Nice To See StevieB: Black Alert

By StevieB

I have become addicted to two new TV shows. This rarely happens because I am usually to busy to watch television. Since I have one more week until school starts, I am enjoying this time. The first is a Korean show designed for fourteen year old girls. But, since I am a fourteen year old girl, it fits. It is Boon Soon; or, Strong Woman Do Bong-soon. To sum it up, it is about a Korean twenty-something that has super powers. She needs to hide these powers from the dreamy boy she loves. Hilarity ensues. The next, is an easy guess. The new Star Trek Discovery. Although the last episode left me a bit bored. I do; however, love one new aspect, since we (Star Trek nerds) know the RED-ALERT announcement, it was exciting to hear a new alert. BLACK-ALERT! BLACK-ALERT! This announcement is when the ship jumps in a new, unseen way for the Star Trek universe.

This immediately made me want to make this sound as a new ring tone. Having my phone loudly ring "black-alert" with the computer background noise, was super-cool. This to replace my traditional, Star Trek "red-alert" ring tone.

I, being super proud of finding this ring tone online, then having to download conversion apps, wanted to show off my new ring tone to the boyfriend last night. Filled with pride, I launched my new BLACK-ALERT sound. Sure he was going to be proud of my nerdiness and also connect it to the new Star Trek Discovery show. "Baby, you want your phone to announce black alert?" He paused to let that sink in. It did not sink into my brain. "Baby. Your phone is going to scream, 'black' alert?!"

Oh God.... I didn't even....

I guess I wont have a Star Trek black alert ring tone.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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!”

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Nice To See StevieB: Pulling a Differential

By StevieB

Last week I went with Becca, and the Boyfriend, Naveen, to get mani-pedis in beautiful downtown Boulder, Colorado. This is a standing appointment we have as friends on a semi-monthly basis. As this time it was in Becca's town of Boulder we ate Indian and wandered over to the nail salon. Now, when we do this Becca gets her toes and hands done, Naveen gets a pedi and polish, and I get just a pedi. Every appointment I see the ritual play out. Becca and Naveen approach the polish wall and debate the best and cutest colors for their soon to be pampered fingers and toes. And every time I decline to join the fun.

It is not that I am against men having polish, I am just against me having polish. Take yesterday as an example, in the gym’s locker room. Bright orange polished toes popped out of a work sock and my first thought was, “Really?” a grown man with painted toe nails. Not that I am attaching any feminine versus masculine traits. I do not believe that a painted nail is a feminine and should not be associated with manly-men. It's just about standing out. Being a peafowl at my age. Twenty years ago I would do anything to make my uniqueness stand out. Bottles of Sun-in Hair Lightener Spray came to their end in my hands. But, now I'm content with eight versions of the same grey tee-shirt folded neatly in my dresser drawer. So it still shocks me daily since our last trip to mani-pediland. Yeah, I know … since the bright orange toes are mine.

I tell the lucky people in the public realm that are exposed to my Safety-orange toes that I am just waiting for the polish to grow out. Like the polish was against my will. Like I was held down by mob of nail techs. When I was in the junkyard… pulling a rear differential from a ’73 Torino. “They came out of nowhere and softened my cuticles and applied two gel coats before I could fight them off!” But, now that I think about it, neither Becca, nor Naveen even mentioned me getting polish. I guess I wanted to be adorable.

Nice to See StevieB: Godzilla

By StevieB
  
I made Mike and the boyfriend, Naveen, sit through a Godzilla movie yesterday. It was Godzilla verses Mothra. No, Not the awesome classic 1964 version. It was an odd sort of remake from 1983. I am finding that both on Hulu and Netflicks, first run classic movies are disappearing faster than King Ghidorah into deep space. (That’s fast). It is exceedingly tough to find and good classic movie. Even ITunes is losing its collection.

Now, I have said many times that I have horrible taste in movies. When Mike the roommate, and/or Naveen settle down with me to watch a movie I wince at the thought of watching any mainstream movie. I will watch it. But, the sound of my eyes rolling may interrupt the experience. I understand that there is a given small amount of 1950’s – 1970’s Science Fiction movies in the universe. This means that my choices are limited, but even with such a small genre you would think that platforms such as Hulu or Netflicks would have a wider selection. Or… still have a wide selection. Because they did. Before they got cool.

Nice To See StevieB: Eighth Grade

By StevieB

In eighth grade I felt that friends were the most important element for maintaining life. Not food, or water, not even air. It was having a group of friends. Now, of course this is just like all thirteen year olds. So, this statement is not ground breaking, but in junior high it was. When I was thirteen, I had a weird collection of friends. This circle; however, did not include the most important person in my life, that being Kyle Harris. He was, and I was completely sure of this, the perfect example of what I needed in a friend.


In life, you do not need to bring up in conversations how smart you are. As in, how much education you have received. People do not need to know your diploma status. These things are self-evident. If you have a Masters in the Social Sciences this knowledge will gracefully glide across the table. No one needs to be beat in the head with a diploma. This also holds true for being a friend. Friendship, or being a good friend cannot be forced. Well, it can, but it never ends well.

