Showing posts with label StevieB. Show all posts
Showing posts with label StevieB. Show all posts

Monday, April 23, 2018

Nice To See StevieB: The First Mother

By StevieB


It is tough having your Mother pass-away on the same day as Barbara Bush.

All media sources seem to have prepopulated new stories about how the life of this wife and mother impacted the country. A loving mother raising children who changed the world. A supportive wife, who stood by her husband for seventy-three years. All these tributes to the former first lady portray her as a throwback to an earlier and almost genteel era of America. This silver-haired matriarch of a political dynasty. Barbara Bush Who used her rule to enrich the family and country she served.

Yet, as the warm glow softens the loss felt by the passing of such an impactful mothering presence; you begin to question this loyalty to memory. Was she not the lady that ripped her red AIDS ribbon from her blouse before joining her husband on the podium at the Republican National Convention? Agreeing, that yes “Barbara Bush was a generous and smart and amazing racist who, along with her husband, raised a war criminal.”*

As the people around me are speaking of the life and legacy of a woman who brought safety, warmth, and enrichment into their lives. I struggle to not think of the warmongering. I search my mind for any time that is not a war on terror. When my Christian name was not replaced with "that Dirty Democrat." When handing over the book, "Loving Someone Gay" it is tossed into the trash. How do you remember a dedicated racist? A person who used racism as an artist uses paint upon a canvas. The art of racism instilled so deeply in her children, it would take years of new coursework to learn tolerance and compassion?

I can almost accept that she was a throwback to an earlier and almost genteel era of America. But, it is also the time when the "N" word was used with joyous passion. I can accept the warm and nostalgic retelling of a life in which the person weaving the narrative had a much different experience to mine. They must have never experienced the warmongering. The removal of the red ribbon. Or, simply, they have and are better at understanding that when an individual dies, you only speak of the good things.

So, rest in peace. Your legacy is secure.

* Randa Jarrar

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Nice to See StevieB: Purgatory

By StevieB 

If there is such a thing as Purgatory, in the afterlife, I know what my Purgatory will look like. If it is like the Catholics describe it; a place of suffering inhabited by the souls of sinners who are expiating their sins before going to heaven, then I can tell what it looks like.

My personal purgatory will be spent wandering around the prepared foods department of a Whole foods.

Hours are spent with me dazed and confused moving from one bar to the next. Approaching the soup bar to squish the ladle down in over-cooked chicken noodle soup, or white bean chili. Then, to the deli counter to gaze upon the chicken wraps. Starving for something, yet not sure how the normal people of the world make a decision in a sea of choices.

Last night, I approached the area with the intent to pick up dinner. The boyfriend quickly made some healthy choices, and disappeared. Leaving me to fend for myself. I had the look of an eight-year-old, who after hiding in the middle of a clothing rack full of women’s blouses, emerged to find his Mom, gone. I was alone in Hell Foods. I entered the Whole Foods convincing everyone around me that it was a “soup night.” Only to find none of the eighteen dozen soups to be quite right. Maybe salad…..? no. It was either malaise, or my fear of food commitment that sent me into the desert for a plastic-boxed food vision quest. 


What seemed to be hours later the boyfriend called out from the edge of the desert. “Ready?” He asked munching on kelp-kale fun crisps. I left with a tiny container of tomato soup. My soul still hovering over the olive bar.

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Nice To See StevieB: Keys to Success

By StevieB

I stumbled across a couple of studies over the weekend. They were the “how to be happy” or “keys to happiness” studies. Mostly I hate this type of mumbo-jumbo, but as I read, I quickly realized one scary thing. They were right. Every “study” had two major themes in my life. I hate it when the internets is right. Jerks.

Be positive
Are you overwhelmed by a sense of dread every time you try something new? Happy people focus on what is possible rather than dwell on the chances for failure. They look at the lighter side and find humor in every situation.

