Adventure Time!

Wow. I always wondered what Finn would look like if he were real...

Tee-Shirts

In the countless number of essays I have been writing for school (this week is a three page paper on how the French started Vietnam, or ‘nam if you were there) I have developed a strange addiction. Internet tee-shirt shopping.  It’s strange because I stopped wearing graphic tee-shirts since..... around here....

It was an escape from school work when I started dropping shirts left and right into the online shopping cart on 6DollarShirts.com, then they started showing up at my door. Upon opening the plastic shipping bag, and a quick once-over they then quickly get tossed into the laundry bin or taken to work to be thrown in the employee lounge. It’s an odd habit. 

This week this showed up...

Followed by this...

6DollarShirts.com will be bummed when my semester is over. 

Tea for Steve

Over the dinner table my friend Michelle announced that she would attempt to give up Starbucks for a month. An amazing feat for a woman that announces her daily arrival at Starbucks on Facebook. A daily treat for her, and a great check-in for Facebook friends. When she announced this change for better health, the wheels in my head started to turn.

That hot pink Tupperware pitcher,
behind the "sports drinks" and soda...
is my tiny stash of iced tea. 

Could I really give up my four daily helpings of Diet Coke? 

The life giving elixir that brings sun shine to my day, yet also brought a little padding to my middle. We all have read the articles on how diet coke isn’t better than regular sodas. In fact it may be worse. Tricking your body to release even more chemicals to absorb the unnatural chemicals directly into your fat cells. 

My self-declared challenge was to cut out the cola, and switch to iced tea, the real stuff, un-sweetened. Although at some restaurants I'm finding that I do have to drink the strange powdered mystery tea. So far, so good. 

Ready to Roll

I purposely positioned my bike next to the door I use every day to leave the house. This is to remind me  the ease of grabbing my bike, and going for a ride. This week; however, has been rather torturous in the bike riding department. 

Colorado has decided to not give up on winter and wants to keep the snow cranked up for a long as possible. Winter in Colorado is the Norma Rae of seasons. Monday I was the only student to show up to my American Civil Rights history class due to a massive snow storm. You would think the professor would cancel, but I guess he gets paid by the Microsoft slide show, so I sat alone in class and watched grainy photos of President Johnson, as I listened to Professor Nerdbear speak about President Johnson’s response to Dr. King’s response to Vietnam. It’s difficult to text during class when you’re the only one in attendance to a history professor verbally decipher the Lemarchand's box that was Johnson civil rights policy. On the way home from class I drove through 7” of snow, thinking how ready I am to put LBJ behind me and go for a bike ride. 

Yesterday it snowed again. Yes, it is April. I am chomping at the bit (as President Johnson used to say) to slap my bike onto the back of my car and head out for a long bike ride on the Platt River biking trails. 

The Gay Flag

As I walked through the hotel lobby during my recent stay, I once again got the nod. That knowing affirmation that two men share when, in passing, they notice the signal that states that something is different. The subtle symbol of the elite club that sophisticated and distinguished gentlemen share. 

The modern day gay pride flag, the Atlantis cruise bag. 

If you’ve experienced the Christmas day like feeling of returning to your stateroom on the last day of your over-priced gay cruise, you know what it feels like to find that another Atlantis gym bag has been deposited, like magic, in the middle of your cabin’s bed. A collective squee can be heard miles out to sea as countless queens find their new gym bag has been left like a Santa filled stocking.  


From that point on, you carry your bag like it's Louis Vuitton. This is because in retrospect, it cost as much as a LV gym bag.

A smile. A nod. Maybe a “I have that bag” can start countless conversations. 

A Clowder of Christians

As I enjoyed breakfast at the hotel this morning a group (what do you call a group of Jesus freaks?) of costumed "Jesus' journey" cos-players entered. In full caftan and polyester robedness. Who new Christ stopped for a night at a three star hotel in Santa Fe? Ironic, horribly rude, and left waffle bar trashed.

Treat thy neighbor's waffle maker as if it was thy own. Take only the cream cheese thy need - so others may enjoy its creamy goodness.

-The scripture of continental breakfast.

