Twenty Thousand Years Later

Okay, maybe it hasn’t been exactly twenty thousand years. Maybe it’s closer to twenty-three years since I revisited this block on Downing Street between Ninth and Tenth.  Still, clearly time has marched forward. Not for the street, but the subject in the photo. 

Biking

I really want to ride my bicycle.


I have this thought every time I pass my well neglected bike, as it sits lonely on the front porch. Don’t get me wrong, I do ride my bike quite a bit. It really is more about going for a ride with someone else.

At one time Denver, CO. had a full page in its gay newspaper dedicated to GLBT social clubs. If you were a transgendered lesbian that enjoyed crock-pot cookery, there was a social club for you. During this heyday of social networking, I believe there were no less than three gay men’s bicycle clubs. One for the guys who thought Kevin Bacon was hot and yearned to race, one for the lovely ladies of transgenderedness, and one for… my style of biking.

My "style" is that I just want to put on some Lycra, my helmet adorned in the same graphics as a 1970’s shag-wagon, and my fingerless gloves to peddle around Cherry Creek. Is that too much to ask?

I guess I need to start networking.

Gym Time

I finally found my "real" gym in the last month. A gym without all the trappings. No cardio queens, no angry Moms pushing past on their way to a "stretch and fit" class. Just hard working dudes pushing plates. The gym didn't even have air-conditioning, it was truly a hard core black iron gym.

This gym is the type of place where I didn't have to hear from the other half that I wasn't stopping to gossip and chat with the muscle queens.

"Joe told me you haven't been talking with him at the gym?" I heard on several occasions. This kind of social hair salon setting made me glad I found a working class, blue collar gym.

With the testosteronieness of this gym, I even rediscovered and found it easily to ramp up my work outs. I wanted to push past my "comfort zone" and perform at the level of the muscle heads flipping tracker tires in the parking lot.

I was feeling pretty damn happy for my self. Well, until yesterday when I read the noticed taped to the front door. The one with the really bad grammar explaining that the gym was either being clothed at the end of the moth, or that it was closing at the end of the month.

I found out the gym was closing.

Bummer. I guess it's back to 24 hour fitness for me. Plenty of time to stop and chit-chat with the gays.

Super Sunday

Just thought I share a Super photo.

Under Where?

As part of my daily work life I have quite a lot of Skype conversations. I went from avoiding the whole “video chat” thing to having this as part of my daily Habitrail. Yesterday was no different, Two Skype calls with clients, and one with based on interviewing someone for a new position.


It seems that I have lost my aversion to video conferencing, and it is as easy as someone coming into my office for a conversation. You talk business, and then chat about your day and the weather. Yesterday, after my interview with the perspective new employee, he mentioned that I must be ready to go to the gym.

“Sure” I stated.

“Well, it seems you’re ready to head out to the gym, your gym bag is at the ready.”

Wondering why he knew about my gym bag, tossed behind my desk, I finally focused on my picture in the video chat window. Yup. There was my bag on the video. Completely open with my Under Armour briefs in full display.

I pretty much displayed my undies to clients all day long.

System of a Down

Everyday I get into my car and plug my iPhone into its swanky console iPod connector. When I do this automatic and mindless task, akin to clicking the coffee pot on as I head out to walk the dog every morning, it is without thought or measure.  When I combine my phone and my car together the same thing happens every time, and has for close to three years.  The hard driven beats of System of a Down (SOAD) start to blare. Loudly. 

I’ve become so familiar with my music beginning automatically that I have a pavlovian response of clicking the satellite radio button and finding something good to entertain me on Sirius radio.  This action happens every time use my car, for three non-stop years. Until, strangely yesterday morning when I clicked my iPhone into its tiny holster, and when the driving guitars and hypnotic vocals of Serj Tankian, the lead singer of this alternative heavy metal band started, my automatic response failed. I sat there listening to this bands proprietary song, as it moved forward I was moved backward.

