I'm Tired of Bad News

Our very dear friend Superagentfred just called to say his lover died this afternoon. We're off to Baltimore tomorrow, Saturday, just to offer our support, although that seems so little to do. Superagentfred was immensely helpful while R Man was in the hospital and I wish I could return the favor more actively than just turning up and saying how sorry I am now. His lover had been terribly sick, lymphoma, pancreatitis, heart problems all within the last year, but this is still shockingly unexpected. We'll be back on New Year's.

Beefcake Award

We want to congratulate our houseboy Hubert Rodrigo for receiving the 2007 Stitch and Bitch award from the Bay Area chapter of Creepy Old Queens Seeking Unique Crafts. Hubert Rodrigo was recognized for his lovely crochet work. He's seen here with Lester "Grabby" St. Jerome, president of COQSUK.

If anyone has seen Hubert Rodrigo since Lester gave him a ride home from the awards banquet, please let us know. We're concerned.

Happy Fabiola Day

Today, December 27 is the feast day of Saint Fabiola. She was one hot saint, from what our friends writing in the Penguin Dictionary of Saints have to say about her. A rich bitch and party girl from a prominent family in fourth century Roma, she dumped her first husband cause he was a jerk and then snagged herself a new man. Then, as now, the Christians did not approve. Fab (as I like to think of her) was herself christian and so eventually she felt the need to make up with the old poopers. She "performed severe public penance" and then took off for Jerusalem to join St. Jerome who was revising the New Testament there. I'm convinced it was some kind of rehab. If you just substitute "Paris Hilton" for "Fabiola" in our story so far, I'm sure you'll see my point.

Anyway, Jerome, who sounds like a real piece of work, was not embracing of dear little Fabby. He wrote about her "...her idea of the solitude of the stable of Bethlehem was that it should not be cut off from the crowded inn." Well, duh. Is this my kind of gal or what? I'm telling you, Jerome must be patron saint of combovers and pissy closet cases. Fabiola went on to be venerated for opening a series of hospices for pilgrims. Probably with a dynamite little cabaret in each one.

December 27 is also the anniversary of the date when we got our house, the Villa Fabiola. It was big, shabby and ugly, but we were convinced all it needed was some homo magic to fabulify it. Luckily, we were right.

All About Christmas Eve

I've missed you, too, darlings, but I've been so darned busy getting my hair cut and taking vicodan (don't ask) and crixmuss, crixmuss, crixmuss. It's been a lovely holiday so far, highlights have included:

Christmas cookies from the fabulous Dennis, the Pride of East Lansing. I happen to know Martha Stewart has forbidden the mention of his name in connection with cookies, so jealous is she of his genius. I wish I could share them with you except a) I'm not sure how to do that online and b) I already ate them all. Nothing speaks to the German elements of my bloodline like ginger flavored sweeties.

A fabulous pillow from our terribly stylish friend Anne. The christmas pillow. It's a huge picture of the back of a dahlia rendered in psychedelic hot pink and acid green. I love it.

A very successful trip to the spa for shiatsu massage and delicious sliced apples in the steam room. Not to mention the most gorgeous hunky man undressed next to me on the way in. It's takes so little to bring out the childlike wonder of the season in me.

Dance of the Houseboys

The houseboys wanted to surprise us with a performance of their interpretive danse "Homage d'Equinox" to celebrate R Man's splendid and rapid recovery from heart surgery a mere five weeks ago. I considered pointing out that we are nowhere near the equinox, but they had already made their dainty costumes and I hate to see the look on their little faces when I disappoint them like that, so I just bit my lip and applauded ever so enthusiastically.

I'm sure you recognize Claudio Eugene, Hippolyte Auguste, and Seamus Tallulah, but you might not know our newest, Stubby.

Mary, Christmas

I know the only acknowledgement I've made of the season was a snarky post about how office parties suck, but in truth, I adore Christmas even as a little child would. The vulgar, glitzy decorations speak to my white trash homo self and the prospect of getting presents is always ok by me. When we were first together, I had to explain, firmly, to R Man that although I am not materialistic (if you could see my wardrobe, you would know that is the god's own truth) I demand a big-ass pile of presents every Christmas. The actual contents don't matter, I would be just as happy with several pairs of underwear gaily wrapped up, as long as they were new. I just enjoy admiring the glittering pile and then unwrapping them. I should mention that my mother installed an unshakeable need in me to preserve wrapping paper, so I meticulously tease off the tape, neatly fold up the paper and then get down to the present. We have gift wrap from when we lived in New Orleans twenty years ago that I re-use every year. I am not pathological, shut up.

This year, I was actually willing to give him a pass on the mass o' presents rule, cause, you know, heart surgery a month ago and all that, what the hell? I can be a sport. God love him, he came through anyway, and now there's big boxes and little boxes all waiting for me, me, me. He is so sweet.

We're also both fond of Christmas trees, I regard them as the biggest cut flower arrangement you're ever going to have, but this year fighting our way to Home Depot and wrestling one home and then dolling it all up just seemed too much. Instead, we got a wreath at a florist down in the Castro and hung it up in the living room. It smells like Christmas and that's what counts.

petula clark - hits medley

So I've mentioned my fondness for Pet before, but this video, I think from 1996, seems particularly sweet to me. No work and she still looks pretty much like she did when LBJ was in the White House and, when it comes to Downtown, the girl can still deliver. For those of us of a certain haggard age, I say right on.

Smoke Gets in Our Eyes

The federal government spent years and a peepot full of money throwing up (in every sense of the term) an office building for 1,700 federal workers, including R Man, but not me in a dicey part of downtown. It's very green including natural ventilation that replaces air conditioning on most floors and elevators that stop only on every third floor, making employees use stairs to reach floors in-between. R Man initially hated it, but seems more resigned to it. Today may have changed that.

This was only his second day back in the office and he was looking forward to it; he is plenty sick of being stuck here at home, enough so that returning to work was appealing. Imagine. We drove in instead of taking BART and would have parked in a garage next door to his office, but there was a fire on Mission across the street from the building and the road was closed. We parked somewhere else and both of us headed off to work.

After I had been at my desk for only about a half hour, a woman I work with came by to mention she had gotten an email announcing they were evacuating the federal building because smoke from the fire was pouring in through the fabulously natural ventilation system. I called R Man who was just then reading an email from his boss telling everyone to hit the road. So we're back home hanging around. R Man is not happy.

Bridge Games

San Francisco is a peninsula that juts due north, with the Pacific on the west, San Francisco Bay on the east and the Golden Gate connecting the two on the north. Obviously, if you’re leaving town, chances are you’re going to have to cross a bridge, unless, of course, you’re been really bad and are forced to go down to San Jose, but that’s between you and your karma.

The Golden Gate Bridge, heading north into the wilds of Marin county, is the most famous of the local spans, but the Bay Bridge, which carries you over to Oakland and points east, is actually the most heavily traveled. It’s also the more horrifying trip, but since it winds up in Oakland, I suppose that’s appropriate.

What’s so scary? The approach, sweetie, the approach. The two freeways here both come wandering into town and then have to make a sharp right to line up with the bridge. One freeway gives up and dies out there, but the other turns into how you get on the bridge. Since that’s also the point where it passes through downtown, it pretty much doubles in the amount of traffic it carries in the space of few blocks with entrances pouring cars in from both sides of the road. Some of the merges are only a couple of car lengths long, oops, here I come, look out.

The bridge is two decks, one headed east, one west, so the eastbound roadbed has to swerve over to go beneath the other one. Just as it snakes sharply left, right, left the road plunges between columns supporting the upper deck and the last two entrances, one on the left and one on the right, dump in. It’s like a luge course for cars.

Of course, there are big 35 MPH signs posted, but, get real, this is a freeway in California, everybody regards those as decorative. Local drivers know to just grip the wheel tightly, close our eyes and hit the gas.