Work out
Consistently breaking a sweat. Exercise improves one's state of mind in part by affecting the body's levels of two chemicals: cortisol and endorphins. The adrenal glands of angry or scared people produce cortisol. This increases blood pressure and blood sugar, weakens the immune response and can lead to organ inflammation and damage. But working out burns cortisol, restoring the body's normal levels.

Click here to read more.

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Nice To See StevieB: Four-Eyes

By StevieB

After what seemed an insane amount of shopping, I have finally bought new glasses. This is my first pair of bi-focal lenses. And, it's the problem I'm having. I spend most of my day unable to see anything. I am constantly looking through the top part of my lens, designed for distance vision, to read and text. Then using the bottom section to drive. The optometrist did warn me, but really. At this point I would see better without glasses at all.

I will; however, keeping trying. But, if you see me without my glasses upon my face, you know not to inquire to their whereabouts. If you see me with my glasses on, I won't see you anyway. So I'll probably step on your foot. I'll apologize now.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Nice To See StevieB: Choose a Drag Name, Kitties

By StevieB

There are countless ways to choose a drag name. Some of the formulas include the name of the street you grew up on, mixed with your first pet’s name. I truly believe the proper way to attach a name to that fierce inner drag persona you have is to use Google. 

More preciously google your local animal shelter and pull up the “Adoptable Cats” page. I’m not sure who is in charge of naming the plethora homeless kitties, but they are witty little people.  So, all you need to do is can down the kolumns of kitties. The left side is your first name. The right your last...


Who knows, maybe you could adopt a cat, that matches your sickening new stage name.  Welcome to the stage!! Linda Midge!!!!!!!!  

In Denver, Colorado you can start here...

Denver Dumb Friends League

Monday, February 5, 2018

Nice To See StevieB: Trapped in a Tiny Chair

By StevieBYesterday was the first day of class. I am pretty excited for this chapter of my eduction. I can now just choose the classes I want; meaning, I am only sitting in classes that I have an exceedingly high level of interested. First up is a class devoted to the Thirty Years War. One of my my favorite chapters of history. That time-frame in Central Europe between 1618 and 1648 when the Holy Roman Emperor (who was not holy, not Roman, nor an Emperor) Ferdinand II of Bohemia was crowned Holy Douchebag I by kicking some Protestants in the balls. This led Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden to be credited with starting that hair cut that every gay male has today. So, another reason we owe a debt to Swedish trendsetters.

The Professor of this class has stated he will stay away of the popular stories of 1600s and 1700s. Because If I have to hear one more lecture of the Restoration of the English Monarchy, I may puke. I kid, I kid. A bit. This class should be all French/Dutchiness.

The other class is Modern Philosophy. Which I thought was gonna be all Ayn Rand and debating Quasi-Realism to prove that I don't exist. But no Atlas Shrugging for me. Nope. Starting out we will be finding out that we think, therefore we...be. Sorry, René Descartes. It's fine, but your haircut bothers me. Seriously who wears bangs?? Outside of Zooey Deschanel. Both of these classes are in the older buildings on campus which means the class rooms are small and they sport those desks attached to chairs. This makes me feel like a circus bear stuck on a bicycle. I cram my large frame into the tiny chair and attempt to blend in with the muggle-sized co-students. This is a small price to pay however, to learn of Swedish war victories.

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

Nice To See StevieB: Spring Pooh

By StevieB

It is that time of year again. no, not Gymuary. Although that phenomenon is in full force. Is it just me, or is it every January that the "Circuit Bros" attempt to take over? They begin to lay dumbbells and water bottles on every bench they quite possibly use in all of 2018. You can walk into the free-weight section at your local gym, and feel that the rapture happened as there are nothing but a sea of towels, water bottles, and tiny dumb bells scattered around the area. God wants the fit. Apparently.

For me, this time of year happens twice a year. About two weeks before the next semester of school. I log into my school's bookstore website and see what books I need. Then I go to Amazon and see what I can buy cheaper online. 99.9% of the time, I get lazy, forget to order through Amazon and still end up at the University bookstore to buy my used/abused copies of needed books.

