Palmmy

I’ve been thinking about this shot I swiped from over to Miss Janey’s for a couple of reasons. First, it’s always hard to take a picture of tall palm trees without some stupid power line getting in the picture, so congrats to the Janey for pulling this off.

Plus, it reminds me that in the common American parlance, palm trees are a symbol of exoticness. And yet, I have never lived any where that they didn’t thrive as a part of the landscape. Houston, New Orleans, San Francisco, they all got ‘em littering the joints. It’s like feral parrots and a complete lack of snow: it’s the norm for half of the country, but in the popular imagination, it’s like they’ve never been seen.

And don’t get me started on tamales.

Stop the Madness

O dear god, is there no end to it? First Farrah, then what’s-his-name, then Mrs. Slocombe, and now this:

OSCAR MEYER, the wienie king, is dead. The man who made the world safe for bologna has passed. A giant who walked among us, who gave his all to the processed meat universe, is no more.

I don’t know what I’m going to do if anybody else dies, my mourning veil is getting all tatty as it is.

Overload

I had promised myself not to mention a thing about that Jackson person since there certainly seemed to be plenty everywhere else.

But then I ran across this notice from our computer guys:

"Shortly after noon EST today—Tuesday, July 7 2009—the capacity of SBA’s computing infrastructure was drastically reduced due to the overload of employee viewing of video footage related to the funeral of Michael Jackson. This overload compromised SBA’s ability to deliver business services to staff and citizens.
To alleviate this overload, OCIO has temporarily blocked video streaming. If you are using YouTube or other video streaming websites, you will be unable to view content for the duration of this business day.
Videostreaming access will resume on Wednesday, July 8 2009 accompanied by OCIO technical monitoring.
Thanks for your patience while we work to assure appropriate use of the SBA network infrastructure."

The federal government brouight low not by terrorists, but by pop fanatics. The mind reels.

To calm myself down, I had to go look at houseboy Gordea Zathustrus's nipples.

Full of Gin and Will & Grace

While R man was off being all lawerly in DC, I spent an amusing evening at the theater, enjoying Leslie Jordan’s show “Full of Gin and Regret.” Jordan played Beverly Leslie on Will and Grace, the guest star whom Karen would regularly dismiss as “that Keebler elf queen…”

The show was a raconteur’s tour de force. Jordan came out, launched into a string of memoirs (up to and including briefly sharing a jail cell with Robert Downey Jr.,) frequently interrupted himself to wander off track, and did it all in a thick Southern accent. It was, in short, very much like spending the evening in a bar in New Orleans, albeit a very nice one, and with a very funny Big Mess.

There is a common element in Southern life of telling long, involved stories, and doing so in as self-deprecatory and funny way as possible. I’ve got it, all my friends have it, Jason over at Night is Half Gone has it in spades, and so does Leslie Jordan.

Of course it’s important to tell these rambling vignettes in as thick a Southern accent as you can muster. It’s just funnier that way. Leslie Jordan hit the stage sounding like Aunt Pitty Pat from Gone with the Wind and never wavered. Naturally, my own accent, long moribund, rebounded. I cain’t hep it, as soon as I hear those twanging vowels, my own match them drawl for drawl. All I have to do is step off the plane in the Houston airport and suddenly I’m the lead in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

Also, because I am Not a Nice Person, I took some pleasure when Miss Jordan (repeatedly) assured the audience he was 54 years old, exactly the same age as me, but looked easily like he had 15 years on me. Just shows you, that fast, glam life is rough.

Cat Bed

R man returns tonight from his conference in DC, and I say yay, big time, because I've missed him terribly much. I've also missed having my own bed. Saki, the adorable and evil cat, always sleeps with R man and while he's been out of town, it's become obvious that I am the back-up sleeping location. How can such a small cat take up so much bed real estate?

I am a very restless sleeper, it's one of the main reasons R man and I have separate rooms, that and the wholly ridiculous myth he maintains that I snore. While I'm sleeping quietly (AND NOT SNORING) I tend to toss and turn like a Black Flag mosh pit. I have woken up with the bed linens twisted completely sideways. Some people go into REM, I seem to enter a spin cycle. All this irritates both Saki and me; him because he just wants to lie there, goddamit, and me because I'm pinned down by a nine pound lump 'o cat.

We're both looking forward to having R man back where he belongs.

"Like large, round melons...."

I love Mark Sanford. He is a hero and role model to tall, skinny homely guys everywhere. Not terribly cute or smart and yet scoring the hot love action! I say yes!

