Sunday Morning

The March

It was an amazing feeling. Standing in the middle of a civic park on Pride Weekend.  I have always taken a few minutes to stop and stand in the same spot in the middle of this celebration since my very first GLBT pride day in 1988. Other than feeling old, I had an overwhelming since of history.

It is important to remember that we as GLBT citizens have taken a quantum leap in just the blink of an eye.  We have come light-years from when I started to stand on a street corner to watch the patchwork of individuals celebrating their humanity with a parade.

Back in 1992, I marched to stop Colorado voters approving an amendment that prevented the state from taking any legislative, executive, or judicial action to recognize gay and lesbian individuals as a protected class.  Meaning equal protection under the law.  We lost this fight for freedom. Yet, this fight for equal rights had a very underestimated foundation in our journey. The arrival of James Dobson and his organization, Focus on the Family, to Colorado in 1991 to funnel millions of dollars in passing this amendment.  The very same hate-based organization that helped organize the coalition to sponsors of California's Proposition 8. Their losing battle to stop marriage equality. The tides have shifted, they are finding themselves on the wrong side of history.

We march forward as Boulder County, Colorado began issuing marriage licenses to same-sex couples Wednesday afternoon. This began just hours after the 10th U.S. Circuit Court struck down Utah's ban on gay marriage. And yes, Colorado attorney general's office said the licenses won't be valid. Read the whole story here Yet, it is a step in the long march to freedom.

Sunday Morning

Pride Comes Before the Fall

Two more days of work until Gay Christmas/Hanukkah! That's right, this weekend is Pridefest in Denver, Colorado.  I finally made the smart choice of taking five days off to celebrate. I decided that this year I was going to dive in and enjoy all the events surrounding the days to their full abandon.  I am going to enjoy the family atmosphere during Saturday's events and the countless parties on Saturday night and Sunday.  Maybe I'll  even get to go to our local amusement park for gay days on Monday.

I took so much time off around the holiday because I realize that I'm not as young as I used to be. Hopefully I won't be too exhausted by all the pridefulness. Nothing worse than returning to work, sunburned and tired.

I just need to get through the next two days...
Two days...



Link to Denver's LGBT center.

Beard Update

We are five months into the Steve grows a beard challenge. This is also known as "Project Wanna-Be-But-Too-Old-To-Be-A Hipster." Although I feel the challenge is going well, I am having to buy Just For Men beard dye almost weekly, and my boss has stopped talking to me without staring into my furry chin like its that puzzle box from the Hellraiser movies.

There is also this....

Yes. Random guys adding their thoughts on my fur-face from the inter-webs. The inter-web has spoken. Well, take heart judgmental random assemblage of internet dudes; There are only six more months of bushy beard covering up my nice fade[sp] As my birthday is just a half a year away.

Let us recap....

Started out here, looking like a some-
what functioning part of
society. 

Now looking like a HR call waiting
to happen.

There was one beard trim so I could have
professional portraits done with my
Christmas cat; Mr. Sprinkle Pants. 

Sunday Morning

The Lumberjack Horticulturist

Do you believe in love at first sight?

Have you ever locked eyes with a guy, maybe a smile is shared and then a strange feeling comes over you. The feeling that only comes to a person when they have stopped breathing. Not the hold your breath kind of stopped breathing, the kind that comes when the air is knocked out of you by something hitting your chest at top speed. Like one of those anvils from Wile E. Coyote.   In an instant you believe you could quite possibly die from this weight that has blindsided you.

This light-speed occurrence has happened a minuscule amount of times in my life. This is not to say that I have not fallen head-over-heals in love, yes I have. To quote John Green's new movie, The Fault in Our Stars,  you fall in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once, then get awaken at 3AM and sharply asked to taken the F*cking dog out. Well, John Green's quote goes something like that.

I was at Cherry Creek Mall early one January morning. I was there early because I had to deposit a check into the ATM because my bank for some satanic reason doesn't have a single branch in the state. Just ATMs. As I stood at the ATM I started to think about the kind of people who call these machines, ATM machines. As in Automated Teller Machine machines.  I decided right then that I hated those people. As I made my way to the mall exit, sporting my dirtiest of dirty sweats; I wondered if these people also use a PIN number in the ATM machine. As this was running through my mind, I saw a blur of beard and flannel move to my right. That is when I saw him.

