mrpeenee

Party Dogs

2012-01-26T00:33:00.001-08:00

I attended a party at my old office this afternoon for three of my former colleagues who are retiring. Welcome aboard, that's what I say. It was much more amusing than I expected, very much a reunion since I have steered clear of the joint since I retired last year.

Naturally, everyone asked me "So what are you doing these days?" and seemed baffled when I replied, firmly and honestly, "Nothing." Look, I get paid for not working. Why should I feel compelled to do anything? If it weren't for porn and trolling blogs at 3:00 in the morning I would be comatose. Speaking of which, a big thank you to MJ over at Infomaiac for turning me on to the band Juantrip. Too groovy.

I also had the dubious pleasure of running into a broad who used to have the cubicle next to mine and whose planning of her step-daughter's wedding was the grinding bane of my existence for two fucking years. She was this fake sweet genteel Lady who tried to hide her homophobia from me but never succeeded. We had never liked each other particularly so why she came bouncing up to me today with a big kissypoo hug hello and stuck by my side until I almost had to scrape off my shoe with a stick was beyond me. What's with that?

I kept remembering another party years ago when one of my bosses, who could be a steel hard bitch and also despised this woman, marched up to her and told her she was not invited and that she had to leave. Now. So let's see, on one hand, we have the saccharine sweet Goody Two Shoes and on the other The Bitch Who Will Cut You and I like the bitch best. What's with that?

The party could have definitely used a swimming pool and strippers. But then again, can't they all?

Shot Me with Your Shot

2012-01-22T23:22:00.000-08:00

I got a new camera, cause the old one was getting all cranky and stuff. As usual with new technology, this camera can do a bazillion fabulous things I don't need when all I want to do is take a goddam picture.

It's blue.

The first picture, of course, was Saki, looking very suspicious.

I also shot the painting I have in my bedroom Super Agent Fred painted long long ago. I adore it.

Random graffiti.

And a birthday party for Super Agent Fred. The waiter somehow decided it was also our friend Amy's birthday so she got a candle too. I think the waiter needed to either take more or fewer of whatever medicine he'd been prescribed because assigning Amy a birthday wasn't his only oddity. His idea of charming us seemed to consist of random observations and questions including "Are you German?"

I, I Who Have Dementia

2012-01-12T16:33:00.001-08:00

I was at a very gay shop in the Castro buying birthday presents (we have a cloud of friends who were all born right around the middle of January so I snag presents by the bunch this time of year) and the soundtrack was playing a dynamite version of Shirley Bassey singing I, Who Have Nothing.

Our dear friend Kebbin has long claimed this as his signature song should he ever be forced into doing drag in public, which I think is a brilliant choice. I was thinking about that and smiling to myself when the shopboy, who I assume was in his 20s, but looked like he should have been in junior high, asked if I liked Dame Bassey. Of course, I said yes, and then asked if he knew the Tom Jones cover of this. "Tom Jones?" he responded blankly. I was going to explain, but I figured I didn't have time.

For those of you who remember a galaxy long ago and far away.

Absolutely, Totally Fabulous

2012-01-10T15:59:00.000-08:00

I realize it's sort of after the fact to be writing about Ab Fab's return, but since I've just posted a paean to my own tardiness, I think I get a pass. I'm assuming we all sat ourselves down to revel in Absolutely Fabulous Sunday night, did we not? Certainly I did, even going so far as to avoid the leaked versions floating around the interweb earlier because it seemed more fitting to watch it on BBC with their amusing, slightly prissy commercials.

I had wondered how the girls might hold up after all this time; the answer, of course, was brilliantly. The episode might not have been as solid as some of the earlier ones, the misbehaviour not as honed, but it was still more insanely hilarious and irreverent than any thing else available on television.

An early stroke of genius: the prison gates swinging open to reveal not Pats as you expect, but Saffy. It takes familiarity with the show to understand why the vision of Saffy (Saffy!) in jail is funny, but if you have it, then the reward is a big laugh.

You have to respect the writers for not being lazy and leaning on that built-in knowledge that most of the audience brings with it. When Saffy demands to be brought up to date with what's been happening while she was in the big house, a lesser show would have used the opportunity to role out a big block of exposition to bring us all up to speed with the characters' back stories, but not Ab Fab. Instead, we get jokes about how big Fergie's ass was at the royal wedding. And good jokes delivered as only Bubbles can.

Still, that familiarity was there, even without being written into the show. When Pats first entered, the audience spontaneously applauded. Hell, I applauded. There was just such a sense of pleasure at having them back.

Here's what I came to realize during Sunday night's show: Patsy is my favorite. Eddy gets the best lines. Bubbles is the funniest, Saffy the most cutting and Mother the most sly, but Eurydice Colette Clytemnestra Dido Bathsheba Rabelais Patricia Cocteau Stone is my favorite. I think it's her absolute refusal to let go of the 1980's. Right on sister.

Tick. Tock

2012-01-08T20:15:00.000-08:00

I went to dinner tonight with our old friends Karen and Randy for some wonderfully tasty Italian food. Karen is the kind of charmer to whom everyone with a pulse is drawn; the hostess, bartenders, waiters , kitchen staff and owners were all fawning over her like she had been their prom date some magical long gone evening. It was very amusing and gratifying to trail along in her majestic wake.

It was also sweet of them to put up with me being late, again. I got ready plenty early, started reading and looking at the internet and pondering profound thoughts and suddenly the Late Fairy was working her magic.

It's always the same, I start out thinking "I'm going to need to go in a while" and suddenly switch over to "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm going to be late. Again." I seem to have some kind of chronological blind spot that allows the "Time to go" sweet spot to slide right past me. It was one of the few things that annoyed the ever sweet R Man. We wound up having plenty of discussions that involved the word "dawdling" as we were scrambling to get to whatever appointment I had made us late for. Again.

Alarms, schedules, nagging boyfriends: none of them work. It's like I see the time coming, fully prepared to get up and go, but at the neccessary point I am, instead, wondering about Barbie dolls or tacos or string theory or something and then, oops, late. Again.

The War of Roses

2012-01-02T18:33:00.000-08:00

I have a most glorious rose bush in the backyard. When it's in the mood, it blooms and blooms, the blossoms are white from a distance and pale pink up close and it has a lovely delicate scent. Here's some of the flowers from a couple of summers ago.

It is also vigorous and grows like it was clawing its way out of a rain forest jungle. That means I need to vigilant about pruning it, but last year, R Man was so sick I ignored it, so by this winter it had gotten to be a monster about as big around as a Volkswagen and nine feet tall. Not kidding, not kidding at all.

So I squared off with it this afternoon, determined to cut it down by about half.

The rose saw me coming and was all "Girl, you think you so badass with them sissy little clippers. Do your worst."

And I as all "Are you talking to me? You talking to me? I know you are not talking to me."

And the rose was all "Bring it bitch."

And I was all "Consider it brought. Bitch."

Insolent shrubs. There are some things one simply cannot condone. Actually it wasn't so bad, I whacked it back and only wound up with a bunch of scratches and a busted lip, which is inevitable when dealing with roses. They gots thorns and do not fight fair. I assume it will be worth it come May when there will be roses aplenty.

Random houseboy booty, completely unrelated to gardening.

Holiday Spirit

2012-01-02T00:05:00.000-08:00

I've meant to feature this album cover since my friend Rich and I found it in thriftshopland last July, but I never got around to it until now, so I hearby declare today to be the end of that stupid Christmas/New Year's holiday thing and the start of Tropicana Holiday. Woo hoo.

I'm especially glad to have moved past all that other, lesser holiday stuff since they didn't really work out that well. A tradition in the South is to eat black-eyed peas and cabbage for good luck on New Year's Day. Usually I make my own peas and cole slaw to revel in my southern roots, but this year I wasn't feeling the culinary love, so I sprang for canned peas, feeling all the while as if I were letting my every female antecedent down as I did so.

I was so ashamed I failed to notice what I was buying was actually black beans. Oops. And I forgot the whole thing until 11:45 tonight and I was so rushing around to get it together, I wound up putting in way too much salt in the cole slaw. I managed to choke down a couple of bites but the garbage disposal got most of it. I only hope that counts and that this is not some augury of the year to come. 2011 was bad enough.

The Doctor of Christmas Past

2011-12-27T01:30:00.000-08:00

I spent Christmas day quietly absorbed in a marathon of Doctor Who on the BBC America. It is a method of celebration I can recommend highly. Over the years, I had seen the occasional Doctor Who, but never got sucked into full Whovian fan life until I ran across the reboot of the series with the Ninth Doctor. It's apparently a common phenomenon for people to like their first Doctor Who best. Certainly, that's the case with me, my heart nerdly belongs to Christopher Eccleston, who played number 9.

Christmas Day's orgy of the Doctor, however, was number 11, Matt Smith, the man who raises the question "How can such a homely git have such fabulous hair?"

It was a lovely Christmas.

Isn't Christmas Over Yet?

2011-12-23T15:20:00.000-08:00

I have not been happy the last couple of days. Yes, it's true. Turns out Christmas is a dreary time for the recently bereaved. I miss R Man, I miss him a lot. Just earlier this month I was struck by how much better I had been feeling and then Xmas, everywhere. Even porn sites are getting in the spirit.

Rats.

But you know, I am not by nature a droopy, morose Goth-y sixteen year old and so I resist. Avoiding sad songs is crucial; anything written in a minor key is deadly. You know what helps? Punk and Rockabilly, my old faves.

and Grace Jones in a Box

2011-12-20T14:39:00.000-08:00

So I got my christmas card from dear friend Pee Wee. We were introduced at the Dinah Shore lesbian golf tourney mixer years ago. "Pee Wee, Peenee. Peenee, Peewee.

Anyway, it just served to remind me it's time for that annual highlight of Christas chestnuts, The Playhouse Christmas Special. You should at least watch the Marine Corps gogo Boy theme song. Go here

No, that's not the Kidney Stone I Passed

2011-12-20T00:06:00.000-08:00

Part of the incessant barrage of commercials over this merry season is the particularly shrill shilling of "Chocolate diamonds." Isn't that precious? Taking rocks that were considered worthless (Wikpedia assures us brown diamonds have typically been employed only in industrial uses, like grinding equipment. Much like these fucking commercials) and then increasing their market value by connecting them with something actually desirable, like chocolate.

Honey, let me tell you, were I to be a Lady presented with a poop colored gemstone as a Crixmus present by some schmuck, I would replace said diamond in the setting with his left testicle, make a pate out of his right one and force him to eat it. Saint Zsa Zsa of Gabor, if you can't afford a decent diamond, spring for some overly fabulous rhinestone. Or a nice hazlenut praline truffle.

Or better still:

Season's Bleatings

2011-12-18T17:20:00.001-08:00

In my earlier post "Season's Greetings" I also meant to mention that on Friday when I was wandering around the Castro, a car passed me a couple of times with the driver yelling out of his open window "Occupy Mindless Consumerism." Doesn't that seem to be a sort of mixed metaphor? The entire Occupy movement appeals to me and reminds me strongly of my hippie youth, but even so, you need to be conscious of whether your slogans make any sense.

Plus, a nice Friday afternoon on Castro and 18th Street is not exactly ground zero for the One Percent's heedless consumption of unnecessary purchases, even if it is a week before Christmas. Most of the other people occupying the sidewalk with me seemed to be, just like me, out running errands at Walgreen's and the grocery and the hardware store. You want to make a statement about Mindless Consumerism? Union Square, a bastion of Tiffany's and Sak's and Prada and Burberry's, seems like a more likely target. Maybe the traffic down there was too fierce.

Which also brings up the point, cruising around in your car, protesting? Really? Isn't one of the complimentary concerns of the Occupy movement a sensitivity to environmental degradation?

Here's what I would prefer to occupy.

Season's Greetings

2011-12-17T19:26:00.000-08:00

Our dearly beloved Diane von Austinburg sent me the most luscious cashmere sweater. Soft coziness and lots of it, yummy. I was thrown off for a while when I opened the box because she signed the card "DvonA," and since the card was printed all in capitals it looked like this:

DVONA

I assumed I had acquired a new tranny stalker boyfriend with good tastes in sweaters, which was sort of unsettling, except for the part about cashmere gifts. So I was relieved when my word puzzle skills kicked in and I was able to figure out who it actually was from.

Also, my new favorite drag name? DVONA. It's now replaced my former fave, Tann Ng Bedd, a good thing cause that one was just too hard.

DvonA

A divine

Infomaniac: Too Much Time and not Enough Midol

2011-12-16T13:35:00.000-08:00

Fine, fine. I skip patrolling the interwebs one goddam day and that Canuck hag Infomaniac sneaks this in behind my back:

If You're Going to San Francisco

That tremor on the street that you're feeling may not be an earthquake.

[via]

Looks like Mr. Peenee's eaten one too many shortbread cookies during the festive season.

As I warned her just the other day, bitch continues to Ask For It.

The 60's were Stranger than You Can Imagine

2011-12-10T22:53:00.001-08:00

Darlings, there are some things that can only be experienced, never described. Just skip to the 3:30 mark and you'll see.

Rock. On. Girl.

Perhaps I am Uncle Sam's Bitch?

2011-12-08T15:36:00.001-08:00

I got a check this morning from the United States Treasury for $244.35. I was not expecting a check from the United States Treasury for $244.35. There was no explanation with it, I have filed nothing lately, and have no reason why our government would be coughing up such an odd-ish amount.

Do you think it is a Xmas present? If so, I would like to say "thank you" in a very polite tone of voice.

