Rockin in the New Year

Our dear Muscato queries “are you ready for the New Year?” to which everyone seems to answer “Hell yeah.” Including me, but I also have to remember that 2008, around chez peenee anyway, was much better than ‘07 (no medical emergencies and a new B-52 album. Yay) so I’m more willing to give the old ‘08 a hearty handshake farewell rather than a kick in the ass out the door.

And also, around this time of year, I always grow suspicious that They have actually skipped some recent years. 1995 for instance. I sort of recall 1994 and 1996 but nothing in between. Can you prove we really had a 1995? I think not. 1977 too.

samtsirhc

Life, you know, is a time a machine, but the thing is, it only goes in one direction. Certainly, if it were possible to go backwards, I'd go back to this morning when I was unloading the dishwasher and not cut my goddam knuckle, which has resulted in my typing being even more erratic than usual.Anyway, time is very much on my mind this morning since I have plenty of it, here in the world's quietest office and while I've been reading everyone's blogs from the past few days while I was out of town and away from the internets. It's so interesting catching up, but since I read the blogs from the top down, things go backwards, sort of like Amy Winehouse's rehab efforts. Since I have now reached December 25 in my perusals, let me wish you all the warmest of season greetings and as a Christmas present, please accept these random Australian underwear models. Bon Noel!

Christmas Down South

On Christmas day, we drove down to Los Angeles, cause there's nothing else to do and a seven hour road trip sounded like just the thing.  The trip down was easy, no one was on the road.   Also, our friend John had given us a GPS navigator which turned out to be most amusing since it seemed to be mildly retarded and constantly announced that it was "recalculating" just when I needed to know what direction to turn.

We went up to the Observatory in Griffith Park.  I'd never been there before but had always heard what beautiful deco design it was.  Quite true.

It was also was freezing and blustery.  Not what you think of in southern California.

We also hung out in the groovy Los Feliz neighborhood and had lunch at a lovely French bistro.

And then relocated to Riverside to spend the night at the uber-charming Mission Inn.  When were there a year ago, it was quietly deserted. the perfect little nook with the most amazing quirks making up its architecture.  This time it was crammed full of Orange County rednecks come to  gawk at the lights.  The decorations answered the question "What if Santa had a full colonic and exploded his bowels in a burst of Xmas lights?"

Like this.

Not quite the charming experience we were hoping for.

Then we, along with what appeared to be most of the Bay Area population drove back this evening.  I'm tired, but I'm glad we went, it was most amusing.

We All Need It

Miss Janey posted a comment admiring the fish on a bike below and then finished off the reference by asking “Now I suppose Mr. P will try to convince us that, yes, a woman needs a man….” To which I can only reply with a worth-a-thousand- words photo I swiped from Shirley over at The Lisp.

Proof that I Spend Too Much Time in Blogland

Jason, from over at Night is Half Gone, comments in another blog that he would love to see a fish on a bicycle. He thought it would be “adorable.” I’m always happy to oblige in the adorable department.

6 Pack Tag

I always make a lot of grumbling noise about being tagged by my fellow bloggites, but I’m really just making that up because that’s what everybody does when they’re tagged.   In reality, being faced with another chance to expound on myself is irresistible because what could be more interesting than me?  So let me just say a big thanks to   Miss Janey for her latest tag.  Here’s the rundown:

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them. 
5. Let each person know they've been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

So is this one of them satanic, mark o’ the beast thingies?  If so, I say right on, cause I am sick of all this crappy christmas stuff.

I hereby tag Café Muscato, Are You There Blog, TJB, Mean Dirty Pirate, Michael guy, aka Troublespot and tigeryogiji.  I can't link on our IMac, just look over at the list on the side.

 

Random things:

Like some bad David Sedaris ripoff, I made some spending money in Santa’s Village, not turning tricks as some stupid elf, but as Santa himself.  Not once, but twice, in 1974 and 1975.  At the time I was 6’3” and weighed about 170.  I was built more along the lines of a candy cane than Father Christmas, but I shoved two pillows under the costume and lived to tell the story.
 
I played tuba for seven years and never learned how to read music.  The whole thing was like some code I just couldn’t break. I would just listen to the rest of the bass section until I figured out what the line was supposed to sound like and then play be ear.
 
As a room service waiter in New Orleans, I delivered a bottle of champagne to Ron Ely.  I was so horny for him as a young girlyboy. The opportunity to see him in person (I was hoping for the loincloth) thrilled me, but he wasn’t in the room, so not only did I not get to see him, I got stiffed on the tip.  Bastard.
 