This was the case of Kyle. From Fall until early Spring I struggled to enter his realm of friends. Although Kyle and I would occasionally hang out, and I thought we had fun together in the eighth grade level of buds; I spent countless amounts of energy blending in with his other friends. I acknowledged they were way above in my social standing, but, boy did I try. There were many times I begged my Mother for new cable knit sweaters, as Kyle’s buds had already seen the twelve I had. Every move was calculated on how I could force my person into group social situations. I was sure that Kyle and I were solid, but yearned for him to put a good word for me, so I could join their table in the lunch room. Still I sat with my collection of freaks in a six-month old knock-off Ralph Lauren sweater.

On a freezing March morning I approached Kyle as he sat with the friends. I tried to push into the group and be part of the conversation. This was met by couple of other guys quickly telling me to beat it. As I accepted their advice I attempted to remain cool and wander off. This is when I overheard Kyle say “yeah, he hero worships me. It’s annoying. I can’t get rid of him.” 

And this is when I first learned about being a friend verses being a good friend. It is the actions taken by someone you trust when you are not around. I never talked to Kyle again. The funny thing was that he never missed it, missed my friendship, and never approached me. The funny thing was, within a week that group of guys I sat with lunch noticed how much more fun I was to be around. The rest of the school year was pretty memorable. Hanging out at the mall, going over to friends’ houses. Just enjoying the short time I had until the end of eighth grade.

Nice To See StevieB: To Sleep; To Read

By StevieB

I need a book to read.

Since February I have been re-reading the Harry Potter series. From "Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much." All the way to "all was well." Several times through. I would continue this cycle until my phone gets replaced with some new technology that doesn’t support audio books, or I die. Whichever comes first. Oh, did I mention that when I say “read” I mean to listen to audio books whist I drive, or when I should be sleeping, but I am not. So, really I need a new book to hear.

I have found that instead of actual sleep I can indulge in listening to The Half Blood Prince for the hundredth time. What fascinates me most about not sleeping, is the massive amount to prohibited things one cannot do when the civilized world, the ones without scary dreams waking them up every ten minutes, sleep. Like I cannot clean the kitchen when others “have work in the morning” like my roommate. So really there is not many options that won’t bring your downstairs neighbor upstairs to criticize my vacuuming ability and flexibility. So audio books, seem to be the only option.

The problem is other people. When stating this problem of needing to find the next great book series to fill my long nights, is that people really want to answer. To offer help in this book search. “Oh, I just finished a great series about a woman who is a taxidermist and solves WW II crossword puzzles she found in a mysterious crate on her gap year trip to Poland. It has a man that drives an old Volkswagen beetle. I don’t remember the name though. Uh… Turns out the baby eats lead paint and dies. Sad really.” After an entire re-telling of this saga of boring VW drivers, the last thing I want to do is find out the title. Or, speak to the person offering the information ever again. 

I guess I will continue my quest for a great book series. To listen to, while waiting away the night when I should be sleeping.

Nice To See StevieB: A Dark and Stormy Night

By StevieB

It was show time at our house last night. The performance began right after midnight. A storm blew in and with it came thunder and lighting. It was amazing as I had not witnessed thunder and lightning happen exactly in the same instant since I moved from Texas. The typical lighting storm has a flash of lighting, then you can count the seconds until the thunder is heard. Last night was immediate and super loud, meaning the storm was right on top of us, happening right outside the bedroom window. 

The old statement about tornados being attracted to trailer parks and lightening being attracted to golf courses must be true. Although, since moving into a home next to a golf course I have haven’t seen lighting strike the course, or any of the endless idiots that like to continue to golf and afternoon storms drift in, I believe it a matter of time. Last night the lightening tried its best. 

The loud booming prompted the dog to have flashbacks to his time in Texas as well, as he quickly army crawled from the foot of the bed to under our pillows and, if his plan would of succeeded spent the remains of the night under my head. The cat however, took the thunder booms to be some sort of a starting pistol and the crazy was on. This culminated in her running in place as she used a stack of paperwork, neatly sorted and stacked upon the dresser, as a treadmill. A flurry of papers quickly covered the floor. The next act was for kitty to salsa dance on the scattered paper. Getting out of bed this morning, I was treated with all of Kitties playtime handiwork. Today I’ll find out whether they have invented dog and cat ear plugs.

Nice To See StevieB: Silver Spoon In My Mouth

By StevieB

After we moved in together I got a phone call at work. “Steve, I was cleaning up and found that a piece of my grandmothers silver is missing.” Now when I looked over at the Eagle leather bar and saw this muscle bound Italian decked out in his leather I never dreamed that someday he’d be asking me about his Grandmothers silver. 

Go figure. 

Uh, okay where did you use it last? Maybe it’s stuck in the dishwasher?” “Okay, first silver does not go in the dishwasher. Second I have not used it. Have you? Not having a clue what I was about to get into I replied “I only use the knifes to screw in the switch plate covers.” 

Wow that really was the wrong thing to say. 