Still, I would recommend to him that during these press conferences expressing contrition over said hot love action, he refrain from gestures such as the one above. Unless of course he's actually describing voluptuous South American buttocks, in which case, I'd like the audio included.

"Mexican Breakfast", Helpfully Explained

Wesley Darling (and whatever happened to HIM, anyway?) posted this on his blog ages ago, but you need it now, believe me.

High Finance, Low Scruples

R man and I are re-financing our mortgage. No big thrill, but at least it gave me something to make conversation about with my father when I spoke to him on Sunday. As soon as I mentioned what we were doing, he offered to loan us $100,000 at a ridiculously loan rate. I think it’s to my great credit that I refused. I do not want to take advantage of my father’s generosity. According to my father, that is not a trait I share with my brothers, which in turn, makes me even less eager to join in at the trough.

Never the less, he pressed me to accept because, as it turns out, he has $100k in an “investment” which has lost money three of the last four years. I know the last year has been rough, but prior to that, one would have had to work aggressively to lose money. And that would appear to be exactly what my father did. Some guy cold called him and talked him into this great money making opportunity. I think there were more details, but I didn’t hear them; I had put the phone down so that I could more effectively bash my head on the kitchen counter in frustration.

Say you are an elderly man sitting around watching old guy movies. The phone rings and a stranger says “mrpeenee’s father, I would like to talk to you about your portfolio. “ Do you reply, “My sons have repeatedly told me not to talk to gypsies”? Nope. You say, “Where do I send the check?”

When you’re a little boy, you think your daddy knows everything, that he’s Superman. Then, as you grow into a smartass punk teenager, you decide he’s a brainless idiot who knows nothing. Later, having matured, you come to see that you’ve been too harsh, that he’s a perfectly sensible adult, just like you. And then, at 54 years old, you realize you were right when you were a sullen 15 year old: he is an idiot who is a menace to himself.

So now, I can either join in with my brothers, be no better than they are, and take the money (although I would pay it back, just like a regular mortgage. That would be good just for the novelty’s sake,) or not take it and wait for yet another scam artist. Oh, what the hell, who am I fooling? Make that check out to mrpeenee and get it in the mail. It would seem I have more in common with my dear brothers than I thought.

Puh-ride. Puh-leeze

Oh. Right. Gay Pride Weekend. It is, of course, impossible to overlook in San Francisco, but It fails to stir me. Sorry. A huge parade of every possible sub-group known to queerkind. S&M lesbian-supporting vegan gay members of a co-opertive bike repair store will probably have their own float tomorrow. And I say yay, right on, etc., but I plan on skipping it once again.

The first year we lived year, I got involved in the Pride Committee, editing their magazine/program and was so thoroughly appalled by their petty, small mindedness, I fled, never to return. The old saw about "the smaller the stakes, the more vicious the politics" applies to these warped queens with a vengeance. I got to be one of the flag bearers at the front of the parade, (in front of the Dykes in Bikes, bitch) but even that was not enough to change my mind. I don't need a parade to be proud, I live a life that would need a tattoo that read "FAG" on my forehead to be any more out.

Instead, I'm staying home listening to music and playing solitaire. Even my music is gay. Here's a partial rundown of what I've heard tonight:

"Homosapien" by Pansy Division
"But Not for Me" by Judy Garland
"Dirty Back Road" by the B-52s
"The Crying Game" by Boy George
"Dancing with Tears in My Eyes" by Ultravox
"This Time Baby" the classic disco hit by Jackie Moore as re-interpreted by Lulu
"Dancing Queen" by the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus
and, of course, numerous tunes by the Pet Shop Boys.

As Lucullis Trajen (below) remarked when he brought in a tray of petit fours, "It doesn't get any gayer."

R Man-less

R man took off this morning for a conference in Washington and to visit his family in Annapolis. I hate this. Except for work we spend very little time apart and it makes me uneasy, as if I have to keep an eye on him. He's very much smarter than I am, but he's not good at navigating airports and dealing with hotels and things like that. I can't bring myself to pin a note to his collar, just in case, but don't think I haven't considered it.

A lot of this comes from feeling like I don't deserve to be as happy as I am, that I'm not worthy of the very contented life we lead. I need to stop worrying.

And Recipes, Too!

A flurry of emails between the divine Diane von Austinberg and me throughout the day (which I barely was able to squeeze in while working like a dog, slaving away, hardly able to look up from the grindstone, etc. etc. etc...) included the following from Diane:

speaking of food (as we so often do) here's my new favorite summer salad: corn, toasted walnuts, feta, olive oil, lime juice, with a little black pepper.