I received Toxicity, System of a Down’s first major release as a present from my Ex Dalton, right after September 11, 2001.  We took the CD on our first road trip. A black Dodge Ram driving across west Texas in the middle of the night.  Two men hand in hand.  September 11 fresh on our minds. We listened to the album over and over as night covered the Texas landscape. The heat of night trying to force itself into the cab of the truck. We didn’t know our future. We barely knew each other.

We spent a week in Santa Fe. Getting to know each other.

There is no other reason why this album starts when I connect my iPhone other than the first song starting with an “A”

NTSSB.COM

Sometimes I feel downright cleaver. Like when the female Prostitute approached me on the street the other day, my quick response of “Lady I’m wearing a yellow bow-tie! That should signal to you that I’m very gay!” It helped my ego that she looked disappointed. I spent two days feeling quite smug about my quick sarcastic response.


Today I have spent feeling like a dunce. I didn’t handle the emails warning me that my domain name, NTSSB.com was up for renewal very well. I ignored the “This domain name is about to expire” emails because originally it was registered through GoDaddy.com, and sense we all know what a bunch of Douche Bags they are, I didn’t reply. I planned on just transferring to a new company.

I put it off.

The next I did think about it was when Patrick mentioned that my NTSSB site was dead. Well, if he’s upset then I need to act. The last thing I want is for him to pull quarters out of his ass and chucking them at me. Quickly I went to register the precious name, keeping in mind that nicetoseestevieb.com and nicetoseestevieb.blogspot are humming right along… or else you wouldn’t be reading this…

This is about the time I began to learn the shady world of name registering. If you let a domain expire the registrar will then charge you $98 bucks. Just to renew it. I think they call it an idiot tax. The only other choice is to let NTSSB fall from grace and when it comes open to the public I can re-register it for $20 bucks. IF someone else doesn’t do it first; like it’s a big flipping deal.

This is an open apology to anyone who has missed my not-so-subtle sarcastic wit in the last couple weeks due to the NTSSB domain not redirecting to my BlogSpot address. I won’t be spending $98 smackers on redirecting you. But, here’s what you missed.

I ran.

I shopped for a new fridge.

I sat in the grass.

I’m an ENTJ.

It kicks like a sleep twitch.

Mystery Date

I'd like to ask your opinion. I'm torn between the fact that I might be losing my memory, I'm just over worked, or just way too polite for my own good.

Last night I made dinner plans with a friend for next Thursday. I assume it was a friend; although, I haven't a clue who it was. No idea. Now, maybe I should of remembered. Maybe I should of texted, "BTW who the hell is this? Either choice would of been better then re-reading my texts with an "Oh! Crap!" look on my face.

I guess it will be a surprise next Thursday. Like a mystery date!

The Grass is Greener

It’s funny how we can miss out on personal time. That quality “me” time that is so important for staying centered in this world. With priorities and commitments capturing our time, it is hard to unplug.  The simple act of running away, even if it is for just a couple of hours.

This thought struck me yesterday when I started out for a morning run, and couldn’t remember that last time I ran. My knees couldn’t remember either. Like chunks of rust falling off of an unused piece of ancient machinery, my body slowly began to move slowly down the running path. 

With road trips, houseguests, summer events, and the occasional household appliance catastrophe, the time to head over to Cheesmen Park and open up my personal sacred time had been shoved to the side. The funny part was that my body made me completely aware of my lack of running time. Yes, my knees creaked and my ankles burned, yet it was more the non-ability to shut off the business side of my brain. It was somewhere around the two mile mark when I stopped thinking about emails. At mile three I stopped beating myself up for not blogging enough. By mile four was when Steve returned. The Steve that doesn’t have “commitments” or “obligations” but instead enjoys the particular shade of green that the grass in Cheesmen offers.

You might not even really realize that you are not doing the things that make you truly happy. I implore you to stop and ask, “What do I love to do? Why am I not doing it?”