He was sporting a real flannel shirt. Red on black. His beard was the perfect length between manly and hipster. He wore glasses. All these personal aspects highlighted the dead Kalanchoe blossfeldiana in his hand.  I knew it was a Kalanchoe because as I teenager I had a job watering plants in a greenhouse and I killed many standard houseplants.  This led me to believe he may have been the mall's Horticulturist.  Standing there before him, the early morning mall florescent lighting reflexed the gravy stains in my shirt. I was in love. Deeply, deeply in love. I croaked out something like, "What? That Kalanchoe is dead to you?" He smiled and said in equal jest, "Do you want it?"  Do I want it.... yes! I wanted it all, I wanted him. Every fiber of his lumberjacky shirt. Every hair on his face. Yes, I wanted him. Instead, I kept walking.... and now I think of him often. 

Sunday Morning

Welcome My New Baby

I would  like to introduce my new baby to the world. Just In case you missed it elsewhere on the interweb; I give you the new Stevie Jeep...

I'm already shopping for a lift kit and massive wheels. 

Pay Attention

I found some great life advice on Marc and Angel.com. I've desided to post my two favorite tid-bits of living advice from an article written by Marc Chernoff. 

1) Pay attention to who your real friends are. As we grow up, we realize it becomes less important to have more friends and more important to have real ones.  Remember, life is kind of like a party.  You invite a lot of people, some leave early, some stay all night, some laugh with you, some laugh at you, and some show up really late.  But in the end, after the fun, there are a few who stay to help you clean up the mess.  And most of the time, they aren’t even the ones who made the mess.  These people are your real friends in life.  They are the ones who matter most.

2) Always be loyal. True love and real friendship aren’t about being inseparable. These relationships are about two people being true to each other even when they are separated.  When it comes to relationships, remaining faithful is never an option, but a priority.  Loyalty is everything.

The New Fourteen MPG Baby

Here is a recap on how my week is going...... After five years in a mature sports sedan I finally  broken down and bought....

A Jeep.

Yay!!!

Attempting to not be
one of the douchey Jeep
drivers that take selfies
whilst on the highway. 

As with all new Jeep owners, other than pontificating in a dogmatic manner of what things Jeep owners are allowed to drive over, (curbs, grassy knolls, children) I have spent all of my free time shopping for things to bolt on the new baby.  Bumpers, rock guards, and other expensive "off-road" accessories. I had forgotten how off roading, or 4x4 websites are like drag queen dress shops. There's a thousand ways to spend money in an attempt to improve your look; but, very few choices will avoid you looking like Anna Nicole Smith.

During the test drive I did have to test all parts of the 4x4 monster. In attempt to test the quality of sound system I HAD to crank up Rupaul and Lady Bunny's mix of Lollipop. The sales person may never recover.

So.... If you're thinking about birthday or Hanukkah presents for the next five years, gift cards to ExtremeOffRoad.com or JeepGrrrrrrrrrrr.com would work. 

Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning

Gym, or Jack N' The Box

"You move in the direction you think."

For me, walking out to the gym at 1a.m. covered in sweat with my headphones blaring, is the most triumphant and empowering part of my life. It's that feeling, one of being Alexander the Great standing over King Darius, that I crave. Yet, why do I forget that feeling when I want to skip the gym and head straight for the bar?

It is funny how I must re-learn this lesson, over and over. How we as humans sabotage our own happiness. I find that there is nothing better in my world than completing a great workout and to be filled with accomplishment. And yet, it is tough to shut-off the little part of our brains that does not  want me to have this feeling of happiness. As I feel it is not deserved.  Is this because we attach value to the negative beliefs and thoughts we have on deserving rewards? These nagging doubts on whether we really deserve what we're striving for; apprehension that we don't deserve success. It is that fear of our achievement that isolates us.

I guess I need to pay better attention. Tune into my thoughts. Listen to find out if they are trying to sabotage my goals.  Free myself from this cycle negatively impacting the things that make me happy. Spend more energy smashing these anti-sucess beliefs with a frickin' dumbbell.

RLF (Rabbit Liberation Front)

Outside of the grand metropolis of Denver, Colorado is God's country. Well, I am unsure if it was God himself who declared this statement upon a massive billboard next to the interstate just out of where civilization ends and farms begin.  Yet, I passed this billboard in my unyielding quest to do what I've done non-stop since school let out; shop for a new car. This visit to the countryside brought me to a dealership that specialized in over sized Dodge farm trucks.