As a former federal employee, though, I am well acquainted with how da gubment works and am pretty sure this is not them randomly getting into the festive spirit. If they are pushing money into my hands, there is a reason for it and I am on the trail of said reason. To that end I have emailed the office that issued it (Kansas City, speaking of random, since there is a Treasury office right across the bay over in Oakland. Whatever) a message couched in the most respectful terms possible. Again, as a former fed I know getting pissy this early in the game is counter-productive and jokes are absolutely disastrous. Also, this just in, using the word "fuck" in any correspondence with any agency: not a good idea.

So anyway, on the off-chance this is a legitimate payout to me and not some screw up that is going give me a headache for the next six months as I try to straighten it out, I am taking suggestions on how to spend this windfall. Ideas?

Sweet Home

2011-12-06T16:46:00.000-08:00

I had so much fun spending my birthday back in New Orleans last year, I decided to do it again. The house R Man and I lived in on Chartres Street in the French Quarter has a sweet little hotel right across the street (people in the rooms in the front of which had a great view into our living rooms and, believe me, they made the most of it, gawking like we were dioramas.) I wanted to stay in that hotel this time, but I couldn't remember the name of it. Digging around on Google for it turned up news that units in our old building are for sale as heavily renovated (the term "tarted up" comes to mind) condos.

Staring at these photos vividly reminded me of a long gone afternoon R Man and I lounged in bed in his apartment off the courtyard. We had spent a vigorous time indulging in various forms of physical affection that are probably still illegal in several states and then lay catching our breath, with the french doors open to the patio while the rain hammered down during one of those fierce Gulf Coast storms. The rain had turned the air chilly, the room was all white and cool with crisp white sheets and R Man, who was very hairy, was a cozy redoubt against it all. Sweet, sweet, sweet.

Scene of the crime, downstairs. Although the doors used to be french ones that you could open even when they were "locked" by leaning against them. A cat could break in.

R man's first apartment in the building was in the slave quarter. That was the term everyone used because these free standing small buildings in the rear of the houses were where the slaves lived. Now I understand the preferred term is "servants' quarters" as if changing the vernacular could gloss over the horrible existence of slavery. Whatever.

Later he moved into a bigger apartment in the big house up front and I moved into the one across the hall from him. We had the whole top floor to ourselves and shared the big balcony on the street, but still had the option (occasionally illusional) of privacy. It was sort of like warming up to living together. Again, sweet.

So now I see these photos of what the new owners have done to the old place, spiffing it up to the nth degree and swearing in the realtor's description "everything is new..." cause who would want all that old stuff around anyway?

Isn't that lovely? The stairs have been added and the upstairs window used to be a much prettier large fan light. It was my bathroom and the people in the hotel around the corner had view into my sitting on the toilet. Fabulous.

My balcony onto Chartres Street. We could stand out there and hear the tourguides wandering along below making up amazing lies about where we lived.

I lived upstairs on the left, R man on the right. Absolute sweet.

I don't begrudge them any of it, I had my turn there and loved the old place even if it was shabby. We were so lucky to make it in at the very tail end of the raffish, bohemian life that used to be possible in the French Quarter. Now it's some of the most desirable real estate in the country, then it was a small step up from a bad neighborhood and I could live there on minimum wage. When I had a job, that is. I just hope who ever winds up there enjoys it as much as I did during that rainstorm all those years ago.

Big Box

2011-12-05T19:56:00.000-08:00

I've mentioned before that any shopping not conducted at the grocery or Walgreen's does not thrill me, and those expeditions are rarely the high point of the day, even if they do result in cookies and Vicodin. So I buy all my clothes online and a new batch just showed up. I'm holding off on opening them until Christmas. Isn't that precious? I expect to be somewhat surprised with the contents since I have already forgotten what I bought. R Man, god love him, was never good at guessing what presents to get me and would simply demand a detailed list from me in November. And by detailed I mean not just "cashmere sweater, 1," but explicitly running down what color, size, and where he could get it.

Saki thinks the shipping is simply a superior way of getting wrapping paper and boxes for him to play in. He's a playah.

Ever? What not Ever?

2011-12-04T21:25:00.000-08:00

You know I have a long-standing passion for this song, but I had forgotten what an amusing video this is and how sexy Roland Gift's dancing is. Sexy little beast.

Thanks Were Given

2011-12-01T19:02:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving, yes, it actually can be amusing, especially if you cut out all the family drama and sneak off to the beauties of Big Sur instead.

Food was terribly tasty. Nom nom, in fact.

We went hiking along a trail I remembered from years ago as both easy and charming, wandering back and forth along a small creek up to some waterfalls. But when we got to the start, the path made a sharp left and then veered up a steep ravine. After we had slogged there and back, I read the park's brochure and found out the old trail had been the victim of a big fire down there in 2008 and they rerouted it so the old one could recuperate. Burned, schmurned, I say. The end was the only good part.

But then, we went to the beach a couple of times cause, you know, it's California and stuff. Man, was that ever worth it.

Balmy, sunny weather down amongst the gorgeous rock formations and a few notably cute boys just to make things interesting.

Also, we played Yahtzee every night, including the evening where I hit 7 (SEVEN) yahtzees in four hands and still only won one of them. I had obviously fallen in with a rough crowd. Dice sharks.

I know this is not what Brian Eno playing a fast hand of Yahtzee actually looks like, but it is what I think he SHOULD look like.

A Movable Feast

2011-11-22T19:52:00.000-08:00

Don't mind me sweetie, I'm cooking, Thanksgiving dinner to be precise, and you know how slightly psycho I get when in my hash-slinging modus. It's true, the total kitchen bitch. Fortunately I am here all alone so no one has to put up with my shrieking and cursing. Even Saki has been exiled to one of the bedrooms upstairs, aka Cat Jail.

We're leaving tomorrow to drive down the coast to Big Sur for a few days and since I suspect the kitchen in the cabin we've rented is rudimentary, I thought it would be smart to get the cooking out of the way. Plus I don't want to share my madness with the friends I'm going with.

So now I've roasted a boneless turkey breast with a French garnish under the skin

My recreation of my grandmother's cornbread dressing, because I am as big a Southern girl at heart as Paula Dean.

Speaking of the Queen of Grease Refinement, I also have gravy. But of course. Smooth as silk, but much, much tastier.

The beautiful, beautiful Cranberry Apricot Ginger Chutney.

And Vicodin.

The vicodin is especially handy since I clumsily tangled with the handle of the roasting pan while getting it out of the oven. Ouchywow.

We had a planning meeting last weekend for this trip and I have to say, I'm looking forward to it immensely. Food, hanging around, card games, maybe hiking, if I'm not too lazy, woo to the hoo, in short, even if we aren't able to share it with Diane von Austinburg. Rats.

Although we will technicaly be at the beach, I do not expect any of this.

Tragic, I know.

Cat Tales

2011-11-19T22:24:00.000-08:00

I named our adorable and evil cat "Saki" after the writer H.H. Munro, who used that as his pen name. However, I'm pretty sure the cat thinks his name is "Goddam It, Get Off My Nuts," since that's what he hears the most.

All of the cats I have lived with have been lap kittehs. That's part of the appeal, ten feline pounds curled up purring and keeping you warm. But all of them have always stepped squarely on my testicles when climbing on board. What's with that? Are they asserting dominance? Saying hello? And while it's been annoying with past holders of the Cat of the House title, Saki is the one who moves with the least amount of cat-like grace. When he pounds his lead-foot way across the boys, there is no ignoring it.

Lucky for him he's adorable.

Diane-less

2011-11-16T18:10:00.000-08:00

OK, you can consider me officially bummed out. Man. Our beloved Diane von Austinburg was scheduled to come out for Thanksgiving and we were going to go down the coast to Big Sur to hang out for the annual celebration of carbohydrates. Then last month, Diane broke her tail bone. Sitting is very painful, so a four hour plane ride and then a three hour drive down the thrilling but zig zaggy coastal highway is just such a dumb idea not even I can endorse it, despite my astonishing powers of being delusional.

Let me make clear I really am disappointed and feel awful about the poor thing's on-going pain. That said, because I have the sense of humor of a sixth grader, I cannot let go of the inherent sniggering in a bone named "coccyx" and commonly referred to as the "tail bone." I am ashamed. I am a bad friend. And yet, I snigger.

I'm not alone in this. Our friend Super Agent Fred asked her if she cracked it practicing her triple axle lutz. John, another pal, suggested the break had obviously come about during a skateboarding spree. I favor a simpler and more broad reaching conclusion: shenanigans. She can blame tripping over her cat all she wants, there is still a free floating implication of sexual gymnastics gone bad, terribly, terribly bad.

So, now that I have that more or less out of my system, let me reiterate how sorry I am for her. Poor thing.

Houseboy Jinx Nocturnus demonstrates a functional coccyx:

Sweet Dreams

2011-11-12T14:38:00.000-08:00

I understand other, lesser mortals regularly have dreams about being faced with an exam or class they have not prepared for, Anxiety Dreams they're called. I can't remember ever having one, which probably says less about my anxiety level and more about my casual attitude towards education.

The only dreams I ever have that fit into a category are the walking-around-Kmart-in-my-underwear ones and ones where I have some task to do that starts off simple and gets more and more complicated and less accomplishable. Sort of the OCD of the unconscious.

Last night I had a lovely one wherein I was chopping up lines of cocaine. Let me point out I have done no coke since George Bush the First was in office and yet my sleeping mind decided it was time to revisit ancient history. I was always a very tidy drug abuser and meticulous about the preparation of coke rails. They had to be evenly spaced and the same size and no messy debris between them. Okay, so maybe my OCD is not restricted to my dream state.

Anyway, in this dream I had an enormous mound of nose candy to deal with and it kept getting bigger and then I realized there were multiple piles. Oh, the burden. Plus someone in the next room was playing Living La Vida Loca and I was annoyed, which sounds much more realistic than an excess of cocaine does.

All the while I was busily railing up, I was anticipating not actually snorting it, but tidying up the leftovers with my index finger and then rubbing it on my teeth and gums. That is actually another element of reality since that was a step I always included when I did coke. I loved the way it tasted.

Anyway, I never did get it all lined out in the dream, but when I woke up I immediately remembered the time I took a bunch of cocaine to a friend's wedding to help celebrate the nuptials and how, more than thirty years later, she's still mad she didn't get to indulge cause she was busy getting married. Set your priorities girl, that's what I say.

You know what goes good with cocaine?

Muscley partly naked young men and Bordeaux cookies.

Chez peenee

2011-11-10T19:04:00.000-08:00

Dinner last night? Get real, it was Chez Panisse, of course it was delicious. Even the first course, pickled mackerel, was plenty tasty. I had tried to explain my tepid enthusiasm for the dish when I saw it on the menu (Pickles? Yes. Fish? Yes. Pickled fish? Not so much.) but I'm glad I went with it, trusting in the genius of the Chez. Even more genius were the fabulous quail. Mmm. Baby.

30 Years

2011-11-09T14:33:00.000-08:00

Today is the thirtieth anniversary of my meeting R Man in the back room of a sleazy bar in New Orleans called Jewels. Thirty years. I wasn't even thirty when I met him. While the moment is poignant, I'm trying not to be all mopey and stuff and I seem to be doing ok. Still, when he was cremated and I got the ashes back (doesn't the funeral industry's preferred term, "cremains" seem creepier than something as straightforward and accurate as "ashes"?) I couldn't face scattering them, so I decided to wait for this anniversary instead. In April it was plenty far off enough to be safe somehow. Now that it's here, I still dread the whole sad idea, so I'm putting it off indefinitely. My plan is to stand at the top of our backyard, where there is almost always a breeze and toss them down into the yard, someday. Turns out that is illegal in San Francisco which adds a tiny frisson to it, but not much.

To mark our anniversary, I'm going out to dinner tonight with a gang who also loved R Man. We're headed over to Berkeley to the reliably fabulous Chez Panisse. I'm taking Vicodin and a camera with me. Details to follow.

In the meantime, here's some houseboy pussy, complete with Stupid Hair, the bane of cute boys everywhere.

Something Wrong with Strippin?

2011-11-02T22:53:00.000-07:00

So many, many people ask me "mrpeenee, what is your favorite big muscial about a psychotic mother pimping her daughter out into a life of quasi-prostitution?" I laugh tinklingly and reply "Oh, that would be Gypsy."

Take it away Miss Mazeppa:

Once I was a schleppah....

Fun with Blogs

2011-11-02T18:28:00.000-07:00

Those of you who dropped by over the last few days may have noticed I went all crazy and stuff and replaced the tasteful background I had been using here with one that was a picture of me and R Man that had been run through a warholizer.

I decided it had to go cause it was giving me a headache, but by then I had lost the picture of the fern frond and since I was too lazy to go all the way out in the yard and take another one, we are now featuring our lovely, lovely Datura Brugmansia. Revel in it, because I am also too lazy to change it for a while.

That's just how it goes in Gaylandia. Leave a mo to his own devices long enough and redecorating is bound to happen.

There and Back Again

2011-10-22T15:27:00.001-07:00

Outside the Menil Gallery, my favorite museum in the world.

mrpeenee is back from the magic that is Houston. While I did not literally kiss the San Francisco ground upon returning it was only my backache the stupid plane had given me that stopped me. So what were some of the highlights from my childhood home? Enchiladas. That's it. Turns out the sole reason Texas exists is to create superior Mexican food. I ate it every single day I was there, some days snarffling it up for lunch and dinner.