I think the whole thing is a traffic control project. Before every trip that involves the Bay Bridge, I’m sure everyone thinks “Do I really need to go to Oakland? How bad do I need to be in Berkeley? Surely I can just walk there from BART, wherever it is.” And then coming home, you get to go through the whole thing in reverse and pay a toll to do so.

I’m going to get a bike.

GLORIA JONES- TAINTED LOVE (1964)

I'd always heard Soft Cell's version was a cover of Gloria Jones' big number, but I'd never heard the original until now. I'm a big fan of wall o' sound girl groups so I'm wild for this.

Happy Holidaze

A dear friend reveals her plan to deal with her office party this year: “My strategy is to dress as if I'm ready to hit the festivities, and then hightail it to my car when it starts and head home early to snuggle up with a book. This has worked very well in the past and there's no reason it shouldn't today.” I can only applaud the artful little minx since I regard office parties with the enthusiasm I bring to a chance to stand in line at the DMV.

Why do these events even exist? The same people I see every day of the year and don't talk to suddenly take offense that I don't want to go out to lunch with them. I refrain myself from pointing out I don't want to ride in their elevator, let alone party down with them. The whole unspoken allure of these things is the chance to sneak out of work early with management’s semi-blessing. Why not just cut out the overpriced luncheon and turn everybody loose with directions to the nearest liquor store and be done with it?

But no, we have to rev up the holiday fucking spirit. So starting in August, there’s the committee meetings and votes on where to go and picking a theme and then the haranguing starts. “Aren’t you coming? You have to come. Why aren’t you coming?” Because small talk with you is painful. Because I would rather ride around town on the subway for an hour than stand around a no host bar with you. Because I’ve known you for fifteen years and I’m still not convinced that you’re a real woman and not a bad drag queen.

The party this year was once again at the fabulous Presidio Golf Club, which sounds swank, but, unfortunately, houses the locker room for the golf course as well so the first impression that hits you as you walk into the gala festivities is a big whiff of stinky old men. I live and work in San Francisco, a destination famous for its good food and I get to go to a Christmas party where the overpriced chicken smells like dirty socks.

Imagine my delight then when I discovered I had, genuinely and accidentally, double booked myself for that afternoon and promised to lunch with one of the volunteers who teaches classes here for me. What could I do? It would be so rude to bail on her. So sorry, can’t make the party, so sorry, work commitments, you know how it is, so sorry, you guys have a good time without me, so sorry. It was a lovely lunch, I had quiche, plenty of my colleagues were bitter that I got out of it and suddenly I couldn’t be in a more festive mood.

I love christmas

Dark Side of Arcanta

R Man went into his office today for a half day of work where he wrote briefs or did some kind of lawery thingy. He's recovering nicely, except he can't sleep, in fact he hasn't slept in the last nine nights, so he's plenty glum and tired, but surely he'll eventually doze off, right? Our whole life together he's had a tough time sleeping and is slightly resentful of my one talent, snoozing. If I lie down and close my eyes, I go to sleep, it's like step one, step two, step three. One of the main reasons we have separate bedrooms now, aside from my supersonic snoring, is that it irritated him to lie there awake watching me in the arms of Morpheus.

Over the last few weeks, my stumbles into unconsciousness have involved lying in the dark listening to Arcanta, Book of Mirrors, the fabulous CD from Thom Ayers, Little Miss Fabulon himself. http://www.myspace.com/arcantamusic The whole experience reminds vividly of being a sullen teen ager, in my bed late a night with Dark Side of the Moon on the turntable waiting for my life to start. I'm so glad it finally did.

Beach Blanket Madness

R man and I are taking walks pretty much every day to help him build his strength back up and also just to get him out of the house where he's going stircrazy. Today we went to the beach, a beautiful clear day with the sharp silvery light that shines here in the winter. Quite a few cute boys undressing and putting on their wet suits to go surfing. I know, it's very California, two weeks before Christmas and everybody's at the beach. I also know that plenty of people don't think of San Francisco as a beach town, but we have a long, lovely strip of sand with small, steady surf and water so fucking freezing that I have never even waded in it. I've mentioned my origins on the Gulf Coast, where the water is usually the same temperature as your blood and I've never been able to adjust to this. I'm pretty sure I don't want to. The beach here is called Ocean Beach, a name redolent of self evident common sense, sort of like naming a road Cars Can Drive Here Street. In honor of it, I've decided to take for my drag name Guy Wearing a Dress. Watch for my show at the Place Where You Can Buy Drinks Bar.

Divine (Pink Flamingos)

We're sending this out, with love, to our dear SuperagentFred to remind him that he is sitting in the center of the universe, Baltimore.

Juggling with Knives

My dear friend John and I were struggling through Sur le Table, the schmancy kitchen equipment store in the Ferry Building, today after a fabulous lunch of chopped beef barbecue sandwiches. I know I said I was attempting to eat more healthfully, but I was lying. Shut up. At least I passed on the custard filled Italian doughnuts, because I am filled with virtue. And barbecue.

So anyway, we were considering knives, beautiful German knives, for John to get his boyfriend for Christmas. The choice had come down to an 8 inch chef knife and an almost identical one with a hollow blade, a Santoku. The salesgirl swore it was the best for slicing. I'm very skeptical of specialized equipment, it seems like a solid chef's knife, a serrated one, and a smaller paring blade is plenty, and falling for a knife that specializes in slicing (as opposed to focusing its talents on interpretive danse, I suppose) is just another step along a path that leads to drawers full of dubious purchases. But John was very taken with both (I think he mostly liked saying the word Santoku, with increasing gusto) so he sprang for them. I supported him despite my doubts because what else can you do when you're out shopping but spend money?

John was also interested in another Japanese knife, one with a ceramic blade. The salesgirl was willing to go along with this, not just because it's her job, but because John's charm involves everyone around him in his world, and his world right then included ceramic blades, dammit. She pulled one down and let me tell ya, it was just weird. Knives are simply not supposed to have white blades. The clerk held up a piece of paper for John to slash through, which I thought was very brave of her, but probably only showed how little she sensed John's lack of self control.

He was on his way to a cutlery threeway when the salesgirl casually mentioned that the knife breaks if you drop it. We were both taken aback by the idea of an expensive knife that could take off the tip of your finger, but couldn't stand up to the rough and tumble of kitchen work. We passed.

Soldier Boy, Oh, My Little Soldier Boy

When R Man was just a tiny R Baby, his family lived in London where he was supplied with actual lead soldiers, knights, to be precise. Many, many years later, on a trip to visit his family, we found them and brought them home to live with us since his parents didn't seem to appreciate them properly.

They have shields and lances and plumes in their tiny little helmets. One of them had lost his plume in a tragic accident. I replaced it with a feather fallen out of a pillow which I snagged before our cat could get around to eating it. We're very concerned the other knights make fun of this one, calling him "Princess Mattress Feather." You know how cruel lead soldiers can be, the bitches.

And now I can't figure out how to load pictures from our new apple so I can't show you the darling photos of them. Soon, I promise.

You Want Fries with That?

Why yes, I am from Dixie. Since I grew up on the Gulf Coast of Texas, many people would contest that point under the foolish belief that the swamps of my childhood are not a part of the South. Let us examine these salient facts:

My aunt, blessed with the romantic and lovely name Marguerite, was always addressed as “Sister” by everyone in my family.

The high school I went to? Robert E. Lee. The band in which I played such a miserable tuba entered every home football game to the toe-tapping tunes of a minstrel show, playing “Come Down to the Levee,” “Waitin’ on the Robert E. Lee” and “Are You from Dixie?” I only missed by a few years the horrifying fate of performing in uniforms modeled on those worn by soldiers in the Confederate army.

I regard fried foods with a side of gravy as an essential food group.

And that’s really the point here, not my exasperated, conflicted emotions about life in the South, but about trying to overcome a lifetime of heart clogging menus to help R Man and me start eating in a more healthy way. I have always cooked the same way my sainted mother did, convinced that there is no food product some mayonnaise cannot help. So now when we have baked salmon on a bed of lentils, I still look around for the tarter sauce.