The Light in Santa Fe

I remember a gay comic, back in the 90s, speak of Santa Fe, NM. “The light, the light you can paint... you can create... yet everything in the town is fucking brown adobe. Can you imagine getting and drunk and telling the cab driver, ‘I live in a brown house.’” Somehow, every time I return to Santa Fe I forget that every man-made structure is covered in brown adobe.  You can’t locate a damn gas station due to it looking exactly like a high-end art gallery, which looks exactly like the capitol building. Brown adobe. 

The latter day spring break road trip; however, is not spoiled by this south-west camouflage. As the dog is colorblind, he doesn't seem to mind the monochrome colors. 
I have successfully eaten every meal covered in New Mexican style green chili. breakfast? Covered in green chili, better. Lunch? Yup, smoother that in south western chilies. 

The only time we’ve stopped the green chili parade is for sopapillas covered with ice cream. After the road trip, I’ll need some major gym time. 

Love Rugby

Have I mentioned lately how much I love rugby? I can't put my finger on exactly why I love rugby so much...

Rugby

I love rugby almost as much as I love road trips. That's why today I grabbed the dog and hopped in the sedan with friends to head down to Santa Fe, New Mexico for a latter day spring break trip.  It's a quick, five hour jaunt. The land of howling cyottes and green chilies await.  

iLost

This morning I awoke bright and early to shower and head over to Hall of Justice. You may think your suspicions that I’m a superhero are proven correct. Alas, It was not that type of hall of justice, it was my county justice center, and I was reporting for non-superhero duty. Jury duty. Boy did I get looks walking in with a cape. 

You might find it interesting that it turns out I have a gripping bias against men who get drunk, toss their children into the family sedan, and drive around town sans insurance and drivers license. For my prejudice against this type of person, I was dismissed. However, as I sat in the courtroom, and the lawyers attempted to find some of my fellow jurors that were pro driving children around after getting liquored up sans legally being a U.S. citizen, my civic duty waned and I started to ponder things.... 

Where the hell did my AppleTV remote go?

I bought AppleTV a while back and installed it in the bedroom, I haven’t watch broadcast television since. At some point I couldn’t find the shiny, tiny, silver remote given to operate the miricale of our modern age. At the crushing point of not finding the sliver remote, I just downloaded the app and started using my iPhone as the TV remote. It’s awsome using my iPhone as the remote, most of the time I’m texting Pac while watching the tube anyway. Multitasking. As the prosecutors asked questions I counted up how-many times I’ve changed the sheets since the remote was lost. Eight. So six weeks ago? 

Where the hell is my AppleTV remote? When I get home I’m going to squeeze the dog and see if the channels change. 

Lights

This morning I should be writing yet another paper on the argument over Dualism or Materialism. Basically, do you exist as a pile of nerves firing, or as a being separate from your physical body. Although I respect philosophers and theologians arguing over this question throughout the ages, personally I’m just in it for a passing grade. 

Instead of absorbing the “spirit -v- body” connection, I’m blogging and eating cold pizza. That’s a “blogreader -v- tummy” connection. 

I’m very excited for this semester to be over. Not just because the hot wrestler that sat in front of me in history class that refused to wear underwear has stopped showing up to class, it’s the amount of stuff on my “to-do” list that’s getting pushed aside due to the huge amount of papers I’m writing this semester.  

 One thing waiting for me to stop writing papers is the light above the sink. A new light was bought to switch out the 90’s Melrose Place realness and install a new Mad Men touch of realness. The left fixture is the 90’s disk light (let me know if you want it: I’ll send it to you) and on the right is the late 60’s chrome job. As you can see they’re halfway installed. This is due to the call I received last week in the middle of class from the homo-sex companion partner; he calmly stating that his attempt to install the light went horribly wrong. Now, I fix. 

As soon as my struggles with writing about Dualism are over, my manly chores can resume. Assuming I make it through my philosophy class. 

London Calling

At three this morning, the LED shaving mirror I have hanging in my ensuite shower started flashing wildly. For what it's worth, and you don't need to believe this, when someone I know passes away, lights around me flash. I don't really believe it either. So there's that.