Cool Spot

My eyes opened to find the other half standing beside the bed staring directly at me. As my vision and my mind began to clear I could tell he was saying something. Since it was morning of our six year anniversary, I looked down his body to find the tray of breakfast and piping hot coffee. He has never brought me a breakfast tray in the entire six years we’ve been together, so it’s strange that I looked for this. As I came around, I focused on the warm anniversary morning greeting he was exhorting to me.


“The refrigerator is dead! Everything in the freezer is ruined.”

He turned and marched from the room to let me process the death that has befallen our house.

After much caucusing between the two of us and the dog as we stood over the corpse of our 10 year old Kenmore, it was decided that we had to go appliance shopping. This is when I returned to my theory that domesticity isn't pretty. You just might spend your anniversaries driving from massive appliance store to massive appliance store in hopes to find a great deal.

“Ok, so we need ice and water through the door” I said after the third store.

“Yes, but we’re to the point in our lives that we deserve a really nice fridge. So, freezer on the bottom and French doors.” My spendy partner said as he attempted to sell me on the 3,000 stainless models.

As I walked down the endless variety of ice boxes, I couldn’t help thinking of Scruff. There were things to consider: Bottom mount. Top mount. Side by Side. Dear God, who knew there would be so many choices just to keep my OJ cool.

“This will be our anniversary present to us” actually fell from my dear man’s lips as the salesperson attempted to ring us up. “Oooooo, like a trip to London, yet better. And colder. And a fridge. Without us leaving the house.” I said to the cashier as she attempted to sell us an extended warranty.

We decided on a nice black Kenmore Side by Side. It has ice and water on the door, because we’re fancy, yet not pretentious enough to have French doors on our fridge. I’m excited to take vacation photos of it, because… well it’s my summer vacation. And my anniversary present.

Alan Turing

When asked who my heroes are, I always start with Alan Turing.

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Turing

The Center

Every year at Denver’s Pride Celebration I have an amazing time. Hanging out with close friends as we watch the parade of colorful floats, groups, and utter craziness go by, heading for the Civic Center Park in the heart of downtown. This is followed by wandering around the massive event filled with vender booths, clubs, and fattening food and beer.

Every year, since my first Pride Celebration back in ’89 I also get a ping of guilt. This is because every year since I first matched down the parade route in cut-off Z Cavaricci jeans, I really thought I needed to volunteer for the event. The celebration only happens once a year and is hosted by Denver’s LGBT community center. Every year I think to myself, I really want to do something to help The Center. I’ve gone so far as sign up for the volunteer orientation. Somehow, I made excuses to NOT step up and become a volunteer.

My excuses are lame. I have free time. I want to get involved.

My good intentions have made no progress.

This is why I must be writing about it here. It has prompted me click on the sign-up for information on the next volunteer orientation. If you live in the Denver area, I encourage you to join me. Click here. If you don’t live in the Denver area, I encourage you to harass me until I attend one of the classes. It’s the only way I’ll learn.

Lunch Time

Starting out for lunch today brought me nothing but giggles.

My workplace is in the heart of Denver's hip and trendy Capital Hill neighborhood. It's a place I know very well. Right out of high school, my first apartment was in this gay, counter-culture area  next to the downtown business center.

As I walked down the sidewalk I found myself front of the first gay bar I ever fightenedly walked into, so many centuries ago. I snickered that it's now a hipster bar. Out front was a gaggle of young gay kids killing time. I made my way through the gang, just a forty year old in a suit. The conversation I heard could of been from the days that I hung out in front of this stoop. One of having nothing to do, not enough money, and why there so many old men in suits pushing past them.

I wanted to stop and inform them that they're nothing new. They didn't invent "being cool." I over styled my hair, wore Daisy Dukes, and sported tiny T-shirts to highlight my wash board abs too. And did it better.

Instead I straightened my tie, winked at the smoking hot twenty-one year old checking me out, and thought about the last twenty-two years.

