, just terrified of me. This is when I slipped and fell onto the hardwood, slamming my right shoulder. As my shoulder hit I thought I saw stars, instead it was every light in the house flashing on all at once. I distinctly heard laughter coming from down the hall. Everyone is a critic.

The muscle in my right shoulder has never been the same, and as I tweaked it again yesterday at the gym, I thought back to my original injury. Oh, yeah. marching with spirits on the Appian Way.

Sometimes You're the Balloon...

I'm having one of those days...

Cheesy Goodness

Yesterday was spent with my nose in a lap-top and my head in the fourth century.


Well from eight to two, anyway. After attending a five year old’s birthday party, by eight pm I was spent. Through, tired. Nothing was going to move me from my couch. Not even an invite to go to an impromptu BBQ with the gay street bikers and their amazing assortment of over the top, exotic side salads or their use of gorgonzola in the prosciutto topped burgers. They are a real bike gang, yet they need vests that read “SONS OF WHOLE FOODS” stitched across the back. Even their lure couldn’t get me to leave my Super-squishy, elle shaped sofa of softness.

Then, my stomach thought changed my mind.

The pizzeria/cell phone/gas station/quinceañera dress shop is right around the corner. So, really there wasn’t a reason to put pants on, a dirty T-shirt and boxer briefs and I was fine.

This was my justification until the pizza took ten extra minutes and I started tweeting in the middle of the gas station. This is when I discovered a local boy cruising me. At first I thought he was judging my poor choice in Calvin Klein sport wear, and then I realized he was wearing the new gay uniform. The black, tight T-shirt with paux-metal studs and metallic paint adorning crosses and skulls and other over-done tuff [sp] symbolism. Like a gay knock off of Ed Hardy. I will never understand why guys like this style, as it reminds me of the Kardashians or the rotating cast of the Pussycat Dolls, Why men wear these shirts is beyond me.

Please don’t think for a second that I don’t appreciate the irony of me judging a guy wearing a shirt that Cher would think was over the top, whilst I stood there in a ripped up wife-beater and stained Calvins. This realization turned me into the strange man who hangs out in the local pizzeria/cell phone/gas station/quinceañera dress shop in his underwear, laughing to himself.

GAY HOLIDAY ZOMBIES

I was in the middle of my monthly trip to The Container Store for holiday organizing. I do love things to put things in. OCD? No, I just love the canned veggies alphabetized in the pantry. There’s nothing wrong with that.

During my visit to the plastic box store, I had to “hit the head” or use the room of rest. When I was complete with my task, I washed my hands. My wet hands being held out in front of me I circled around for the paper towels. Realizing I looked like a zombie and being alone I started moaning:

“Towels…..must have towels….Arrrrgh! Arrrrrrrrh!”

As I staggered towards the paper towels to attack a nice, normal little queen unsuspectedly came into the bath room. With a look of confusion, bordering on terror on his face. I quickly dried my hands whist humming the song being played on the over-head. A mix of White Christmas being sung by a gay zombie. Just to make him think that I was singing that the entire time.

Then I ran.

If you hear rumors of gay zombies cruising the bathrooms at The Container Store, that was just me.

St. Steven's Day

August 10th is called "St Steven's Day", the "feast of Steven" of the muscle-gay day and is the Patron Saint for Bloggers, the Banana Republic men’s section, and home décor stores. It is a public holiday in many retail home stores that were historically full of snarky gym bunnies seeking high value, low cost bath and bedroom accessories.

Saint Steven (Koine Greek: Στέφανος, Stephanos), known as the Protomartyr of Christianity, is venerated as a saint of upscale malls and most local Bed, Bath, and Beyond stores. Steven means "toilet-cover" or "crown" in Greek. He was one of the first in the early Church to bear the title Archdeacon.

MARTYRDOM
Stephen was tried by a group of really mean bitches (who we hate anyway) for blasphemy against the ending the popularity of wearing cargo shorts (Acts 6:11) and speaking against the wearing of really huge sunglasses (Acts 6:13-14) (see also Antinomianism). He was flip-flopped to death (c. A.D. 34–35) by an infuriated gay mob encouraged by some nelly girl (who didn't look good in cargo shorts) after buying six pairs of plaid Express for Men golf shorts.

