Don't Eat Me, Mister Bear

Wednesday night on any cruise seems to always be "Lobster" night. The night when the ship's main dinning room serves up amazing lobster dinners. 

I had been looking forward to this dinner for awhile. Dressing up and having  a formal dinner with the family. My mouth watered as three large lobster tails were gracefully served in front of me. As we began our culinary masterpiece, the table of friends started to discuss the hilarious stories of attempting to cook the pinchie crustations. You know the stories, having lobster races, the screams as they get tossed into the boiling water. 

Within three bites I started to think of what I was eating. An un-lucky lobster that had his dreams and aspirations ripped from his massive and pincher like claws.  Maybe he too had dreams of completing some-sort of nephropidae type of crustacean college. Who was I to take part this this murder? 

I handed my plate to a table mate and ordered another salad. 

After telling this tale of tail to Patrick, this appeared on my cabian door...

Pool Time

I can't tell you how much I enjoy laying naked on a pool float in the middle of a gay guest house pool. I might be the only person in history that goes to Florida and does not visit the beach. I for one, think the beach is over-rated. Why get sand everywhere when you can lay in a clean pool with naked gays on lounge chairs casually masturbating. It is ironic how one can do that and complete a crossword. Multitasking at its best. 

I've discovered a couple of things; South Florida is home to most of the gay fifty year old men with chain arm-band tattoos, and there are more gay sushi restaurants then in Japan. I'm not complaining, just an observation. Who am I to judge, since landing in this stat I've only eaten chicken fingers and ranch dressing. I am now being compared to a seven year old. 

I'm enjoying the guest house, even if it has many rules. No "play" I'm the hot tub. And one must remove the "good" sheets before play. It's like staying at your aunts house. If she was running a gay guest house. 

Day One

First day of vacation. We arrived to a massive Florida style rain storm. As we pulled in to the front parking lot of the Guest House late in the evening, and listened to the voicemail from the owner stating the keys to the room were in the mailbox, I was "elected" to get out of the car and locate the room. As a drowned rat, I carried the luggage into the guest house. Officialy the vacation began. Yay! 

I set out today with a trip for the gym. God, I've missed an all- gay gyms. I worked arms, as Fuzzy worked the gym. Upon leaving, he knew every guy by name. 

Now it's time for some clothing optional pool time. I won't be posting photos. 

Florida!

Vacation time starts..... Now! 

After staying up all night packing my suitcase, then helping the homosex partner with his, I am ready to catch a plane. I'm so ready for this. 

 

Coffee Break

Let me just say, there is stress that happens before any big trip. The planning, the packing, fake 'n bake visits, and the wondering if you have enough tank-tops... It's stressful. I had attempted to start the packing process yesterday, but that process was quickly halted this morning.

In Fuzzy's sleep deprived state, he had left a half-full cup of Starbucks on his night stand. This is strictly firbidden in our house hold. This is due to past experiences when the dog has helped himself to the forgotten/forbidden fruit. 

This morning as I entered our office to toss one more item into my suitcase, I found to empty cup. In the middle of my suitcase.  Harley, the precious,  had pulled everything off the nightstand to get to the coffee. He couldn't get the lid off, so he forced his tongue into the little hole in order to get coffee out. At one point, it seems, his tongue got stuck. Hilarity ensued. As the dog chose to stand atop my suitcase to remove his tongue. The contents of the coffee is now in my suitcase. And, the dog is ramped up on caffeine.  

Book Worm

There may be only thirteen days until I leave for our massive gay vacation, and ten more work days, but there are four more school days until I’ll miss two important assignments. That means as I sit naked by the pool at our leather themed vacation guest house, my junk wont be getting sun as I will be typing away on a paper about Socrates’ conversation with Euthyphro.  Picture it, a Fort Lauderdale gay hotel; pool side…

From porn
to pedal 

“Why thank you, and your muscled hotness is amazing too” I’d say looking over the top of my Macbook, returning a complement from a former porn star turned natural grocery store owner, “could you… you know what would be really hot… is if you could define your thoughts on the ‘Devine Command Theory’?” 