Good Friends

Sunday afternoons during the summer mean warm long shadows as the Sun takes its sweet time to set. For me it means heading over to our local bear bar for Beer Bust. A long standing tradition of beers, beards, and buds. You can tell the beer bust is in high season by the metal cattle fencing surrounding the bar’s parking lot turned play space for the bears, otters, and other animal themed male homosexuals.

This really is the time to connect with old friends. I get to have a couple quality hours without the pressure of everyday life; it’s less about hanging out in a bar and more about hanging out with friends. Old and new.

This last Sunday I had the chance to spend time chatting with a good friend I met way back in 2004 when I first moved back to Denver. I consider him a long-time bud. We were given some time to catch up on our lives, flirt a little, and generally spend time enjoying each other’s company. Please don’t ask me his name. I can’t remember.

Moving from Dallas to Denver was pretty traumatic. Leaving the gay ghetto, they had to peel my fingers from the door jamb of my beloved gay gym. When settled in Denver the first thing I did was to sign up at Denver’s small gay club, Broadway Bodyworks. This helped the decompression to a city without a centralized gay neighborhood. Around this time was when I met ___. We started to match our workout times to get more gym hangout time. We have been great buds ever since. Well, all but that small part where he greets me with “Hey! Steve! How’s it going?” And I once again, have to stumble over saying hey…. handsome. It’s been 8 years, how frickin horrible is it that I can’t remember his name.

Yes, I have tried all the games of introducing him to other friends, yet it seems that his name never comes up. “This is my good friend________. We’ve known each other since ’04.”

Maybe I should ask him to friend me on Facebook?

You Go

Well, get her.

My Theme This Week...

ENTJ

All this week I'm in a training seminar. It's training so I can be a Practitioner of the Myers-Briggs personality test. I find this funny because I am so anti personality test as part of my nature.

If you don't know this structured test it lumps you into four defined groups, assigned a letter, to be formed into an acronym. I'm sure you've heard at parties, "oh... I'm a INFP" and everyone nods like they know what the heck that means. Well, I'm now trained to explain what the letters mean. Good times.

The funny part of this training is my perceptions. If asked, I'd say I was a feeling, introvert. With all this testing, I've come to terms that I'm very extroverted. And I'm all Judging, not what I hoped, a touchy-feely guy.

Guess this stuff works. So my intuition tells me.

Don't Ask About Carter's Memorial Day

Happy Memorial Day for my US centric friends. This is the day that the US remembers its war dead. Today my thoughts move to long gone loved ones and thank them for their sacrifice. As they died in their service to the US, way before the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, I wonder what they would think of the changes in what it means to serve, as they didn't get that honor.

My Memorial Day will start with a long run. It’s been two years since I committed myself to running. Do more than talk about good health, but actually put puma to pavement.

I have found that it also gives me a new mindset, and a new outlook on things rolling around in my head. It’s funny how something as easy as putting on running shoes and just moving forward down the path could help me… move forward down the path.

“Everyone who has run knows that it’s most important value is in removing tension and allowing a release from whatever other cares the day may bring.” – Jimmy Carter

It seems that no matter what you do in life there is a President Carter quote to back it up with. But, then again I probably think about Jimmy Carter too much.

I wonder if there's a Carter quote on Don't Ask, Don't Tell? I bet there is.

I should go for a run now, fill my brain with my iPod and stop obsessing over Jimmy Carter, being able to honestly serve in the US military, and Memorial Day.

Somebody That I Used to Know

Team work!

Olympians

This last weekend was my niece’s graduation from high school. Saturday night was the big graduation party at my sister’s house. The house, festooned in black and orange looked like a tasteful Halloween party. It took me awhile to calculate that the “fighting Olympians” have the black and orange as their signature colors.

My niece is an out going and fun/smart girl. She lettered in Theater, just like her uncle. This means that after four years of being a theater nerd, she is friends with every gay black and orange covered Olympian.  All of which were bouncing around the big graduation party.