Still, I’m getting better. Since R Man’s operation, we have been terribly virtuous about cutting back on the fat, with nonfat sour cream and fat free butter substitute and no deviled eggs and braised ribs for Sunday dinner, no way. You know what? It’s not bad, it’s just different. And soon my little arteries are going to be singing. I just know it.

Apple Schmapple

Hooray, life is so very sweet. R Man is home and doing great, his recovery is nothing short of amazing considering they were poking around inside his heart less than two weeks ago and today we went to the Castroand had shrimp for lunch. I hasten to add, he's been very virtuous about no fat dinners until this spree. After that, we whirled off to buy a beautiful big Apple iMac (I keep thinking iMac sounds like medicine to make you puke, but I suppose I'll get over that.) I've never used any Apple and am still stimbling around on this, the beauty being that any of my frequently bizarre typing can be blamed on the equipment.

Computer-less

R Man came home on Friday and our computer there promptly crashed the next day, won't boot up and the repairs aren't scheduled until Monday, so no mrpeenee for a while.

He's doing very well, thanks to everyone's notes of concern and well wishing. We went for a walk in the Castro yesterday, it's amazing how quickly he's recuperating.

My Boyfriend's Back...

R Man is back home from the hospital, Yay. It's been a very long day with multiple trips to the hospital and pharmacies around town, but all worth it to have the boy back where he belongs.

I'm going to bed, I'm wore out.

Who is that Glamorous Creature?

Thanks to our spies in New Orleans who FINALLY got around to sending us pictures (below) of that annual bacchanal, Southern Decadence. SD is a sizable drunken drag parade through the French Quarter which my friends and I graced several times with our presence during the wacky years when I lived there. Said friends have gone on without me, as these shots prove all too vividly. Magda, my dearest sister, sent these and she's the one in the red curly do (been working that rat-tee wig for years, girl) and our other dear, dear is in the oversized sunglasses. While both share a place in my heart for out mis-spent youth together, I have to say how astonished I am to see how much they look like my white trash aunts from 40 years ago. Of course, Magda is the one who had his very stong resemblance to the late Brooke Astor pointed out to him this year, so maybe I'm underrating him.

Southern Decadence 2007

Beefcake Bake Sale

Our head groundskeeper, Columba Urquhart, is selling his prized pecans preserved in praline sauce to raise bail for the other houseboys caught up in that disgraceful Sissy Boy Slap Party Symphony and Interpretive Danse bust over on Fabulon. The sordid details are available here , I can't bear to speak of it . I’m so disappointed in my boys, but I know they were simply lead astray buy that tacky Thombeau hussy who was egging them on.

Anyway, if you’re interested in tasting Columba’s nuts, please see him at the rear entrance to the houseboys’ dorm. I’m sure he’ll have plenty for you.

Sickroom News, Thursday

Astonishingly, the hospital is now talking about sending R Man home tomorrow, Friday, less than four days after his open heart surgery. The sole remaining benchmark he has to hit is to make a poop. You might want to remember this if you ever find yourself trapped in a hospital and want out: bowel movement equal get out of jail free card. I'm urging R Man to simply lie if nature fails to cooperate. Anything to get the hell out, although, I have to say, the nurses have all been terribly sweet. Yay nurses.

I went online this morning to try and find some information about what to do for recuperation after bypass surgery. While there is tons of info about the surgery itself and the immediate stay in the hospital following it, there's a real lack about what to do with the old dear once he gets home. I wound up reading the plot summary in Wikipedia about the Simpsons episode where Homer has a heart attack and Lisa coaches his doctor through the bypass surgery. Amusing, but not terribly helpful. Still, R Man is walking up and down the halls there like crazy mad and seems perfectly capable of coming home and lying around. Our fingers are crossed.

Sick Room News

I don't know why I'm so tired, all I've done for the last two days is hang around R Man's hospital and revel in how well he's doing. They split his chest open Monday afternoon and the next day at lunch he was sitting up and eating. Pretty much all the extraneous equipment that protruded form such odd places on him has been removed. The rather attractive physical therapist has coaxed him into two walks around the hall, with the promise of more to come. I plan on suggesting the entire effort might go better if the therapist dressed in one those slutty little t-strap thongs like the Cirque du Soleil bitches.

R Man remains in high spirits, even though I suspect his chest hurts considerably. I think he's just so glad to have the operation behind him, that he's looking ahead to the recovery, which they all tell us is long and arduous, with equanimity and to the promise of possibly coming home as early as Saturday with anticipation. I'm only now starting to look around and admit how frightened and unsettled I've been since this started on Friday afternoon. It's only six days, but it all seems so long ago.

I need to make special mention of our saintly friend Tim who has stuck with us through this entire time with love and good humor, hanging out in the hospital with us and keeping our spirits up even while he had challenges of his own to meet. Friends like him are a rare treasure and we love him.

I also wanted to thank everyone who took the time to write in with your support and affection. When R Man's condition erupted on Friday afternoon, I wasn't sure I would include it here in the blog, it seemed sort of inappropriate with the houseboys and in-depth discussions of 1980s sex clubs. I'm glad I did; coming home from the hospital and seeing what everyone had to say in the comments has been a rare bright spot in a stretch of dim days. So big wet ones to new friends like Elizabeth and gonzo and kirin; to old pals and troublemakers like Wesley, Jason, TOA, sickoricko, ayem8y, danny, tigeryogi and especially thombeau and our dear oldest friend Ronda. Not that she's old... oh, never mind.

Big thanks to you all; it's been more important than you know. It amazes me to have friends I've never met who helped so much through a tough time. Luv ya, mean it.

Beefcake Polish

Gunther, our assistant housekeeping houseboy, has developed a fascinating technique for dusting objets in the parlor. While the practical effects are limited, many of our guests seem most impressed and have asked to watch the naughty puss at work. It turns out Gunther is a Libra, which might have influenced his modus operandi.

This is What I Get for Comparing Doctors to Plumbers

I had just finished posting the previous bulletin, sitting here listening to the Petshop Boys and feeling all floaty and Valyummified (note to Wesley: little Valiums are yellow, big boys are blue) when the hospital called. R Man had woken up three hours early and was asking for me. The jolly nurse put him on the phone (didn't you just have open heart surgery, I wanted to ask. I've taken longer to recuperate from pedicures.) They had recently taken the breathing tube out of his throat (!) and his voice was croakier than Tallulah Bankhead, but he still asked for me to come over, that he wanted to see me.

I didn't mention the Valium, because, you know, what the hell? I threw on a sweater (black cashmere, even in an emergency, you need to look nice.) and hit the road. Thank god I had a mis-spent youth that involved plenty of driving under the influence so I was able to wheel on over to Pacific Heights in record time without struggling. I even found a legal parking spot.

Once I was there, I was so glad I went. The poor thing is all tore up, battered, with wires and tubes and things sprouting from him like a Borg with a hardon. The Intensive Care Unit is just like on TV and his nurse Diane defines sweetness. Speaking of being sweet, R Man said he just wanted me there so he could tell me he loved me. I was stunned. Sometimes, often, he is so much more than I deserve.

Bizarrely, he felt chatty, wanted to tell me all about the operation, the cute anesthesiologist, what an angel Diane had been, wanted to hear all about how I had spent the afternoon, lalalalala. He finally admitted his chest hurt a lot, which Diane said was probably the tubes pressing in, so she shot him up with something big and pretty soon he started to drift back off. He sent me on home and said he'd see me in the morning. The whole thing was very domestic, except for the monitors beeping and the big old tube sticking up out of his neck.

I have to say how relieved it made me to see him, even in such an extreme situation. I really feel much more confident that things are going to be ok.

And especial big thanks to everyone who responded so promptly to these earlier posts. Your support and good wishes have come to be very important to me. They help a lot.

Heart Surgeons, Plumbers: What's the Diff?