I had rented a Cadillac in order to fit in as well as I could. When I went to pick it up, the guy presented me with an SUV. "I do not want a truck. I want a car," I explained. I might as well have announced I wanted a pony. The rental guy pointedly turned to the fleet of cars stretching away from us. All SUVs. Welcome to Texas.

My brothers and me. I know some people would think it not fair that I am the prettiest, smartest, tallest and youngest, but that's how things roll in my family.

Lone Star

2011-10-14T20:43:00.000-07:00

This year marks a significant anniversary for me; it's the year I will have lived in San Francisco longer than I did in Texas, where I was born. Beyond a mere statistic, it is also a great comfort to me. I will be chanting it to myself on Saturday morning, far too early, as I go winging off to Houston for a family visit.

I have a complicated relationship with my family. When I'm with them, they amuse me, sort of, but when I escape back here I find myself with no great desire to return anytime soon. In fact, I haven't been back to Texas in the last six years. I blame George Bush, but the fact that they all, and especially my father, make me sort of crazy might have something to do with it.

My plan stretches no farther than Mexican food for dinner three nights and barbecue and Gulf Coast seafood for the other nights. I had looked into possibly visiting some galleries, but the most interesting one has obviously changed focus, now concentrating on lesbiancentric spoken word. Yo. I think I'll pass.

Trust me when I say none of the boys I ever run across there look like this:

China Doll

2011-10-12T17:41:00.000-07:00

I forgot to mention in my News You Can Use from Vermont bit below that Super Agent Fred (proving his absolute superness) boosted a small set of china from the house for me. Let me hasten to add there was more than plenty of other dishware to cover the loss, and perhaps "boosted" is too harsh a term to use. Let us think of it as "taking an advance on his inheritance."

They're the sixties space age pattern on the right, just the thing to set the heart of an aged queen survivor of that era, such as I, to racing.

Of course, I needed absolutely no more china, groovy or otherwise. R Man loved to give me dishes for Christmas and birthday presents and I have been working the thrift store kitchen section for thrity years, so we gots plenty. Not that that has ever stopped me.

The good stuff. Lots o' good stuff.

The everyday stuff. Cause every day, my posse drops by and I need ten soup plates. Oh wait, that's right. I never need ten soup plates. And I have no posse.

The overflow. Some of it, anyway.

In fact, I was back at it this very afternoon. Diane von Austinburg, Fred, some other friends and I are planning a big Thanksgiving in cabins down in Big Sur, the beautiful, rugged coast south of here. Diane and I have suffered through cooking in rental kitchens often enough we agreed it would be a good idea to stock up on various pots and pans, dishes and silverware in advance to take down with us and then just abandon there for future renters to bless us for.

We've all been there, I assume. Kitchens stocked with the filters from espresso machines, the implements to cut hardboiled eggs into perfect little slices, asparagus steamers, but no timers, or pots with lids, or decent knives. So I trotted off to the big thrift store on Valencia Street to begin the hunt.

And what a thrill it was to have a focus and not feel vaguely ridiculous about bringing home yet another bowl. My three rules are 1) nothing can cost more than $1.50, 2) it has to be a Useful Size (whatever that is,) and 3) it can't be chipped. That's the real sticking point. Even if something started out in pristine condition a very short time out in the war zone that is a thrift store rack leave all these poor dishes looking like they have lost a rough fight.

For years, I have resisted the siren lure of plain white china with gold rims knowing that the gilt never lasts long in dishwasher combat. This then is my big chance, cause what do I care if the gold wears off? All it has to do is last through a couple of dinners and then it's "So long sucker."

Of course in the middle of my "Just buying for a one way trip to Big Sur" I ran across a most charming little Staffordshire bowl and a Wedgewood salad plate, $1.50 each. What was I going to do, pass them up? I don't think so. Turns out I am, after all, a big ole china queen.

I also snagged a small-ish box for the chargers and cables and other electronica ephemera that are running over the basket they currently reside in, but Saki has laid claim to it.

Cats: utilizing their inherent cuteness in service to some diabolical plot they are then too lazy to execute.

There and Back Again

2011-10-11T17:30:00.000-07:00

Vermont is lovely this time of year. Super Agent Fred's parents had very kindly invited me to tag along with the old darling when he went up to visit them in their ski house, very possibly with the laughable idea I would keep him out of trouble. I couldn't even keep him out of the vicodin. Wait, wait, that was me. Never mind.

All photos courtesy (more or less) Super Agent Fred because my goddam camera battery was dead. Again.

It was very, very pretty, perfect weather, Tim's mother and stepfather are charming and cool, as were the various friends and relations also visiting. Tom, the stepfather, had built the house as a base for his skiing proclivities and also as a rental. Two units, with a total of seven bedrooms, three or four bathrooms, two fireplaces and two kitchens, both of which were very much of the temporary kitchen ilk we've come to know over the years. In other words, no pot to boil pasta in, lots of odd implements (none of them useful,) and TWENTY ONE skillets. I counted. I also cooked every night.

The last evening, there was lots of hemming and hawing about "We can go out to eat...." "We'll need to figure out ...." "Where does everyone..." "Reservations...." and other sentences trailing off into the land of the vague until I finally broke down and offered to cook. Again. It's amazing how fast vagueness can turn into solidarity and agreement in the face of somebody else making chicken pot pie.

I had a lovely time.

Dolls continue to haunt me

Apparently even New England comes equipped with hillbillies

I also heard about Diane von Austinburg's crack claiming I looked unnatural in nature.

I laughed, but I managed to keep a very lemony look on my face. So there.

Vermontino

2011-10-04T16:07:00.000-07:00

Super Agent Fred and I are off to Vermont tomorrow. Have you heard of Vermont? I understand it's this adorable little state, popular with lesbians and cheese enthusiasts. And then, at the other end of the spectrum, I'm going to visit my father in the old folks' home he just moved into in Houston. Whee. In fact, Super whee.

In unrelated news, the woman who trims the nails of Saki, my Evil and Adorable Cat, warmly recommended giving him a bath the last time we went in for is pedicure. A cat. A bath. A catbath. Doesn't that just seem to be asking for trouble. After all, Saki barely tolerates going in to have his razorlike talons nipped down. I'm sure washing him off would only lead to sulking and cat turds in my bed. We have filed this under "Ideas, Bad."

Here's a good idea:

Street Fair

2011-10-03T17:54:00.000-07:00

Oh, Castro Street Fair. Super Agent Fred and I stumbled into each other there yesterday and that was pretty much the highpoint of the day. That and the vicodin I washed down with a dainty little Cosmopolitan. If you've been to any street fair, I'm sure you know the drill:

Smoldering fajitas contributing to global warming.

And semi-naked boys, contributing to nothing.

My favorite booth was the "Girl on Girl Dodgeball." Plus, I accidentally bought raffle tickets to win admission to Cirque du Soliel when I thought the prize was a pass to a bunch of art shows instead, but by the time I figured it out, too late. I suppose that means I will inevitably win to see, as Carmen on South Park says, "a bunch of gays in sequins."

TV P Nee

2011-10-02T12:41:00.000-07:00

I am one big fan of the TV show Criminal Minds. Grim FBI agents talk in curt sentences with occasional wisecracks whilst tracking down serial killers. The A&E channel (that's arts and entertaining for those of you taking notes because the show is both entertaining and art) very kindly provides us with marathons of these shows every weekend, hour after hour of the agents kicking in doors, which is my favorite part. On Friday night , I counted them kicking in seven doors in one show. I almost got a little stiffy. Almost.

Oddly, the channel will sometimes repeat the same three episodes in row. Am I ashamed that on that same Friday night I watched the show where the killer glues his victims' eyes open (classic) and then, two hours late, watched it again? Well, yes, a little, but then, as a small victory, I changed channels.

Speaking of changing channels, I did not make it through the dreadful BBC sci fi show Bedlam last night. Ghost Whisperer had already plowed the same ground as a show with Jennifer Love Hewitt who saw ghosts no one else did and slept in false eyelashes. This was the same idea, but without her enormous fake eyelashes and enormous genuine breasts, but with the astonishingly adorable Theo James frequently "acting" in nothing but a towel.

I have no idea why I can't find a picture of Theo showing off his humpalicious lean torso like he did on the show. Sometimes the internet just lets you down. But not even his flat tummy and sizeable tits were enough to keep me around. I had to go watch the boys kick in doors.

Out of Season

2011-09-26T19:00:00.000-07:00

Imagine my thrill when stumbling around the patio earlier this week I ran across this stunner. It's a bearded iris I bought at the half price nursery a couple of months ago. Since it wasn't blooming then I had no idea what color it might wind up, but I love irises, so I put it over in the "What the Hell?" column and was prepared to wait and see.

My thrill came from the fact irises typically bloom in the spring. For those of you not paying attention, this is, in fact, autumn, so having a gigantamundo splash of say-something purple was okay with me. Also, it's about the size of Godzilla. If this is yet another effect of global warming, it's hard to complain.

mrpeenee Rocks Out

2011-09-24T23:11:00.000-07:00

Oh, my sweet little potatoes, life's just been a whirl, a mad gay whirl around here. Diane von Ausitnberg was here last weekend, fomenting like mad, putting up with my sullen attitude and mostly just glad to get away from the fires of Central Texas. She seemed terribly impressed with my dedication to watching hours of crappy TV.

Plus, this weekend is Folsom Street Fair, a festival celebrating fat men's unwise decisions to appear in public wearing their ill-fitting fetish wear. The city is wild for this, for example, the naked guys who hang out in the little park on Castro street decided to have a Nude In to warm things up.

Also, they're protesting a local ordinance that has been proposed that would require people to spread a towel on seats before they plop down on them, should those people be less than covered in their butt-chop regions. I support the naked guys who point out wandering around nude is not against the law here, but I also think simple courtesy leans towards "the towel on the bench" argument. Do I know you well enough to come in contact with your cooties? No, I do no think I do. Therefore keep them and your buttsweat to yourself.

Even though I avoided the Castro today in order not to bump into the naked guys and I will also be missing from the rounds of leather, flagellation, and fajita stands at Folsom tomorrow, don't think that I haven't been celebrating. Tonight I went to a concert with friends where the orchestra played a charming version of the opera Carmen. Some crazy ass Russian composer put this together in the mid-60s as a ballet for his wife. He took the pieces of the opera and reassembled them and then amped it all up with a wacky percussion section. This is the answer for people (like me) who have always thought all Carmen needed to be better was bongos and marimbas mixed in. It was brilliant.

Plus, during the earlier, staler part of the show (Mendelssohn. Like eating a stale cookie.) I was able to distract myself by staring at the very cute bass player and imagining his nipples.

One felt sure they were medium large and firm, possibly perky. I'm sure I don't have to explain chamber orchestras are not normally equipped with men who lend themselves to this line of thinking, so I was plenty glad to see him there.

Speaking of nipples, here's a couple, prime example of the Gum Drop metier.

peenee Paint

2011-09-12T20:50:00.000-07:00

In February, right after R Man died, I tackled painting the room upstairs we use as an office. I realize now it was grief triggered madness since I am, bar none, the worse painter in the world and should never be allowed near a brush that is not related to what little hair I have left. I understand this, and yet, this afternoon found me once again slinging latex and taking names. And not even a different room, but the same one I painted seven months ago.

Why? Well, yes, madness is repeating the same actions and expecting a different outcome, but besides that, it was the curtains. Earlier this year, I had some ravishing scarlet silk curtains made for our dining room. They're ravishing. People come over, see them and announce "I am ravished." Ravishing. But then I found an equally beautiful, dark magenta rug. Tragically, just like the tired old joke says, the rug and curtains did not match. Often I would come home to a strained, sullen silence in the dining room that let me know they had been squabbling again. I got new curtains last week, not as ravishing, but quite charming and capable of living with the rug.

I offered the scarlet curtains to Secret Agent Fred and as I was loading them into the car to take them over there, I was trying hard not to feel deprived. Fred is a good friend and deserved them, they'd be going to a good home and blahblahblah, but they're so pretty, it was hard to let go. Remember, ravishing? So when they turned out not to fit his windows., well, let's just say I was not conflicted about bringing them back.

What could I do? Giving them away was obviously going to bring on some kind of designer homo breakdown, but the only room that didn't already have curtains was the office. The lavender office. Lavender and scarlet. So very much not feeling the love there. Okay. Okay. Goodbye lavender, hello charcoal. Goodbye also to my vow to never, ever paint again.

Still, I've finished the first coat without killing myself , I should grind out the second one tomorrow morning in time for my chiropractor appointment in the afternoon (which I'll need,) and by this time on Thursday, I'll be al through. And I will never, ever, ever paint again. As god is my witness.

Criminal Minds. And Booty

2011-09-05T16:13:00.001-07:00

Sorry, I can't talk right now, A&E is running an all day marathon of Criminal Minds and I'm only halfway through. A day long orgy of grim, tight mouthed FBI agents and serial killers who giggle. Tip: if the guy sitting next to you on the bus is giggling, you're in trouble.

A big part of Criminal Minds' appeal is Shemar Moore

The FBI apparently doubles as a gay porn factory. Shemar also starred in Tyler Perry's Madea: Diary of Mad Black Woman. I know this because I have been sucked into the vortex of black cinema on the On Demand channel of my cable. The "black cinema" turns out to be all Tyler Perry, all the time. It's as if a "gay cinema" channel was dedicated to permutations on Cage aux Folles. Actually, that's probably happened but I just haven't found it yet.