This Spring, I am taking Early Modern Europe History, and Modern Philosophy. The books for the history class are Fractured Europe, Luis XIV, The Thirty Years War, and ironically a book called Enlightenment. All of these are "required reading." I totally dig early European history, so I am super excited; because, that is the kind of nerd I am. 


The Modern Philosophy class has no books listed yet. Other than the famous The Tao of Pooh which I read cover-to-cover at least twenty times in my 20s. Until I left it on the seat of my best-friend's Fiero when it was repossessed. (The car-- not the book). So..... Literally I am going to re-read Winnie the Pooh in University. I wonder if I should ask Burt to replace my copy of Pooh that was lost in his Pontiac Fiero?

Monday, January 8, 2018

Nice to See StevieB: Starting Somethin'

By StevieB

Mike, my single and available roommate, and I share quite the great house. We think so, anyway. Great views, great kitchen. The only downside is that there is only a one-car garage. This, of course is not a point of contention as we have simply decided to swap out the garage on a monthly basis. On the first of the month, the other guy gets to start parking their vehicle in the tight garage. This morning was the first full day for my Jeep to be snug inside, whilst Mikes Sportage had to bare the freezing temps. At precisely 5:14AM I heard Mikes super-fancy toothbrush spring to life through our bathrooms’ common wall. I am not sure why his electric toothbrush is so frickin' loud, But maybe the more money you spend on a toothbrush the louder it is to instill a sense that it is doing a great job.

Since I knew that in seven minutes time, Mike would come bounding out of his bedroom, insert toast into his mouth and make for the door, I thought I would treat him. Grabbing his keys I made my way to my bedroom window. I saw Mike's car sitting out in the cold, shivering in its first night in the frost and snow. I pressed the Remote Start fob on his key chain.... excited about how happy my best friend will be when he is greeted to a warm car.

Nothing.

Well, his fob is different than mine... I kept pressing it over and over. The car just sat there; un-started.

I examined the key fob....."G-enie" was the logo upon it. "Funny, Genie makes garage door openers AND remote starts?" This is when I glanced over and noticed that the garage door was making yet another round of its fiftieth open and down sequence. Turns out Mike does not have a remote start on this car. I carefully returned his keys to the kitchen bar and continued my morning routine perplexed what happened to his remote start... thingy. 


Turns out he has not installed a remote start on this car yet. Since he buys cars so often, serves him right to have a cold car.

Monday, January 1, 2018

Nice to See StevieB: Jeep Steve

By StevieB

I have been thinking about buying a new car. Although it seems I just bought my Jeep Wrangler, it’s been four years. It boggles my mind to type that four years have passed since my Jeep was brand new. I love my Jeep, but the itch for a new vehicle grows larger with each passing day. I mean, I would keep my knobby tired, super cool friend forever. But, change is also good. What is catching my eye, you ask? Well, something that is the furtherest thing from a Jeep; a VW Wagon. The Alltrack, actually. But, yes. It’s a station/estate wagon. About half the size of the Wrangler.

For some odd reason station/estate wagons appeal to me. The sport ones anyway. There’s this cool. I don’t care what you think vibe. Kind of like a Jeep. Just in a different direction. Other than the Douche Bro. aspect people attribute to a Jeep in traffic.

I guess I should go test-drive the Alltrack again and make sure I can live the next four years sitting so low in traffic. And whether I can give up that butch feeling that comes over me when I enter Chessmen Park in a 4X4.

Friday, December 29, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: I’ll Never Forget You!

By StevieB

I broke down and bought a new phone. No, not the IphoneX. There’s something unsettling about the face recognition thing. But, that is a delusional blog post for another day. I really had to buy a new iPhone because of the huge mistake I made upon buying my old phone. A 6S+ with a tiny amount of storage. Dumb I know. This meant not being able to have any apps on my phone, like the Blogger app. After a daily pop-up stating I couldn’t take a picture because my storage was low, I went to the Apple store. Now I’m all about the 8+. With the largest storage they offer.

The hardest part was the giving up on Michael Phelps.