R Man's surgery went swimmingly well today. They started about five hours late, which meant we got to sit around the hospital room chatting all morning while the anxiety level mounted like some ridiculous reality show contest. Finally they got under way and I think to make up for the delay, they wound up doing a quadruple bypass. Frankly that smacks of grandstanding to me and you now how I hate any affectations, but I didn't want to say anything to the little doctor telling me about it. He seemed so pleased with himself I hated to hurt his feelings. Plus by then I was just dazed from hanging around hospital waiting rooms.

Actually, once they wheeled R Man off to the knife room, I trotted down the street to the Kabuki Spa to try and relax. No it's not that kind of spa, it's a no-sex Japanese baths. Fabulously stylish, great steam room, a salt water hot tub, and today they had big bowls of sliced apples. Yummy. Oddly enough, although I usually adore the place, today I just somehow couldn't get in the mood. Funny, huh? So I gave up and went back to hospital to hang in the lobby and wonder why any waiting room where people are already tense would have two televisions tuned to CNN and Fox. News nazis, just what I want to listen to while I'm worrying about a loved one.

So the doctor came out, said it was fine, no problem, R Man will be out of it all night and that I should go home and come back tomorrow. R Man will be in the hospital for at least five more days recovering. He didn't mention anything about taking a Valium when I got here, but I'm sure that was just an oversight, so I took a 10 mg (they're such an attractive shade of blue, aren't they?) and now I feel ever so much more calm. Come to think of it, I already was so relieved I'm sort of numb,so maybe the Valium wasn't precisely necessary, but it's too late now.

This is a picture of me and R Man from years ago in the photo booth in the basement of Woolworth's on Market Street. It's my favorite picture of us.

the pipettes - pull shapes

In an attempt to prove I actually listen to music performed in the current century, I present the Pipettes. I am so be-grooved.

Of course, their sound purposely imitates the girl groups who were fading from sight during the Nixon presidency and the video is a an homage to Russ Meyer from the same vintage, but I love it. It has what sounds like a Hammond Organ line in it. What's not to love?

For SickoRocko

Have you been to sickoricko's blog? It's a must-see for fans of dick pictures. http://sickoricko.blogspot.com/

He posted several of an old favorite of mine, Adriano Marquez, and I told him I would post a new one of the dear boy here because I couldn't figure out how to include a photo in the comments on his page.

General Hospital

It's been a rainy soggy day in San Francisco and I spent most of it in the hospital visiting R Man. He's remarkably calm and has been playing host to a stream of friends rallying around, god love them. I know lots of peope are freaked out by hospitals, but I spent a long part of my youth working in hotels and they've always seemed very similar to me, like well lit, but poorly decorated hotels, so I'm right at home. If someone handed me a time card, I'd probably clock in and start looking for the front desk just out force of habit.

Today is also R Man's birthday. O boy, let's party in the hospital. All of the nurses are terribly sweet including the one who made a special trip to get him a piece of cake since he din't get a real birthday cake. My only cavil is that my past experience in hospitals as always included buckets of eyte candy guys, but this time, we seem to be running sort of short. Maybe the cute boy shift is on when I'm not there. Still, I'm most satisified with the very kind nurses.

Monday they split R Man's chest open and start redeocating his heart. I'll be glad when this is all over.

Brenda Dickson 'Welcome To My Home' Parody - PART 2

I thought the original Brenda Dickson videos were pretty funny, but I realize now they were simply fodder for this parody which makes me laugh until my face hurt.

I swiped this from the darling Wesley Darling's blog

Dazed and Confused

I've had my share of odd days, but today may be one of the strangest. For one thing, today is the anniversary of mrpeenee and R Man. Twenty-six years ago tonight we hooked-up, as the youngsters say, in the backroom of a bar in New Orleans and started the complex navigation to the lovely happy life we have now. Coincidentally, I was 26 years old, so tomorrow morning, I will will have had him in my life longer than I lived without him. In all those years, I have never had any hesitation in saying he is the center of my universe, the joy of my life, the cream in my coffee.

After a late lunch this afternoon (at Chow, of course. I recommend the pear cobbler) we went to shop for tile for our bathroom renovation and then on to R Man's appointment with the cardiologist for an examination. I'd have to say that was the point where the day tipped over into the bizarre because that was the point where the good doctor announced R Man had to go immediately into the hospital for angiogram. An angiogram is where they stick a tube up through the artery in your groin into your heart in order to shoot radioactive dye into you to see if your arteries are blocked. I was well and truly flipped out when they wouldn't let us just walk across the street to the hospital, but made us wait for a wheelchair to transport R Man over there.

It turns out that a regular part of these angiograms includes an angioplasty where they do actual repair work. Once they have a look-see at how badly the pipes are plugged up they can sort of Roter Rooter out the cholesterol crud that's blocking the way and then you go home the next day and subscribe to AARP. Except for R Man who has such severe blockage of two arteries and a major branch that he has to have coronary bypass surgery tomorrow. Maybe Sunday, they're not sure.

My approach to bad news is to just ignore it, to stick my fingers in me ears and sing "Lalalalala, don't hear no lesbian subplot" until it's over. Having disaster strike like a brick falling on one's head is better suited to that system than a growing problem one should be planning for. Still, even for me, this is all pretty breathtaking while I think R Man is sort of numbed. Three hours after standing around admiring expensive Italian glass mosaic tiles, they're prepping R Man for surgery and and hour later the cardiologist starts off his little talk to me with the phrase "The good news is...." There is no sentence in the world that starts off with those four words that is ever going to go in a direction you want it to.

Everyone at the hospital seems somber, but not worried (except me and R Man) so maybe coronary bypass surgery is not such a big deal, but that seems sort of unlikely.

Anyway, so, once upon a time, R Man and I had our first night of wild weasel sex under his roommate's fur bedspread (I believe the fur was shaved rat, but it was very romantic, never the less) and 26 years later, tonight, I was cutting up shrimp with artichoke hearts from his hospital tray to feed him his dinner. That was sort of romantic, too, and R man said it was very tasty, but you know, it's just not the same.

Life's funny that way.

Jackie Moore - This Time Baby (1979)

A dear friend just sent a collection of disco greats from back in the day, including this, which has never strayed far from the top of my personal list.

I love the deep funky bass line and Jackie Moore's voice! Velvety and clear at the same time, an all-time great.

I have to go dance now.

Beefcake Surplus

We just ran across this little dickens in the houseboys' dormitory. He thinks his name might be Godetius. I'm pretty sure he's not one of ours. If he is, in fact, part of your pack, could you please send for him? Thanks ever so.

Prom Time

When he was just a wee little baby fag, Mrpeenee went to his high school prom with a real girl. Even then, Mrpeenee was a huge, albeit unacknowledged nell and dressed accordingly in an ivory brocade tuxedo and a raspberry ruffled shirt. This was in the heart of Gulf Coast Texas and the fact Mrpeenee lived to tell about it only proves what an odd, odd time the 70s were.

Toilet Talk

Thanks to Jason at Night is Half Gone, we were pointed to the now terribly famous blog report of the Diaper Alley Crack Whore (here). You just know that by now the Ho in question is an internet star and whatever divey bar he’s lurking in currently is filled with people walking up to announce “saw ya on the internet, honey.” Plus, since the alley itself is pretty clearly identified, I predict it will take its place among the tourist destinations for fans of the sordid just like the Senator Craig toilet at the Minneapolis airport.

While looking to see how much the wonderful world of Google would lead to this (answer: plenty) I stumbled across a public service website that I have to salute. MizPee. Here’s the mission statement from the site “MizPee finds the closest, cleanest toilets in your area. You can add and review toilets, get some cool deals in your area and challenge your knowledge of toilet trivia.” Toilet Trivia! Cool deals (on potties?)! A groovy little illustration of a girl crapping in her pants! Speaking as someone who recently had to negotiate with the Lady at the head of the line at Peet’s bathroom to go first, I say this is a work of genius and long overdue. MizPee, you go girl.

That's Succor, not Sucker

O happy day. The Our Lady of Prompt Succor tee shirt has finally arrived and I'm giddy with clothing delight. Not only is there the smirky low humor aspect of wearing a shirt that proclaims Our Lady of Prompt Succor (so appropriate for me, always a lady whose succor knows no limitations) but also the unexpected bonus of the illustration.