There is on-going speculation about Tyler Perry's sexuality, to which I respond with a hearty "duh." And it's not his choice of appearing in drag for his most famous role, it his directorial decisions that give away his big mo-ness. Exhibits A and B:

Adam Rodriguez

Boris Kodjoe

stars of a couple of Perry's vehicles and typical of all the men in his movies all of whom are humpy beyond any human norm. It's possible they are mutants. Perry's set-up for the shots of female protagonists show the tender concerns of a dish detergent commercial, while the boys get an on-going soft-core porn thang.

Plus, the women, who are always strong , but oddly mistreated, usually look like they're about ten years older than the men (strong, sensitive, caring, butch, Christian.) What's with that?

Lastly, here is the big wedding scene from Madea's Family Reunion.

Could anyone but a gay man with serious conflicts about heterosexual norms give the greenlight to this in his movie. Yes, those are live women strung up there with some harps. Did I mention various closer shots of the set included big muscley almost-naked men in frames with angel wings and trumpets. Why? Uh, the polite answer might be "I dunno;" the less polite supposition being Tyler owed some trick a favor and this was payback.

Anyway, I gotta go, I got serial killers waiting.

Before and After Pornster

2011-09-02T00:36:00.000-07:00

Darlings. I stumbled on this totally scary image over at Infomaniac's; it appears to be an accessory to give a man (or rather, a person with a penis) the startling effect of having a cameltoe. If that is your desire in life, then you have come to the right place, you lucky freak, you.

Of more interest to me is the model since I swear it is the gone-to-seed remnants of a Colt model I used to be wild for who operated under the completely ridiculous name of "Beau Wheeler."

For some other jobs he tamed it down to James somethingortheother, but he'll always be Beau to me.

So, look at the face. Come on, you can do it. Don't you think I'm right? My, how the mighty have fallen.

Stripper Joe

2011-09-02T00:07:00.000-07:00

You know how deeply I lust after the enormous hunk o' beef, Joe Manganiello, from True Blood. I have even taught myself to spell his name correctly, the better to write "Mrs. Joe Manganiello" on my notebook should I ever find myself trapped in homeroom again.

Word now reaches us he will be participating in the biopic of Channing Tatum, aka Mr. Potato Head, specifically on that sleazy portion of Mr. Channing's life when he was a stripper. I had to make a short sidetrip through Wikipedia to find out who this Channing creature is; turns out he ground out some G.I. Joe movie. But wasn't that Demi Moore before she got her Showgirl tits? I'm confused.

Not so confused that I'm not already salivating at the idea of seeing Joe peel down to a tiny little thong. Yay babay.

Rocky

2011-09-01T00:07:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is garbage day here in the beloved canyon mrpteene calls home, so that means tonight is Put the Goddam Trash Out Before Your Forget It Again night and all up and down the street the raccoons are singing their weekly songs of love and snack foraging. Have you ever heard raccoons? They make this weird, high-pitched chittering that sounds like when the aliens are chatting in some cheap sci-fi horror.

All of this winds Saki, the Evil and Adorable cat, into a frenzy, thrashing about the room claiming he can take those stupid critters, just let him at 'em. After about twenty minutes of this while I'm trying to concentrate on porn, I'm considering giving him his wish, but these raccoons are about five times as big as he is and fearless. Apparently that comes from living on a diet of tamales past their sell-by dates. I've seen these bad boys as I've been driving up to the house and I've been scared, in the car. They look like they know how to pick locks. If you want us, the houseboys and I will huddled in terror in the attic.

Break it down, houseboy, break it down.

Weed Whacker

2011-08-30T17:53:00.000-07:00

I went out for dinner at the excellent pizza place whose name I forget cause I got too much other excellent stuff taking up room in my superior type brain. A friend of Super Agent Fred's was there and, after hearing my whining about how beat up I had gotten weeding the yard that afternoon, he announced gardening was both soothing and relaxing.

Schmuck.

I'm sure a good axe murder spree is soothing, but the only people who think gardening is relaxing are those who do not indulge in it. I spent hours whacking away at a small-ish mountain of weeds, invasive blackberry canes as big around as my thumb and a passion flower vine that is determined to take over the whole side of the canyon we live in. I got scratches all over, thorns stuck in both hands (through a pair of heavy duty gloves) and sprained my back. Yeah, it was plenty relaxing.

Weeds.

More weeds.

Lotsa Weeds.

Throughout, I had my iTunes playing on the computer up here with the windows open so I could hear it. I realize my neighbors also got an earful, but since I never usually do that, I figured they could suck it up. The shuffle spit out Donna Summer (Bad Girls,) Erasure (Victim of Love,) Madonna (Vogue,) and Dusty Springfield (who knows what? I have lots.) I could just hear them "So he's not just a queen, he's an OLD queen...."

Things not actually weeds up in the yard:

Mexican Sage, rolling off into the distance.

Purple echiveria and an old, old, old red fuschia

Coreopsis

Some itty bitty blue flower, the name of which I have long since forgotten, if I ever knew it.

HurriCan't

2011-08-28T18:38:00.001-07:00

I was delighted with this pulpy charmer which our beloved Infomaniac used to respond to my comment that, in turn, responded to her very sensitive post about possible East Coast victims of Hurricane Irene (is this all too internal, too blogger-centric, too meta, too tootoo for you? Tough. Do try to keep up.)

My considerably less sensitive comment to her post said "Pooh. As an old Gulf Coast boy, I still say if it's to the right (starboard) of Florida, it's not a real hurricane." Yeah, that's right, I said it and I'm sticking by it, especially since Irene turned to to be such a wimpy little blow, not much more than a lot of rain and a chance for New York transit official to turn of the subway. (And what's with that? I didn't even know they could turn it off.)

I understand the anxiety of staring down the barrel of an oncoming hurricane, the tragedy of rushing down to the grocery to stock up on supplies only to discover your piggish neighbors have already scored all the beer and cheap scotch. But my substantial experience with them makes me confident that if, on Thursday, the storm trackers are warning you that the hurricane will come ashore in your neighborhood on Sunday, you can feel confident about sleeping in late that morning and then watching the Weather Channel to see where it actually wanders in.

Understand me, I am not exaggerating (for once) my hurricane experiences. My parents' home was located on a lovely, leafy peninsula that stuck out into Galveston Bay. In the thirty years they lived there, it was flooded seven or eight times and threatened pretty much annually. Eventually, the city condemned the whole fucking neighborhood for being too disaster prone and turned it into a nature preserve, complete with alligators. To this day, the nasty mucky smell of a mud flat at low tide is a nostalgic, Proustian experience for me.

So a Category 3 (Category 3? As in Category "What's the big deal, why are you being such a little Girl" 3?) storm comes along and I'm not impressed? It's nurture, not nature.

What Fresh Hell is This?

2011-08-22T20:19:00.000-07:00

Today is Dorothy Parker's birthday. In her honor, I plan to do no housework, knock back some vicodan and recite my favorite Parker ode:

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,

a medley of extemporanea;

and love is a thing that can never go wrong.

And I am Marie of Romania.

This is not Miss Parker. It is a glorious cycle of something or the other.

Crexcent City Craziness

2011-08-17T12:31:00.000-07:00

Our dear friends Kevin and Steve arrive today for a visit from New Orleans. The nominal reason is a wedding of Steve's nephew, I think they really are just trying to escape the miserable heat I hear is suffocating the South. Right on I say, I just don't understand why they waited so long.

We've been friends for quite a while, I believe we met shortly after time was invented. Steve is a landscape architect, Kevin makes Sak's pretty. Drugs and drag have been involved, yes, it's true.

Cow Queen, getting all belovelified for some long gone Southern Decadence bacchanal.

It's possible I am the only friend they have who does not pronounce his name "Kebbin." That's because I am a Lady, I do Lady things. Certainly, I am the only one who calls Steve "Cow Queen." The cause of the nickname is lost to the mists of time. I simply appreciate that he puts up with it, the old darling.

They've visited out here often enough over the years, that I have no plans for things to entertain them. I suppose we will just hang out, savoring the fog and cool temps. Could anything be sweeter?

Back in the Saddle

2011-08-14T21:27:00.000-07:00

OK, I'm just going to dive in and pretend like I haven't been ignoring my blog for two weeks because no one is interested in to listening bloggers explain how they are just too darn busy to keep up. Life too much for you? What are you, a combination astronaut/brain surgeon? If you're that important why do you have a blog? Obviously, I'm just a lazy pig.

My dear friend Rich from New Orleans (aka Magda) was in town the last week of July which was terribly amusing and good for me. We did pretty much nothing and it was fabulous to be reminded how solid friends we are, and why. We found the perfect little table for my front hall in a consignment store for $180 and when they wouldn't come down to $150, I walked out. Magda patiently encouraged me to rethink the situation and the values inherent in it. Actually, what he said was "Queen. Are you going to pass up that table for thirty bucks? Shut up and get back in there." I am immensely glad I did so and publicly thank Magda for his sensible advice.

I spent the entire day yesterday watching a Hoarders marathon on some cable channel's whose motto should be "We Waste Your Time for You." I'd never been able to stick out more than the first 60 seconds of these monuments to civilization because I always thought I was too delicate to watch more than that much of the filth festivals. Turns out I'm tougher than I thought; how comforting.

Hoarders is an excuseless revel in the fortunes of troubled individuals who cannot bring themselves to let go of a single piece of the flotsam and jetsam in their lives. These sad, sad creatures (or, as I like to think of them, "freakydirtycreepylosers") exist in a bubble of denial. Look, if moving through your home requires you to climb over a moraine of empty gatorade bottles and old pizza boxes and if you cannot access your toilet for the vast collection of stuffed poodles you have dragged home from the thrift stores, do you really think all systems are go in your sweet little life? These shows are just the latest in a series of entertainment monuments (Design Star is another) that cause me to shriek at the television. This alarms Saki and makes me wonder if maybe the participants are any worse off than I am, carrying on a one-way conversation with household appliances.

I am also finishing up a 10 volume series of science fiction novels by Lois McMaster Bujold that center on a terribly amusing character named Miles Vorkosigan. If you like sci fi, you should give them a try. The conceit of a one character in this many settings allowed Bujold to study fantasy writing through the lens of different genres like hard-boiled detective noir, and regency romance, and whodunits. Thumbs up.

Also, houseboy booty:

My Fair, Lady

2011-07-31T20:33:00.000-07:00

Secret Agent Fred and I went to the Dore Alley Fair this afternoon. It's a typical street fair, burnt fajitas, bad margaritas, big crowds, you know the drill.

Plus partially naked stripper boys.

I love San Francisco.

True Blood, Fake Accents

2011-07-25T13:35:00.000-07:00

So I went crawling back to Comcast. Yes, it's true. Last April I tossed their sorry ass out, made a bunch of big talk about "I don't need you, bitch" and now I am back in bed with Satan's own minion.

And why? Alcide from True Blood, that's why.

Who could say no to all that? Certainly not me. As fond as I am of porn, I have never seen any smutress who can stack up to Joe Manganiello. His only drawback is his last name, which just took me three cracks to type correctly.

Anyway, I watched it last night. Specifically, the episode where Eric, the big blond Alex Skarsgaard (again with the fucked-up last name. Is that a requirement for this show?) vampire runs off and winds up facing down Alcide. Both of them naked. Plus Alcide growls and flexes his big square man tittties. Could any scene be more thrilling? I'm considering canceling all my porn subscriptions,

I'm also considering watching all future episodes on mute because the fucking dreadful fake Southern accents are so bad they make my teeth hurt. The producers apparently have been watching far too many reruns of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof because everyone on the show sounds like Judith Anderson in that.

There is a wide range of accents in Dixie and while none of them are the gumbo that pours out of True Blood actors' mouths, what these misguided souls seem to be winding up with is more northern Alabama and Georgia, sort of a faux-Atlanta drawl. Let me tell you, honey chile, the fine folk out of the swamps of southern Louisiana do not sound like they're looking for Tara. In fact, southern Louisiana doesn't even sound like northern Louisiana, which is a lot closer to east Texas. And the fake genteel ones of the rich characters is just the worse. They all seem to have watched one too many reruns of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

So will I continue watching? Of course. I haven't even mentioned Ryan Whosits, Jason Stack house.

How mrpeenee Spent My Summer Vacation

2011-07-16T20:27:00.000-07:00

Usually I don't put up new posts because I am a lazy slug, but since returning from Los Angeles, I've felt that I couldn't move on until I actually post something about the trip. Plus, I am a lazy slug. Herewith, mrpeenee's LA confidential. Progress on my slug-like state seems unlikely.

Our flight attendant was totally booty-licious.

I kept referring to him as our "stewardess" which I know is technically incorrect, but Miss Lady Girlfriend was nellier than even I, so it seems OK. His name was Marche (or possibly Marshay) which led to my repeated incantations of "Marche, Marche, Marche." Our attendant coming back lip synched the safety instruction tape. People applauded.

The weather was mild, we went swimming at night (which I love,) the bougainvillea was spectacular.

We hit the boy bars in West Hollywood, where we were staying, and I drank cocktails. The bartender at Mickey's was making up fake drinks to set out on the bar (who knows why? It's that kind of place.) He seemed embarrassed that I wanted to take his picture, but he has nipples like gumdrops, so what does he expect?

Frank Gehry designed a building that features a four story pair of binoculars by Claes Oldenberg in either Santa Monica or Venice. I can't tell them apart, says the Northern California snob, and I'm too lazy to look it up. I wanted to show Secret Agent Fred, but I had left the address in the hotel, so I asked Fred to text our friend John to ask him to Google it. John texted back "Tell the heiress to go buy a goddam smartphone." Bitch. I managed to find it anyway, because I am triumph incarnate. The building is going to be the new L.A. headquarters for Google. Isn't that brilliant? I hope they can afford a new paint job for the binoculars.