For some reason, every guy in my fantasies happens to be muscled former porn stars who took their fortunes to open some kind of environmentally responsible business. Like a Colt model-turned bike shop owner, or “after several years in the frat porn genre, making his way to open a vegetarian restaurant. I guess muscled green entrepreneurs turn me on. But, that’s not important right now…

What is important is that I will be completing a five page paper on the issues and theories of Ethics while Mister Twelve-pack-turned-organic-farmer enters the cabana next door. 

Damn you, Epicurus!!!! Your theory on enjoyment of life is wrecking my theory of getting laid by an ex-Sean Cody  star. 

Tumble For Me

Hey! Have you checked out my Tumblr page?

NTSSB.Tumblr.com


Oh... It's not safe for work.  At all. 

Pre-Birthday

Next Tuesday is my fortieth Birthday. Again. In fact, I will be turning forty for the third time. It is all in my plan to only age by fives from now on. I will be forty until I turn forty-five, then it will be forty-five for five years until I celebrate fifty. This really isn’t a vanity issue, because I am already finding this...

After flirting will an amazingly hot guy I re-read his Scruff profile. That’s when I saw the “Age limit is 35” sign posted to the front door. Remember that Snoopy cartoon where Snoopy is attempting to travel across country and faces anti-dog segregation in public spaces? I thought that was just an allegory for racism. Now I know how people facing this type of overt segregationist views felt.  Okay, not really. But, the blood did stop pumping from my over thirty-five year old heart for a bit. 

It is really that in this day and age I cannot be bothered going to every social media site and changing my age. It took my like ten minutes to remember my Big Muscle Bear.com password, just to change my ten year old photo to a five year old photo. At least now I’m not sporting Z. Cavericci. jeans. So, if you ask me my age, just add up to four years. And know that I am aging gracefully. 

Three Weeks

It's just three weeks until the big gay criuse. This means my dietary intake has been reduced to lettuce and dust. Well, and coffee.

I decided to buy one of those "motivational" swimsuits. The type that I'll never really be able to look good wearing, yet I walk by five times a day, as it sits atop my dresser mocking me. "I will let the Caribbean sun see you, Speedo! I will" I just need to eat as if I was Karen Carpenter. 

*swimsuit not representative
 of how Steve will look.  

In my food deprived state, I have realized how un-prepared I am for this trip. Other than my speedo. Last night, I realized The reservation I made for a rental car for Fort Lauderdale was promptly deleted by me. I had zero information in regaurd to the reservation. Thankfully I had used my credit card points to pay for it, so I called the helpful credit card elves to find it for me. Yay. 

If you need me for the next three weeks, I'll be at the gym. I'll be the one with a trail of empty Slim-Fast cans behind me and a glazed-over pre-cruise lack of carbs pallor.

Steve of the Forest

I'm finding that I am spending some of my new year the same way I spent 2013; wandering around the  big box athletic/sports stores. There seems to be an endless supply of Under Armour base layer or Nike Dry-Fit gear that I NEED to buy.  Daddy needs new Asics Gel-Nimbus. 

It was during one of these trips recently that I stumbled upon a great deal.  50% off a new Coleman tent. Not since the camping disaster of '07 where a river began to flow through my old tent, have I had the desire to own a dome of nylon and fiberglass. As I glazed upon the happy sport lesbians on the bag, so conTENT to sit around in fleece, drinking hot chocolate from tin cups, and sharing their womanly feelings as they soak-up the Great Outdoors, I realized that I needed to return to the wilderness. Steve of the Forest! 

So I bought a tent in January. It won't be long before I load up and move out to the Rocky Mountains that mock me with their beauty every day on my commute to work. Now I say "look out mountains! I going to come sleep inside you!"

Hamlet's Happy Outlook

Happy 2014. 