When I ordered the shirt I saw there was some little drawing above the school's name, but I assumed it was some stupid bull dog. Imagine my thrill to discover it is Our Lady her very self, rendered as a flying, scrappy nun. I think of her as Sister Euphemia, the Fightin' Nun Now with Super Powers! Ready to kick the ass of Sectarian Evil Doers and Masturbators! As R Man pointed out, if your school team is called the Succors, you really need a tough mascot and what better than a dykey Mary, Mother o' Jebus? I only wish I had a big enough chest to do justice to the wonder of it all, but you work with what you got.

Beefcake Freshen Up

Our sommelier, Pius Victorius Emmanuel, recommends the Tequila Kahlua Margarita, but only as a douche.

Ann Miller: Man Is A Brother To a Mule

Pauline Kael once dismissed ANn Miller's dancing as "tick tock tapping." but I adore her. She exudes such a cheerful, wholesome, wholehearted sluttishness.

Naked Bowling

A league I could get into.

Tooth Time

O boy, a trip to the dentist in the middle of a Monday following a week long absence from work. What more could a high living gal like me ask for? My mouth numb and achy at the same time, with a sense that the achy part is going to win out and the valium I take to make the whole thing less anxious turning me into more of a zombie than usual. And a big chunk of change I would rather have put towards a new couch now residing in mouth. My theory with dental work is that the more it hurts, the more it costs. Doesn’t that just seem wrong? For $1,400 I want a muscular asian rentboy using his mouth to distract me from my mouth, but no such luck.

And, of course, with my mouth half-paralyzed, my entire office now wants to drop by and chat. “What’s going on with the start-up kit edit?” they ask. “Mmmbf arrmmn ooosslllh,” I reply. The odd thing is no one seems to notice. Hmmm.

My dentist is a very sweet man, with charming big brown eyes. I try to concentrate on them as he’s digging away. Have you noticed the position you achieve in the dental chair is very snuggly? You recline practically into his lap and turn your cheek into his shoulder, as if you two were about to exchange tender confessions. “Rinse and spit,” he says, but isn’t that the way most dates turn out?

Fugly Furniture

O dear. We went to the San Francisco Mart's public sample sale on Saturday and to the Home Depot’s schmancier outlet, the Expo, today and I can’t even describe the horrors we saw there. The Mart is a collection of showrooms supposedly to the trade, but I can’t believe any being paid for their style would have anything to do with this crap. All the showrooms were stuffed with the exact same squat, massive pieces. Vaguely baronial or Louis XV, but not really, they look like what they are: fussiness passing as good taste. If you crossed the overwrought Mediterranean of the late 60’s with the funeral parlor stylin that competed with Art Deco in the 30s, you’d get this. It’s what Carmela Soprano would get wet for in decorating. It’s the complement to all those Tuscan villa Mcmansions squatting in the suburbs. You got a great room? These are the hulking behemouth sofas and love seats and loungers for you. You can look at them and see the lines the manufacturers have bastardized, like a fauteuil that’s run off to join the clown college.

Urine Chat

We had asparagus and butternut squash risotto last night and it was delicious, if I say so myself. I was forcefully reminded of the asparagus when I got up to pee because, man, does asparagus ever make my pee stinky. R Man has forbidden the tasty, tender green stalks from our dinner parties because he’s concerned that I will turn my stinky pee into conversation fodder for the table based merely on the fact that I have done so in the past. Also that beets turn your pee pink, but that’s another vegetable and another story.

Part of the wonder of the internet is that there is no subject so obscure that you can’t track it down. A quick googe this morning on “asparagus pee” turned up the fascinating revelation that while everyone suffers from this noxious condition (once again showing all sons of men are brothers) not everybody can smell it. One assumes only the more delicate and sensitive among us are fated to suffer so. Like me.

I just love the idea of some researcher somewhere holding up a test tube of asparagus pee, doubtlessly collected under rigorously controlled conditions, to some subject and asking “Does this stink? On a scale of 1 to 10 how much would you say it stinks?”

Why on earth would stinky pee turn into dinner party conversation? Because I’m the host and I’ll talk about anything. If it crosses my mind, it crosses my lips. Fortunately, our guests tend to be good sports and go along with it, although god knows what they have to say about the whole experience on their way home later. But someone has to make the conversation move along or else we dissolve into the cost of real estate and grousing about Bush, both of which are requirements in San Francisco entertaining.

I inherited my sainted mother’s ability to chatter aimlessly; I open my mouth and hear her echo coming out. The foundation of a thousand thousand bridge parties, it may not be profound, but it certainly is handy. Small talk is social lubrication. Plus, an important part of my job is going to business functions and standing around making chat with complete strangers. Whenever I’ve gotten through another one of these nattering marathons, I bless my mother. Although, I’m pretty sure she was too much of a Lady to discuss asparagus pee. Maybe.

Concrete beefcake

Our handyman, Fabian, wants everyone to rest assured that he should have the new water feature in our patio set and poured shortly.

madonna - she's the universal language

I actually prefer this to Madge's english version.

Love Kills - Mercury Metropolis

Of course, I love Freddie Mercury. Just his moustache alone would make me his slave.

I also am wild for the film Metropolis, both for the overall look of it and the way the actors flail around the screen.

Combining the two was brilliant, and this video is able to edit the whole movie down to a brisk 4 minutes. My favorite part is Maria's hoochy koochy dance. I often recreate it when I'm all alone.

Carrie The Muscial review

I rest my case.

Carrie - The Musical

Brilliant artiste super agent fred informed us over ham omelets this morning that at one time the classic scary movie and pig’s blood festival Carrie was made into a musical. I initially thought he was making a joke, but a quick whiz through Wikipedia confirms that indeed Broadway seems to have been so dedicated to killing itself off that Carrie - The Musical opened in 1988. Even more amazingly, it was the product of the Royal Shakespeare Company originally and the great Barbara Cook took the Piper Laurie role as Carrie’s mother.

I remember 1988 as a time everybody was still doing lots of drugs, but I can’t believe anyone was ever loaded enough to think this was a good idea. In fact, the show only lasted five performances and according to Wikipedia “It inspired the title of Ken Mandelbaum's 1991 book Not Since Carrie: Forty Years of Broadway Musical Flops.” That’s a kind of deathless fame, but probably not what the producers were looking for.

So I’m off on two searches: one, any book with that title is one I need and two, I’m hoping youtube can come up with some pirated video of the show. If it does, you can rest assured I’ll share it here.

Also, super agent fred later referred to vichyssoise as a "mashed potato milkshake" which has nothing to do with Carrie, but I thought it was funny and I'm always willing to swipe anything amusing for this blog.

Did Ya Miss Me?

I’m back from a week-long training class in a suburb of Sacramento. Should someone force on you the choice of a week in Sacramento or a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, I would recommend that you think long and hard before turning down the stick. How the capital of California can be so unremittingly dull is beyond me. The little town I was in, Roseville, reminded me forcefully of the crappy little burg in Texas where I was raised. Lots of pickup trucks and the giant parking lots to accommodate them and not much else. The most attractive piece of land in town is, of course, the cemetery. Malls spread in every direction, composed of cheap buildings tarted up to look like the much older buildings crumbling away in the downtown they have rendered obsolete. Everyone is fat, except for the sullen straight boys who seem oblivious to their own charms.

I went up there and back on the train, which was the only consolation. I love train travel, the rhythm of gliding along the tracks and the sound of the horn wailing at crossings. This particular trip goes through the delta of the Sacramento River, green and marshy off into the distance, very much like the swampy terrain where I grew up. It’s pretty, as long as you don’t have to go wading off through the muck.

Anyway, I’m very glad to be back. The beauty of living in San Francisco is what a joy returning here always is, no matter where the trip took you.