I took more pictures of the way too cool restaurant at LAX than I did of anything else the whole trip. I thought it was still closed, but it turns out it's been re-opened, so we blew in for drinks.

The place is, obviously, Judy Jetson cool, but the renovation it suffered somewhere down the line is tragic. As 80's as a Cyndi Lauper tribute band with these ridiculously inappropriate diner style tables and chairs. Somewhere there is a designer who should be dragged out and shot for this.

When Bloggers Collide

2011-07-12T12:16:00.000-07:00

Because I'm a lazy slob, I haven't gotten around to reporting in about my fabulous, fabulous trip to Los Angeles. It's possible I will do so soon. No promises.

In the meantime, here's a teasy little shot, representing yet another triumph in mrpeenee's attempt to capture all living bloggers in a bar. In this case, the equally charming and sassy Donna Lethal and Felix in Hollywood. We were in a bar, we were loud, details to follow, although I will say they're both way cool and Felix's tour of Hollywood was genius.

Dreams of a Dreamy Dream

2011-07-04T18:12:00.000-07:00

In our "Hell in a Handbag" post below, corespondent Debs commented "medicine for bone cancer also gives one very vivid, livid dreams...." Amazing, since the one side effect of my AIDS medicine I didn't mention is the onset of immensely amusing dreams, totally different from my previous unconscious, very realistic with internally consistent plots and effects. Plus I can direct them at will during the dream itself. If I don't like the way things are turning out, I'm aware of it and can re-channel the action into more pleasurable directions. I'm wild for them.

Saturday night I had one where I was a house guest at Martha Stewart's place, along with our dear, dear chum Glenn Close. Of course, since it was Martha, the house was a beautiful series of Paladian pavilions, pretentious bitch. I couldn't really pay the proper attention to Martha or her goddam dogs since I was terribly busy as a high fashion model in the middle of a photo shoot. I had to calm the overwrought Italian photographer by telling him "Shut up, I know what I'm doing" in flawless Italian ("Stai zitto, io so quello che sto facendo," in case you were wondering, and thank you Google's translation thingy.) It's possible he was so nervous because I was wearing a gold suit with a gold tie set with gemstone. And I don't mean it was gold colored, I mean it was gold metal, but I was able to pull it off with my best vogueing. I know what I'm doing.

Real Italian models. Not mrpeenee. I know what I'm doing.

And then last night, probably overly influenced by my own blog, I dreamed I was sexing it up with the Night is Half Gone Aries guy. We were in a beautiful room paved in sea glass tiles and I was driving him wild by sucking, gently, on his horns. The ones on his head, silly. There was a little red knob on the end of each one, like a Jujube. I was so sorry to wake up.

In other mrpeenee news, Super Agent Fred and I are winging it off to Los Angeles tomorrow for a few days in order for me to escape from the kitchen renovation. I figure if I can't have a kitchen, I might as well do so in a nice hotel. Felix in Hollywood encourages us to come out on one of his fabulous sounding tours, overriding my puking whine about the heat. I know it's California and whinging about the heat here is nothing to endear us to readers suffering along where the temps are serious, but I'm delicate darling. Delicate.

We certainly hope this is included on dear Felix's tour. We would hate to ask for our money back.

Hell in a Handbag. A Nice Handbag, but Still...

2011-06-30T22:05:00.000-07:00

Sweetums, once again mrpeenee begs that you bear with me. We're fighting back the world of chaos on multiple fronts. Before we delve into the sordid details, here's some houseboy bits to make us all feel a little cheerier.

Chaos, the one: Project Runway begins shortly and I have given up cable. What a fool I was.

Chaos, part deaux: Saki, the evil and adorable cat has gone on a hunger strike over the kitchen renovation. It's too disruptive, I've moved his food bowl, the kitchen is sealed off, he's mad. He hasn't eaten since Monday night. Today, in case you haven't been paying attention, is Thursday. Consequently, Nursemrpeenee has loaded up a syringe (oh, I just happened to have it lying around) with chicken broth and am occasionally blasting it down his throat. Yes, we're living in a kitty nourishment shooting gallery.

Chaos III: the side effects of my AIDS medicine, Atripla, which I had long since overcome, have decided to rear their nasty little heads. It's possible this is related to the fact that I was absentmindedly taking two of the pills each night instead of the prescribed one. I have no idea how long I have been stumbling along like this. Last night I looked down at the dose in my hand and thought "Wait a minute...."

So now that I'm not poisoning myself semi-accidentally, maybe things will get better. Till then, I can look forward to waking up each night in an agitated panic, gasping for breath like a crazed poodle and, worst of all, in the middle of a hot flash. Yes, it's true; my HIV meds bring on the menopause.

I've looked this up, out of the almost 800 men participating in a test on this drug, only one reported this side effect, feeling like he was nailed down beneath the french fry heat lamp at Burger King. Great, I win the lottery.

In happier news, the widely reported birthday of internet malcontent NormaDesmond (Happy B.D., old girl) has reminded me that Jason, over at Night is Half Gone posted recently that his version of Aries, my own sweet, sweet horoscope identity is this

God love you, Jeisean.

Kichenless

2011-06-27T20:44:00.000-07:00

Kitchen, before

Kitchen, during. Hopefully.

I decided to wrap up Gay Pride Week by renovating my kitchen. That's gay, right? Actually, the timing was my contractor's idea; he shows up when it's your turn in his schedule and you had better take it when you can get it.

So he blew in this morning and ripped everything out. Saki is not feeling the love about strangers banging around in his house and resents being locked in one room away from the action and temptingly open doors, even if it is the room he would be hiding in anyway.

I'm just replacing the counters, tiling the backsplash and having the cabinets stripped and re-stained. No new cabinets, no new floors, no new appliances. Still the whole thing will take the better part of a month which means on top of all the other "no's," no kitchen. The big holdup are the countertops. I'm having them made from the scraps left over from when they cut new granite counters. They grind up the scraps and mix it with resin and cast some obnoxiously eco-hip material. Apparently, it is then hand-polished by blind nuns who have taken vows of cabinetry, at least if the price is any indication.

Anyway, after today's demo there's a gap of a couple of weeks while it's being poured and set, so no kitchen for mrpeenee until the middle of July. Think Bastille Day. Already I hate living La Vida Sans Cochina. I had to empty all the cabinets and drawers last night and carefully set aside a bag of snack products to live on, which I promptly lost in the chaos.

I assume Saki and I will be fighting over the cat food soon.

Gaily Proud, Proudly Gay

2011-06-26T21:16:00.000-07:00

Every few years, mrpeenee overcomes his aversion for the gay pride parade and celebration thing and decides to attend. Every few years, mrpeenee is a sucker. This year, I noticed several gay blogs hectoring readers into participating in the parades around the country: gay civil rights are won not through complacency, they would shrill; you owe it to those who came before and lack this opportunity; a show of solidarity in the face of growing conservatism is important. And so I went and remembered, once again, despite agreeing with the high-minded sentiments, I do not like these gay pride celebrations. I find them tedious and crowded and shrill. My favorite memories of gay prides gone by were the ones where R Man and I would sneak down for lunch in the Castro, which was empty while all the reveling tourists were in the Civic Center and then come home to read.

Here's pretty much what today looked like

crowded, hot, filled with people I would not be enthused about sitting next to on a subway; not enough cute boys; a block long line to get in the fetish area (and honey, I can see that at Blow Buddies any weekend night I want to) and, in general, nothing that interested me. It was just another big street fair, with the same skeevy chicken fajita purveyors poisoning the unwary, speeches I couldn't hear and didn't want to listen to, and gangs of people rushing aimlessly around.

I wanted to like it. Honest. I tried to be open to it, to get into the mood, but the mood seems so artificially hedonistic and gay, like all those boa-wearing celebrants are just trying too hard. And Bank of America can put their GLBTQ employee task force in matching tee shirts all they want, I'm still not going to open an account there.

Nevertheless, here's some pictures I took.

Secret Agent Fred and his friend helped make the scene more bearable. So did some vicodan I took while I was standing behind a dumpster next to a cop. I am such a wild dog.

Tits. Everybody likes tits.

I asked the is guy "Can I take you picture?" He said no, but by then I already had (You need to

move fast around mrpeenee.) Sorry, bitch.

This guy, on the other hand, was very sweet about encouraging me to photograph his rather lovely man teats.

Steamworks, the bathhouse in Berkley, was advertising with high quality meat.

He was very nice when I asked him to turn around again and show us his butt. He even laughed when I said I was sure that wasn't the first time he's heard that. Harharhar. mrpeenee: crackin' em up in aisles.

More Steamworkers. Let me point out I have been a regular habitue of the old joint and I have NEVER seen specimens like this toiling away there. I must go on the wrong shift.

This is what most of the parade looks like, the wrong people in thongs.

I thought this was adorable; an adorable muscle boy and his adorable mother hanging at Pride with slightly less adorable boyfriend. Isn't that adorable?

I don't know what these guys were selling, but I liked their technique: large bare muscles.

Again, product seems unclear,

But the old tar seems like he might be interested in a pair. Or two. Or a six pack. Whatever.

Sling shot. He had a girl sort of hanging on him, but so was his chubby guy friend. Who knows what's going on?

Speaking of who knows what's going on, I was never ever able to discover what was so hilarious about this guy's back, but by then we were headed out and I had some more vicodan calling to me, so I wasn't pressing the matter.

The Refined Life. Sort Of

2011-06-23T21:11:00.000-07:00

Darlings, we're off to the theatuh on Friday evening to see what Miss Sandra Bernhard has to say about things. Current things. We saw her here several years ago and were delighted with her efforts, so I'm looking forward to the show. It takes a lot to get me out of the house of an evening these days. I probably wouldn't even go this time if I didn't remember a sketch I saw her do back in the dark ages imitating Christine McVie living life as a restaurant hostess after she had received an eye injury from the flying fringe of Stevie Nicks' shawl. Pretty funny stuff.

Also, just now in our terribly quiet little neighborhood, I heard a racket out front and when I went to look (I had to, it was upsetting Saki and he demanded a report) it was not the skunks or coyotes I expected, but an actual fight. Fisticuffs. A brouhaha. Just as I was fixing to yell "I'm calling the cops" (which is a phrase I used with fair regularity when I lived in the French Quarter but haven't since we escaped to San Francisco) someone beat me to it. Damn. I hate when that happens.

Once we were standing on our Chartres Street balcony in the French Quarter with friends chatting and getting loaded when we saw a couple ambling up across the street. The gentleman kept repeating "Oh, bayby, bayby, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." The Lady, without breaking stride, turned, punched him in the jaw and dropped him, as they say, lack a bag of dirt and kept walking. He got up, still apologizing and caught up with her by now in mid-block at which time she punched him again. He managed to keep his feet, barely, and proved himself unable to learn his lesson because when he pulled up next to her she popped his sorry ass yet again and knocked him down, yet again. They then passed out of our sight and lives, but they remain a symbol of love to me. Oh, l'amour.

You know what else is a symbol of love? This.

mrpeenee, Queer

2011-06-22T17:11:00.000-07:00

What could be more appropriate for Gay Pride week than Cyndi Lauper's birthday? I love this remake of her old Money Changes Everything. I think her voice is better than ever and she's toned down the idiosyncratic yips and yaps and barking she used to decorate her singing with. Plus she's rocking a zither, or as much of it as she can reach around her enormous knockeroonies, and some guy is playing a squeezebox.

Are you sufficiently gaye? Find out. Get your Gay card on.

Tip: raise your score by answering “yes” to everything just like the real mos. “Wanna drink?” “Suck my dick?” “D&D free, right?” I would have had a perfect score, but I hit the last question, which implies black and brown do not go together, and I had to refuse to lower my standards by saying yes. I know they’re shooting for sartorial solecisms, but I also have my eye on an antique chair upholstered in black leather with brown velvet stripes I’m mad for. Plus, if you really think black and brown don’t go together, you have obviously not been paying enough attention to Kristen Bjorn’s smut.

Tragically, in light of mrpeene’s devotion to celebrating queer sensibilities, he has sprained some stupid tendon in his right hand. Since I am right handed, this is getting in the way of a number of things I need to do, things like grab a bottle of Mineragua (my new fave bebeda,) or clutch pearls when shocked, or snatch up a baseball bat, or lots of things. Lots of things.

OK, so baseball bats don’t really come my way that often.

Hot Time, Summer in the City

2011-06-21T15:14:00.000-07:00

idntitapity. Indeed. What could be more of a pity than the fact that on Sunday when I was running around the Castro with friends in from out of town, the place was infested with more cute boys than I have ever seen there at one time, and yet today, when I was there armed with my camera, it was cuteboy-free. Dammit.

Castro, sans cuteboys

Where is everybody?

And what a fabulous first day of summer it was, you would think the ideal time to lure out muscley youths who had forgotten their shirts at home. Many of my photos today were taken looking straight up at the dazzlingly blue sky, a sky that had absolutely no fog in it.

I was not lying down in the street, I was just so impressed with the clear skies. Honest.

The air was warm, just on the cusp of being hot. Everyone reveled in it.

mrpeenee, and his pet hydrangea, reveling in San Francisco's heat wave.

What could be more summery than riding around with your hand hanging out the window

Queer pride comes to SF. Yay.

The only cute guy I saw and I didn't even get a good shot of him. Again, dammit.

The best part of this, the most fabulous day was that one of my most favorite restaurants, Chow, has a beauty of a new waiter. Porn quality, actually.