As my battery operated light flashed in morse code style, it was easy to think that it was a just a short. I finally dragged myself out of bed to rip the flashing mirror from the tiled wall. As I made my way from the bedroom, a question of what I was doing with the mirror and why I was standing in the middle of the room, flashings lights on and off came from my sleepy partner.. . Because that seems normal.

Since I was awake, I showered without shaving, and drove to work. Listening to Larry Flick on the car's radio, I heard that former Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher had died. Maybe she was flashing to apologize for being a jerk to the GLBT community.

*insert tongue into cheek.

Round, or Idaho?

Make one drunken comment that there are only two shapes of McDonald's chicken McNuggets, and your friends will deservedly mock you for a lifetime.

Well played Frank. Well played.

Sometimes we all Need a Little Help

*Taken from CGPGrey
 http://www.youtube.com/user/CGPGrey?feature=watch

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

I am answering questions posted by Sean from the Just a Jeep Guy blog. The questions are based around the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

Number seven; Do you eat in bed?

It has been well documented that I do, in fact, use my bed as one would use a dining room table. Songs have been written about the dining habits in our house. Pac over at Pacspad.blogspot.com mastered the dance hit “White Duvet Cover”  back in 2011. 

"White Duvet Cover"

That being said; The lesson of spilling food on the dog has not necessarily been learned. Not that I’m naming names. My bed dining habits have recently increased due to to massive amounts of homework, and my purchase of AppleTV. My Philosophy professor works under the following program; talk about a topic, say David Hume, for an hour,  then assign a four page essay on said flaming philosopher. yay! This means that every spare moment I have, normally reserved for seeing the sun, working out, showering, interacting with other individuals on the planet, or... blogging has been given up to writing report after numbing report. Well... there has been a lot of appleTV time.  God, I love the internets. I can finally watch Rugby, or Australian rules football when I want to. 

Yep. Many hours of eating in the bed. Nachos, while writing about Bundle Theory, and Panda Express while Aussie rules footy is blaring. 

I JUST WANNA GO TO SLEEP
1. What do you wear to bed?
2. Who or what sleeps with you at night?
3. Do you like a cold room or a hot room?
4. Many blankets, or just one?
5. Do you hog the blankets?
6. What size is your bed and what kind of mattress is it?
7. Do you eat in bed?
8. What kind of sleeper are you?
9. What is under your bed? 
BONUS: What won't you do in bed?

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

I am answering questions posted by Sean from the Just a Jeep Guy blog. The questions are based around the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

Number six: What size is your bed and what kind of mattress is it?

Two years back we decided to buy a new bed set. Upgrade to a plush mattress like them there classy hotels. This set into motion letting every mattress salesperson in the tri-county area into our bedroom. We would walk into the mattress section of the local bed store. Choose a side and lie down and start to spoon. This is when the character of the sales person would be tested. We received, “Hey guys! comfy isn’t it?” to “Uhhhhhhhhhhh...... Uhm who’s buying the bed??” One sales person asked if our wives sent us to shop. While another made a reference to how we could make comfy man love on their luxury model.  That’s the one we bought. 

Nothing means Coming Out more than testing out the snuggleability of a bed in the middle of IKEA. Spooning as the sub-urban dwellers wander by in their NASCAR shirts and wide-eyed gazes. 

We bought a queen sized bed. With our massive girth and gravitational pull, we need a king. 

I JUST WANNA GO TO SLEEP
1. What do you wear to bed?
2. Who or what sleeps with you at night?
3. Do you like a cold room or a hot room?
4. Many blankets, or just one?
5. Do you hog the blankets?
6. What size is your bed and what kind of mattress is it?
7. Do you eat in bed?
8. What kind of sleeper are you?
9. What is under your bed? 
BONUS: What won't you do in bed?

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

I am answering questions posted by Sean from the Just a Jeep Guy blog. The questions are based around the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

Number five: Do you hog the blankets?

I learned a valuable lesson from an incredibly sexy man (Steven Mies on Facebook) I quazi-dated in Dallas years ago. His philosophy was that if you forget to make your bed, it will begin a string of daily tasks you will forget. Meaning, if you get lazy and don’t make your bed, then you have a green light to slough off everything for that day. “Didn’t make my bed...guess I don’t need to floss either. Didn’t floss? Cookies for lunch.” Feel bad from eating nothing but cookies, crank it up on the toll-way. Bam!  $200 speeding ticket. That $200 bucks was to take out that hot guy you’ve been stocking on Scruff for two months. 