I really can name all seven dwarves AND all seven deadly sins.  While I have never had the pleasure of meeting the dwarves, I am very well acquainted with each and every sin.
 
I hate Ingmar Bergman movies.  I find them as emotionally involving as opening the freezer door and staring inside for ninety minutes.
 
My brother had to explain to me that words to the Tubes’ song were “White punks on dope,” and not “White pumps are gauche,” as I had thought.  I believe my confusion says more about me than the Tubes vocal talents.

I Hate Irony

Of course, I should have known putting up a smug little post about how much I loathe snow and how glad I am to have escaped its clutches was simply setting myself up for a fall, a snowy, icy, skidding fall.

Our yuletide plans are to drive down to Los Angeles for a couple of days, leaving on Christmas day because there's nothing to do then anyway, so spending seven hours on the road is just a way to fill in the gap. Now comes word that the Grapevine, the part of Ineterstate 5 that crosses over the mountains outside of LA, closed yesterday because of snow and ice. It's open again, but I can recognize a cosmic smackdown in the wings. Oh dear. I would hate to spend Christmas night in that weird little gas station in Buttonwillow.

Showtime

I had a class from a local college coming in to our office this evening for a presentation by an organization we fund. The Dog et Pony show was scheduled to start at 6:00, coincidentally, the same time I was supposed to head home. I had a bad feeling when the speaker was late and then really late, so I waited around and sure enough, no show. I asked the teacher, who was getting increasingly freaked out, what the speaker was supposed to cover. She said it was going to be "How to Start a Business" something I could speak on in a coma. In fact, I might have done just that. For a cowardly moment, I considered slinking off into the night, I had already stayed late here last night and it's cold and rainy and I just wanted to go home, dammit. Instead, I said I'd be glad to cover for him, the lousy little no-nuts chicken rimmer. Hit it, boys!

An hour's presentation, with no notes, no preparation, no idea what the fuck I was saying. Am I a pro, or what? I am also a grubby pro who didn't shave this morning and wore an old sweatshirt. I look more like I should be asking for spare change than giving advice on entrepreneurship. This should teach me, but I'm sure it won't.

Freakgirl Kiva Team

Despite his tough-as-nails exterior, mrpeenee is actually quite sweet. He is fascinated with Kiva. Here's their blurb:

www.kiva.org
You can go to Kiva's website and lend to someone in the developing world who needs a loan for their business - like raising goats, selling vegetables at market or making bricks. Each loan has a picture of the entrepreneur, a description of their business and how they plan to use the loan so you know exactly how your money is being spent - and you get updates letting you know how the entrepreneur is going.

The best part is, when the entrepreneur pays back their loan you get your money back - and Kiva's loans are managed by microfinance institutions on the ground who have a lot of experience doing this, so you can trust that your money is being handled responsibly.


Part of the thrill, aside from the whole goat thing, is that I've joined the Freakgirl.com Kiva lending team:

www.kiva.org/community/viewTeam?team_id=2661

Go Team Freakgirl! You should join too, cause Freakgirl likes cupcakes.

My latest loan was to Miriama TalavaluMy job as part of a federal agency that helps entrepreneurs has exposed me to many small business people, but never one who had her photo shot whilst chilling on the floor. I was immediately charmed and am now Miriama's biggest fan. Join now and pony up, it's cheaper than a night out with stripper boys and probably better for you.

Winter Wonderland

It's christmas, more or less. Maybe you've noticed? A regular tip-off are the cloying illustrations on everything up to and including toilet paper ads of snowy landscapes. You know the drill, don't pretend you don't. Drifts of it, snowflakes, Victorian ice skaters, reindeer; an entire iconography of images that mean nothing to boy a like me, sensitive and attractive, but completely unexposed to the phenomenon of snow due to my Gulf Coast childhood and subsequent life in California. And let me be clear about this, I am not unhappy about missing out on it. Whenever I have been forced to deal with snow, on visits to Colorado or Tahoe, it has always confirmed my suspicion that it's vastly over-rated, like rain that won't take a hint and leave.