I find this amazing. The fact that my niece has a circle of gay best friends, yet more importantly that they are all out of the closet and living honest lives. It appeared to be just no big deal, a normal group of kids. I immediately called my Ex/Best Friend to relay the scene. Both Dalton and I had struggled greatly through our high school years. Closeted and repressed as we found our only refuge in the Theater Club during our high school years.  I relayed the extraordinary idea that guys now come out of the closet in their freshman year and are considered “cool.”

What is cool is the fact that kids are having a completely different childhood to my generation. Their teenage years are filled with dating, having fun, and just being normal. They are now getting teased for average stuff like having dorky sneakers or for wearing glasses, not for who they are down to their very soul.  

Kicks Like Sleep Twitch

It has been days since my iPod randomly played The Editors Papillon. I've been running ever since. 





It really does kick like a sleep twitch. 

Dog Time

For the last month, I have set my alarm clock for 6am. For the last month, my dog has his set for 5:15am.

Starting at 5:15:03 the Shar-pei I adore has decided that morning walk time begins with a stroll up the bed and onto my chest. I will suddenly feel a pressure on my chest, then a wet sensation on my eye. This comes from a wet nose being inserted into my cornea.

I still set the alarm clock every night in the outside chance that Mr.Furry decides to take a holiday. That maybe I'll get to "sleep in" until six. I guess I'd miss that happy feeling of not wiping sleep from my eyes, but dog drool.

I really shouldn't complain, I do enjoy our sunrise walks. Just me and the dog.

Cory Hart

On Sunday afternoon I did something I hadn’t done in years. I cruised down the isles of my favorite used record/CD store. This is when it hit me; I hadn’t hung out at “my” music store in millennia.

The morning host of satellite radio’s GLBT channel informed me last week that the weekend fell on “Record Store Day.” This is a day to celebrate independent record stores across the world. On this day and age, with the huge conglomerate music stores long vaporized, we seem to have only these smart and passionate, independent music stores. This niche market is the only choice other than the streamlined online purchasing of your favorite tunes. 

As I flipped through the racks of aging CDs I couldn’t help thinking how long it had been since I had graced a music store. I became an iTunes zombie immediately after a birthday present of my first iPod, way back in 2004. Since then, the plastic jewels cases filled with artist’s presentations have vanished from my world. The convenience of clicking “Buy” took away this simple, yet religious act of digging through the racks of albums, making me forget how the act was incredibly cathartic.

Standing in the musty air of music’s ancient temple, I thought back to my first album. The very first record I ever bought was Cory Hart’s second album, Boy in the Box. I had just moved to Houston, Texas and discovered a record store in Houston’s Galleria Mall.  The attempts to hide the album from my Mom led to her think it was satanic “devil worship” music. Little did she know, the attempt to hide album was because I was desperately in love with Cory Hart and was convinced the 3^rd track “Never Surrender” was written just for me. Never Surrender was Cory’s attempt to convince me that it was okay to be gay. That I should never surrender; soon I would be out on my own with the freedoms that would go along with being an adult.

Of course, that was not the case. Cory was just a Canadian musician, who still to this day produces music with his wife. He will never know how he got me through my freshmen year of high school. Yet, discovering a scratched-up jewel case with his sneer looking back at me, I asked him. Does that even matter?  He gave me my theme song, not just for a Polo and acne covered freshman, but really for life.

I sat in my bedroom last night, listening again to Cory Hart’s album.

Honeypot

Mumbai Irony

Today is my last day of class before summer break. Two finials, and two papers to turn in and I am done. The feeling of excitement is overwhelming.

The finals (knock on wood) will be a piece of delicious cake. One hundred questions about Literature’s impact on modern writing in my American lit. class, and one hundred questions on creative writing sentence structure. Which, if my professor read this blog, I just might fail. 