Yes, I did start out this year with a major part of the circle of friends we call family slipping skin and tearing away this mortal coil. I’m attempting to see it as how lucky she is to be able to toss away the troubles of daily life and the strife. In these times, as in most changes in my life I turn to the "To be, or not to be" monologue in Shakespeare's Hamlet. As he was a righteous dude. 

As I drove to work last Thursday, a police car, the officer holding up a radar gun directly at me, so much so that I could see how he was squinting, pegged me going fifteen over the limit. At least I thought so, until I kept driving and he didn’t move. Wheeeeew. On Sunday, the highway was completely frozen-over when a pick-up truck traveling in front of me started to fishtail. After completing two 360 degree spins the truck head straight for me. Inches from my hood, he strangely started to spin the other way. 

Yeah, it’s going to be a good year. Considering it’s only five weeks and two days until the big gay cruise. And, most importantly in my world, the gym has not been overwrought with resolution makers. Wheeeeew.

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” 

― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Bunny Art

Faith Ranoli

Today, I lost a friend. 

Ranoli, a larger than life lesbian, ghost hunter, home inspector, was the first person to help me become that man that I am today. 

When I was fresh out of high school and new to living on my own, the only thing I knew about the gay community was sex. This first couple of years out on my own and alone was very tough. I was adrift in a new world away from the structure of the church or family and in a sea of nonchalant fucking, drugs and drinking. Tired of this drift, I somehow ended up terrified on the front steps of a church deciding to go in and join the new gay and lesbian choir forming in Denver. That night was when I met Ranoli, who saw the terror in my eyes, got me to calm down and walk into the rehearsal room. This made me realize for the first time that it isn’t just that we sleep with the same sex that makes up our community. 

As she is one of my mentors in life I listened intently to her story of how she became involved in the paranormal, her views on life, and ideas on how to truly be happy in this world. She even officiated my past commitment ceremony. I always love how she was nonjudgmental, and spoke to her story and journey without spewing to the established dogma. 

My world got a little darker today. 

Resolutions 2014

Today brings a lot of posts on Social Media in regard to “Resolutions.” mostly how people are not making resolutions as they are considered a bad idea. That they don’t last and are “unattainable.” This makes me think that maybe it’s more of a reflection on the person declaring the uselessness of resolutions more than the concept. 

I, for one, like resolutions. They are a plan you develop with your self. A road map on the personal goal you want to accomplish. Last year I stated:

 “I resolve to make my Apollo’s Belt pop. You know, Apollo’s Belt, also known as the “Brad Pitt muscle.”

And although I don’t have a fully functioning Apollo’s belt, I did make major strides in that area. I began to focus on this goal, and I’m on my way seeing the shaping and growing of this muscle group. So even if resolutions take longer than you hope, goals are important. 

So, I hope that you set resolutions this New Years Day. Not as lofty dreams, but goals you make with your self. Then hold yourself accountable to achieving them. 

My first resolution? Go to a local diner, Pete’s Kitchen and have a Breakfast Burrito Supreme. For me, this symbolizes the essence of having a good time, stemming from my teens and twenties when I spent way too much time at this diner. This act is more of a reminder to stop and enjoy my life.  After that? Get around to buying a Truck, not let dust settle on my bike, and to grow a Hipster beard just in time for the fad to end.  

Here are my blogged resolutions from the past: 

2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012

New Years Eve

Happy New Years Eve! I just wanted to take some time on this last day of 2013:

Thank you for making this year a good blogging year. Without getting all sappy, thank you. I'd totally give you one of those bro hugs right now.

I hope 2014 is great to you, if not let me know and I'll kick its ass just for you. But, I'm sure it will be great. I soon will be heading out to the New Years Eve celebration with complete optimism.
Enjoy 2014; I’m sure it will be kind to you.