Steven's final speech was presented as accusing muscle heads of persecuting other muscled up gays who spoke out against their roids.

DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND

Over the weekend I was having a normal conversation with BFF Carl and BFF Frank. At some point, and I don’t remember why, I blurted:

“…..that’s horrible, that’s right up there with Helen Keller being dragged off by the Nazis!” Without missing a beat, Carl retorted:
“That diary was soooo badly written.”

Then, Frank added:
“Sssshheze inze thhhhee adeeck” As he slammed his fisted hands together. “

In our circles when something dumb is said, we say, at least you’re pretty. I was downright gorgeous.

On Saturday, we were at Chili’s. A deaf group came in and sat next to us. They were having a great time enjoying the night as were we. At some point the manager felt he had to wander around and invade everyone’s table to inject the fact that he never finished grad school and now is a manager at Chili’s. To us he joyfully injected:
“Good thing you ordered two desserts, one wouldn't feed the looks of you guys.”
I blurted out “did he just call us fat?” As cake flew from my mouth. But, he had already descended on the six deaf diners, Mr. Chili smiled and said:
“It’s awfully quite over here! The food must be good!”
The table stared with awkward smiles, until he proudly moved to the next table. A little pee went down Fuzzy’s leg as he laughed.

On Sunday we went to Subway. Although, the tomatoes were not amused.

My Weekend

I helped a friend move his Mom this past weekend. His Dad recently passed away and friends and family rallied together to move the Mom out of the family’s house and into a more manageable townhouse. It took quite awhile to load up the hugest U-haul I’ve ever seen not to mention 5 cars worth of family belongings.

This event was rattling to say the least on the family as they were in the process of saying goodbye to the patriarch and the house the kids were raised in. Saturday we got over to the new house and everyone pitched in to unload this behemoth of a truck. Once the truck was unloaded I started to unload the Mom’s car, I grab a Crock Pot and a beach bag looking knapsack. I ‘m pretty excited we’re almost done with out major breakdowns from my friend or his two sisters. As I reach the front door I stop and start talking about how great it feels to be almost done. Just then I hear someone scream. My buddy then turns to me as says “You GOT to be kidding me?! Dude that’s my Dad!” I look down into the Crock Pot. He then takes the bag from my hand. Their father’s ashes were being swung around by me inside of a knapsack. The sisters were still recoiling in horror.

So that was my weekend. You?

All I Want is a Room Somewhere

The lease is up on our apartment at the end on February. I'm getting some flack from friends because I've started to pack up the house. I think it makes sense to pack up all the crap you're not using and get it ready so you can keep it out of the way, but I'm crazy like that. Today's blog post; however, about trying to finding an apartment.  I think I'd rather be flogged on a 17th century sailing vessel then look for an apartment. 


I found some really cool listings on-line in the Denver central area, but find that they're with the same rental company. I go to their office and meet Nathan, a nice guy who shows me some cool places I might select. I go back to he's office and fill out the application. Now keep in mind that I'm in HR so I know about the slow process on considering an application. As soon as I drop is off that little voice starts. There sooo gonna turn your down, They are going to ask for $7000 dollars up front, what are ya thinking and my favorite do really want this apartment?


I guess it's the whole approval thing, it sucks. Nathen states he'll call me and let me know on Monday, Then all day Monday.... Nothing, I start to REALLY worry, (like I'm his whore waiting for the next time he can get away from he's wife.) I call and leave a voice mail. Nothing. So later on Tuesday he calls. "Oh yeah, Steve your fine" like I'm his bitch waiting for him to tell me he loves me. Aaaaaaaagh!! So then he gives me to Trisha, I really don't know why other then he's tired of me, who will find a time for me to see the really cool pad over on Speer Blvd. "Let me check with the resident and I'll call you back to schedule a time." That was Wednesday of last week. Now I'm Trisha's whore. I'm jumping at my phone when It rings hoping It's Trisha telling me she loves me.