John Grant Doesn't Love Me Anymore

To reward myself  for surviving midterms, I finally purchased one of those radios that link directly to one’s iPod. By making it through all of my midterm papers and exams, I mean being able to bullshit on the topic of John Locke’s Natural Rights theory in five pages without doing any research what so ever. I received an 85% percent on the paper, but since it just screamed of effort to which I employed none, I’m proud of that 85%. 

I do love my iHome clock radio. It has a magical quality that seeks out the most ironic song on my playlists and gently wakes me up to that needed song. As my mind is an underdeveloped monkey brain, that song gets stuck in my thoughts and I end up singing it all day long. Yesterday is was Kylie Minogue’s - Your Disco Needs You.  All day….

Your disco, your disco, your disco needs you
Your disco, your disco, your disco needs you
We're sold on vanity, but that's so see through
Take your body to the floor, your disco needs you
From Soho to Singapore
From the mainland to the shore

It does wonders for my much needed happiness levels. Well… lately I’ve become utterly obsessed with John Grant. You should check him out, amazing singer-lyricist. His music is haunting. But be warned, some complete dickface broke his heart. His new album, Pale Green Ghosts is exorcizing all that pain. I discovered him listening to the title track, there was a line that read “I take 25 and 36 to Boulder” which seemed odd to me since I was taking highway I-25 to I-36 to Boulder. It was love ever since. My IHome and iPod; however, decided to play Why Don’t You Love Me Anymore one morning. 

I feel like telling everyone To fuck off all the time
'Cause they don't know.
Why don't you love me anymore?
Tell me--why don't you love me anymore?

Which is fun to sing running around your place of business. It’s funny because it’s true; I do feel like telling them to fuck off all the time. Irony. One day I shall marry John Grant. 

The Stevie Side of Sears

My Sunday was designed as a complete day of relaxation. Breakfast with the buds, a visit to see a friend’s new house, maybe some shopping before relaxing at my favorite Japanese noodle shop. The day would be capped off with laundry and cruising YouTube. This dreamy plan for the day; however, did not come to pass as the best made plans seldom do. 

Upon finishing off pancakes and agreeing to head over to see a friend’s house under construction; I hopped into my car to begin the long drive. As I pulled out of the pancake house’s parking lot I noticed a strange new light on my car’s dashboard. It was a warning signal with an explanation point inside a sideways letter “C”. “What is that?” I asked my car. It just sat there, glowing. Then I made the connection, it was my low tire-pressure indicator light. a quick check let me know that I had a nail in one of my tires. “There goes Sunday” I said to my car, feeling silly because I know that my car only under stands Korean. 

As it was Sunday, my dealership and other closed options led me to my local Sears Automotive Center. I too was surprise they were still around. Apparently they are the only game in town for Sunday auto repairs.  Since they are the only option, there was a three hour wait, just to get a patch on my tire.  Three hours... alone in a Sears Grand....on a Sunday...  phone on 10% battery...  I pulled up gym shorts and said out loud, “Let's do this!”

Three hours of playing with the flat screen TVs, lounging in Sears display beds (my skin was exfoliated by the 180 thread-count sheets), shopping for poorly made horizontal striped tank-tops, and mocking hideously dressed mannequins led me to lounging with snacks under the main gazebo in the patio furniture department. I had just gotten asleep in a lounger when my phone rang with the news that my car was repaired. 

All-in-all it was a very relaxing day. I finally got a replacement water filter for the fridge, and I had a really great nap.

Man Uggs < Muggs

Three years ago, on Christmas morning, I unwrapped what would be a life-changing present. This amazing gift was from my good friends, Frank and Kevin. Who knew one gift would alter my life in such an amazing and comforting way. Sheepskin fleece lined slippers. Since then I have realized that there comes a time when you decide that comfort just might be more important than style.

Matthew McConaughey
sporting Uggs.  

