...the Universe and Everything

Ever have one of those "Lone Wolf" weekends? A weekend where it just works out that all the friends are either out of town or attending miscellaneous life events. This weekend is one of those.

I do enjoy the freedom to do whatever and do it whenever I choose. Go see a biopic on Yves Saint Laurent? I certainly don't have to share my popcorn. VooDoo doughnut run at 4am? Sure. No line. Last night I ended up at Denver's cleanest gay bath house. The Denver Swim Club. Now, I know what you are thinking, "Is Steve really blogging about going to a bath house?"  Well, yes. But, not because of what you are assuming. This gentleman's establishment (if you have never been) happens to have an outdoor pool with water the temperature of bath water. I have been obsessed with this pool all summer long. Not during the day when other naked gays are around, no. When the pitter-patter of naked tax attorneys, semi-erect semi-retired car sales men, and struggling college students can no longer be heard pool-side. In the middle of the night. When it's just me, naked under the stars.

It is commonly believed that the expanding universe has no edge. That the universe is continually  expanding into endless nothingness. Isaac Newton argued that the universe was infinite in size. Yet, as there was no way for humans to imagine its dimension, Newton wasn't really content with this idea. I however, am content to float naked in a bathhouse's out door pool watching it speed past. I stay still as possible letting the ripples of pool water slowly subside. My eyes slowly adjust to the dark sky as the non-stop thump-thump of the gay disco fades away in my mind. This is when the stars and galaxies begin to introduce themselves to me. Shy and timid at first, then like a vale being pulled away.

Eventually something pulls me out of this state. Most of the time it's an insurance broker with a Viagra induced stiffy that seems to think I need his brand of nasty, hopping into the pool.  Some times  it's a bus on the other side of the fence that noisily rattles along the street. Sometimes, even with the whole universe churning and whirling in front of me, just for me,  I get lonely and go inside. 

The Stevie Side of Sears

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

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

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

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

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

Down Time

This week I’ve had the opportunity to enjoy four days away from work and adult responsibility. The only schedule I had to keep was going to the gym and remembering when Adventure Time was scheduled on Cartoon Network. 

Yesterday a friend came over in the morning for an “all day” season/series 7 Doctor Who marathon. He only lasted 7 episodes before his brain (and writer hatred) started to boil. Leaving me to finish the remaining 7 episodes with just me, nachos, and the Shar-pei. Let’s just say that the dog doesn’t care for Steven Moffatt. 

With all this down time I’ve also taken to become a stalker to a fictitious television character on Twitter. 

The 1” square photo on Twitter indicates that he is a slim, trim British lad of proper breeding. As I have a massive thing for slim and trim British lads, I quickly became a stalker fan. The gentleman being complete fictional, truly had no barring on the level of my desire. Apparently. I started to follow the tweets of this British lad (or whom ever tweets as this trim, educated specimen) I soon found myself in the embarrassing situation with a crush on Sheridan Bucket. The proper, well bred son of Hyacinth and Richard Bucket. Yes, that Mrs. Bucket.  From the five year, 1990’s British television program, Keeping up Appearances. 

Yes, I know it would never work between us. Me being a forty year old male of dubious background, mostly comprised of flesh and bone. Sheridan, only existing on Twitter, and my mind, is most likely being a sixty year old married woman living in Bedford. I believe I might need to seek treatment for my anglophilia. 

Maybe all this down time isn’t such a good thing. Structure is what I apparently what I need. 

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. 

Pain au StevieB

It started on Friday morning. That twinge you get deep in your jaw. Something was wrong, horribly wrong in my mouth. I realized quickly that a filling I had replaced around a month ago had turned against me.

I will spare you the tale of woe, if you have ever had a toothache, you know of the pain and utter ouchiness. What I will tell you about is when I called my Dentist, late on Friday; he prescribed heavy painkillers for the weekend. Steve. On Vicodin.

Late Friday night, after huffing my Vicodin happiness,  I found myself sporting gym shorts and a wife-beater standing in the candy isle of Walgreen's (chain drug store.) I was looking madly for “pain au chocolat” because when I get high, I either turn French or into Eddy Monsoon. Not finding chocolate croissants in a small town drug store, I stumbled upon a dog bed. It was shaped like a Homer Simpson stylized doughnut. My laughs turned into snorts when I thought of my dog lounging in the middle of the glazed treat. My snorts stopped as sadness covered me, I wanted to buy the silk-screened doughnut, but I was convinced I’d get pink frosting all over my hands. When expressing my sadness, I was escorted quickly out of the store.

Me. Shopping for
pain au chocolate.

Saturday found me filled with determination. I was going to the International Auto Show even if I was jacked up on painkillers. It only comes but once a year, so really I HAD to go. I whole-heartily endorse going to car shows hopped up on the drugs, it makes the shiny cars… “real [SIC] pretty.” Although I did ditch the guys a couple of times, once to spend ten minutes in the cab of a Dodge Big Horn convincing myself I owned it, and another time to spend time pondering if I just drove out the side door in a Wrangler anyone would even notice. I think, fun was had by all.

Finally, Sunday came. After a massive pancake breakfast and a trip to a local vintage electronics trade show, I finally slowed down enough to change shorts and head to the gym. This is where my body over-ruled my “man ‘bout town” attitude. As I changed into my gym shorts I fell back into the bed. Eight hours later I awoke. My jaw was killing me.

My weekends are usually non-stop. Even if they are hazed over, drug fueled, Stevie pumped full of Vicodin, goodness. Determined to keep my busy stride, I just really needed to stop and listen to my body. I was; however, very entertaining to my friends. So, not unlike Eddy Monsoon.

International Auto Show

Ah, Spring. It is the time of year when a young man’s thoughts turn to love. Well, most men anyway. My thoughts turn to the upcoming International Auto Show. Like the swallows returning to Capistrano or gay men booking gay cruises, spring signals that it's time for new vehicles to be drooled over at the annual auto show, coming to town this weekend.

I’m not sure who started the rumor that gay men don’t like cars? Whoever said that gay guys aren’t butch enough to be Gearheads needs a good smack in the head with my Prada bag. Now, granted that most gay gearheads may not want to get down and dirty with gear ratio or pressure displacement, but if you want your bearings packed, look for a gearhead gay. It’s not that we, as a people, don’t necessarily like to work on cars, it’s that we have better taste and lust after cars for the aesthetics along with performance. Ask any gay to name Ford’s line up verses Audi’s nameplates and you’ll see.

This is why, coming weekend, the auto show at the convention center will become the hottest pick up spot in town. The gear-moes will be out in force, shopping for, or just drooling over their new crushes. Of the four-wheeled and two leg kind.

If you need me this weekend, I’ll be sitting in the cabin of the new F-250 Diesel. Or maybe the Dodge Ram 2500. I like them big.

 
 
To check out more information about the Denver Auto Show, click here.

WOOF

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

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







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













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