Last night, confident that I had completed my two term papers early, I went to print my masterpieces.  Click-whirl-click.  I heard my printer go through its start-up noises. Then… nothing. Thinking I was out of paper, I investigated. My happy little printer was flashing something on its screen. “Printer head fail!” It screamed. “Oh, well… my ink must be out. After a trip to the Uber-Target I gladly installed fifty bucks worth of ink. As I closed the lid, it stated, “printer head fail!” Thus began two hours of downloading new updates from the website, speaking to an adorable young man named “Keith” from Mumbai, and making the sign of the cross over my non-compliant/non-Christian printer. After all of that, “Printer head fail!”

Keith seemed sympathetic to my desperate need to print my a five page paper based on Hamlet’s Ophelia descending into madness, yet didn’t comprehend my analogies that my printer was now, my Hamlet. I even quoted Ophelia’s death monologue to Keith, as my Lexmark printer was my own personal Hamlet. Driving me mad.

As a non sequitur, may I make it known that you meet the most interesting people at Kinko’s around midnight. God I hope that “non sequitur” is on my finial exam. Along with irony. 

All Men can be Heroes

Wooly Steve

I just might have a new addiction. After my addiction to Fabergé egg/door stops collection that is.

On Sunday, I found myself back at my dealer. I said I would not walk in the front door, then it was to "only look" but I knew. I knew I needed the rush of standing on that tiny platform as an Ukrainian man took chalk to my nether regions.

There is a certain rush you only get from buying a new suit.

You can mix the gitty-glee of "balls to the wall"* shopping spree, with the manliest pursuit of being surrounded by wool. Add in the elderly gentlemen that want nothing more than shove a tape measure up your bum, and you have manly ecstasy.

As I stood there, incased in wool, letting the former Eastern Block tailors work their magic of trimming away the fat, and disguising the fat, I realized why "brides" squee about their dresses. This thought made my spine quiver. When the head tailor was done re-arranging my balls, I asked if he had a cigar. Or maybe a Dos Equis.

Okay, so I have a wool addiction. I have come to terms with this. It's harmless. Well, besides the damage to my credit card.



*trade mark saying by that umber sexy Aussie, Kez.

My Ex, Hamlet

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Brain Freeze

I started my new position with feverish abandon. This means that my brain has been overly filled with learning new work information and trying to change my habi-trail from working at home in my underwear to re-applying the suit and tie. This has not left a lot of time, brain power, or will power to blog.

I am finding that all the strange crap that rolls around in my head hasn't been able to be poured out onto the Stevie B. blog page. This has caused a painful brain freeze of strange Stevie ideas. About the time i felt my head exploding, I discovered one thing. It's not that I like to blog, it's that I must. Like a shark who can't stop swimming. If I stopped blogging, I'd die.

With suit and tie Steve settling into place, let us return to our regularly scheduled blog.

MacMaze

As I picked up my car from the car wash, I noticed that my Apple logo sticker was badly faded. Being an Apple-head it’s important that my shiny white Apple sticker be prominently displayed in the rear window of my vehicle. A faded and worn out sticker is a good indication that it’s time to buy a new MacBook.  Like a pop-up timer in a turkey.

It has been in the back of my head for a while that I may want to replace my trusty sidekick. An aging gracefully white MacBook that has been my closest friend since late ’06. Mostly my thoughts of a new Mac laptop are driven by the massive amount of papers I’ve been writing for school. I need to buy an updated version of Word, so really now that I have a typical gay boy Apple-zombie problem I might as well just buy a new computer.

Remember when Apple retail stores were like libraries?  Quiet and respectable places where the Apple staff would greet you with eager anticipation.  Now, they’re like the grand Turkish bazaar. Hoards of people hungry for all things Apple.  I found a Macman on my latest visit to the sleek white Apple temple and started to decide which of the shiny electro-happiness would be correct for me.  It is harder than I thought.  I finally decided to not decide.  Pending more research whether I need a MacBook Air or MacBook Pro. And so my trusty ol’ white Mac Book is still by my side. My Apple sticker fades more everyday as my car waits for a new white window sticker.