Still, the holy season of jeebus's birth and Macy's last chance at making their quarterly numbers rolls around and suddenly the white stuff is everywhere. These ads and commercials are baffling to those of us lucky enough to live on the West Coast or along the magic of Interstate 10, snow-free, all of it. We see those pictures ("Look! Polar bears drinking coke! Oh boy!") and think "what the fuck is going on here? Where are the palm trees?" Is it just me who thinks a whole ad industry is devoted to making us feel deprived by being left out of something we don't even want?

People here will occasionally say how very much they miss snow. One assumes they were dropped on their heads at some point, possibly in the snow, but I'm too polite to ask.

And now word comes from Night is Half Gone of snow in New Orleans. New Orleans! I have been so betrayed.

Nothing Like a Dame

We hit the bright lights of theatrical San Francisco last night with our friends John and Dan by going to the see Dame Edna Live and Intimate In Her First Last Tour. We'd seen the old girl's last two shows when she blew through town; both were plenty, plenty funny, but the second one had seemed like enough of a retread (the word "stale" hung in the air) that we hadn't planned to go to this one, but John popped up with tickets and suddenly we were off for a night of audience bashing and the astonishingly klutzy hoofing she specializes in.

It's true there's an air of familiarity to these shows (perhaps "fond memories" would be a more accurate, or charitable, description,) but I also laughed until my face hurt, so I'm not complaining.

A huge part of the show are the gladiolas she tosses into the crowd throughout the show, and especially at the end. We were about eight rows back, safe from the interaction with audience that's such an amusing part of the act, so I never expected to snag a gladdie, much less have it literally fall into my lap, but it did. The queen in front of me started to turn around as if she was going to snatch it up, but I hissed at her and she settled right down.

Possums.

Reindeer Games

Stephen, over at Are You There Blog, It’s Me Stephen took this online quiz and, natch, came out as Dancer, a good time girl, all sweetness and whatever. I, on the other hand, am on my way to detention. What about you?

You Are Dasher

You're an independent minded reindeer who never plays by the rules. Why You're Naughty: That little coup you tried to stage against Santa last year Why You're Nice: You secretly give naughty children presents.

Which of Santa's Reindeer Are You?

Krispy Krud

In the fine American tradition, our office is now awash in sugary junk food to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Saviour, Whatshisname. I tucked into 2 (two) Krispy Kremes that were not merely glazed or chocolate iced, but rather the breathtaking combo of glazed WITH chocolate icing. Only the finest for mrpeenee. Now ten minutes later I feel slightly stunned. What the hell do they put in those things? Uranium? And why doesn't my office have a nap room? Slave drivers.

Naughty, Not Nice

So Jason (or Jeisean as he sometimes known in the low-life cafes he frequents) from Night is Half Gone wins this season's Reindeer Game prize for having run across the first stripper-in-a-santy-hat, or at least the first one to admit it.

In looking for something to illustrate this time honored tradition, I ran across this
tarting up the place in a queer bar called New York, New York in Manchester, England. It scares me. I thought at first it was the color or the shininess, but now I realize it's the tout ensemble that willifies me. I look at the vaguely Victorian mantle mirror, the various equipment dangling about (are they games? Security apparatus? Who knows?) and the lovely peach colored walls and think "I'm glad I don't go to bars anymore."

Unsilent Night

My favorite part of Crixmus (aside from a big ass pile of presents and strippers wearing Santa Claus hats) is coming up. Unsilent Night 2008! Yay!

From their website:
Every year since 1992 I've presented UNSILENT NIGHT, an outdoor ambient music piece for an infinite number of boomboxes. It's like a Christmas caroling party except that we don't sing, but rather carry the music, each of us playing a separate track that is a "voice" in the piece. In effect, we become a city-block-long sound system!

Join us and bring a boombox, or anything that will blast a cassette, CD or Mp3. (Cassettes sound the coolest, but we realize cassette players are getting scarce now.) The more tracks we play, the bigger and more amazing the sound is. In recent years, UNSILENT NIGHTs in New York and San Francisco have attracted crowds of over a thousand people, with hundreds of boomboxes… it's spectacular. If you'd like to participate, please e-mail the contact listed for your city for instructions. If you'd like to participate but don't have a boombox or a music player with speakers, you can just show up and join the parade. Everyone is an important part of the procession. Help us make a BIG (and joyful) noise. This is always a free event and all ages are welcome.