It’s a spoon Steven (I love it when he calls me Steven) One of my grandmother’s silver spoons it has been in the family for generations. 

I really have no concept of having things ‘in the family for generations’ because Mormons are always melting their shit down to make some sort of new temple. Buy some damn drywall freaks.

Suddenly it hits me; Fuzzy is accusing me of pilfering the silver. Oh my god! Okay so he wasn’t accusing me. Just concerned that I pawned his silver spoon to buy crack. He asked, “Maybe you took a spoon to work to eat lunch and forgot it?” I love that he loves me so much that he quickly built an alibi to cover me to protect me from my self. Suddenly I thought, I could have killed a man and Fuzzy would nervously stammer. “ Ummm He jumped forward and fell on your spoon…. seven times… yeah that’s it.” 

“No, I don’t use your silver to eat my lunches and no I have not touched it, I would never, I know how much it means to you. This ended the CSI interrogation. I promised I would help him look for it later that evening. We did not find it and sadly Fuzzy came to live with the fact that the family silver was not whole. So neither was Fuzzy. 

So on a completely unrelated note, Yesterday I was finally cleaning out my desk and digging out my files when I reach back to the back of 2007’s files and pull out a spoon. The spoon. I am in SOOOOO much fucking trouble. I think I’ll just slip it into the solid oak velvet lined box with the family crest upon the top. Maybe he won’t notice. And while we’re keeping secrets let’s not tell him that I hold the dog up so he can play piano with his paws.

Nice To See StevieB: RLF (Rabbit Liberation Front)

By StevieB

Outside of the grand metropolis of Denver, Colorado is God's country. Well, I am unsure if it was God himself who declared this statement upon a massive billboard next to the interstate just out of where civilization ends and farms begin.  Yet, I passed this billboard in my unyielding quest to do what I've done non-stop since school let out; shop for a new car. This visit to the countryside brought me to a dealership that specialized in over sized Dodge farm trucks.
I was; however, not there for the farm trucks. I was there for the Jeeps. This particular dealership had Wranglers in spades. So many that they were not on the dealers lot, but on a grass knoll next to the sprawling complex.  I climbed the grass knoll to look for a Wrangler with my tight, and unquenching list of "needs" like, the correct radio, automatic climate control, the best color.  Sometimes I feel I should do what BMW owners have done for decades. Fly to the factory, pick their new car up straight from the assembly line, drive around Germany, and have it shipped home. Although, instead of zipping around Munich, I'd be touring around Toledo, Ohio.  No difference, really.

As I peered into window after window I noticed something strange under every Jeep. Cages? Those humane trap cages used to capture feral cats. Since this was God's country and there was noting but fields around the dealership, I was intrigued as to what they were capturing. Then, I saw a cage with a huge rock in it. Wait? A furry rock?  A huge furry rock with ears? Bunny!!!!!!!!

The dealership had a line of fuzzy bunnies in cages. All looking scared as they pretended to be rocks. As the facility was closed, those bunnies  would be there a long time. This is when I snapped. I grabbed the cage with a terrified rabbit inside and began to dislodged the bunny. Shaking the cage like a ketchup bottle.  Upon freeing three bunnies,  I had trouble with the fourth cage. As I struggled with the door, the bunny inside and I locked eyes. This is when I said out loud, "I'm going to get you out of here" in my best Indiana Jones voice. After shaking the cage like a cereal box the bunny went bouncing to the ground. I'm sure he thanked me as he ran for the safety of the fields.
I ran too. To my car. I'm quite sure there was video of a crazy man manifesting bunnies like a magician. They would of told me everything that everyone else has said upon hearing of my idiotic act.  That rabbits harbor disease, I could easily of picked up something. It is not like I licked them. I didn't even touch them. I was raised on a farm with pet rabbits, I do know all the precautions. Like to not mess with strange rabbits under Jeeps. As for buying a Jeep out in God's Country? No thank you. All their Jeeps have damn rabbits chewing up the wiring. They really should do something about that.
Stevie B. Bunny Wrangler.

Nice to See StevieB: Camp

By StevieB


Now that the late Rocky Mountain snow has turned to rain. My thoughts turn to the summer and my favorite activity, gay camping. It’s gay, because it’s fabulous.

This time of year I begin to look forward to some weekend get-aways up in the mountains. Quick weekend camping trips, with a tent, a fire, and all my cool camping technology. Gay camping is, for me, about the propane cylinders and electric ignition on the camp stove, the lanterns with the fragile asbestos mantles, and all those bendy fiberglass poles for the tent. I believe I enjoy the folding camp chairs with the extra large cup holders just as much as the rugged, pine forest and rock cliff encrusted scenery.

You haven’t camped until you do it with a gay who truly enjoys his 15 piece, blue speckled enamelware cook set. It’s like All-Clad, for an open fire. This year I’ll be enjoying my new matching enamelware coffee percolator.

I can’t wait for the first chance to get out and truly rough it. Lying under the stars late at night, listening to the campfire slowly burn out. The feel of the sleeping bag and 700 thread count camping sheets loosely wrapped around my naked body. Completely back to nature.