Trapped with the Stars of Yesterday

2011-06-15T20:42:00.000-07:00

I had to go down to the Civic Center today to snag several more of R Man's certified death certificates for our lawyer, for the bank, for the mutual fund. I'm not even sure what they all are for any more. Everyone I deal with demands one; I expect to need one to get on the bus soon. After he was cremated, the funeral home ask me "How many death certificates you want?" I think I said "Uhm... five?" Should anyone ever ask you that, tell them you want a fucking ream of them. Believe me, they'll come in handy. And why didn't the funeral guy suggest something along those lines to me? Surely he's run into this before.

So anyway, I was in the Civic Center, an odd nexus of San Francisco. Museums and the library and homeless guys and a farmer's market and city hall and the Bill Graham Auditorium, which was surrounded by fancy ass tour buses and big rigs, one of which just said "drums" on its side. A flotilla of trucks, an armada of buses. Literally dozens of each. Traffic had just ground down to a complete halt. Complicating the picture was Larkin Street, the main way out of there, being closed by the cops at the federal building a block away. Why? Nobody was saying and even if they had been, you couldn't hear them over all the horns honking.

But why where all tour stuff swarming the auditorium? Darling, BRET MICHAELS. Wowzah. Did you even know he was still alive? Did you care? Indeed, but yes, on tour with his rockin' "We're Still not Dead" or something like that tour.

I took my death certificates (and wouldn't that be a fine, fine band name?) and fled.

SO very not Bret Michaels.

More Dreamy Dreams

2011-06-12T14:37:00.000-07:00

I'm reluctant to discuss the dream I had Friday night for two reasons. For one thing, it's very difficult to describe, very slippery, and two, it's embarrassingly shcmaltzy. But I'm going to to try, because the impression it left behind was so amazingly strong.

I'll finish with some beefcake muscle pussy, just to even things out,

So, the dream, or more specifically the waking up, since I have no idea what the dream itself was. Stay with me. When I woke up I understood I had been dreaming about R Man and it seemed like the whole thing had no story or visual impression or memory, just an immersion in R Man himself. I came to with a vivid sense of how sweet he always had been. Not that he was a girl scout or suffered fools gladly, but he always had a deep lovability and kindness that was never syrupy. And when I woke up, it seemed like I had been swimming in his very sweet nature. It had been all around me like light is on a bright day.

Crap. I absolutely am failing at this. There is just no way to explain what the sensation was. It was totally different from any dream I've ever had. Of course, trying to describe a dream never works, but still, even among dreams, this was unique to me. It was wonderful. I laid in bed wrapped up in the emotion of it, reveling in it. If there was one brief moment of my life I could relive, it would be that one. That's how profound it was.

Oh, never mind. I knew, planning this post, it would never work. It's like describing color to a blind man, frustrating to me and boring to the reader. Let's move on, shall we?

Ask the Cool Cookie, over at I’m a Filthy Fucker (and who am I to doubt his assertion?) posted this charming image earlier this week:

I was very impressed by it.

My encyclopedic memory of smarm is so vast I was actually able to remember that the original was this:

Both have their charms, but I am always impressed by artisans and whoever ran this through Photoshop so successfully deserves our wholehearted admiration, don't you think? Yes, the beard may be a trifle plush (although that's probably part of its appeal,) but the chest hairs would seem to have been placed individually, each one nudged into place by somebody as devoted to his art as a medieval monk illuminating a manuscript of the Gospel. I say right on, girl.

Porn. Accidents. Porn Accidents.

2011-06-10T14:45:00.001-07:00

As I was leaving the chiropractor's this morning, I wondered what all that noise behind me was. Turned out it was the motorcycle I backed into and knocked over. Rats. The owner was standing nearby and rushed over. He very kindly pretended not to notice that I had screamed like a little girl when it happened. I gave him my insurance and tried not to be too obvious about all the stuttering and drooling and stuff just because he was my idea of a very hot, silver fox, motorcycle daddy. Lawyer.

Even better, a quick googe reveals he is the in-house counsel for one of the higher priced local smut purveyors, Titan media.

San Francisco, where everyday misfortunes turn into the plot lines of gay porn.

Also cheering me up today, I found a charming little blue and white saucer at the thrift store.

Love saucers.

My favorite hydrangea is blooming.

And speaking of porn, my new favorite company Bound Gods

turns out to be part of the Kink.com empire and thus films inside the old San Francisco Armoury, aka Fort Porn.

Super Agent Fred reminds us you can take tours . I am so there. I only hope they give out samples.

Dreamy Dreams

2011-06-09T06:55:00.000-07:00

It's 6:50 in the morning and I'm up to write about my dream I just had.

It was set in a laundromat, the shabby kind that has mismatched equipment. Some friends and I were in this town for its film festival because they wanted to get the film they had made in the festival. Slowly, I came to realize the film their kids had put together was better and was actually going to make it and theirs wasn't and heartache lay ahead.

Also, some cute guy was there and took all his clothes off to wash them. This really happened in a New Orleans once while I was dong my laundry and the cops took him away even though he kept protesting his pants were wet. Nothing so untoward happened in my dream so I was able to chat up the cute guy. Now that I remember it he was wearing bright blue underwear.

There was tension that one of the few working dryers was going to be available before my friends' load had finished washing. An evil gypsy-looking guy was eyeing it. I found out another dryer that was marked Out of Order really worked if you leaned against the door to keep it closed. We told the kids that was going to be thier job and they weren't feeling it, but isn't that why you have children?

Because I wasn't washing clothes and had a bunch of quarters , I was very popular. Then my friends started telling me I should only give them my quarters. I started singing You Don't Own Me and everyone in the place joined in. Except, maybe the evil gypsy guy. Definitely the cute underwear guy

I can now fit youtube videos here in mrpeenee cause Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter told me how. Yay for Mitzi.

Domino Porn

2011-06-06T20:47:00.000-07:00

I am such a nerd, such a gormless nerd, I truly find this thrilling.

Something to give my life meaning.

Red Scare

2011-06-05T20:29:00.000-07:00

When one is a middle aged homogay, there are times when the decorating sickness falls on one. There is nothing to be done, one must resign oneself to swatches. So let me tell you about my own particular Designing Women madness.

R Man and I had longed planned curtains for our poppy yellow dining room. He was holding out for hot pink and white stripes. Considering his very staid disposition, his occasional fondness for clown college style decor was always surprising when it reared its bizarre little head. I was actually all for it, but R's all-too untimely demise sort of derailed the project.

Since he died, I had periodically and with no great enthusiasm, hunted for fabric for the curtains. No dice. All I could ever find was excessively tasteful stripes and insipid flowers. One store where I described the chintz of my dreams, with monkeys and palm trees in pink and orange all but pushed me out the door.

Finally, though, I accidentally ran across a beautiful chinese style embroidered fake silk, with gold dragons and red thorn trees on a scarlet background.

I had our curtain lady (the amusingly appropriate Mrs. Draper. I'm not making that up) run them up, with a matching pair for the flanking windows in solid crimson silk.

Once that train had left the station, I found myself on a red roll. A coppery red mirror to offset the charming plum branches hand painted for us by the immensely talented Super Agent Fred.

A tiny tangerine glass vase.

And a beautiful oxblood lamp.

Lastly, at the store where I snagged the lamp and the vase, an enormous asian armoire in red lacquer waylaid me. I certainly did not need it. We had a perfectly good china cabinet that matched the rest of the mahogany furniture in the room. But you know, I never really liked that stupid hutch, and the armoire was on sale and it was red and all of a sudden I saw my hand passing over my credit card. The next thing I knew....

before

after

Saki scopes out the defensive possibilities of the new cabinet.

It's not my fault. It's The Sickness.

Sure, It's Easy to Mock the Elderly

2011-06-02T18:35:00.000-07:00

For the last two days, I have forgotten the phone number to call in to listen to my voice mail on my landline. It's not listed in directory assistance (does that make sense?), I was always too lazy to program it in to speed dial and I did not have it written down anywhere; I had always relied on my hand remembering how to dial it, but on Tuesday night suddenly my hand rebelled. Stupid hand. I knew it had something to do with a 3, a 4, and a bunch zeroes so I kept trying different combinations. Turns out the receptionist at some law firm with a number very close to Voicemail Central was very nice; certainly nicer than I would have been when I stumbled across her three times in ten minutes. Eventually, I would give up and sullenly go back to looking at pictures of attractive young men. Sample provided.

And then, a few minutes ago, the fog lifted and suddenly I remembered the number, effortlessly. I called in and found out I had four messages waiting, only one of which I was actually interested in. I don't even know why I have a phone.

A Jam Packed Life

2011-05-31T20:19:00.000-07:00

I don't know, sometimes writing a blog post seems like more work than it's worth.

But then I remember all of my fans, the little people, god love you, waiting breathlessly for the semi-latest bulletins from the fast-paced life of mrpeenee. And then I think "You know, this crap is more work than it's worth."

But now, having discovered I had mixed up my antidepressants with the Tic-tacs, I am back on track and as soon as I pry Saki away from the keyboard where he's hogging the computer with his filthy dog 'n cats porn, I am flinging the on dits.

We had a lively supper with friends last week where the subject of mrpeenee's retirement and my new and improved life came up. "But what do you do?" the table asked, all concerned and mystified and stuff. Darlings, you don't understand; I don't do anything. I don't have to. Once you have freed yourself from wage slavery, the world is your big, fat, lazy oyster. I sleep a lot; I look out at the garden and rebuke myself for not gardening; I play with the cat. That's about it.

Exceptions must be made, of course. Today was a non-stop whirl of exhausting activity. Lunch with Super Agent Fred, a mani-pedi with his boyfriend, a visit to chiropractor, and a haircut. It was so demanding, I missed my late afternoon nap and only barely squeezed in my early afternoon one.

mrpeenee's nails, salon fresh.

Portrait of the author's haircut

Greg

I had to go see the Greg, the World's Greatest Chiropractor, because I spent the last three nights hunched in front of this very computer watching some stupid TV show from last year called FlashForward and screwed up my neck doing so. I am such a fragile blossom. The show sucked me in with an intriguing premise (everyone in the world passes out for two minutes, seventeen seconds resulting in mass destruction, and everyone has a vision of what their lives will be like in exactly six months) but the whole thing degenerated into turgid soap opera land despite some really good acting. I still have five episodes to go, but I'm so annoyed at it for screwing up my neck, I've decided to punish it by bailing out. Plus I understand ABC canceled it after one season and the last episode seriously misses out on the "wrapping it up" juice one wants after investing 22 episodes of your time in the mess.

Consequently, I'm looking for recommendations of something good to watch on either hulu or netflix streaming. John Barrowman's cover of Beyonce's Single Ladies on youtube does not count, thank you.

Saki Mani Pedi

2011-05-23T17:35:00.000-07:00

Today was our monthly trip to the vet to have Saki's claws clipped. This is the highpoint of the month for neither Saki nor me, but since the choice is dragging him off to vetland or having him customize the furniture with long, shaggy rips, kitty pedicure wins out.

Our vet's waiting room is smallish. As I was standing at the counter, a woman on the other side of the room was having trouble controlling her dog, a kind of boxer/pit bull mix. It was growling and barking, lunging at the techs, other dogs, and me. Have I ever mentioned that when I was younger, I was really scared of dogs? I'm much more comfortable around them now, but a big dog snarling and snapping at me is still not my idea of a good time.

The vet and I both told the woman to reel him in. She yelled "He's just a puppy." It had the sound of a declaration she has made before. Look bitch, I'm over six feet tall and your dog stands taller than my knee, looks like he weighs 80 - 90 pounds, so let's not try to define "puppy," OK? The problem was that she was holding him on a slack leash while my cat is doing cartwheels in his carrier trying to get away and the other dogs in the room can't get enough of the action. Reel. Him. In.

Also, Saki wants me to make clear he was not afraid. I was afraid. He was just offended by the woman's bad manners.

My Day. A Diary of Sorts

2011-05-21T21:13:00.000-07:00

Friday, May the Whatever Friday Was-th,

San Francisco,

11:30: I arise. The cat is pleased since he has been agitating for this for two hours. I make my bed because I am tidy and because sometimes the effort of pulling the blankets back down is all that prevents me from climbing back in.

11:35 I put in my contacts, each in the correct eye on the first try. Score! Saki helps.

11:50: I stand blankly out on the patio wondering what I'm doing there. I decide to water the plants so I can look like I know what I'm doing.

11:53 I discover the withered up thyme has come back from the dead. I shall name it Jeezuz. Or maybe Midge.

12:15: I go down to the Castro to mail something. I can now definitively report, as a retired old fart, the rumor that going to the post office is an old guys' high point of the day is true. Unless I find something good on internet Pornland.

12:17 I wander through the Castro thinking about porn.

12:20 Coffee at Peets, which may beat out porn.

12:30 San Francisco has created a charming small park by blocking off a little-used street with flatbeds holding attractive water jars filled with olive trees and flax. Locally, it's known as "Naked Guy Park" because of the smallish gang of nudists who hang out there every day. Interviews in the local press with them reveal about half of them come from little towns over in the East Bay. They are commuting nudists. They all wear hats, which I think is very odd. If you're going to be sitting around airing your bits, why are you worried about getting a sunburn on your head?

12:40 I return home to take a nap.

In Which mrpeenee Conquers Paperwork

2011-05-18T17:01:00.000-07:00

mrpeenee has been in a funk. Not funky, as in "git down you funky motherfuckers" but in a funk, as in "Why should I get out of bed when I'll just climb right back in here?" Not helping things have been the piles of unattended to paperwork looming about, staring at mrpeenee with accusing fonts and distracting me from the attention required by expensive porn.