I was; however, not there for the farm trucks. I was there for the Jeeps. This particular dealership had Wranglers in spades. So many that they were not on the dealers lot, but on a grass knoll next to the sprawling complex.  I climbed the grass knoll to look for a Wrangler with my tight, and unquenching list of "needs" like, the correct radio, automatic climate control, the best color.  Sometimes I feel I should do what BMW owners have done for decades. Fly to the factory, pick their new car up straight from the assembly line, drive around Germany, and have it shipped home. Although, instead of zipping around Munich, I'd be touring around Toledo, Ohio.  No difference, really.

As I peered into window after window I noticed something strange under every Jeep. Cages? Those humane trap cages used to capture feral cats. Since this was God's country and there was noting but fields around the dealership, I was intrigued as to what they were capturing. Then, I saw a cage with a huge rock in it. Wait? A furry rock?  A huge furry rock with ears? Bunny!!!!!!!!

The dealership had a line of fuzzy bunnies in cages. All looking scared as they pretended to be rocks. As the facility was closed, those bunnies  would be there a long time. This is when I snapped. I grabbed the cage with a terrified rabbit inside and began to dislodged the bunny. Shaking the cage like a ketchup bottle.  Upon freeing three bunnies,  I had trouble with the fourth cage. As I struggled with the door, the bunny inside and I locked eyes. This is when I said out loud, "I'm going to get you out of here" in my best Indiana Jones voice. After shaking the cage like a cereal box the bunny went bouncing to the ground. I'm sure he thanked me as he ran for the safety of the fields.

I ran too. To my car. I'm quite sure there was video of a crazy man manifesting bunnies like a magician. They would of told me everything that everyone else has said upon hearing of my idiotic act.  That rabbits harbor disease, I could easily of picked up something. It is not like I licked them. I didn't even touch them. I was raised on a farm with pet rabbits, I do know all the precautions. Like to not mess with strange rabbits under Jeeps. As for buying a Jeep out in God's Country? No thank you. All their Jeeps have damn rabbits chewing up the wiring. They really should do something about that.

Stevie B. Bunny Wrangler. 

Stevie's Choice

It is like Sophie's Choice; yet with less Nazis.

If you have been reading my blog for the last year, not there has been a lot of reading, you know that I've been in the market for a new vehicle. This has meant two auto shows, countless trips to a plethora  of dealerships, and endless conversations. Weekly the car-breeze would shift.  To spare you the well-worn details, I have always been a 4X4 gay. Then, four years ago I traded in the Jeep for a four-door sedan. This was under the guise of growing up into a tie wearing man, and gas milage. Gas at the time was right around $27 dollars a gallon, if I'm remembering correctly.


Now it is time to finally stop debating and make a choice. Although; I sort of wish Doctor Mengele was forcing me to choose between the two vehicles I have selected. It would make it easier. So, I made America's Memorial Day as the deadline. I'll either get one of the two choices, a Toyota Tacoma or a Jeep Wrangler Unlimited.

The Tacoma is easy, I will just choose a color and be done. The Jeep has so many differing options and packages, it may take the entire day of Memorial Day just to pick a package. Mr. Mike and I spent the day yesterday driving to three dealerships just to plan out what options I even like on a Jeep.

Knowing me, if I just don't spin around in a circle and point to a car, I will never make up my mind.


Talk about gayboy first world problems.

Sunday Morning

A 365 day Challenge

You know how you stand there and watch the whirling colors of strange clothes wiz past while waiting for your clothes to round the mechanized bend; to finally come into view of the young Korean guy with the skinny waist? As you wait at the dry cleaner for what it seems to be a lifetime you see other's choices in clothes. "Wow, someone owns a realtor-like blazer in THAT color??" As you start to be all judgy on how anyone would come back to claim a lime green faux silk cowboy shirt, your collection of plaid flannel comes into view.  Like no one has ever stood there, checking out the hot Korean, and judged anyone who would own seven flannel shirts, all in differing shades of red.

 This is how I feel people are reacting to my beard.

It started on my Birthday, a personal challenge lasting 365 days. I wouldn't  shave for 365 days. I would see if I could go a full year into a life of beardedness.  It has been 107 days since Tuesday, January 28, 2014, and I am now sporting full-on face fur.  I am now beginning to notice that my furry face has drawn out a lot of people wanting to talk, debate, and even judge my "secret" challenge.  Like the plastic wrapped wardrobes spinning past me at the dry cleaner. It seems anyone can offer their opinion.  Please know, I'm not complaining, it has been amazing to see how individual's expressing opinions are more a refection of their own selves.

Love it, or hate it. I have 257 more days.