In the past three years I have purchased dress shoes, five pairs of Pumas, Nikes, and several other running athletic shoes, yet what I ware the majority of the time, is my sheepskin slippers. Sometimes I did receive some gentle teasing for showing up to restaurants, house parties, Opera Colorado, dinner parties, the gym, and pick-a-part junkyards sporting house shoes, but hey; they’re suede leather, that’s fancy.  The only down side to this choice of pro foot comfort - sans style is that I had to resign myself to never achieving status as one of the cool kids. The jocks never sit at the cool-kid table kicking back in sheepskin-lined boots. Or do they…

Just as I had abandoned any hope of being one of the cool kids, I was standing in line at Taco Bell, in my most comfortable footwear, when a local high school gang of hot jock – athletic type dooods came poring into the establishment. I continued to text away waiting for my #7 as I pretended to not notice their tight jeans and clear skin. As I waited for my order, I noticed something… they were all pretty much wearing the same type of kicks.  I would of snapped a picture, but felt it wrong to be the forty year old guy that stands in Taco Bell, taking photos of seventeen year old boys. “No, officer! It’s just for my blog.”

With this level of encouragement, I now have worked up my self-image to publicly say that I am comfortable enough in my masculinity to wear Uggs. Man Uggs. Muggs. I have asked Santa for a pair of Muggs. All the sheepy softness to cradle my feet in a “I stopped caring about fashion, yet I really yearn to be stylish” kind of way. We’ll see if Santa agrees.  

Freezin' Steven

It was that time of year again. It seems that it comes faster every year.

The time, once a year, when I winterize the house. Not the whole weather strip, drain garden hoses, and other manly pursuits of home maintenance. More like pulling the light comforter off the bed and bringing out the heavy down comforter from its Space Bag induced summer casket.


See?  Doesn’t this guy look freezing?
He needs a down comforter.

Pulling out the heavy blankets means that I can finally crank open the bedroom window and slide under my over-sized down comfiness. I also did my annual trip to buy new pillows and new sheets to add to the comfort level.

Part of this tradition is wrapping the bedroom’s air vent in foil; this is to block the furnace from blasting heat into the bedroom. Making the bedroom as I sleep also suitable for preserving meat. I wonder if there’s a correlation?

This morning was the first, really chilled morning. The dog had reenacted his time in a German POW camp and tunneled his way down into the sub-layer of warmth. The Dupioni wafted as it half heartily covered the frost covered window.

 It was freezing.

During my thought process of how amazing sleeping in a cold room is, I always forget how frickin’ horrible it is to get out of bed and traverse the ten feet to the bathroom.

WOOF

So how was the fourth? Last Friday we ventured up into the Colorado Rockies. Which meant we ate funnel cake in a tourist town called Manitou Springs; filled with Texans. Who knew Texans loved Southern Colorado so much? Walking the streets in this Victorian vacation destination, I saw several T-shirts for Stratford High, my high school down in Houston, Texas. Talk about a flashback.

Late in the afternoon we found ourselves in a “pet boutique” just crammed full of Texan Christian Compassionate Conservatives. This is where I found my new book, Woof!: A Gay Man's Guide to Dogs!







As I held it up with a shout of glee, Fuzz answered back “I’ll be right there, I’m getting a hat for Harley…..Do you think he’ll like the camo cowboy hat or the pony print?”













So… we’re done with Manitou Springs. But the dog does have a great new cowboy hat.

MY CHRISTMAS SWEATER

I don’t really talk about it in my Blog, for obvious reasons. But, my right arm is two feet longer than my left. Please don’t judge. So, being built like a sideshow freak can sometimes makes it hard to find quality cashmere sweaters. On the big shopping day last Friday I was excited to find a new store at the mall. Freaks “R” us. Finally I can find high quality, low priced fine cashmere.

Now I can go to the fabulous Christmas parties and fit in with the rest of the gays. I’m giggly inside just thinking about it. I picked out a fine grey V-neck I found a mannequin wearing. I took a picture to share with you.



I’m going to be the sharpest looking gay at the Christmas brunch.

SHOP TILL YA DROP

Captain Fuzz dragged me shopping again. We spent way to much time looking for the "perfect steak." The man knows his beef. That's why he chose me. Funny, they had all of these Angus beef steak stickers everywhere.



Hours... hours he walked around like this.