See... back during the London 2012 Olympics, I saw American swimmer, Micheal Phelps for the first time. Every time he casually entered the swimming facility, he was sporting Sol Republic head phones. I ran out and bought a pair. I’ve been wearing them ever since. But..... the new phone doesn’t have a headphone jack for the cord; It’s all Bluetooth. Yes, there’s the adapter. But, it’s not the same. Also yes, during the Rio Olymics, Phelps wore wireless headphones. But, the impression was already made.

It’s time so say goodbye to my Sol Republic headphones. The era has passed. Goodbye old friends. I’ll sport wireless Bluetooth and think of the glory days.

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Christmas Adjacent

By StevieB

I attempted to build up some Christmas spirit yesterday by heading to the local Town 'n Country garden center turned tree lot. The place personified Christmas, the hot husbands in their best Carhart buzzed away on chain saws, whilst the sister wives supervised the older children. All were adorned in themed sweatshirts smeared with felt Santas and reindeer made in church crafting circle. I was there not to buy a tree, but to smell the evergreen (which alway makes me hum Barbara Streisand) mountainy scent in an attempt to spark the pilot light of spirit down in my dark cold soul. I'm completely lacking in spirit this season. Completely.

I did, however; get a handmade evergreen wreath for the front door. I decided that commitment to the whole decorating thing was too much, yet a gourmet wreath would be Christmas adjacent. Nothing like a 40 buck circle of tree limbs to mark the season.

As the sixteen year old girl rang up my over priced ring of forest scented loveliness, she asked if I needed my receipt. My response was that I did because I may want to exercise my right of the thirty day return policy and bring back my wreath in January. The stunned silence on the girls face was just enough to launch my weary soul into the feastavice season.

Fa-la-la-la.

Thursday, December 7, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: The Annual Christmas Rant

By StevieB

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!”

Monday, November 27, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: The Case of the Switched Out Leather Bar T-Shirt

By StevieB

It's an odd feeling when you turn around at your local gay bar and notice that the bartender is sporting your shirt. Not the same Nasty Pig style. Not the same Nasty Pig collection of shirts sold only in the NY Nasty Pig store. No, your very shirt.

This happened to me just recently; and it made me go, Hmmmmm. How does a Leather Bar, bartender end-up wearing a shirt of mine? As far as I knew, I hadn't touched him, in the biblical sense. So how was beardy the bear bartender now sporting my hot t-shirt? There was a mystery at foot, and I was just the queen to adjust my glasses and turn into Velma from ScoobyDoo.


It was time to utilize, The principle  of Occam's razor. The theory that states that among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected. Simple solutions ultimately prove correct. You know, that philosophical theory. So, I employed Occam's theory on The Case of the Switched Out Leather Bar T-Shirt.

As far as I knew my shirt was safely folded up using my Miracle Folder in my dresser drawer. But, after a long examination, and removing all doubt the that was my shirt, the previous assumption to the location of my shirt was clearly false. This was because, it was currently covering a burly bar tender. So...... when did my shirt leave my company? Months ago, when I "interacted" with..... the hot bartender in this bar.... But?? But?? Oh...


Bartender number one must of retained my cool Nasty Pig shirt after Nasty visited for a holiday. Then, in the interim the shirt traveled (without clearly being washed) onto Bartender number two. "The two bartenders, must be f**king!" I said out loud in my best baggy orange turtlenecked, Velma Dinkley voice. "Nah, they're not allowed to date each other. They'd get fired." The friend next to me offered, in alarmed response to me randomly pointing my finger in the air and blurting out such a non-sequitur. Turns out, after flirting with Bartender number one, my hypotheses was correctly proven.


I solved the case of The Case of the Switched Out Leather Bar T-Shirt. But, I lost a shirt, because I really don't want that shirt back now.

Monday, November 20, 2017

StevieB: Defending Socrates' Virtue

By StevieB

In my mind I am waging a heated war. In my mind.