You have plaque, you’re fat, your car insurance is going up, and that hot guy wont go out with you because you had to cancel that one time, all because you didn’t make your bed. I’m trying to help you get laid here. Make your bed. 

I live by this philosophy. When starting to share a bed with the Fuzzy Monster, my lifetime homosex companion partner, I quickly noticed two things, first was he believed in the “buy a set of sheets; put them on the bed; never take them off” concept. You know what I mean. Second, he is also is a major blanket hog. So is the bowling ball of a dog. If you ask Fuzzy, he’ll say he is not. He’ll vehemently deny that he even uses the covers. “I’m Italian, we’re hot blooded, we don’t need blankets.”  Yet, for the first two years, I’d wake up in the middle of the night with a quarter inch supply of sheet. The majority of the blanket acreage would be balled up under the Shar-pei and the around the Italian’s legs.  This is when I started to move to a new approach to making the bed. 

I went out and bought a replica of our blanket, and began making the bed, by only placed my doppelgänger blanket only on my side. Genius! No one in the bedroom was the wiser. I had my comforter I could wrap around just me and left the original to my bed fellows.  

It was just this Christmas that I switched my tactical operation. Tired of making the bed as one would make an Excel spreadsheet, I requested  a new high-end comforter, in king-sized for the queen-sized bed. Now the dog and man can have their tiny amount barely hang off their side as my vast tracks of down comforter cascades down onto the floor. Heaven. I have also found it’s easier to make the bed in the morning. When I remember.  

I JUST WANNA GO TO SLEEP
1. What do you wear to bed?
2. Who or what sleeps with you at night?
3. Do you like a cold room or a hot room?
4. Many blankets, or just one?
5. Do you hog the blankets?
6. What size is your bed and what kind of mattress is it?
7. Do you eat in bed?
8. What kind of sleeper are you?
9. What is under your bed? 
BONUS: What won't you do in bed?

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

I am answering questions posted by Sean from the Just a Jeep Guy blog. The questions are based around the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

Number four:

I had recently blogged about my down comforter I received last Christmas. 

“Growing up without the simple knowledge that bedding wasn’t all animal themed acrylic blankets,” I now am a self-described bedding snob. This means the very best down duvet I can afford. I sleep with one blanket, plus a color coordinated coverlet, folded down daintily at the foot of the bed. I did; however, insist that our comforter be king-sized on a queen-sized bed. This will be answered in the next question pertaining to blanket hogs. 

I JUST WANNA GO TO SLEEP

1. What do you wear to bed?

2. Who or what sleeps with you at night?

3. Do you like a cold room or a hot room?

4. Many blankets, or just one?

5. Do you hog the blankets?

6. What size is your bed and what kind of mattress is it?

7. Do you eat in bed?

8. What kind of sleeper are you?

9. What is under your bed? 

BONUS: What won't you do in bed?

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

I am answering questions posted by Sean from the Just a Jeep Guy blog. The questions are based around the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

Number three: Do you like a cold room or a hot room?

We have a ritual in our house. Every fall I pull the bed away from the wall and cover the heat/AC vent with massive amounts of aluminum foil.  This is to stop any heat from making its way into the bedroom. During the spring season, the ritual is reversed to allow as much AC into the bedroom as possible. This is done in hopes to make the bedroom cold as possible. 

I love a freezing room. This is so I can sleep like a bear under massive amounts of down and fluffy blankets. I’m also a sheet snob, and 800 thread count cotton sheets are very warm. When I do get warm, I also have a heat sapping Shar-pei that sleep in the covers. 

I JUST WANNA GO TO SLEEP

1. What do you wear to bed?

2. Who or what sleeps with you at night?

3. Do you like a cold room or a hot room?

4. Many blankets, or just one?

5. Do you hog the blankets?

6. What size is your bed and what kind of mattress is it?

7. Do you eat in bed?
8. What kind of sleeper are you?
9. What is under your bed? 

BONUS: What won't you do in bed?