Via con Whatshisname

I’m being exiled to Sacramento Monday morning for a week-long training on how to process loans. I think I’ve mentioned how very feeble I am at math (I’m a visual kind of gal) so the prospect is daunting, to say the least. Plus, Sacramento? And not even really Sacramento, but some forsaken suburb of it. My sensitive nature shudders. Anyway, I won’t have access to the wonderful world of the internet, so no scintillating insights into the world of mrpeenee until Friday, and that’s only if I survive.

In the meantime, I’ve put together a photo page of my favorite porn stars at here. Your assignment: compare and contrast.

See ya Friday.

The Lady In Red

As a very small child, I remember being fascinated by this cartoon on the Saturday morning Bugs Bunny show. I’m sure it was hacked into bits to fit into that format since the original is more than seven minutes long so a big thank you to YouTube for allowing me to appreciate its cleverness. What’s not to love? Glam cockroach nightclub and flaming parrots, that’s still my idea of a good time.

OLPS

When R Man and I were living la vie homosexual in New Orleans, we did so half a block from the Ursulines convent, an historic structure that included the former chapel of Our Lady of Prompt Succor. Of course, this seemed wholly appropriate to me since I too had been known by similar names. I was never able to snag a t-shirt with that title, but now, I’ve found it here . I’m getting mine in orange, cause it’s sassy.

I Know a Place Petula Clark

“I Know a Place” is a song that always demands doing the pony in a pair of white go-go boots, and yet, Petula Clark always, always remained firmly earthbound in sensible flats. Amazing. The youth among us may ask themselves “Who is this bitch? Where are her go-go boots?”

In her time, Ms Clark managed to be one big star by being a bridge between post-war big bands and rock and roll. The beat is the greatest there. O yeah. Get down, bad bitch Petula, get down.

Plus Ed Sullivan recommends safe driving. Well, OK.

Beefcake Zzzzzzzzzzs

OK, no posts tonight. I've broken out in hives from an allergic reaction to something. My doctor doesn't know what it is, but loaded me up with antihistamines that have made me so sleepy I'm typing this while unconscious. Not that that really affects either the content or my typing, but I'm stumbling off to bed anyway.

If you need anything, please contact our cabin boy, Appolinaris, pictured above. But there better be no stains when I wake up tomorrow.

Panty Parade

The divine Diane von Austin berg would like us to believe she sees a parallel between the Vuitton photo from the New York Times story on underwear as outerwear and the shot of mrpeenee's sashay up Dauphine Street in the French Quarter after some long ago Southern Decadence. It's possible she's flattering me, it's equally possible she's deluded. You know how she is.

For the record, I am not the one with the muffin top.

Crazy Guy, Aisle 9

I was at Safeway yesterday afternoon and some crazy guy in the produce section just started screaming. No words, just aargh, aargh, aargh, one of those crazy guys. This being such a big tough city, everyone in the vicinity immediately turned and marched off. I don't think it even crossed any of our minds to check on the guy, to call 911 , to respond in anyway except to be vaguely irritated. Enough of this kind of thing and you learn that involving yourself with him will not relieve him in any way and only make things worse, certainly for you, probably for him. Screaming crazy guys are like car alarms, an annoying part of the background noise of life. I know that's so wrong, I just don't know how to overcome the self preservation instinct that makes me back away so he won't hit me with a butternut squash.

Plus, they were out of lentils. How can a grocery store be out of lentils?

NOLA News

Our dear sister Cow Queen reports from New Orleans:

People have not forgotten New Orleans! No they haven't. Anyone who has ever visited here knows that.And New Orleans will be okay. We have seen worse catastrophes through history, and most times we've had no-one to help us recover except ourselves, and perhaps some new immigrants.

It is sad that many of the people who are really good for this city feel that they must move away in order to survive. And oh so many have. I WILL NOT judge anyone who has lived here and then left, but you do not have to leave New Orleans to survive.And it is possible to actually THRIVE here. To do so requires a bottomless pit of energy, the patience of Job and the constant use of creativity to live a life of quality in NOLA. It may not always be easy, but it will always be an interesting journey.

New Orleans is a city of layers. Layers of cultures which have come in successive waves whenever a real change was happening. Imagine an old house with 200 years of layers of paint. Each layer has added its identity onto that of the last. When a layer peels, it reveals those beneath -- a PATINA or vestige of the past, as it were. Each has changed it a little, not completely, but each has smoothed out the sharp edges to a fluid, fuzzy, even decayed blur that is constantly changing with each new layer. Many prefer a fine old patina to a crisp clean new view anyway. Those who continue on here tolerate or embrace this beautiful-versus-ugly state of perpetual decay.

Sure the Vieux Carre is not the total identity of this City. It is however this City's Heart, with which everyone here identifies. And which everyone loves. but for different reasons.

The hope to which I cling is not that New Orleans can survive, I know it will survive, but that it continues to be THE most quirky, unusual and memorable alternative to all other American cities. It will certainly continue to be a laugh-a-minute here, one way or the other. We've learned to laugh at ourselves a lot lately...Come visit, create some memories and "HAVE FUN". You will help keep New Orleans alive.

Tag Time

JOE * to * HELL (whom I used to be charmed by, but now I see him for the low schemer he truly is. JUST KIDDING) has tagged me. I've seen this in other blogs, where the blogger is forwarded a list of questions to answer and that they then send on. It's the chain letter of the internet. This particular tag has a real range of questions, some interesting, most apparently dreamed up by Sister Evangeline's seventh grade class at the State School for the Terminally Insipid. "Did you ever run a red light?" Oh my, how daring. That said, I answered them all, like the good sport I am. You should go see Joe's as well. His answers were more interesting than mine, even though I am almost certainly a more interesting person. And a better dancer. He was probably lying, the big liar.


Anyway, the tag, with it's fascinating insights into little me:


1. Taken a picture completely naked? of course. How else do you make friends on Craigslist?

2. Made out with a friend on your MySpace/Facebook page? the fact that the original writer assumes everyone has a MySpace page is telling. I do not have one.

3. Danced in front of your mirror naked? yes, and then looked around for a mirror with better lighting

4. Told a lie? No. Absolutely not. Never. Not once.

5. Had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back? only a few hundred times.

6. Been arrested? yes, and it was a sordid affair, fortunately dismissed and expunged.

7. Made out with someone of the same sex? gimme back my tongue.

8. Seen someone die? My little brother and R Man’s mother. You know, this is really not a great
question to include in something like this.

9. Slept in until 5pm? Of course. I used to work evenings

10. Had sex at work? If you had seen the people I’ve worked with, you’d understand why this makes me shudder while I say, firmly, NO

11. Fallen asleep at work/school? I’m pretty sure not.

12. Held a snake? a trouser snake

13. Ran a red light? am I driving?

14. Been suspended from school? the University of Texas, for being such a wastrel.

15. Totaled your car in an accident? close, but no.

16. Pole danced? close, but no.

17. Smoked? ick. no

18. Been fired from a job? o yeah. I had several disposable jobs.

19. Sang karaoke? the world should thank me that I haven’t

20. Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t? who hasn’t?

21. Laughed until a drink came out your nose? If I did, I was too drunk to remember it now.

22. Caught a snowflake on your tongue? get real. I grew up on the Gulf Coast and never even saw snow until I was an adult.

23. Kissed in the rain? was this written by some sad fifteen year old fat girl?

24. Sang in the shower? My favorite big number is “I Can See Clearly Now”

25. Given your private parts a nickname? Yes. I call it “dick”

26. Ever gone out without underwear? For years.

27. Sat on a roof top? My favorite place when I was a morose teenager.

28. Played chicken? no

29. Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on? No, I was always the pusher.

30. Broken a bone? My little toe. I fell down some stairs at a the tubs in Seattle, naked, in front of a room full of queers I was hoping to hump.

31. Mooned/flashed someone? Certainly not

32. Shaved your head? no

33. Slept naked? Every night since I was about fourteen.

34. Played a prank on someone? sure.

35. Had a gym membership? I’m really getting bored with this.

36. Felt like killing someone? whoever wrote these stupid questions.

37. Made your girlfriend/boyfriend cry? You obviously don’t know my boyfriend.

38. Cried over someone you were in love with? I don’t cry

39. Had sex more than 10 times in one day? A few times. It was called “Mardi Gras”.

40. Had Mexican jumping beans for pets? The signpost for Stupid was about ten questions back. We are now entering Idiocy.