The unlawful combatant that is preemptively attacking my reinforced boarder, you ask? My Ancient Philosophy Professor. Okay, so mostly I’m killing him twice weekly with my mind powers. Okay, so I’m mostly staring down his evil gaze whilst he attempts to teach me Plato’s Republic. Yes, I’m learning new definitions and arguments for how we as a society define our concepts of “intent” verses “action” but, still that’s not the point. I hate this professor with every fiber of my knowledge yearning being.

The most important thing to pass along to you in this blog post is that, yes; it is widely known that Socrates liked his guys young. Real young. But, in Protagoras, by Plato I have learned that Socrates was not a Pedophile. It is clearly written that Socrates’ latest boyfriend has a beard. Stating that his taste in men is when the beard first grows in on the face. But, heaven forbid you bring this fact up in the middle of class! This Professor sure likes to box up the world’s strongest and most quoted philosopher as a boy licker. Lasers shot from my eyes. In my mind.

Okay, this isn’t really the reason I want him dead. It is because I wrote an eight page paper on the concept of Akrasia. You know, the state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgment through weakness of will. I stopped myself from using example of dating dudes ten-fifteen years younger to explain this concept. Instead maintained a professional tone. At the end of this project I submitted a paper I was really proud to complete. I got a C. Okay, a C-. I would share with you why I got such a low grade, based upon his full-page hand written tear down, but I cannot possible read his handwriting. I can make out “I know you can do better than this…” What??? You don’t know me!!! Jerk. Upon my failure to read his comments, he then announced that he will not review any student papers. “Not my policy.” He stupidly announced. 


I have one more paper to write before the semester ends on the 13th of December. I’m sure “I can do better” not that I know what that is.

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Nothing But Net


By StevieB

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.

Monday, October 30, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Why I Hate Football

By StevieB

Have you ever dated a bisexual?
Back in my ol’ college days I systematically hunted down and seduced mass of muscle on our college football team. He was half-back with a tight end. We hit it off gang busters both in and out of the bed, the only real issue we had was his attraction to the other sex.

The passion between us was incredibly strong, a bond that no man could rip apart. Although after getting pretty serious no man did. Was I the type to sit crying in my living room wearing his football jersey rocking back and forth as I listened to Melissa Etheridge? Absolutely.

The next time we met was in Valhalla.


The apartment building named Valhalla. I had moved in a year earlier when I noticed that I had new neighbors. When I knocked on the door I was greeted by Michelle who then introduced me to my Odin, the Ex-football player with Similar Features.

Michelle explained how they finally decided to move in together before they got married, showing me her massive engagement ring. I welcomed them into the apartment building as the football player gave me nervous looks behind Michelle.

I spent the next year trying to avoid the happy couple like they had the plague. This was hard because Michelle was so incredibly nice. Coming over to have nice chats about, calm mundane neighbor things. I never once had any sort of “conversation” with the footballer; I figured being friends with his fiancĂ© was enough fun. I ended up enjoying Michelle quite a bit. We hugged and promised to keep in touch when they moved out.

She kept in touch just once more. She had a cousin call me to give me the date for the service. Would I go? In the end I only felt it the right thing to do. I grabbed the best-friend and all the strength I could muster and walked into the church.

The mood was surprisingly light, the front on the church covered in photos of him and his personal belongings, the hardest to see was the football jersey draped next to a slew of football trophies. When Michelle spoke, she thanked everyone for their support and love of him and their little family. I quickly found it odd the Michelle or anyone else that spoke never mentioned how the footballer died. They glossed over how he contracted HIV from someone during a probable tryst away from Michelle. No one mentioned how he concealed his status for years, not getting any lifesaving treatment for fear of having to admit to what and who he was.

At the end of the service Michelle thanked me for coming as you would to an ex-neighbor. She smiled gave me hand shake and looked for the next person in the receiving line.

To this day I hate football.

Monday, October 16, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Running With the Dead

By StevieB

I really need to run more.

One of the best things about running is the ritual. I am a man powered by rituals. If I have the ability to incorporate a ritual, or Habitrail, into my life I’m more than happy to spend days memorizing and ingraining it into my small monkey brain.