Pre-StevieBeard

StevieBeard

Sunday Morning

Locked into New Possibilities

I have to admit I had not been to the gym in a while. There was a couple days missed along with checking out the gym in the Highlands. The Highland area of Denver, that is. The Highland location 24Hour Fitness is quickly becoming my favorite gym in Denver. This is due to the inordinate amount of smoking hot guys at all times. You can't swing a Nasty Pig jock without hitting a hot bro. And, I've tried.

I had not been to the gym in several days, it was midnight, I was very tired. As I reached into my gym bag for my lock, the same way for thirteen years, my hand came up empty handed. My lock wasn't in my gym bag. Gone. Forever.  I started to think back to when I bought that lock. It was upon joining 24Hour Fitness in Dallas, 2001. After the  all gay, glitter gym closed down without warning, I reluctantly joined the 24Hour on Mckinney Avenue.  I felt so common, having to purchase a lock, instead of the oak lined built-in-lock lockers at the fancy gay gym. But, I did.  Out were the free heated towels; in were working out with... you know.... girls.

All of this history ran through my head, as things do when you're getting older, and you're standing alone in your Under Armour in public after midnight.  One begins to reminisce about the old days, and things you once owned. Now gone forever. I raised my head; realizing that change is good. Change must happen in one's life. A new lock means new things coming into my world. I welcome new things. New people. New adventures. New..... oh.... that locker across the way has a lock on it that's very distinctive. Like mine..... could it have been left locked on an empty locker for all this time? I walked over, tried the well known combination, and snap. It opened. After days of  being locked there, no one had bothered it.

Some times, life makes you wake up to new possibilities in tiny ways. Some times, I'm
forgetful. 

Run Stevie Run

For some reason, I can only write term papers whilst listening to the sound track to Run Lola Run.  I have been doing this for so many years, I can't remember how it started. It's just one of those strange habits or rituals that rule my life. Like putting on my baseball cap, taking it back off, then putting on, three times.

That being said, I am now listening to Run Lola Run. For the last time this semester. And despite the fact that I have already written 900 words, I have a lot of times through the soundtrack to go. Even after I caught spell check changing conscious to couscous, as in "the Doctor made a couscous decision to abort the fetus" I have to make my own mediterranean salad made from granules of durum wheat to buckle down and finish listening to Lola for the last time today. 

I do have to apologize though; I guess I have been whining about this term paper so much that even the possibly trans barista at my coffee shop has asked me how my Ethics paper is coming along. By Sunday night it will be turned in, regardless of couscous.

Standing up For A "C"

I have received the emails. The Facebook messages, and phone calls. "Steve, are you dead? Why haven't you blogged?" Thank you,  for checking on me. 

Yes. I know, it has been the longest I've ever gone without blogging. This is due to my school work. But, my absence from blogging was for a good cause.  My lack of writing can be completely blamed on a certain Ethics and Philosophy professor.  A professor, unlike any other I ever met.  A professor that started the semester on "How gay marriage is incompatible with moral ethics." 

The fun stopped there. 

The whole argument was nothing you had not heard before. How marriage was only for the promise and purpose of procreation. That the only valid union was one centered upon coitus.  When the whole class seemed to agree with him, I knew it was going to be a rough semester.  Trust me, I stood up for the team. Every paper, every homework, every assignment this semester was then centered around the fight and struggle for acceptance of LGBT peoples. 

There was a six page paper on transgendered couples raising children. Another on how the dogma of religion is used as a crutch for the anti-marriage movement. 

All of this effort has taken twice as long, and twice and much energy as any college class should take. I feel I had to stand up, regardless of the loosing. I have been writing more than I should of invested, then chucking all my effort at a brick wall. With the 75% and 78%  grades I have been getting back; I know I have probably wasted my time.  Standing up and making an augment to a closed mind. 

I may get a "C" in the class. 

I'll be more proud of my "C" than any other grade I have ever received. 

Procrastinate

I have only three hundred more words to write on my first of three term papers. As I sat at the dining room table today, I saw the end in sight. Yet, it is a rough and tumble three hundred to still complete. There is not much more I can say on Philosophy from a Feminist perspective. So far, I’ve purchased two pair of jeans from Amazon, Googled “Pedant T-shirts/floppy gym shorts,”  changed the bed linens, completed three loads of laundry, Oh…. and wrote this blog post. So sue me if it goes astray. 

If I don’t complete the three hundred words, I will be forced to canceled a lunch plan I had with a very sexy boy. So…. really, I should be exploring Feminist Philosophy…..