41. Been in a band? The Robert E. Lee High School band. I played tuba, badly.

42. Subscribed to Maxim? as notorious J*O*E said “who wrote this shit?”

43. Taken more than 10 shots of alcohol? Yes. When I drank, I was a serious drinker.

44. Shot a gun? no

45. Had sex today? no, sorry.

46. Played strip poker? no

47. Tripped on mushrooms? yes

48. Donated Blood? yes, it’s how I made money in college.

49. Video taped yourself having sex? no, I was too busy FUCKING.

50. Eaten alligator meat? probably. In gumbo. It’s the kind of thing that turns up in New Orleans at things like Jazz Fest a lot.

51. Ever jump out of an airplane? nope

52. Have you been to more than 10 countries? only five.

53. Ever wanted to have sex with a platonic friend? Maybe you don’t understand the definition of “platonic.”


Notorious J*O*E’s additional questions:


Have you ever shaved yourself bare? I never needed to, I’m naturally smooth, like a real lady.


Have you ever dressed in drag? Photo attached. I am one ugly tranny.

If you could be one celebrity for a week, who would it be? Daniel Craig. I’d love to see what it’s like to be so pretty.

Come By Sunday

I KNOW IT'S STUPID. Suck it. I adore PrincessPoodlePoo. I want to marry her. It's her commitment to her art I most admire.

Beefcake: Isn't It Just One Thing After Another?

I'm afraid all the attention I paid to the misplaced Karizma has led to our normally excellent footman Hippolyte feeling neglected and now he's become pouty. I'm very concerned that this might lead to another timeout in the Discipline Closet for him, but one must be firm, after all.

A Rough Number

So chatting about my semi-lurid history in Tub Time, Part Two brought to mind the perennial question “How many men have I had sex with?” It’s perennial in that while I never wonder “How many bags of Milano cookies have I knocked back?” I do occasionally try to tally up the number of guys that have gotten across home plate. It’s just something that crosses my mind when I’m not contemplating more noble things.

Here’s the stats to consider: I was a virgin, untouched (except some guy who groped me in a store when I was in high school, but really, that simply cannot count) until I was 21. Almost immediately, I leaped into the sexpot lifestyle of the pre-AIDS homo, one which I’ve clung to with only minor modifications through these thirty years. Bathhouses, bars, sex clubs, and various unsavory venues in Austin, Seattle, New Orleans, New York, L.A. (hey Mauricio!) Chicago, Palm Springs (Cathedral City, actually,) Paris, Rome and, of course, here in our own little cow-town. Over these three decades, I’ve managed to hit one of them on average per week, at the very least. Some of my favorites were the backroom of the Sunday beer busts at Jewels (where I found R Man and true love,) half price Tuesday nights at the New Orleans baths (I’m cheap in every sense of the word. I know. Shut up.) and Blow Buddies here every single weekend for years.

In each of these and all the others as well, I was plenty open to quantity over quality. I figure I connected with a rough average of 6.5 players per match. And this average is very rough. If I was in the back room and somebody just sort of licked it for a few strokes before one or the other of us moved on, does that count? I guess so, although I used to discount it entirely as just sort of an amuse bouche rather than even a true snack. And glory holes. Anyplace with those gifts of the gods were good for better than a dozen “hi-hellos” at a visit, but again they just seem so unimportant. I know some poor closety senator might not get anything better, but it’s hard for me to include them in the grand total. Still, in the interest of scientific rigor, I’m willing to do so. Plus, each Mardi Gras alone is capable of skewing this score pretty substantially upwards. So let’s call it 7.33 per week for 31 years.

Amazingly, I am more embarrassed to admit that I had to go to a calculator to figure this out than I am to admit I’ve been intime with 11,815.96 of my dearest friends. Is that right? I really am terrible at math.

So, am I bragging? Oh, probably, a little. I think whenever anyone speaks about sex they’re either bragging or complaining, but I also think I’m no where near extraordinary in this, for a gay man of my age, anyway. Some straight guy who got married to the first girl he kissed might come up short of that, but face it, most disco queens getting mail from AARP will look at that number and say “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

And so what’s yours? You know you’ve been calculating blowjobs and one night stands and sweaty little moments of magic while you were reading this. What did you come up with? Feel free to round either up or down, whichever makes it easier for you to sleep at night.

Patti LaBelle, Cyndi Lauper and Jessica Simpson

Sometimes I post videos because I'm so impressed by them, sometimes because they make me nostalgic and sometimes,like this, becasue they are so astonishingly bad.

How did these three wind up on the same stage simultaneously? Did they bump into each other in an airport bar somewhere and agree to this thinking it would be amusing while in a tequila induced euphoria?

Patti Labelle is in great form here, but Cyndi, while an old favorite of mine, seems to be sort of stunned. Maybe the tequila wore off.

I knew, vaguely who Jessica Simpson was, but I think this is the first time I've ever heard her voice. You know, it's not bad. But she is no Labelle.

"what the fuck" may be overused, but it's justified here.

Damn Yankees - Whatever Lola Wants (Lola Gets)

My favorite big number, starring humpy, humpy, gay, gay Tab Hunter and the deevine Gwen Verdon. Amazing for a 1958 film this mambo is actually Gwen stripping, including rubbing on Tab like a cat in heat and crawling on the floor to take off her pants. They got away with it by making it comedy. See? It's not smut, it's funny. I love the part where she shoves his head into her naughty bits.

Tub Time, Part Two

In the comments on Bath Time, our correspondent Kent notes “I might be more inclined to visit one of these dens of iniquity if they weren’t so damned iniquitous here in Seattle. I've never heard anything good about the three we have.” Having spent part of my early homo years in the lovely Seattle and having visited again a couple of times recently, I’m sad to say I have to agree with Kent. Not about the iniquitous part; tubs are supposed to be iniquitous. It’s his lament about them not being very good that gets a big amen from me.

The tubs in Seattle have always rated as some of the dullest I’ve ever graced. The most interesting time in any of them may have been when I broke my toe falling down the stairs at the old Pine Street Baths. It may have been interesting, but it wasn’t what I was looking for at the tubs. The Club Baths had a huge hot tub inside the steam room, which was very deluxe, but they stopped using it as a tub years ago and now it’s just a big waste of space, plus the steam room is too big to be effectively heated. The place that’s the Zodiac was downright scary in the late 70’s. It had been some flop house SRO and the possibility of hooking up with a serial killer always seemed sort of high there.

But what about the mens, the sex, the old in-and-out, the oinky boinky? Feh. The pickings have always been very slim and what few buckos there might be (these places are big and most evenings resemble a ghost town) were not very high quality. They certainly wouldn’t stack up against the charming Steamworks in Chicago or even the skanky Hollywood Spa.

Ken also mentions his desire for a glamorous bathhouse. I applaud the idea. I’ve heard the Steamworks in Toronto fits that bill. I’ll report back as soon as we visit there.

Come Home Little Beefcake

Thanks to everyone for their concern over our lost houseboy, Karizma. It turns out he had gotten stuck in the cabana and couldn't remember how to open the door. We tried to lure him out with a can of tuna fish, but that didn't work. Fortunately, Snuffy, our auxilary houseboy pictured here, was able to come up with an alternative.

Brainstorm - Lovin' Is Really My Game 1977 DISCO

Thirty years ago, this was setting the dance floors on fire and it still can. I recommend doing up a whole bunch of coke first and then snorting as many poppers as your nose will hold before cranking this bad boy up cause that's what it requires.

There's a long instrumental break in the middle, thoughtfully included to allow dancers to retire to the men's room to snort up more enthusiasm before they return to the floor. Plus the rythym section includes castanets and how many songs can say that?