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

To hop on the theme bandwagon, I’m going to answer questions posted by Sean over athis Just a Jeep Guy blog. The questions this round are about the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

Question 2: Who or what sleeps with you at night?

I JUST WANNA GO TO SLEEP: 
1. What do you wear to bed? 
2. Who or what sleeps with you at night?
3. Do you like a cold room or a hot room? 
4. Lots of blankets or just one? 
5. Do you hog the blankets?
6. What size is your bed and what kind of mattress is it? 
7. Do you eat in bed? 
8. What kind of sleeper are you? 
9. What is under your bed? 
BONUS:What won't you do in bed?

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

To hopupon the theme bandwagon, I’m going to answer questions posted by Sean over athis Just a Jeep Guy blog.  Thequestions in this round are about the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

1. What do you wear to bed?

Uponhearing the warning bell to the First Class passengers to leave their warm bedsof the Titanic’s staterooms and assemble on deck, I would show up sporting gymshorts and a grey wife beater.  Iwould be cold, yet hip. I sleep in gym shorts because I pretty much do everythingin gym shorts. Sans work. During the summer I sleep without a shirt leavingopen to several occasions waking to find a deep imprint on my side of the TVremote control. So I really sleep in gym shorts and the TV remote.

I JUSTWANNA GO TO SLEEP:
1. Whatdo you wear to bed?
2. Whoor what sleeps with you at night?
3. Doyou like a cold room or a hot room?
4. Lotsof blankets or just one?
5. Doyou hog the blankets?
6. Whatsize is your bed and what kind of mattress is it?
7. Doyou eat in bed?
8. Whatkind of sleeper are you? 
9. Whatis under your bed? BONUS:What won'tyou do in bed?

Read what others have to say:

Pac

Jim

As a side note: I Googled "hot men in gym shorts" for
a photo on this post and
on page two, Homer and his cat.
That guy is everywhere.
Google results, my fantasies...  everywhere. 

He Shoots, He Misses

Sorry about the gap in my blogging. I have been working on a project for work that has me directing a team from 4AM until 2PM.  After work, I have been taking an hour nap, then heading off to the gym, before school. The project ends this week, so I just might get my life back. During the small slices of time that I haven’t been working, texting Pac, attempting to stay awake in school, or just passing out, I have become addicted to filling up the remainder of my time watching British Football on YouTube. God I love British Football.

I showed up last week to start my work project to find an amazingly hot, sexy, oh-my-God-I-want-to-lick-you guy assigned to my team from another unit. Being a responsible adult, and with my gaydar bleeping in full tilt, I immediately started my reconnaissance work to find out his story. Single, gay, and goes to the gym regularly (which was obvious due to his solid arms and beefy wrestler frame) he plays on a soccer team, and also attends the same college as me.  Score. We chatted. He touched my arm. We flirted. He gave me his number so we can “hit the gym” together. 

He’s seventeen.

Yeah. He goes to my college in a “transition from high school program” due to bullying. The same high school that my bud, Jerrod’s daughter graduated from last year. So… and I am not making this up, the reason I found out his age was due to the greatest hits of the eighties.

“What is this lady singing? Zan-a-doo?”  The beefy wrestler-turned soccer player asked. “It’s not a lady, it’s Xanadu. Ya-know, the muse to open roller discos.” I said as if I was explaining a common fact like cheeseburgers, or piston engines. His left eyebrow moved up a little.

“What year were you born?” I asked.

“1995.”

Olivia's voice wistfully floated through the ether...  ...Xanadon't... As I turned on my heel, I mumbled, “I’ll be in my office” for the rest of my life.

Oscar Pistorius Stumbles and Falls

In what seems a lifetime ago, I lived in a stone house along the Appian Way. During this brief time in my life I dated a Flying Dutchman.  Named this because he was Dutch and an airline pilot. Although I always suspected he was a flight attendant. As after sex he would always attempt to give we warm towels.