My running habitrail is early Sunday morning, lapping around Cheesman Park. I’m amazed how beautiful and quiet the park is, I am always amazed how the trees are perfectly aligned even after their planting one hundred and twenty years ago.

Even after I participated in a Denver Ghost Tour, last Sunday, and was re-reminded of the close to two thousand bodies left over in this runner’s paradise. The perfectly aligned trees are from the city when they turned their largest cemetery into a beautiful park by removing headstones and planting grass seed. Very industrious.

As I strode down the paths of trees, I always find it the best part of my week. My ritual of running, in the park, with the trees and a thousand 1880’s prostitutes and cattle-thieves.

I do, however, love running so much that I want to do it more often, yet running on the streets of my small fictional town doesn’t have the same endorphin rush. The countless suburban streets, the development company so long out of business that even their signs advertising the luxury neighborhoods has long since fallen to the ground. The streets and cul-de-sacs without houses, just empty housing lots returning back to fields.

The clean, black asphalt is perfect to run on for miles. Without the worry of cars or… anything interfering with my runs, this may be the problem. Right out my front door and off to the maze of under-developed neighborhoods doesn’t have the correct ritual.

I do need to run more. I guess that part of the inconvenience of the twenty mile drive to the park with the trees and the one hundred and twenty year old dead prostitutes is the ritual.

Monday, October 9, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: At The Car Wash

By StevieB

You know the lady that stands in the lanes of the carwash and when the attendant is done up selling you to a forty-dollar carwash she looks at your windscreen in hopes of sell you her chip repair services? And how she tries to hit on you?

No? Just me then.

I have very few obsessions. Other then, well a certain British Sci-fi show and Pumas and Apple products and the gym and…maybe… we should stop. The most unnecessary of my compulsive behavior would be my obsession of keeping my car clean. Really, really clean. This manifests in a car wash every four days. What? It’s dirty. Unclean.

This resulted in friends saying things like “you’re going to strip the wax if you wash that car too much.” Which led directly to me waxing my spoiled spoilered baby once a month. Thanks.

Mostly I can fight back and just go to the drive through bay and wash my silver saloon with the high-pressure wand. But, when it’s really dirty or I’ve had a bad day it goes to the fancy car wash. This is where I feel like a bad Dad If I just get the twelve dollar car wash, like the extra rinse and “clear coat” finish will stop evil from coming to the sports sedan. Oy vey iz mir, so I get the thirty-nine ninety nine dollar car wash so no one will judge me.

It was during one of these trips that I met my girlfriend, Dana. I complemented her on her Pumas; she sold me on rock-chip repair feeding into my obsession of keeping the Lotze perfect. I was a match made in heaven. Unfortunately, last Saturday she wanted to take our relationship to the physical level. Oy vey iz mir!

As I paid for my forty-dollar bath she approached me to see how the windscreen was holding up after her handy work. I said how it was great which was code for wanted to her to slowly work her hands over my bicep. This is when she offered more than her windshield services. Every fiber in my body stopped the physical reaction of retching upon her Rush Tee-shirt. But, then I stopped; she does have nice Pumas. I wonder if I’d get a discount at the car wash?

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: When I Was A Boy

By StevieB

My first car was a 1968 Ford Mustang. No. It was not brand new. I found this car in a ditch around 1991, and towed it home with the help of my brother-in-law. I spent every meager dime I had working to get that Mustang up and running. When it did run, I was always out and about in this car, with its mis-matched fenders and wonky exhaust. Around this time I also seemed attracted too, and dated older guys. I bring up this point because, now that I'm over forty I am now returning the favor and started to embrace my inner-daddy. Yet, it seems times have changed in the Daddy/boy dating world. Yes, this blog post is going to be themed "When I was a boy!"

As a gay waiter at the age of twenty-four, I met and dated guys in their late thirties. I had an apartment on my own, generally paid my own way, and had a blast in the dating world. Now, the caveat emptor of this situation may be type of guy I'm finding, meeting them mostly on Grindr. But, it seems that all the guys I have chatted with, don't own cars and still live with their parents because they just can't afford a place of their own. So, the economic atmosphere in the US is severely cramping my sex life.