Doesn't that sound fabulous?

So now I've gone from Brazilian porn stars to Barbie dolls to recipes. To paraphrase Neil Patrick Harris:

This blog could not be gayer

if Liza was the mayor

and Elton John took flight.

Barbarama

The messy Muscato continues torturing me with updates of his touring about Paris. Bitch. Not only is the tramp gadding about in my most favorite city (WITHOUT ME) he had the gaul (get it? Gaul, not gall? Oh never mind) to hit the Barbie doll exhibit there. Also WITHOUT ME. Go here for details, if you can bear to.

When I finished grinding my teeth, I was reminded of my girlyboy youth when my favorite pastime was playing with my friend Stephanie’s vast collection of Barbies. My favorite was a classic, with that early Barbie slutty-eyed face and three wigs. A cursory search on Google reveals she was “Fashion Queen Barbie,” a name that just makes it all even better. Then the Google search pointed me towards an E-bay auction where for only 50 bucks you can snag this:

All that and a grass skirt, too. A BARBIE DOLL GRASS SKIRT! Could life be any sweeter?

Business Beef

I just had a long meeting with a local business investment guy about a new undertaking he's putting together that will benefit minority entrepreneurs. It's a wholly admirable concept, very interesting and complicated and he was looking for some intelligent input from me about the project. Which is very gratifying and would have been fine since I actually know that stuff down cold, except he looks rather like a tall version of Rafael Alencar.

Even though he was wearing more clothes than this, it was still tough staying focused on business advice when all I could think about was how very smooth his skin seemed to be. And how very much of it there was. Beauty is so darn distracting. Did I mention he had the top two buttons of his shirt undone? Tease.

The Thrill of It All

Not that I'm complaining (I know, I know, but odder things have happened,) but the quietly contented life R Man and I have does not really generate tons of blockbuster blogging material.

On a recent weekend, we went out for breakfast.

At Chow. Of course. We live in a city famous for its fabulous eateries and yet we only go to three of them.

Then we took Saki down to get his pedicure. That was exactly as popular as you might expect. Still, he's a very, very good boy, but I couldn't get a shot of the cute guy clipping his nails. Rats.

Then we came home and I took a nap. No pictures, sorry.

So that's the trade-off, a happy life for a dull blog. Maybe I'll just start making shit up. Did I ever tell you about the time I was kidnapped by pirates off the coast of someplace I'll have to figure out later? Let me get back to you on that.

Another Openin', Another Show

Years ago, I wrote the divine Diane von Austinberg the following little note because she sidelines in the theater in Austin as a costume designer and had mentioned she had a ready stock of non-committal platitudes for occasions like the one I describe here.

“I let John talk me into a play last week. I have no idea why. He claimed it was "Something About Yes" which sounds like a sweet little valentine of a play. It turns out he just meant he couldn't remember the actual name, but knew it had the word "Yes" in it. In this universe the real name was "The House of Yes" which had been a movie with Parker Posie and Freddie Prinze, Jr. We spent the evening trying to decide if actors who rose to the level of competent could have saved it, but it seems unlikely. It was just a bomb waiting for a fuse. The plot line included incest and Jackie Kennedy's Channel suit. You do the math.

We were there because John's acquainted with the Stage Manager. Naturally, at intermission we had to make small talk with him and I was desperately trying to come up with some of the innocuous remarks you had given me as appropriate for when talking to theater people who are riding a dog. Of course, I couldn't think of any of them except for the definitively feeble "everyone's remembered their lines" I said it with real conviction, but somehow it was still so very lame.”

Herewith, Aunt Diane's list of things to say when speaking to folks from the theatre:

Cheat sheet (note that "performance" and "show" can often be substituted for each other, which specific term is used to better effect depends on whether one is talking to an actor or director):

1. That was SOME performance.

2. You'll be remembered for this for a long time.

3. What a show!

4. How DID you come up with that interpretation?

5. I've never seen anything like it!

6. I'm stunned!

7. You must be getting a lot of attention for this!

8. The critics didn't do the show justice.

9. What a night!

10. That was really something!

Note the importance of exclamation marks. Tone of voice is everything; your words may be subject to interpretation but the enthusiasm in your voice leaves 'em thinking you loved it. My friend Kathy's personal favorite is "Oh, you!!!" accompanied by a mild chuck on the upper arm and downcast eyes that indicate she'd never in her life be able to match that performance.


Thank you Diane.