Andrew and His Banner Adds

So, ugg. No Uggs for Christmas. Which solidifies the thought that certain people in my household (along with English speaking humanity) never read my blog.  My witty hints had gone unnoticed. I cannot complain; however, because Santa in all his velvet covered silver bear sexiness did stop at the Apple store and pick me up an iPad. It wont help my collegiate backpack shrouded style as I walk down the pavement on my way to coffee, but once I’m in the gay coffee shop I can read to my hearts content on my sexy and glossy Apple product. 

I have quickly encountered a problem on my new e-reader.  I have some-sort of computer virus that quickly spread to my computer as well. A complex problem that only affects gay users of the Internet. Andrew Christian adds. Upon my first visit the Official Andrew Christian Men’s underwear website these banner adds have now found there way to every site I visit. Just one on-line shopping trip, and now he thinks we’re dating. Stocking me in some creepy banner advertisement kind of way. This morning I was on a website that had four places for adds. All four were filled with eight-packed sporting quasi-ethnic hip-hugger wearing panty clad hotties. 

If you were around in the ‘ol start up days of America On Line (AOL) there was a time they attempted to cram their “start up discs” in to every crevice in the universe. Opening your mail box weekly meant ten of the CDs would fall out onto your feet. If your excavate any landfill in America, there will be a solid layer of blue and yellow AOL mailers in the late 90’s and early 00’s. For the gays, Andrew Christian underwear adds are the new AOL propaganda.  One late night visit just to “shop for underwear” and you’re assaulted via banner adds for the remains of your days with incredibly and impossibly hot, sexy and smoldering, beautiful males. Banner adds that force you to click on them and to spent hours examining the curve of these sexy lads amazing abs. Leering at their abdominal region, and those perfectly plump rectus abdomen muscles and the external obliques that form a line at the edge of massive abdominal muscles that point straight to their lower pelvis.... uh... where was I?

Yeah. I got an iPad for Christmas. And I use it to shop for underwear. 

Crunch-a-tize Me

As I sat down to enjoy my Sunday morning bowl of serial, I started to wonder if the Cap'n real name is spelled with an apostrophe. If on his drivers license it reads "Cap'n or Captain."  Turns out, his full name is Horatio Magellan Crunch.

Either way he spells it, my research discovered that The Wall Street journal reported that the number of stripes on his uniform indicate a rank of Commander and not Cap'n. They reported that the U.S. Navy had no record of Crunch and that NCIS was investigating him for impersonating a naval officer.

The old queen. 

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. 

The Lineage

Sometimes I’m asked how I got my independent streak. The ability to be an individual and, a little far out into wacky land. To face into the wind. Beat my own drum. Then, I open up Facebook and see pictures like this one....

Yeah, you can guess which person is my sister. This example photo was taken during her works Ugly Sweater Contest. I always answer that it’s a family trait. 

Our strong individualistic characters are due to the fact that we have a strong English family line heading back to 1622 in Somerset, England. Our ancestors were a strong family that united to stand their ground and defied the local government.  Even when the neighboring government was not really asking them anything. 

This is why our families coat of arms has the Latin saying, “factum est, usque non est super” It is not done until it is over done.

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.” 

Hotel Room Portraits

As I over-researched the perfect place on vacation in February, I stumbled upon an amazing photographer's collection. I have a thing for photography sites. Years of staying in hotels around the world this gay couple has documented their lives. This series has blown me away. Please check out Richard Renaldi's  Hotel Room Portraits.

Hotel Room Portraits

Learn more about Richard Renaldi




*Photo used without authorization or approval. Claim no rights. 

Stevie's Choice

I am glad to say that I have survived this semester of school. Now it’s time to relax and play, “school boy on winter break.” I’m very excited. 

As I’m on winter break, I have time to finally complete some over-due chores. This morning re-ignited a debate in the house. Where to stay the three days before the cruise in February. Or, what gay B&B shall we flop at for three days over Valentine’s Day. As you no-doubtfully are aware, I’m a gay ghetto gay. Meaning, if given the choice in life, I would love to live in the center of a gay neighborhood. Hence the choosing of vacationing a couple of days early in Fort Lauderdale verses Miami before our cruise on the 15th. To enjoy Fort Lauderdale’s gay village. 