Student loans, high rental rates of apartments, and the lack of jobs for new college graduates, is impeding my ability to find a nice twenty-six year old to tie up and do things. I blame the Republicans. This entered my mind as I picked up a nice guy for a date, at his parents house, the sideways glances I received were epic when his mom deducted that her and I were the same age. In an attempt to avert the awkwardness I offered that I too had a mid-term to study for, as I'm in college as well. It didn't help.

When I was a boy, I guess life was easier. I pretty much built my own car, and lived on Capital Hill in a series of run-down skeezy apartments. Now that I've found myself in the Daddy role, it appears that guys are living at home for much longer. That, or I need to change my Grindr profile to read that I'm looking for guys that have their own car. That's right, StevieB, keep those standards high. Or..... I could keep my nose out of Grindr and in my history book.

Monday, September 4, 2017

Nice To See StevieB: Rent

By StevieB

I despise the musical Rent. I understand as we have celebrated the twentieth anniversary of this award winning show, it’s a part of our LGBTQ tapestry. Even more than that, it is a true representation of life in one’s twenties. Attempting to discover how to become comfortable in one’s own skin. But is it? I too was in my twenties, shocking I know. There is an age of discovery when you are out on your own, finding a place to stay warm. How to function in a society that does not care. Rent is a mirror held up to America to force everyone to see HIV. To see true loneliness, helplines, and inner strength. How in modern times the simple act of paying rent was the pure definition fighting to find a place in this world. But is it? The opening number of Rent is a declaration of how regardless of how society defines them, they’re not gonna pay, they’re not gonna pay last year’s rent; this year’s rent; next year’s rent.

Now, I understand this declaration. I do. I was out on my own in the middle of high school. Attempting to get up and go to high school while living in a flop-house filled up with homeless homosexuals. Hiding stolen jars of peanut butter under my bed so I could have dinner. My twenties would see me in a series of run-down scary-ass apartments. Progressively getting better as my jobs paid more and my education progressed. Slowly working my way through my twenties. Avoiding, unbelievably, the HIV virus, and the rats that lived in the apartment dumpsters. There is one thing I did do differently…

I paid my f***ing rent.

There is one thing that always struck me as odd while attempting to find make a home for myself in my twenties. Moving from place to place. These scary ass apartments had one thing in common. They were filled with people that did not know how place their garbage into the dumpster. Bags of trash would always find their way next too, adjacent, but not into the trash cans. As I left my twenties and moved into my thirties, I also left the type of apartments that white people point to and make cases for Urban Renewal. Yet, even as my monthly rent skyrocketed, there were still those bags of garbage that don’t make it into the trash cans. It just goes to show that every social-economic class has its inconsiderate A-holes. From paying rent in can goods to a possible pedophile named Rick, to automatic bank transfers for $2000.00, some declarations in our twenties do not change society.

Now I live in an apartment that overlooks a golf course. A statement that cannot be conveyed without coming off like you are attempting to sound pretentious. So, yes. Golf course on one side, but turn to your left and you will see the city’s loudest commuter train link. Down the block you see the low-income housing. Where all leases include the legal statement, “you must install a dinette set and console television upon your balcony.” We have a pocket of luxury, and we are allowed to enjoy it for the monthly price of a new Honda Prelude in 1978. Yet, still that stack of crud sit next to dumpsters. Last week a fully decorated Christmas tree, sat next to a happy (if not befuzzled) snowperson. A true Christmas in July. My roommate taking beaming selfies with each exciting pile of shit then sending them to our management company. 


I guess I am viewing the musical Rent through the eyes of someone in their mid-forties. I still feel it is trite and sensationalist. Yet, if I squint I can see the twenty year old terrified that a virus was stalking me, and how I stepped over bags of trash next to dumpster as I left for yet another waitering job. Not knowing if I was going to make next month’s rent. Some things, even if you perform a song about them, do not change.