UNSILENT NIGHT has spread around the world. In addition to New York, UNSILENT NIGHT is presented in cities such as Los Angeles; San Francisco; San Diego; Santa Barbara; Philadelphia; Atlanta; Cleveland; Tallahassee; Tucson; Houston; New Haven; Boulder; Baltimore; Charleston; Asheville, NC; Manassas, VA; Milledgeville, GA; Bowling Green, OH; Banff, Alberta; Vancouver, BC; White Horse, Yukon Territory; Hamburg and Berlin, Germany; Middlesbrough, England; Melbourne and Sydney, Australia.

We went a couple of years ago and I loved it. At a signal, everyone in the group starts their music device, but because all those people can't hit Go right on time, the music is coming out in hundreds of different moments. The music is all chimes and bells and chants,so the divergence is not cacophonous, but beautiful. Plus it echos off the buildings as the mob ambles along, startling passersby and neighbors. I love it.

If there's one in your town, go, definitely go. http://unsilentnight.com/

And if you see a stripper in a Santa hat, give him a twenty. I'm sure he deserves it.

San Francisco Revelations

Out running errands, we stumbled on this garage door/art. I like it.

This evening we were killing time in the Castro and dropped into a small candy store we like. There, leering up at me through the glass of the case like a second rate rentboy, was a tray of CHOCOLATE COVERED TWINKIES. I was already stunned by the lurid display and then the owner (who wears her hair in incredibly inappropriate pigtails) announced that she had never had a Twinkie until they started making these because she had grown up in Canada. Is that possible? Aren't some forms of junk food just universal? I felt I had to buy one, like buying a ticket to a horror movie you know is going to repulse you, just to uphold the American Way of Crap.

In this funny old world where nothing is quite as it seems, it's such a pleasure to run across something that turns out to be every bit as disgusting as you thought it might be. Like a cross between a white-trash eclair and some exotic fecal matter, Chocolate Covered Twinkies managed to overwhelm even me, and I can choke down almost anything sweet. I present photographic proof with one bite taken out of it, moments before the whole thing was sent to a watery grave down the sewer. I had to hold my breath, fearing it might take out our brand new garbage disposal, but no, all praise Saint Dolly Madison.

Better Late

December 1, World AIDS Day, bloggers were requested to write about AIDS. And I was going to, a jaunty little piece about living with HIV in these hip now modern times, but I got sick that evening after I got home from work; I believe the AIDS meds I'm taking turned on me, the little bastards. It's things like that which make me so hate cheap irony.

I know I’m lucky, my T-cells are high, my viral load is undetectable, I have no symptoms, I can recite the names of all seven dwarves by memory (can you? I didn’t think so.) and I only have to take one pill a day, as opposed to some of my friends who choke down a couple of handsful every day. So on the very rare occasions when I can’t stray too far from my dear pal the toilet because of medicine reactions, I remember the friends who died and I concentrate on being lucky.

Thumbs Up

Hold your right hand up in front of you, bent at the wrist, as if you were some drunk sorority girl attempting to dance to the Bangle’s great hit “Walk Like an Egyptian.” Elbow crooked, palm parallel with the floor, fingers pointed away from you. Got it? Now with your left hand, try to pull your right thumb back to touch the inside of your right wrist. Can you do it? No? Hah! Foolish mortal. Of course not, because you, unlike mrpeenee, lack the magic of double jointed thumbs. Don’t feel bad (well, ok, maybe you can feel a little bad) just think of me as a wee bit more evolved than the likes of you.

Of course, because of my inherent goodness, I will not use this great power for world domination; and besides, I have something to do this afternoon. But don’t push me, bitch.

Sometimes when R Man is being bad, I punish him by demonstrating this esoteric skill. “Ooh, ick, eek,” he squeals like a little girl “Stop that, that’s gross.” I laugh manically, and then we go back to arguing about decorating, or the cat, or mrpeene’s predilection for wearing knit caps in public because, you know, domestic bliss and all that.

Movieola

Netflix has no bigger fan than me, but sometimes I think they're just fucking with me. I know I stick things in our queue and then forget all about them until they show up in the mail (Surprise!) but sometimes we wind up with things I'm sure I never ordered, dogs they're trying to move and just ship off to me. Today, The Magical Legend of the Leprechauns dropped by. The description:
A magical adventure unfolds when American Jack Woods (Randy Quaid) rents a quaint cottage in Ireland and finds, to his dismay, that the house is inhabited by a family of leprechauns. When one of the little guys (Colm Meaney) and his son crash the fairies' ball, a feud between the leprechauns and the fairies is rekindled. The Grand Banshee (Whoopi Goldberg) warns of terrible consequences, and Jack is chosen to make peace. What the fuck? The phrase "quaint cottage" would be alarm enough to warn me off. Even if the storyline didn't sound terminally twee, I regard Randy Quaid with the same fondness as a medium sized headache, so unless I was a good deal more insane than usual, I cannot imagine what could have moved me to add this little gem to our queue.