The Cabanas

Leather Inn

 Two Guest houses top the list, one The Cabanas Guesthouse and Spa lives up to its name and has a gay men’s spa. Complete with hot stone massage. The clothing optional pool is also a nice, and necessary benefit. The other B&B has a clothing optional pool as well. It’s a... leather themed guest house called the Inn Leather. Seriously. The glossy brochure highlights a real leather sling in every room. Patrick suggested I inquire if they are Corinthian leather. “Our slings are covered in a fine Corinthian leather.”  Well, it will be over Valentine’s Day... Nothing says “I love you’ like an in-room sling. Whilst the Spa is nifty, the Corinthian (as we’ll now call it) also has free WiFi, and a better spread for breakfast... for me.

With either choice there is only 9 weeks until I get to recline next to a pool. All naked. 

Sexy Men and Their Cat Twins

Click here: 

See These Sexy Men and Their Cat Twins in Hilariously Hot Photo Series

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!”

Burn Out

Next Monday is my last day of class for the fall semester.  One more paper is due, then I'm done until late January.  There's only one problem. I can't finish my last paper. I just can't do it. 

My sociology class had a three page paper due every-other week all semester long. On the down week, one page "reading notes" were due. That means every week sine September I've done nothing with my free time but write about how horrible white men have screwed up this country. 

I AM. SPENT.  

The last paper is a five pager on basically the same topic. "Why I hate white heterosexuals." Okay, not really, but close. I have three pages done. The same three pages I've been staring at for awhile. Tonight I headed to Starbucks to finish. Done, complete! That way I'll have the weekend to relax. I successfully completed one paragraph. One.  The burnout is epic.  

I spent an hour shopping online for a used Jeep Cherokee Overland edition, chatted with Patrick, and continued to search for a gay B&B in Miami. None of which helped me finish my paper.  The one that's due on Monday. The one I'll be working on over the weekend instead of relaxing. 

Nothing But Net

If you follow my non sequiturs elsewhere on the web, you would have noticed that I have started going to the gym after midnight. This is for several reasons: I’m up anyway, the gym is empty and I don’t have to wait of equipment, but mostly it is due to my worsening Agoraphobia, or Anthropophobia. It is easier to have the entire gym to myself in the middle of the night. 

A couple of weeks back I stepped into the empty basketball court, just to get a drink of water. As I paused to wipe my chin I noticed the basketball court was completely flooded with light. A sense of emptiness was overwhelming as it usually was filled to capacity with guys at various stages of shooting hoops. That night it was deserted. The smell of the hardwood, along with the strange buzz left-over from high school gym class hung in the air.  I get a strange feeling on basketball courts. A feeling of wanting to be in control, wanting the mastery of the wood and colorful lines, the enjoyment and comradeship of competition. Yet, as I stood next to the water fountain, the feeling of eighth grade gym class washed over me. The same feeling I would get from sitting in the CEO chair in a board room, hosting a dinner party, or being in front of a naked woman. A feeling of not understanding what should happen. A feeling that everyone around me knows the natural chain of events (enjoys them in fact) but hasn’t let me into the circle. 

As I turned to leave the uncomfortable environment, I noticed a basket ball over in the corner.... Without thinking I went over and picked it up. I attempted to dribble. I wasn’t that bad. Until I hit my shoe. I walked out in front of the basket. All the technique I had ever learned was from Mr. Johnson’s gym class during the First Bush administration. 

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Missed. 
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Not even close. 
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Missed. 
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Hit the rim.

I left the court, and turned in the ball to the front desk as if I had a great game with my boys. The next night I found myself back on the wood. 

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Not even close.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Hit the rim.

I had watched a dozen YouTube videos. I took notes on finding my aim...

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Hit the rim.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.