Stacks one, two and three seen here in their sullen poutiness. There is also a stack four, but I was so depressed taking pictures of random window envelopes and their contents that needed my attention, I had to give up. At one point, I believe there was a method to this madness that explained why each stack existed separate from its brethren, but then I remembered one of the piles was just what had fallen off of the one next to it and suddenly I was back to longing for my own widdle beddy-bye.

All of this is the result of R Man's death (and, by the way, its his death, not his passing, or his end, or his expiration, or any of the other synonyms the clerks I'm dealing with fumble to find when they have to say the word. Death. It's OK.)

It's been four months since he died and I started down this particular rabbit hole and I'm farther from finalizing all this than I was in March. A huge part of it is my own slothful fault, some of it is just the nature of dealing with government agencies, agencies devoted to survivor benefit, but who don't like to say the word "death." I torture them with it, pronouncing it very clearly, with relish. Plus, it takes so little to get me sidetracked. Late in April, I slammed into our water bill, which had always been paid automatically from R Man's checking account. Oops, not happening. Instead of dealing with it, I decided to go see what was going on over in Pornland and wound up avoiding having the water cut off only by a desperate, last minute trip down to the water department. So very not pretty.

And, in my defense, let me make clear I am not some little wifey who had all this financial stuff dumped into my ignorant lap. My superior OCD talents meant I was always the one who sorted the bills and filed them after payment. How I wound up with this "Big Stack, Little Stack" system is a mystery to me.

Much Later:

I decided not to post this until I had made a good faith effort at clearing away some of the paper underbrush and once I got going, I wound up finishing it all, except for one bill that I need to argue about and one complicated deposit thingy I need to straighten out. I am plenty pleased with my bad self. That even includes the brief, but scary period when I thought I had lost a very large check, a check with a great many digits. I was prepared to go to the mat with the agency that sent it, demanding a new one, when I found I had been looking at it all along without realizing what it was. Oh, the wacky hijinx of mrpeenee's financial adventures.

Bits

2011-05-04T16:57:00.001-07:00

I would like to publicly thank the always charming Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter for introducing me to the term "spoontard" in her comments on the post below. I used it twice driving to lunch this afternoon. So very useful.

Here's some tasty bits in very nice underpants, just in case you need them.

Royals

2011-04-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

Did you guys know one of the English princes (not the redhead, the other one) is getting married on Friday?

I will cop to being apparently the only gay man in America not wet over the royal wedding, but it all seems so, so bloated. A fairy tale? No. A fairy tale is when a naked Daniel Craig brings over an equally naked brazilian soccer team to my house with drugs and Lil Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. This is just a couple of really rich people getting married.

They seem like blandly inoffensive (if not terribly bright) people, but so what? Kate whatshername is so standard issue lovely she could be from an open casting call for "Princess (white)" and Prince William may have been fairly cute early on,

but he went to seed way too early.

Of course, there is Prince Harry

and you know how fond I am of gingers, plus he seems to sensibly be following the classic royal route of dressing up in fancy uniforms and getting loaded as much as possible, so, right on Harry.

And Diana.... Girl blows the sweetest gig EVER: just show up and wear fancy clothes and the blingest bling possible, pop a couple of puppies out and be set for life, but no, she wanted us to feel her pain. Here's your pain: you're an idiot. Also, I didn't like her wedding dress. All fussy and overblown and vaguely Victorian, she might as well have been wearing a tea cart.

So as a protest gesture, I plan on ignoring the whole thing tomorrow and watching porn. I'm going to try to tune into British smut, but you know, much like British snacks, that seems pretty unlikely.

Mirrors and Redheads

2011-04-27T19:36:00.000-07:00

I mentioned awhile ago that I had bought a lovely new mirror for our front hall. Bow down before it, bitches.

I need to remember to refer to the hall as the "foyer." The mirror seems to demand it.

Also crying out for attention is this photo from Jason's tumblr site, Goldenfleecing.

I'm shocked the poor, misguided thing would leave something like this lying around, knowing how vulnerable I am to gingers and that this kind of pulchritude could give a delicate creature such as myself palpitations. I'm not as young as I used to be, you know. I love the heroic backdrop as well as his lovely plump bits.

All Night Long

2011-04-22T18:44:00.000-07:00

I try not to post too much music here; is there anything less likely and more annoying than a friend tugging on your sleeve and hectoring you to listen to some song he's struck by? And yet, here's another one in less than a week. Suck it up, wieners.

And this particular outing is more than just one song, it's kind of a mashup salute by a grooveoisie band (complete with attractive lead singer) and one of my all time favorite soul songs from back in the day "He Called Me Baby" by Candi Staton. Even at its most popular, it was fairly obscure, so I never ran across it without stopping to pay attention. This new version just popped up and I'm wild for it.

Lunch With the Girls

2011-04-20T19:10:00.000-07:00

Part of my devotion to my new life as retiree/slacker/fuckoff is to study the even more rarefied climes of Ladies Who Lunch. To that end, my friend John and I went off to Nieman's in Union Square today for lunch. It was very entertaining and quite tasty. They always start you off with a tiny cup of bullion and a popover, which seems like an odd combination to me. I suppose the bullion is to buck up the Ladies after a trying morning in the Oscar de la Renta room, struggling with uncooperative shopgirls.

I have no idea what's with the popovers.

John has long asserted the point of these bacchanalia is to finish with the same amount of food on your plate as the kitchen sent out. Ideally, one just stirs the glop around while smoking and knocking back gimlets. Since I neither smoke nor drink, I couldn't rise to that level of virtuoso performance (it must take years of practice, don't you think?) but I did have chicken salad. It was perfectly fine.

The room was totally in synch with our fantasies. All the diners were either gay boys or old dears with good handbags. Fabulously enough, the woman at the table next to us was studying a brochure that seemed to focus on either botox or some other kind of decorative surgery.

Neiman's here sits on the site of an earlier upscale department store called City of Paris. I understand it was a Beaux Arte palace, but the only remains of it are it original atrium and the stained glass rotunda; that's where the restaurant is.

The renowned minimalist architect Philip Johnson whored himself out to design the palace's replacement. He's since called his work "an embarrassment" and who am I to argue with him? Plus, I think that's pretty much on the money. It went up in the early 80's when Johnson was wandering out of his sleek, glass boxes and into some very odd, sad choices influenced by the Memphis style and boy band hair-do's. The whole place is sheathed in big granite tiles on an angle, sort of harlequin-esque. In case you're wondering, that is not a good thing.

Still, at least local outrage forced them to keep the skylight. That kind of shotgun marriage of styles rarely works, and probably wouldn't here, except the new parts of the building are so blandly bad, the fussy gilded columns and stained glass are really all it has going for it.

That and popovers.

Self Pity and Cyndi Lauper

2011-04-19T03:30:00.000-07:00

I know R Man has just sort of disappeared from my exciting blog reporting. I haven't gotten used to his absence, I don't think that will never happen. But I've sort of gotten resigned to it. Sort of. There are tedious forms about his death demanding my attention, and a very big house that is very, very quiet, and things like this song.

We were both so fond of it, I remember I was surprised how much he liked it. Naturally, its melancholy, minor key bad self will pop up on my I Tunes shuffle and take me unawares and suddenly, I am a little less resigned.

I'm writing this at 3:00 AM. I will probably regret it tomorrow, but a lot of this blog has turned out to be a note to myself, so I'm asking not to delete this post.

Here:

Cast Off, Comcast

2011-04-16T00:27:00.000-07:00

I finally realized I have, for years, spent more time scrolling through the program listings on our cable than actually watching any of the shows because the shows are geared towards moronic cowboys. I would keep hoping something interesting would slip in there, but no, just non-stop Friends reruns and sports, sport, sports. So I canceled my cable. Let me tell you, if you ever are starved for attention, just cancel your cable. Ever since I bailed out on them Comcacst has called and emailed like a stalker on speed. I keep telling them "It's not me, it's you," but they won't listen.

Super Agent Fred and I had very amusing time returning the cable box to their offices. Naturally they had a television mounted prominently and I discovered the remote that went with the box worked it, so I kept changing channels and commenting loudly about the sucky quality of the offerings. The people in line behind us were digging it.

Also, attaching the cable directly to the my TV without the box allows me to see about twenty channels for free, including Discovery, which is good because that's where Cash Cab is.

Do you know Cash Cab? I love it. It's a game show set in a cab in New York. The driver asks passengers trivia questions and if they answer them correctly they win bucks. It's thrilling how stupid the riders are. I've been reduced to screaming at the television by people missing things like "Indigenous Peoples day is substituted for what federal holiday in October?' Please tell me you knew the answer is "Columbus Day" and not "Halloween," the way the clue-free fat heads in the cab answered. Hello? the only federal holiday in October? Indigenous Peoples/Columbus? Hello?

Also I have a crush on the host, Ben Bailey

He's totally charming, plus Wikipedia assures us he is six feet, six inches, which causes us to think "Mmm, Big Ben." Yeah, baby. Ask me that question.

Shopping as Blood Sport

2011-04-13T21:54:00.000-07:00

This spring has been terribly rainy here in San Francisco, consequently, the pollen has soared to almost unbearable levels, consequently, mrpeenee's sinuses have been flowing like Victoria Falls set on high, consequently, mrpeenee has been wiping and dabbing his nose (always with my handkerchief, I am a lady, I do lady things) like crazy mad, consequently, the side of said nose is chafed raw.

Not attractive, I know, but consider the scene set.

Super Agent Fred and I found the most ravishing mirror for my newly painted front hall last month in a joint called, charmingly, "Stuff." It was love at first sight. Baroque gilded extravagance, it calls out to my inner fussy old lady and runs completely contrary to my faltering policy of decorating my contemporary house with contemporary touches. It's also much too big for the space. Of course I had to have it.

We went back to the store today and were both struck once again by its beauty, as well as that of the salestwink working there. Why is flaxen hair, limpid blue eyes and a skinny ass such a darned fetching combination, anyway? I was so thrilled to find the mirror marked down 30 per cent (YAY) I absentmindedly rubbed the side of my nose, which promptly burst into a torrent of blood. Blood, blood, blood, lots of blood.

Of course the cute little sales guy was standing right there, managing to look both blank and horrified. He was obviously thinking "Queen. Do not bleed on my Good Stuff." All he said was "Do you need a paper towel?" I said yes, muffled through my handkerchief, and that I would take the mirror. He was impressed enough to bring me three paper towels. My plan to so electrify him with my big spending ways that he would be interested in putting out did not seem to overcome his horror of the hematoma, however.

Anyway, now I have the most gorgeous mirror in captivity. And a bandaid on the side of my nose. So very attractive.

Our salesbitch did not look this humpalicious, but then who does? Nevertheless, since Blogger feels compelled to label my blog as "adult," I feel the need to include attractive, scantily clad young men. I may be doing this for a while. Let me know if you get tired of it.

Blogless

2011-04-11T20:31:00.000-07:00

Some of you may have noticed there was some weird blog outage around here yesterday when Blogger took mrpeenee down. Dickless bastards. I had just posted my deathless prose about my New Orleans trip and when I came back from looking at porn (for clinical research purposes ONLY) I discovered a curt little message announcing I had violated their standards. Someone complained about little me? Do I complain about fat christian ladies blogging about their fat husbands and adorable spawn? Actually, I do, so that's not a good example.

Anyway, Blogger is supposed to be a free exchange of ideas and if anyone is offended by my postings of humpy young men (none of which is particularly more racy than Abercrombie and Fitch's catamitelogue or whatever the kids are calling it these days) they are welcome to take themselves off, off to the fat christian ladies for all I care. When this happened to MJ over at infomaniac, she warned us we were just as vulnerable. OK, I'm convinced now, but still too lazy to consider converting to Wordpress. Besides, I just don't care for Blogger deciding what I can and cannot write about.

Is this all because I mocked Tim Teblow a few posts ago? If so, just let me reiterate; when it comes to hot guys, I have stepped over better than him and not looked back.

In honor of my new "adult content warning" (which only appears sporadically, much like Tim Tebow's mangina,) I'm happy to present something worth looking at.

You're welcome.

I'm Back

2011-04-10T17:59:00.000-07:00

the author, amidst the iris beds in lovely, lovely City Park

It was a very amusing time. Stinky hot the first couple of days, but then a huge storm blew through on Monday night so it was lovely and cool on my birthday and the next day and then I left just as it was starting to heat back up. Perfect.

The view from my slightly shabby room. At least the windows opened.

My dear friend Magda took Monday and Tuesday off from work so we could just wander around, which was all I wanted to do.

Turquoise skies above the French Quarter.

The old place didn't look that different from before Katrina, maybe just a little cleaner. The most shocking thing was all the big trees along St. Charles Avenue that been toppled by the storm. That beautiful arching green roof over the street, gone.

Also, lots and lots of dirty street kids hanging around the French Quarter. Ick. And I speak as someone who was both poor and young and lived in the French Quarter at one time.

Where did mrpeenee live, back in the day?

Barracks Street (seen here considerably tarted up since my time)

And Chartres Street, with R Man. A balcony, a patio, cheap rent and a sweet boyfriend. The definitive French Quarter life.