…I really like the Levi jeans that have the longer back pockets. So, I bought some pairs. On line. Guess I see how they fit when they arrive, I am concerned for the D-bag factor. Or the "over forty year old attempting to dress like a twenty-five year old" because that could easily be the case. Welcome, one an all to StevieB's midlife crisis. 

Oh, I got new Pumas. I have really stopped counting how many pairs of running shoes I own. I do know that I’m out of closet space and I now need to keep Pumas in my oven. 

Alright, back to writing…. wish me luck. 

Oscar Pistorius: Hero Worship

My obsessions are numerous and bizarre. Like seeing a porn star wear Pumas; then buying Pumas every six months for three years. Or seeing the marks on older cars windshields where the wiper blades have worn a pattern, so hand washing my windshield every day for four years. Or, recently really liking guys in their twenties due to my fear and loathing of growing old. Wait, that’s neurosis and narcissism.  Completely different. 

Lately, while the world is obsessed with the fait of Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 and the amazing media coverage and strange conspiracy theories, my obsession gene is turned elsewhere. My dear Oscar. South African sprint runner, Oscar Pistorius. Now, I don’t like the word “obsession” in this case, it seems dirty somehow. It’s more like a deep unending love that is only one-way and will never be responded to or returned. 

While watching the track and field portion of the 2012 Olympics, I watched with the world as Oscar Pistorius, a South African sprint runner struggled to participate in the men’s 400 metres sprint.  Oscar Pistorius competed in the London Summer Olympics as the first double leg amputee. 

After that race I became obsessed with this amazing man’s struggle to overcome obstacles.  When I got lazy about running, or really any perceived obstacle I used Oscar for motivation. Tired and not wanting to drive to the gym, I would think of Oscar the amazing athlete.

My hero even wished my a happy Birthday via Twitter:

My hero got me through some tough times. One day I heard my heroes name on television.  “Oscar Pistorius accused of premeditated murder of girlfriend by South Africa prosecutors.”

The continuing court case stuns me with every news cast. The court is opening to the world his complicated life. Texts from the slain Reeva Steenkamp show the anger and control issues that Oscar portrayed. One of a jealous and cruel boyfriend. Other news casts focus on Oscar vomiting in the courtroom and physical distress in the retelling of his beloved Reeva’s injuries. Spending emotional days on stand crying repeatedly, apologizing to Steenkamp’s family. Every day in court he is emotionally and physically exhausted. Even with my skewed lust filled eyes, the defense of why he shot through a bathroom door, killing Reeva, simply falls down. 

I obsessively watch any report I can find. 

There is a philosophy that your heroes will disappoint you.  That is true. In this world, if you obsess too much, you just might make immortals out of mortals. 

Oscar Pistorius

Spring Snow

Last night I barged into the local Subway sandwich shop as they attempted to close. The heavy rain had begun to switch over to snow. The type of heavy wet snowfall we get in Colorado, right as winter gives up the ghost and lets Spring move in and set up shop. 

I entered the Subway to pick up dinner.  My eating habits haven't changed since they were established as a twenty five year old bachelor. Around nine o'clock, when I head for home from wherever I happen to be, I typically stop at some fast-food joint to pick up fuel.  Fuel that is balanced on my chest, and to be administered as I stretch out in the middle of the bed like a swastika. In my twenties, I would read a book as I pulled French fries out of my chest cleavage, now it's my iPad, usually trolling Scruff. 

Last night was typical. A twelve inch sub of some sort, and a six inch for breakfast the next day. A bachelor has to plan head, I would think. 

Last night, I ate my sub one handed as my iPad was held in the other. Then, I ate the other sandwich after midnight as I sat watching the heavy wet snowfall hit my window. Spring will be here soon enough. 

Monday Night Gym Time

Don't stomp your little last season Nikes at me, honey.

This week I've been on Spring Break. Although in years past this would prescribe a road trip, this year's road trip never materialized. The freedom of not going to class on Monday night gave me a brilliant idea. It's Monday night at 5pm, I'll go to the gym. Somehow, the perils of going to the gym on a Monday evening somehow escaped me.

Picture it; Dallas 2002. Steve walks in to the weight room of THE gay gym in fabulous and unique brand new shorty gym shorts. It's a wall of gay boys sporting the same brand of shorts.  After carving out some territory in front of the mirror for some arm curls I begin to flirt with a fellow gym bunny. Wearing the same style of shorts. We were hitting it off nicely, despite the completely over crowded gym. This was, until he mentioned how hard it was to work out on a Monday night after a weekend of Special K. When I agreed, but offered that I was a Cheerios guy, I received enough laughter and judgment from every gay within a ten foot circle to leave the weight room quickly. I was thirty and opinions mattered.