Tub Time

I went to the tubs in Berkeley last night, an unfortunate decision. Nobody cute, sucky music and a stalker. Over the many, many years I've spent wandering aimlessly around sex clubs, the frequent "Oh god why am I here?" nights have always brought to mind two little tunes. The first is the great disco classic Lovin is Really My Game with its brilliant opening line "I can't catch no man hangin' round at the discotech" because there are sometimes when the fish just aren't biting. So to speak. Sing it with me now. There is no night so grim that thinking of that ditty doesn't lift my spirits. I'll post it later.

The other is from some long dead, third string cartoon called Tudor Turtle. It had a wizard who would chant in every episode "Drizzle drazzle drozzle drome-- Time for this one to head home!" in an odd mittle European accent. I have often repeated that to myself hoping I would pay attention and leave, but it almost never works. I may be an old tramp, but I'm an optimistic one.

Houseboy Woes

As I mentioned earlier, our houseboy Karizma is missing and now our other one, Juvenito, is pining for him. It's very sad. I think they were in the same litter and you know how that is.

Abercrombie & Bitch

Even though I'm very fond of partially nude men (perhaps excessively so) Abercrombie and Fitch's stores and advertising irritates me profoundly. Maybe it's because they use homoeroticsm to peddle overpriced mediocre clothes, but don't want to embrace their queerific identity or maybe I'm just projecting the snotty attitude so many really pretty gay men have onto them. Maybe it's just because they light their stupid stores as if they were nightclubs. Anyway, I was plenty amused to run across this prank by the group Improv Everywhere . According to their website, Improv Everywhere “causes scenes of chaos and joy in public places” including A&F. Go to their website and watch the video of them invading the store and the hypocritical, tight-ass over-reaction by the staff.

The Last Lamas

Continuing with our Lamas festival (I AM NOT OBSESSED) We share this note from Kent

http://dlisted.com/files/Dracula1Low.jpg

"hahahahaha

I think that's even worse than old Thierry, isn't it? Yes, that's Lorenzo, doing Dracula over at Kean University in Union, NJ. "

Actually, it doesn't seem so bad, I mean if you gotta be Dracula at some obscure school production. At least, it would seem he's still got his tits. Anyway, Thombeau had recommended we "investigate abuelo Fernando" so this is all his fault.

And I'm not sure anything is scarier than Old Thierry who is now the official poster for Halloween 2007.

Supersize This, Baby

I wrote earlier in Schmancy Shopping about the joys of grocery errands in the exquisite environs of the San Francisco Ferry Building. On Saturday, R Man and I plan an expedition to the polar extreme of such refined consumption - we’re off to Costco. Part of me squirms at the very idea of crossing that threshold, feeling as if being there makes me personally and solely responsible for global warming, but I need a six-pack of dental floss, a pallet of paper towels and a gross ton of spaghetti sauce.

I’m fascinated by the giant extended families plodding through the aisles there blocking my way. How are you going to get all those frozen chicken wings and twelve kids into one minivan? Maybe they secretly plan on leaving granny in the parking lot and hoping she doesn’t find her way back this time.

Also, we always get to play a lively round of Spot the Mos. It’s terribly amusing scoping out the other queer couples engaged in such domestic bliss. Who needs to get married? We have a joint Costco membership.

Mmmm. I’m already dreaming of a five-pound tub of salted cashews.

Even More of the L Word (the Other L Word, Silly)

Thanks to Kent who pointed me towards the son of a certain former Falcon Crest star who must not be named because when I do I start getting even more ridiculous emails than usual (see below.) The fruit of he Who Must Not Be Named's loins is even more luscious than his father, which is saying a lot. He is also, according to numerous reports on Google, swapping spit with one L. Lohan. Photographic proof of their association is provided here. It would seem I am the only person on the planet who doesn't care what this Lohan creature is up to, but I do love the way this shot makes the studly A.J. Lamas look like he's scared she might touch him. Sissy. Also, could he really be this smooth, or has he been waxed like a surfboard?

Put Me On the Do Not Lamas List, Please

Weeks ago, in some stupid post, I revealed one of my many secret shames, namely, that I get all be-moistened by Lorenzo Lamas. I want to make it clear that there are lots of men who get me equally bothered and a great many more who give me even bigger pants. Anyway, I suspect that post has somehow linked me to the shadowy world of Lamas lovers since today in my email I got a breathless announcement of an entire page full of Lorenzo posters. Who knew? Who cared? Is there anyone this fascinated with some D list beefcake, who, for that matter, hit his beefcake prime twenty years ago? The world is such an odd, odd place.

Gorey Mania

Mean Dirty Pirate regularly features the brilliant art of Edward Gorey. I love Gorey for the cheerful perversity he embraces in his work. For all I know he embraced in his private life as well, but that’s none of my bees wax.

As I mentioned on MDP’s latest Gorey post, when San Francisco's new main library opened, they did away with their card catalogue in order to go to strictly computer searches.The cards were all taken out and volunteers wrote quotes from their favorite books on them, after which the cards were plastered to the walls of several floors. Someone wrote out all of "The Gashlycrumb Tinies" (B is for Basil Assaulted by bears. etc...) on several different cards. They're placed randomly and you can spend a very amusing afternoon tracking them all down.

My favorite? N is for Neville who died of ennui.

You can see the whole The Gashlycrumb Tinies here

Tooth Time

I spent the morning at the dentist getting a new crown. He's very sweet and complimented me afterward about being such a good patient, so calm. For a moment, I thought he was going to pat me on the head. He seemed very struck when I explained it was the Valium I had popped on the way in. Sweetie, I didn't make it through both the 70s and the 80s without learning the value of drugs. Most striking was his new assistant, a creature so nell as to make me look like a lumberjack. I kept expecting him to break into his tribute to Dame Shirley Bassey, but he must have been saving that for the after-lunch crowd.

trailer female truoble

Cow Queen and I frequently quote huge chunks of dialogue from Female Trouble to each other, which is fine until strangers overhear us. "You most certainly ARE retarded" is a line that can get you a lot of attention.

Got To Give It Up '97

Is there a single other song that speaks so directly to your pelvis? No there is not. I just wish I could find a video of the orignal Marvin Gaye version.

Schmancy Shopping

The Ferry Building in San Francisco was a grim, gray place most of the years we lived here, the sort of terminal that makes you regret your transportation choice. Commuters would scuttle through a wretched plywood-lined corridor as fast as they could to escape. Then, after the Loma Preita earthquake, they tore down the freeway that loomed over it and started an elaborate renovation of the building and the plaza in front that took bloody near forever.

Now it's beautiful, airy and light and filled with food oriented local businesses, befitting San Francisco's fascination with gorgeous nibbly bits. Since this is San Francisco, all that work and money were meant to create a destination for tourists. As any good working girl will tell you, you gots to keep dem johns happy. There was an attempt at claiming it would be a benefit for the hordes working in the nearby financial district (like me) but I never took that seriously.

All that is why I'm now sort of amazed to find myself actually shopping there pretty often. It's four blocks from my office and the best butcher in town is in there. I can stop by, snagged some sausage and get on BART and be gone in no time. Amazing. Plus, let me sing the praises of Miette, a charming french bakery that packs their goods in shopping bags so faggy, I'm always concerned about getting bashed while I carry them. Their banana cream tart is singing to me from the refrigerator even as I type this.

I still feel like I'm popping over to Disneyland to go to the hardware store ever time I cross Embarcadero to go into the Ferry Building, but that can't keep from the Golden Gate Meat company or from Miette's gingerbread.

On the Road

In the earlier post “News You Can Use” Jason reminisces about riding around in a boat being towed by a car which, in turn, reminds me of being young and cruising along in the back of my father’s pickup. We were going over to my granny’s house on a small back road and I was sitting on the open tail-gate with the toes of my bare feet just skimming along the road surface. Yes, any bump would have sent me flying to be mangled or some road debris could have chopped off my little piggies. Were my parents crazy for allowing this? Maybe. Were they white trash? Oh, yeah. But forty something years later I still remember that ride fondly.