One time, after a nice warm towel, and supplying me with a soda, although never giving me the whole can, he asked me who my heroes were. I was dumbfounded. I quietly realized that I didn’t have heroes to follow and use as guideposts though my life.  From that night onward in the stone house along the Appian Way, I would always have some sort of hero or role model in my life to strive to be as good as and emulate.

Upon becoming addicted to watching the track and field portion of the 2012 Summer Olympics, I watched a small story about a South African sprint runner struggling to even participate in the men’s 400 metres sprint. Upon Oscar Pistorius competing in the London Summer Olympics as the first double leg amputee, and the controversy died down about his cutting-edge prostheses giving him an unfair advantage over able-bodied runners, I became obsessed with this amazing man’s struggle to overcome obstacles.  When I got lazy about going for runs, I used Oscar for motivation. Tired and not wanting to drive to the gym, I would think of Oscar the amazing athlete.

On my birthday, I even turned into a crazy fan girl and asked via Twitter for a birthday wish from Pistorius:

So my other role models are a fictitious British 

TV character and a You Tube Vlogger. What’s to ya?

 Quickly Pistorius replied via Twitter:

When he replied, I squeed. My running deity, whom I worshiped daily; and motivated me to be a better athlete, wished me a great birthday…. This buzzed lasted me until yesterday morning. When changing at the gym to go for a run I hear my heroes name on the locker room’s TV. “Oscar Pistorius accused of premeditated murder of girlfriend by South Africa prosecutors.”

I stood in my UA undies in stunned silence watching a video of Pistorius holding his head in his hands weeping openly in a courtroom as prosecutors said they would purse a charge of murder against the paralympic superstar.

Thinking back to being asked about heroes by the Flying Dutchman, in that house, on a street in Dallas, TX ironically named after the most important Roman roads of the ancient republic, I realize now how strategically important that turn in my own Appian Way was. To accomplish anything in life you need role models. Sometimes… dare I say, most of the time, your deity will fall.  

Desktop Friday

What's been the computer's desktop theme this week? More bunnies. God I love bunnies.
What?
Bunnies are butch.
They're fast, mean, and total sex machines. Like me. And they're fluffy. Like me. ...wait a minute...

Coffee in a Cardboard Cup

Yesterday, I took the day off as I had one goal in mind. To spend the day at my favorite coffee place to work on filing my taxes. It started off smoothly, after ordering my non-Venti latte at the non-Starbucks, I settled in at a table by the window.  Within moments I had linked to my files and began entering numbers into the government e-form. As I reached out to enjoy my first sip on my non-Venti latte I brushed the large cup and sent it flying across the table and onto the floor.  Pouring the entire cup near the feet of the next occupied table.

To be clear, none of my coffee actual hit my fellow gay coffeehouse patron. It must of just been the shock of a random handsome man tossing his full steaming latte in his general direction that sent this Kindle reader in to a tizzy. This empowered Mr. Grumpy to lecture me on proper coffee ownership, the responsibilities and burdens that adults have when deciding that they are mature enough to purchase coffee. All traits that I was, in his opinion, lacking. Mr. Grumpy then decided to explain how I had misjudged my ability to handle drinking coffee, and I should be sorry for involving him in my poor judgment.

There are only so many times you can apologize for a simple accident. In my case it’s four. And because he apparently was such a great judge on who should, or should not be left responsible with a paper cup of coffee, I offered to buy him his next cup of coffee. After my fourth time apologizing, his outrage of my destroying his morning became exceedingly humorous to me. When I pointed out that he might be acting like a Chihuahua whose tail had been stepped on, he grabbed his kindle and coffee stomped to another table. Mere-moments later I could hear him retelling his torturous affair to someone on his phone. He spoke loud enough for me to hear, “Some complete idiot threw his hot drink at me.” Silence… “Yeah. Then he called me a f*#king chihuahua…. No! That’s not funny!!”

Needless to say, I bought a Diet Coke in a bottle and completed my taxes. I’m getting a refund. Maybe I’ll buy sippy cups with some of the money. 

How The West Was Won(ish)

I truly despise the American west. Well, not the actual American west… The fictional west. The west where John Wayne defended settlers from savage Indians, and where Mormons proudly conquered the un-tamable desert. 