On the other hand, everywhere we went for lunch or dinner was fabulous. Shrimp, red beans, gumbo, beignets, po-boys - all the greatest hits, and they really were great. The only misstep was at the fancy, fancy Commander's Palace, where the semi-snooty captain informed me the gumbo did not come with rice since the Chef considered it to be filler. Well, you know the filling in Oreos is filler, too, but you got to have it. I considered suggesting he trot out to Popeye's Fried Chicken and get some damn rice but I didn't. A lady never makes a scene, unless she really, really feels like it.

I kept seeing all these charming shabby houses in Magda's neighborhood, just crying out for my loving touch. I thought I would move back there, restore one of them and plant a lavish, Southern garden, but then I got back here and realized I had, once again, briefly lost my mind. Leave San Francisco? I'm pretty sure that's simply not possible.

Also, I got to spend some time with Jason, blogger extraordinaire from over at Night is Half Gone and it was most amusing.

He is as sweet as he seems in his writings and he took me out for shrimp po-boys at a place I've always heard of, but never been to and was deeeelish. I had planned to gossip about all of you, but I was too busy prying details about Jason's private life out of him. Select morsels of which are available for a nominal fee from mrpeenee, Inc. For an additional $5 I will add in sordid details that I make up randomly.

A good time was had by me.

Aye, Candy

2011-03-31T21:43:00.000-07:00

It must be the phase of the moon. In my post earlier this week whinging about a lack of treasure trail photos, Princess and Mean Dirty Pirate both came through with leads on some here and here and here. Then, that old darling and terror of the Midwest, Thombeau, forwarded me an email with yet another shot that a fan of his had sent him for me. I don't know whether this generous benefactor wants his identity known. We will just call him scottjim. We will refer to the picture he sent as "You Can Give an Old Man a Heart Attack Like That, You Know. Not that I Would Mind." Photographic proof provided:

Don't you think he looks like a younger, cuter Thomas Jane? Of course you do.

In the same vein, I was thrilled to discover that one of my favorite soft core artistes had branched out into the world of the nekkid. One so likes to see a performer stretch.

Soft

On the road to slightly less soft

Just stupid

Lastly, we present the case of Tim Tebow, well-known christianist and football person. Football, for those of you like mrpeenee who can never remember, is the one with the pointy brown ball. Anyway, Tebow is also now an underwear model, albeit one who will not be actually modeling underpants because he's afraid nasty homosexuals will take a peep at his junk. Quel scandale. Perhaps he should look into wearing a burqa, just to be safe.

In case you were wondering, here is Mr. Tebow at some athletic (TOTALLY NOT HOMOEROTIC) event.

"Fifteen bucks. Just put the tip of it in your mouth. No one has to know."

I love this photo because a) it reminds me how fond I am of the old Julie Brown song I Like 'em Big and Stupid and b) I also have a weakness for a little known gay porn sub-genre known as Rascally Elder Coerces Humpy Doofus into Sexual Shenanigans They Will Both Sort of Regret. Its obscurity is possibly due to the fact I just made it up. But you know you'd watch, wouldn't you?

In travelin' news, mrpeenee wil be haunting his old stomping grounds in New Orleans starting on Saturday. I plan on connecting with old friends Cow Queen and Magda (seen here with mrpeenee in a publicity still from their last disaster flick Valley of the French Quarter Dolls, co-starring Thombeau as Helen Lawson.)

I assume we will behave like teenage girls just escaped from some damn dirt farm. I also hope to hook up with that blogger's blogger, Jason, from Night is Half Gone . I'll be back April 7 with vivid memories, even if I have to make them up.

Chair Rehab

2011-03-28T19:45:00.000-07:00

I have once again waded into the questionable waters of home decorating. I know I am actually better at oral sex than I am at Martha Stewart-ish projects, but that still stops me from neither one nor the other.

My latest plunge (into decorating, not blowjobs) was reupholstering the dining room chairs. Amazingly, I think they turned out splendidly, especially since the whole thing was so easy. The only thing I fell short on was my timing.

That staple of cornball good time cinema, Grease, was on television Sunday night. I knew the only point of the whole show is the last ten minutes when Sandy tarts herself up as a whore in order to lure Danny into her pants (poor thing would have probably done better with big ol' dildo, both for her own love box and for snagging John Taravolta.) I decided to knock out the chairs while the rest of the film was struggling along. I did, too, but missed You're the One that I Want by seconds and wound up with the decidedly second-tier big number We Go Together instead. Rats. There was the consolation of seeing a young, blonde-ish Lorenzo Lamas attempting to shake his ass, but still....

The velvet I used was on sale for 40 percent off (yay) and looked shocking pink in the store (fucking fluorescents.) In person, it's a much more staid magenta, but I still like it.

Before. Tired and tatty.

After. Pussy Pink

Fashion Dolls Behaving Badly

2011-03-28T19:38:00.000-07:00

Honestly, sometimes it's just not safe to open the linen closet door without knocking first.

The Spa Life, or Gravity Wins

2011-03-25T21:41:00.000-07:00

I decided to celebrate my escape from civil service servitude with an afternoon at Kabuki Spa. It's been cold and rainy here; a spell in the steam room seemed immensely appealing. Turns out many of the patrons were, too.

Considering how firmly the management frowns on sexual shenanigans at the spa, there certainly were a lot of stiffy and semi-stiffy bits on parade. Of course, mrpeenee averted my eyes, but even if you don't look, you can't help but see.

Especially notable were two smallish, but well-built boys complete with charming treasure trails and the cutest, roundest, perky little bottoms ever. In a word, spankable. Every time they would enter the steam room. you could sense every geezer antennae spring into action. Beepbeepbeepbeep. Of course the boys were resolutely oblivious. That is their role in life.

And I speak from deep within the geezer camp. Life happens. You start out all skinny and smooth and stuff and one day you look down and realize you have a paunch. The fuck? Threeway mirrors become the enemy when you see your ass has started to sag. "I didn't even have an ass," you think. "How is this possible?" I'll tell you how - gravity wins. Gravity always wins.

Still it was a lovely day at the spa.

Also, I spent hours tonight looking for a photo illustrating "treasure trail" with no luck. Again, the fuck? This is the closest I came, the always estimable Mike Timber and his fairly faint trail.

I blame manscaping.

Retired

2011-03-23T23:26:00.000-07:00

A year ago, I posted the following:

But why can't I be a Lady of Leisure? I have the attitude, I have the wardrobe (three pair of cashmere socks and some almost-clean tee shirts,) I have stacks of things to sit around reading, and I had 18 petit fours, but they seem to have been eaten. If it wasn't for this stupid "employment" thing, I would be good to go. Just this afternoon, I was trapped in a committee meeting and thought, "Now this, this is the wrong life."

So now, my whining dream finally has come true. On January 14, I filed my application to retire and now it has finally fought its way through the byzantine paths of federal personnel actions and as of March 16, I am retired, an ex-civil servant. Yes! Say it with me girls, I am OUT. I win. All it took was 22 years of listening to the public complain that I was not doing enough for them as I pondered where to go for lunch. Suck it bitches.

I worked for the Small Business Administration. I was a Business Development Specialist. I wrote press releases and speeches and dealt with the media (bitches) and made charming little speeches about topics I knew almost nothing about to the great unwashed. I developed and administered a training program of more than 400 classes attended by about 10,000 small businesses each year. I learned how to spell the word "entrepreneur." I kicked out an old lady who insisted on bringing her cat with her to class. I was the go to guy for any design decisions because I was the office homo. I frequently ate cheese enchiladas for lunch.

And now all that is behind me.

My attendance once R Man got sick was spotty anyway, and by the time he was actively dying, I just stopped even pretending to go in. Everybody was cool with that. When he died, I announced I was not coming back, period, and that I was filing for an early, disability based retirement. Everybody was not cool with that, assuring me it was rash decision I would regret.

Let me see, retirement: getting paid for not working. What's to regret? Anyway, I ignored their advice (as I so often did) and now I'm out and cheerful as all fuck about it. I have regarded the time since R Man died and I just have hung out, doing nothing, as practice. Turns out I have real talent for this, talent I have been wasting all these years in the office. Saki digs it.

Great Dame

2011-03-23T15:52:00.000-07:00

A few things I know about E. Taylor, DBE.

1) I love her in Cleopatra, especially when she arrives in Rome on a giant golden sphinx, preceded by dancing semi-naked nubians, natch, every inch the great and mighty queen of Egypt and then winks at Caesar like a barmaid looking for a good time.

2) I have always had a hard time watching Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, even though she's fascinating in it, and a much better actor than Richard Burton.

3) her fake Southern accent in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof makes my skin crawl. It is, however, better than that of Dame Judith Anderson. Not that that's saying much.

4) her greatest role was in the White Diamonds perfume commercial where she saunters into a poker game (photographed through all the gauze available in California at the time,) hauls off her gigantmundo diamond earbobs and says "These always brought me luck." A role model for drag queens everywhere.

5) thinking of her always reminds me of the Saturday Night Live skit where John Belushi impersonates her choking on a chicken leg. Heehee. I am a bad person.

Netflux

2011-03-22T20:09:00.000-07:00

The internet: a sea of information and entertainment at my fingertips and I spend the last two weeks obsessively working my way through Netflix's backlog of stupid science fiction. Oddly, there seems to be only one plot available to all these shows: a rift in the space/time fabric allows Bad Things to come though and menace earth. "Bad Things" is a technical term. Here's my report as well as I can remember it.

Primeval. Doctor Who. Torchwood. ("Torchwood" is an anagram of "Doctor Who," the nerdly kind of thing that appeals to me.) In order they were: grim and stupid; whimiscal and stupid; and gay and stupid. Torchwood, gay science fiction! Hooray! They killed off the boyfriend of the excessively pretty hero and anyway, it was stupid. Not hooray! Kind of un-hooray!

Plus, let me just mention, if there is a rift in the space/time blahblahblah I would much prefer to have armies of seriously mean guys going up against the Bad Things rather than some tiny random gang of BBC nerds, even if they do have such thick Manchester accents no one can understand them. That's just how I roll.

But I also stumbled across Pushing Daisies which was not stupid and was charming and funny and cool and great visuals and Swoosie Kurtz and Kristin Chenoweth, who were both fantastic, and the very attractive Lee Pace in the lead.

Of course, it was canceled by ABC after two short seasons, probably to make room for Sarah Palin's Monster Truck Rally or something.

So now I've reeled back down off the Netflix binge. Much like eating a whole box of Girl Scout cookies at one sitting, about half-way through, you think "This is probably a bad idea." And then when you finish, you realize you were right, but that doesn't help, particularly.

Also, speaking of science fiction, here's my new parallel universe boyfriend.

I call him Spunk Nozzle.

Toy Story Two

2011-03-11T20:20:00.000-08:00

It all started out so innocently. Super Agent Fred and I went to lunch this afternoon and I was telling him about the post below on the Invasion of the Barbies and then I told him about how the wicked, wicked commentators on the post had urged me to follow through on my harmless little whim about creating a Barbie cabaret act diorama and then, the next thing I knew, we were wheeling off for the Toys R Us in the suburban hellhole south of here in order to get the necessary Ken dolls for the essential, sordid tea room sex scene.

How do these things happen?

All the way to the store we sympathized with each other about how we loathe shopping malls. Once there, it turned out to be every bit as a bad as we had pissed and moaned about, if not worse. The whole place seems to have evolved over the years out of one bad idea into several. There was no directory, so we were forced to wander around amongst the fat people past the most dreadful merchandisers you can imagine. Who needs multiple stores hawking football logo crap? Did you know Orange Julius and Dairy Queen have joined in some unholy union? The only cute guy in the entire place only wanted to sell us a new cell phone.

When we did find Toys R Us, it turned out to be a stunted little mini-operation; it's possible the space was originally a storage closet. Still, Fred and I shared in the guilty thrill of it all. There was a whole raft of pirate stuff. Pirate stuff! If I hadn't already started down the Barbie path, I would so certainly have gone pirate. Maybe after the cabaret I can move onto Barbies of the Caribbean, Buccaneer Princess.

Instead of the sweeping aisles of Barbies I had envisioned, there was one dinky little section. I could have done better staying at home waiting for random kids to leave their dolls behind. We took two Ken dolls (thus cleaning out their entire selection) and scrammed, pausing only to feel really, really sorry for the poor schmo clerk, in his mid-30's, stuck in a third rate toy store with a crappy Casio knock-off keyboard set on "irritating 80s beat" to keep him company. He recommended we go to a famously evil, anti-gay mass marketer for more choice of all things Barbie. Possibly out of spite, I don't know. We went. I am ashamed.

Did you know Barbie has morphed out of the slightly slutty style icon she was in the 60s into some kind of fat faced mutant with a much smaller rack? What's the point? On a positive note, all of the Kens look totally, absolutely gay, gayer than me, and that's saying something.

Crushingly, there was no Solo in the Spotlight Barbie,

which, obviously, is pretty much the centerpiece of any cabaret act diorama, goddamit, unless I want to go with some Priscilla, Queen of the Desert salute with the Kens.

Exhausted, I dropped off Fred and came home where I started vaguely remembering a gay doll from the 90's that would add a lot to the whole thing. Internet-based research turned up the item that he was "Billy Doll, the anatomically correct gay doll" Although "anatomically exaggerated" would probably be more accurate.

I took some Vicodan and started looking further on the web (and let me say, no sentence starting with those words will turn out well) and stumbled on an EBay auction of him. I've heard how difficult EBay has become, with online tutorials about how to win now, but in this, my first crack at it, I bid and by the time I thought "I hope I don't score this stupid thing," it was too late.

So now I have two Barbies, three Kens and two Billys, one of which is his Puerto Rican friend, Carlos.

It's all spiraling out of control.