I actually tried to watch it, thinking "Oh, what the hell? How bad can it be?" I didn't make it 7 minutes past the credits, the first hearty brogue did me in. Faith.

The whole thing reminded me of the time I talked Diane von Austinberg into going to Robert Stigwood's Times Square despite a friend of ours who was a film critic pleading in print with people not to see it. I swore I knew it was fabulous, which I stuck with right up to the point the film opened and I realized I had been thinking of another movie entirely. Oops. It was the 80s, I was loaded.

Still, leprechauns and Randy Quaid? I have never taken enough drugs in my life to pull that off.

T-Day Minus One and Counting

Three years ago, we hosted twelve people for Thanksgiving dinner. Much beloved, one and all, but dear god, what a butt load of work. We had to have an overflow table; in order to not make sure no one felt second best seated there, I made up place cards consisting of photos of famous (or infamous) women (or sort-of women,) had people draw names, and then match their draws with the pictures. It was a supremely Martha Stewart moment, even if I did have to explain who some of the gals were. My favorite was Zsa Zsa Gabor's mug shot from when she slapped that cop, but I was plenty happy with drawing Divine.

Thank the goddess for Diane von Austinberg who was such a tremendous help in cooking, but I still turned into the Kitchen Nazi once again, barking orders and withering comments on my guests' attempts at prep work. "GO. Drink on the goddam patio and get out of my fucking kitchen," tends to be my byword in these situations. I had spread sheets breaking down the whole thing into 15 minute increments for three days. R Man and those other unfortunates who get in my way think that because I am a flipped out, shrieking queen, I am not enjoying myself. Nothing could be further from the truth. I revel in the challenge and I triumph, bitches. Triumph. As I tuck into my version of my granny's cornbread dressing, I think "Yes, I did it. I am invincible."

Drugs help.

This year, swinging to the complete polar opposite, we will be joining two of our friends at the Hotel W for a massive lunch and then we will come home for a nap. I plan on reveling in that, too.

GetaGuy

I was emailed by a Lady interested in presenting a class here on How to Get a Guy. In my role as training organizer, I've had several odd pitches, but none so wildly inappropriate to a program devoted to developing business skills. Unless perhaps your business was marrying well, and then I can't imagine the simpering pointers she included in her email would actually help that much. One of them was the single word "Glow." Glow. Got it.

I think I'll put together a similar class, but one that will actually deliver the goods. My basic point will be "Develop a reputation as Easy. Guys dig chicks who put out." Registration will be available online shortly.

More Tag, but a Nice One

You would think that since Miss Janey and mrpeenee share a vaguely white trash background she would have my back and not serve me up by tagging me when I’m sitting here at my desk, minding my own business, staring off vacantly into space. You would be wrong.

The Jane has crafted a totally sweet and open-to-everybody tag/meme thang asking everybody to list all the things we’re grateful for. You know, Thanksgiving and all that. Go here http://missjaneys.blogspot.com/ to see both the details and a photo of Miss Janey’s terribly cute husband drumming with no pants on.

http://missjaneys.blogspot.com/

Did you go there to see the naked percussion? I thought so.

Here’s what I’m grateful for:


Of course, R Man. He’s sweet, brilliant, handsome and my best friend. I have no idea why he loves me, but he does and that is a foundation to build my whole world on. A weekend without him reminds me, potently, that he is the center of the universe. We have gone through (in alphabetical order) AIDS, cancer, earthquakes, hurricanes, home-ownership, open-heart surgery, pancreatitis, pneumonia and maybe some other stuff, too. I lose track after a while. I would be lost with out him.

Our sweet, sweet cat Maggie. She was very sweet. 19 years of adorableness and she always made it clear that she loved us. She would greet us at the door each night when we came home and I would pick her up just to carry her around while she purred. I still miss her.

Our new sweet, sweet vicious cat Saki. He’s vicious, but sweet. Sort of. The first thing the vet said when he saw him was “Oh, he’s fearless.” Foolishly, I thought it was a compliment. We adore him. The cat, not the vet. Although he’s cute too. I’m grateful for that, also.