 Growing up on an American Quarter Horse ranch in the middle of Colorado, I was raised with examples how “we as strong cowboy stock” claimed the west. As a kid my father’s idea of decorating was to festoon the house with cowboy art. You know the type; majestic cowboys have defeated the evil savage Indian to bring peace to the rolling countryside. Even then, I looked at the shady Native American and wondered how it will feel to have ones lands and history torn away.

In fifth grade our school trip was to visit the site of the Sand Creek Massacre. In case you’re not up on this event, in 1864 a force of 700 Colorado militiamen attacked and slaughtered 150 Native Americans. Two-thirds of who were women and children.  My fifth grade teacher quoted the Colonel in command,

Damn any man who sympathizes with Indians! …I have come to 

kill Indians, and believe it is right and honorable to use any means 

under God’s heave to kill Indians.

If I knew the term “royal ass-hat douche bag” I would of called my teacher this, with his prideful smirk, after reading this quote to the class. This lesson of having a warmongering lack of compassion for your fellow human, has stuck with me all my life. Making me the bleeding heart liberal I am today. The story of taming the west is actually a story of systematically destroying a part of the planet. Systematically wiping a culture off the earth all for big business.

You may ask why am I going off on this anti-west tirade today? Well, I’m taking an American History class this semester.  It is taught by a tiny gay man that started last class on how the native peoples, who lived on the land in the west for thousands of years, were hunted down and wiped out like a ghetto in Poland. What? I was dumbstruck.  A professor whose lector doesn’t sound like my Father’s view of the world? Well… like my Dad always said; “Generally, you ain't learnin' nothing when your mouth's a-jawin.”

Ironic that this is the picture
 hanging on the wall
above my toilet?

Favorite Cowboy book: The Man Who Fell in Love With the Moon   Favorite Cowboy line: “I speak horse. His name is Susan. And he wants you to respect his life choices.”

Groundhog Day

Mopar Mistake

Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard stated, “You must do something, but in as much as with your limited capacities it will be impossible to make anything easier…you must, with the same… enthusiasm make something harder.”

I thought of this early yesterday morning when upon giving Fuzzy his birthday present, I discovered that I have proven Kierkegaard’s philosophical belief of what’s easy to obtain isn’t worth obtaining. See, I was very excited about my birthday present for my homosex companion partner. I had acquired this gift so easily and cheaply off the interwebs. A Mopar cold air intake for his Dodge Challenger. His 2012 Dodge Challenger.  In case you're wondering what a cold air intake is, I’ve provided an illustration.  It’s a butch air cleaner… it ups your fuel efficiency, but mostly makes you feel superior to other dudes that own the same car. Like wearing a store bought dress to prom, instead of having to sew your own.

The glow of happiness gleamed off the chromium intake nozzle as my mature partner bounced around the kitchen. Happy at his new toy he screeched “I could put it on right now!” He said as he gently stroked the giant “M” on the Mopar box. “Wait! This isn’t right.” My head turned sideways, like a grey hound attempting to understand the Electoral College. “This is for the ’04- ’10 Hemi engines. You know I have a ’12.”

I could not admit that I hadn’t the foggiest idea that they made this particular car accoutrement different for different year cars.Being too busy to actually walk into the Dodge dealership and ask, or even call my bud, Mike, a Chrysler/Dodge mechanic, I just pulled up Mopar.com at work one day and ordered what looked right.

“Anything worth doing, isn't easy, but that is what makes it worth doing.” I mumbled under my breath as I handed the box containing a cold air intake thingy by Mopar over to the lady behind the counter at the UPS store.  The box on its way back for whence it came, and me on my way to the Dodge parts counter.      

Making Mark Love Me

Last night was the first day of class for the spring semester. I pondered why the winter break went by so incredibly fast as I tossed my concrete filled backpack onto a table in the back row of my first class. This semester, all but one of my textbooks are hard covers.