I haven't worked out on a Monday night since.

When I walked through the gym this week, the memories of how hellish it is to attempt to workout on a Monday hit me like a wall.  Followed by a "fuck it" I'm working out. It went well, since I'm not used to having to "work in" with people (as I usually hit the gym around midnight) it was kind of nice to actually interact with other real humans. Only one little queen attempted to toss shade.*  This happened  when I was apparently taking to long with a bench. I spouted, "don't stomp your little last season Nikes at me, honey" to the laughter of him and every gay within a ten foot circle.  I'm forty and opinions don't matter.

*look how topical I am. 

Maintaining the Mean

I am not a fan of clutter. This may be part of my homosexual training in “clean surfaces.” Part of the homosexual agenda that pushes a simple and clean esthetic, and to force straights to no longer keep their toasters out on the counter, or large bowls of decorator soaps on the back of toilets.  Pushing and forcing our agenda on America. An agenda of tasteful design, simplicity in form and function. When clean design solves a functional problem as simply and elegantly as possible, the resulting form will be carried to success by the gays. 

That being said, I had a personal intervention last night…..

Yes, I am working fifty hours a week on top of going to school. I still should be able to keep my desk clean. Yet at the bottom of the pile is the box my Mac came in… over a year and half ago. And that’s the issue. When I purchase fun toys, I don’t want to part with the box. Like unwrapping and unboxing is such a high, I don’t want to just toss out the package. If it didn’t just smack of effort and crazy, I’d be one of those “unboxers” on Youtube. Those people that video the unboxing of any new electronics, and post it to YouTube. If I start, I welcome any smacks to  the head. 

So, I just keep the bags and/or boxes to hold onto the thrill of opening the new item. Well, it may also be warranty and return purposes. That doesn’t mean I must leave them on my desk so I may contemplate when I should be writing a paper on Aristotle’s philosophy on happiness in human nature (no irony there). 

Yet it does bring the reason why I still have the bag for my Coach wallet. “Happiness depends on ourselves.” Aristotle enshrines happiness as a central purpose of human life and a goal in itself. A new Coach wallet, although completely shallow in its happiness, makes me happy. Aristotle argues that virtue is achieved by maintaining the Mean, which is the balance between two excesses. I don’t depend wholly on wallets Swatches for happiness, they’re tiny treats for working fifty hours a week and going to school. I maintain the Mean. 

Now if only I could get the bags and boxes off my desk to maintain my clean desk… that’s another issue. I am not a fan of clutter. 

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 Asian Grandmother

As I approached the front door to my gym tonight, I came across an elderly Japanese woman, probably in her late nineties, with her hands extended in front of her clapping. Her hair was a little matted, jade jewelry clanked as she wiggled. She appeared to be like every Japanese grandmother I'd ever met.  At first I thought maybe she was applauding my efforts of dragging my dried up carcass to work out. As I approached her smiling face I began to think "Wow, somebody cares. Someone is glad to see me today. I can do this!!!" I was overcome with happiness as I came close and realized that the smile on her face was directed onto an imaginary spot somewhere above my head. Most likely, she was communicating with some unseen thing, or entity.

 By that point I was happy. It. No longer mattered if an ancient Asain grandmother was cheering me on. Her complete happiness sparked the flame inside of me. I worked out happy. As I left, she was still standing there. My good wishes fell on deaf ears. 

Running Non-Stop

I just might of survived mid-terms. Even after I received an email yesterday from my Ethics Professor stating that I uploaded my seven pages of quasi-halfhearted paper on Kant -V- John Locke in Pages instead of Word. Sometimes I forget to convert to a MS world. All and all, I'm still breathing. This was on top of my work getting crazy and forcing me to work way more on craziness than I like. 

That being said, I have carved out some quality athletic shoe shopping time. It's a sad addiction, I'll scope out cool shoes on the "Dudes" at the gym then go buy them at my first oppertuity. The sales clerk at my Sports Authority in Cherry Creek Mall  is now sending me personal emails on any new runners. 

I dated a guy, back in Dallas, who had his credit card on file at The Throckmorton Mining Company; I thought it was a little sad. Now I understand why he did it. 

Gotta run, there's a sale at Sports Authority.