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.

News You Can Use

Torn from the headlines in today’s Chronicle:

“He told police he just wanted to take the grandchildren out for a spin and treat them to some food at an area drive-in restaurant.

But a police officer warned the man that hauling four unrestrained children, all around age 4, on a busy street in a 15-foot motorboat pulled by a lawnmower isn't a good idea.

The 61-year-old man drove to Beckley's King Tut Drive-In on Saturday afternoon from his home in the nearby community of Bowling Addition.

Even though he was driving an unregistered, uninspected vehicle on city streets, the man wasn't charged. Patrolman Jamie Blume said he didn't think the man willfully put his grandchildren in danger.

However, the man was told to call for someone else to pick up the children and have them restrained in child safety seats.”

I love the idea of dropping into a grease joint named the “King Tut Drive-In” but even better would be to reside in “Bowling Addition.” Man, I am so jealous.

Lost: Beefcake

Our house boy, Karizma, has wandered off again. He’s not very smart and elderly admirers are always trying to lure him away with promises of sugary treats. If found, please return him promptly.

Kylie Minogue's new single '2 Hearts'

I love Kylie Minogue. I believe we share a passion for slutty underwear. Is there some regulation requiring all pop stars to imitate Marilyn Monroe? This is the Tiny Terror's effort at it, but I like the song anyway.

Shoe Fly

Fall has come to San Francisco and with it, the rainy season to wash down the random shoes one finds on the streets here. What's with that? If they're too ratty for the Goodwill, just throw them away, don't dump them on the sidewalk for some dog to pee on. The ones pictured here were spotted by the divine Diane and me about twenty feet from the door of the Out of the Closet junk store on Church. I'm sure the store would have gladly accepted them as a donation, god knows I've seen worse in there. Maybe the drag queen trying to get rid of them was ashamed of their poor quality workmanship, although I think they look pretty snappy. Maybe she was too loaded to walk in them any farther, Diane's convinced of that. It's possible, but none of the trannies I've known would ever surrender in such a feeble manner.

Sunny Beefcake

Because sometimes really, really humpy guys just sit around in their panties. They just do.

Vacation? What Vacation?

The divine Diane von Austin-berg left this morning after a much too short trip. It was more fun than a tub of porn stars, with grease.


High points of our annual visits are usually cooking together, along with the elaborately crafted grocery lists and trips to Whole Foods that entails, but this time we were only in the kitchen a few times. Of course, that includes the cauliflower gratin that got a tad seared. Well, blackened, actually, by my cranking up the broiler to brown the bread crumbs and then wandering off. It happens. We scraped off the burnt part and everyone was very sweet about it.


We also missed out on our usual rounds of the local thrift stores. We hit all our regulars, but ran out of time for the more obscure ones (The Church Mouse! Yay!) The brown brocade sport jacket she found for me still has a sun faded stripe down one sleeve; the tea stain solution worked only slightly, but I refuse to give up on it. R Man is concerned.



I had planned to wear it to dinner at Chez Panisse, but obviously that didn't pan out. Still, dinner there, with our friends Dan and John, or Dan and Jean as they're sometimes known, was swell. I love CP, it's seriously fabulous food without being fussy.



Mostly, we just hung out together, which is what I love about her. Such good company, so charming and sweet. Plus I kicked her ass at Boggle. Honest. I don't care what she claims.

Rainman

It's been raining all night, a lovely, soft, quiet rain. I'm looking forward to going to bed with the windows open listening to it. Nighty night.

Junklandia

As I mentioned earlier, one of the best things about Diane von Austin-berg visiting here is hitting the thrift stores with her. I have no idea whether it's skill or karma that allows the little devil to find such treasures at every junk hole we visit, but she does. Case in point: the Out of the Closet on Folsom wear she snagged a brown brocade sport coat (okay it sounds peculiar, but it's sweet. Truly.) that fits like it was cut just for me. The down side? A big old faded stripe down the sleeve where some inattentive queen let it hang in his closet with the sun blasting on it. We're trying to fix it by dying the fade with tea. I'll be reporting results as they occur.