I squealed. As I heard the squee bounce off the gym walls the glass court door opened and in walked a couple of guys talking to me in Greek about a “pick up” game. I pretended I was a deaf-mute and ran out of the court like a chunky eight year old girl running home, after the mean girls would not let her play Barbies. I left the ball on the wood.

The next night. I stood with fortitude. I announced to the empty gym, “This is Sparta!” 

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.

Six Years of Stevie B.

Today marks the sixth anniversary for the Nice To See Stevie B. blog.  Six years of teenage girl angst. 

Way back in 2007 Apple Introduced the iPhone, The Final Harry Potter book is published, the movie 300: A Love Story was a hit at the box office, and An Inconvenient Truth won an Oscar for best documentary. On November 11th I posted my very first blog entry. 

My pre-iPhone, 2007 selfie

It is ironic that I started to blog because I so loved, and fatefully followed gay bloggers that are now long gone. Disappeared into the ether of gay bloggerness. So let us mark today as six years of pathologically narcissistic Stevie B rambling on about the common Homo in its natural environment. 

I do have to mark the occasion by saying that these years have been truly amazing. The blog has facilitated in me meet amazing fellow bloggers, to bond and make great friends, and help in me expressing my pent-up energy of warped imagination. 

In honor of that first blog entry I thought I repost it in all its teenage girl diary angst. God, I’m a drama queen.

November11th, 2007 

Road Trip

So, I'm leaving on a road trip tomorrow to take my partner of four years to New York. He's moving to Brooklyn. This is something that he's always wanted; all his friends have ended up in the city. I'm trying to be supportive, trying to keep his spirits up and keep him focused on what a great thing this will be. Yet, he is leaving his job, selling his car and moving to a strange city. He'll finally get to live in the city with all of his friends and close to all the theater and museums that he loves. 

It just hit me about an hour ago that my lover/partner and friend is leaving. He had been my very closest friend through the years since we met in Dallas, and I always knew that he wanted to live in a bigger city, Dallas was too small and Denver was really too small. I know that living in NY will be the very best thing that could possibly happen to him. So when you know that a friend wants something badly you just help out however you can. I don't need this to be a downer but suddenly I'm really pissed and sad. When you sleep next to someone for all these years then suddenly they’re gone. It hurts my head. 

We're driving his moving van through to Brooklyn, NY and I've mapped out all the fast food places I want to stop and eat. Runza, Steak and Shake, and the best; White Castle. Although I'm pissed that there is not a single Jack n the Box on the way but, I do love me some White Castle. Leave it to me to be dumped by a guy, help him move across the country to get away from me, then be excited about fast food joints along the way. 

The Dome

No. Not the television show.  In real life they are building the worlds largest dome....

Extra nerd points if you know why.

*photo credit and answer here.

Mid-night at the Gym

Sometimes people ask me, when finding out that I prefer to workout in the middle of the night, why I do it. Act like a nocturnal gym rat. A plate-pusher of the night. 

Well, to night was a perfect example. The decline bench, when used correctly, has one lying on one's back with the head steeply angled lower than the legs. I use this bench to do crunches. Sit-ups, but with my feet hooked onto a bar high above my head. My goal is to do so many crunches that I am to physically to tired to get off the bench without effort.  

Tonight I achieved my goal. Releasing my feet I rolled onto the floor. Not realizing (at first) that my gym shorts had caught on the bench. As I stood up I was sans pantalones. My iPod dangled from my ear buds. Mr. Floppy just dangled. No underwear, no gym shorts. Just nakedness from my sweaty tee-shirt down.

As I started to untangle my shorts from my gym shoes, I looked around. Know one was around to see my... Furry butted faux pas. 

And that, folks is why I workout in the middle of the night. 

5 Foods That Still Have Trans Fats -- But Won't For Long

http://huff.to/1bdMD1y

Although The U.S. Food and Drug Administration plans to officially ban trans fats, they're still out there. Another reason not to eat French fries.