It took me exactly twelve seconds to look over and fall in love with a guy in my history class. He is just adorable; slim frame, messy hair. The way he slouched in his chair and played with his iPhone during the syllabus review…dreamy.   During attendance, I discovered my betrothed name was Mark Jacobson. I immediately started to doodle on the cover of my The America Promise (the irony didn't pass me) textbook. Mrs. Steven Jacobson. Mark and Steve forever. Steve loves Mark.  Around this time of fighting the urge to write a note asking if he liked me, check YES or NO, I had the thought that you don’t hear a lot of kids these days named Mark. Oh, my crush is like eighteen?  I tore the cover from my book and broke up with Mark in a crushing scene. In my head.  I am such a dirty old man. 

Be warned: I am taking a philosophy class and also studying the biographies of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X this semester. Ahead for us lies/lays (God, I should of taken another English class) geeky blog posts in regard to Plato, Dr. King, and how Mark Jacobson doesn’t love me. 

Racist Hunter

When people play the "if you had a time machine..." game, I always find it funny how people answer. It seems i am in utter disgust when anyone answers with some self-indulgent useless foray.

The only correct answer, in my oh so judgmenty opinion, is to go back in time and beat the ever loving shit out of James Earl Ray. Just as he raises his rifle in the inky shadows of that Memphis, Tennessee motel room window. As the crosshairs come into focus, any respectable time traveler would suddenly appear and kick the tempered steel from his hands.

I don't condone violence in my normal life, yet to go all Jason Statham in that motel room, beating the crap out of the man who assassinated Dr. King before he could perpetrate the act would leave me with a clear conscience.

Stevie B, Racist Hunter. I will come for you. Across all of time.

I'll need a costume.

The Down Comfort

On my Christmas list I had several things, the first thing I added was, “a high-end and high-quality down comforter.”  This was not because I thought that my lifetime companion-partner would cheap out and buy an inexpensive down comforter, it was that after seven years, I know how he would feel walking into the bedding department of the local Bed, Bath, and Beyond store. Scratching his head through his Hemi engine themed ball cap he would like to just point to my scribble of “high end” and the salesperson would get the hint.

I desired a new down comforter because the one on the bed was fourteen years old. It had traveled in my move to Dallas, then back again. It saw every life event in the last fourteen years and was now just a shadow of its former self.  In the last year, if you moved it just the wrong way a cannon of feathers would shoot out. A cascade or tickertape parade of down that would cover the dog an anything else the multiple holes were aimed towards. Parts of the ghost comforter where completely empty of down, just sad yellowing cotton held together by my determination.

I was odd how easily the request topped my Christmas list, as the ghost comforter did; at one point; mean the world to me. 

In the fall of 1996 I was planning to set up house for my first, real relationship. We had decided to move in together and were scurrying like happy, gay crabs to collect things for our first home. Both his and my leases happened to end at the same time, until then we would shop for what we would need. Growing up with out the simple knowledge that bedding wasn’t all animal themed acrylic blankets, I loved that our first purchase together was “a high-end and high-quality down comforter.” The future seemed so bright snuggling warmly under that down comforter.

As life sometimes happens, he became ill. We, and life abandoned our plans to live together. Soon his family stepped in to help.

On a sunny day in June, 1998 I wandered through a garage sale. It was on a well-manicured driveway of the sister who stepped in to help six months earlier. The items were nothing exciting, just your average garage sale stuff. The kind owned by single man who had succumb to a non-disclosed disease. Maybe cancer. As I walked through the discarded household items, I could feel the weight of the entire family burn into me. When the sister had organized the clean out of his house, my cries that some of the items belonged to me and somewhere jointly purchased, had fallen on deaf ears.  After filling a bag with my own clothes I picked up a down comforter lying on the cement.  I quietly shelled out $50 borrowed dollars and walked down the drive to my truck. Even though it was June, I wrapped my newly acquired blanked around me and hopped into the cab and drove away. 

For the next fourteen years that cotton bag of goose down was my remembrance of what had been and what could have been. It was a memory filled and my prized possession. As life sometimes happens, the cotton turned yellow as it aged, and holes tore in the fabric and my memory.  Holding on like a gay Miss Havisham I clung to the comforter as if it actually held the memories of my long dead relationship.

Material items cannot possess another’s memory. If you fall prey to this fallacy you create your own Great Expectations. I will always have my first love whether I cling onto an old blanket, or have the possibility to make new memories cuddled up in bed with my new down comforter, with someone I love.