Just to show off, she also found a lady's silk and cashmere sweater for herself that had somehow wandered off into the men's wear section and where it was marked down to ONE DOLLAR. That is just egregious.

We were also struck by the many authors one only sees at cheap used bookstores (Belva Plain, I'm talking to you.) Much like movies that are straight to video, these books seem to be straight to thrift stores. It's a concept, but one that seems to be tough for the agents to explain to these writers.

Wine Country

One of the joys about living in San Francisco is being able to run off to the wine country so easily. R Man, the Divine Diane and I hit the road yesterday for lunch in Yountville. The town is about as big as the period at the end of this sentence, but lunch at Redd was delish and R Man and Diane got to guzzle, I mean taste many very nice wines. In fact, I was the one who drove home because R Man had tasted deeply.

It's beautifully autumnal there right now with the grape leaves turning gold and the sunlight both soft and warm at the same time because, you know, it's California. We saw plenty of other tourists up there who were loud and drunk, by the busful, and you have to feel sorry for the people who live there and have to put up with Girls Gone Wild, Napa every time they go to the grocery store, but then, they also have bucolic splendor so maybe it's a trade off.

Rag and Bone

We went out to the underwhelming de Young Museum with the Divine Diane to see the show on Nan Kempner's clothes. The press release on the exhibit identifies Kempner as "the inspiration for the term 'social X-ray' in Tom Wolfe’s novel Bonfire of the Vanities," apparently believing that was a good thing and sufficient identifying information.

Nan's closet rolled out Valentino, Saint Laurent, Gautier, all the big boys, from the 70's through the turn of the century. Big shoulder pads made a bold appearance, to the point that they made me uneasy. Nan, I wanted to ask, what's with the Joan Crawford fetish? It was as fun as a trip to the finer ladies wear department at Saks.

It's appropriate that the de Young should have a society lady's schmata as their featured show. The museum is all about its exterior, a copper clad behemoth athwart Golden Gate Park. Inside it's all gray with odd, dull lighting and a frumpy collection that leans strongly towards a high-end china closet.

addicted to love - robert palmer

I mentioned in an earlier post ( put a spell on who?) how much I admire the Sonique video, primarily because if I ever pulled a big heist, I'd be sure to dress me and my bitches up in tight little miniskirts and bustiers, just like in the video.

after the heist, we’d need a new career, so I figure we could start up pouty lip bitch band. But we’d have to fire Robert Palmer, cause he's just not sullen enough.

Xdress Fashion Show (1994)

Gautier? Fah. What need have I of Gautier when there exists the heavenly Xdress.

Shop Till You Drop

Maybe it's the dawn fresh, unaffected sweet charm of pink lace...

Or maybe you want to be Naughty Tonight! Either way apres noir has got it going on.

Beachfront Beefcake

California Muscle, the source for all things underwearific, list this number in their swimwear section. Naturlment. This is just what I look for when I'm planning on knocking out a few laps at the Y.

These Shoes Suck

Part of the upcoming weekend festivities will be a performance of Mrpeenee Goes Shoe Shopping. I'm not wild about any retail experience, except thrift stores, and shoes tend to be especially problematic since I wear size 13.5 (15 in ladies pumps. But that's another story.) You may have not noticed this, but in men's shoe departments, each size is afforded its own individual row, or sometimes two until you get to size 12 after which they just dump all the over-sized merchandise into the equivalent of a cobbler's black hole. The pitifully limited selection of all things 13 through 18 are simply jumbled together - good luck, freak. They might as well put a sign over them saying "Clown Shoes Here" and be done with it. Half sizes are almost unheard of since the evil shoe cartels assume if your feet are taking up that much real estate, such subtle distinctions are unimportant.

Maybe I should just go to the trannie shoe store and get some nice springolators. At least they would make my calves look nice.

Those Darn Accordions! perform Mothra

I believe this may be much better if one is really, really loaded, but that's true of so many things.

Australian Panties. Yay.

This is why we love aussiebum. They're serious about underwear and we respect that.

http://www.aussiebum.com/

Our Australian blogger mate the other Andrew probably sees this stuff all the time. Hell, he probably knits knickers for this boy. Still, for those of us living a more quiet, retired existence, this is notable.

The Divine Diane

We're counting down the hours until our dear friend, the divine Diane von Austin-berg, blows into town Saturday morning. Yay and more than yay. Adoration does not begin to describe our feelings for her fabulosity, her wonder, her grooviness, her willingness to over look my occasional shortcomings.

She and I go way back, to our misspent youths as lackeys on a daily newspaper at the University of Texas (hook 'em, indeed.) Actually, only I was a lackey, Diane wound up as News Editor because she can actually edit, a skill far beyond me, as these posts so often attest. We sort of drifted apart, but then collided, joyfully, at a wedding in Las Vegas where I was the matron of honor and Diane, as usual, was blameless. We have spent a part of each fall together ever since and they have all been fizzy vacations, let me tell you.

We've had extended houseparties in Ashland, Oregon to go to the Shakespeare festival there and we've had week-long times when we haven't made it any farther than Berkeley. She's been a great sport about invasions of my entire family suddenly jammed in on top of us and she was very supportive during a couple of bad spells when R Man was way sick. It's a testament to her fabulousness that both R Man and I love her company; you know how unusual it is for a couple to both enjoy a friend.

She and I share a real passion for good coffee, which translates into Peet's here, and for good food, so I've already made reservations at Chez Panisse, Slanted Door and Yank Sing, all of which I'm certainly looking forward to , but not as much as just cooking with her.

It's rare to find someone who can co-habitate a kitchen with me. I'm shrill and tyrannical around pots and pans, knives and cutting boards, but Diane and I function effortlessly and it's a joy. For months before she comes out, we email potential menus back and forth; this year, risotto with mint and peas as well as pan-seared scallops are coming on strong in our plans.

We also indulge our cut-throat love of thrift stores when together, but I am a mere piker compared to her mastery. That woman can walk in the front door, scan a rack of Walmart discards and emerge with the one Structure gray wool sweater in the whole place. In my size. On a day when sweaters are fifty cents. One can only bow down before her. There's new junk shop on Sixth Street I have refrained from working until I can share it with her. Greater love hath no poofy-boy.

Did I mention Boggle contests? Yes, I have no shame about my complete nerdness. Boggle. I would kick her ass at it, except she cheats, if you consider knowing more words than me cheating, that is. Cheat, cheat, cheat.

The only problem is we never have enough time for all our plans, but that's what next year is for.

62 hours and counting.

Pedantic Public Service

Mrpeenee would like to remind everyone, especially those who like to use big words they don't really understand, that the phrase "begs the question" does not mean to raise the question. Quite the opposite, it means to make the question unnecessary.

On a similar note, please bear in mind the whole is not comprised of its parts. What these slipshod speakers are trying to say is the whole is composed of its parts or else the whole comprises its parts. So knock it off, spitwads. You know how irritable I get.

Any similar grammatical errors Mrpeene makes are merely conscious deviations, colorful, humorous elements in our writing style. Suck it.

Thanks to our grammar coach, Santiago, above, pictured in the Mrpeenee International Center for Understanding and Research of the Native Tongue.

http://www.allamericanguys.com/

How Hard Could It Be to Cut off Your Own Foot, Anyway?

Why do minor medical problems during the day wait to turn into monster crises in the middle of the night? For that matter, why do they always schedule themselves for Friday after work, when your doctor is gone, to rear their ugly heads? It's 3:00 AM, my foot hurts, has done so with increasing shrillness all weekend and I have lots to do tomorrow. On the bright side... wait, there is no bright side. Oh, I know. The bright side is that tomorrow I can blame this post on the Valium I took and which seems to be having the same potent effect of a blue M&M. I'll stop now before this turns into one of those Andy Rooney-esque cries for euthanasia. I'll go find a humpy boy picture to post instead.

Everybody like humpy boy pictures.