I know it’s materialistic, but I’m grateful for our house. I will not refer it to our “home.” Ick. When we first saw it, bland ugliness was its major characteristic, but we knew we could make it fagtastically beautiful, and we have. It needed us. Like an ongoing art project, it’s always involving.

I am so very grateful we got to live in fabulous, ridiculous New Orleans when we did, and that we got out when we did. The 80’s in the French Quarter were a terribly amusing time, lotsa laughs, and just what I had always wanted as a little sissy boy growing up in the swamps outside Houston. But if we hadn’t left, (Twenty years ago! How can it be?) I would be stuck in some miserable, low-end, disposable job, probably as a 53 year-old hotel front desk clerk and even more bitter than I already am. Unless I was dead, which seems entirely probable, considering NOLA.

I'm so very grateful for San Francisco. I continue to be amazed that I could have wound up here. I love it.

I’m grateful for my job. I’m the public information/media guy for an agency that helps people. What could be more gratifying?

I am grateful the slightly insane man I work with who talks to himself, loudly, in a fake British accent, has been moved to a cubicle out of earshot from me.

I'm grateful for porn. I'm not being flippant. I love smut, find it vastly entertaining and am so glad I live in a time with it so readily available. David Duchovny can go into rehab for it if he wants to, but what a wimp. Rehab is for quitters.I swiped this from TJB

I’m grateful that I started this blog and got to connect with you guys. It’s much more fun than I ever expected and pretty hilarious to think I have friends with icons instead of faces. As I’m writing this, I’ve had 36,886 hits, which is about 36,886 hits more than I expected.

I’m grateful Miss Janey thought of this tag. And that she put up a picture of Mr. Janey airing his bits behind his drum kit. We don’t know what he thinks about all this, but if he’s with Miss Janey, he must be OK, right?

Cheers

Yay, R Man is back, yay. Even the cat is glad, although suspicious.

While R was out of town, I went on a spree of thrift stores. Although he appreciates the booty I snag on these expeditions, he does not share my enthusiasm for prowling through piles of Other People's Crap. For that, I have to turn to our beloved Diane von Austinberg. As I've mentioned before, she is a master of separating trash from treasure; she can run a whole rack of Forever 21 discards and find the only Prada cashmere in junk store captivity. In her size, bastard.

Naturally, without her guiding wisdom, I scored almost nothing, despite hitting every single store in town, except the Junior League. Those bitches. I did find some lovely medium size glasses, just right for R Man's milk at dinner. They turned out to be very high quality glass, once all the thrift store grime had been washed off, and they're engraved PBC. I'm guessing Penelope Bennington Carruthers. They seem to have never been used, one supposes Mme. Carruthers preferred to knock back the vodka in a teacup so the help wouldn't know. As if. At least until the unfortunate Incident when she caught Mr. Carruthers with the pool boy, and after that she just guzzled it straight from the bottle. So the glasses? Untouched.

Yay.

A World without Fabulon? Rats.

I’m so very, very sorry to hear about the looming demise of the blog Fabulon. Its creator, Thombeau, has always delivered the most astonishingly clever and charming collection of images, each one striking, or witty, or beautiful. But it was mixture of all the divergent styles that created something brilliant that was greater than the sum of their parts.

And what great parts. Thombeau’s tastes (or lack thereof) synched with mine, and all the rest of his fan base. He would come up with some mid-century interior in tones of pink, aqua, and rust and announce “I could live here’ and I would think “Not if I get there first, bitch.”

I think we all understand that so many posts every day that are that good is asking a tremendous lot from someone, but especially for free. I love it and appreciate all the hard work. Thanks sweetie. And now for a word from our sponsors. Shoes.

Tagged

Great moments in cinematic history.
Sinkylulu has tagged me, even tough I have never done anything to him, I swear. Although I think I might now. Here’s the schtick:

: Blog Cabin's Alphabetical Movie Meme. The rules of the meme go something like this:
1. Pick one film to represent each letter of the alphabet.

2. The letter "A" and the word "The" do not count as the beginning of a film's title, unless the film is simply titled A or The, and I don't know of any films with those titles.

3. [As regards franchises and sequels,] movies are stuck with the titles their owners gave them at the time of their theatrical release. Use your better judgment to apply the above rule to any series/films not mentioned.

4. Films that start with a number are filed under the first letter of their number's word. 12 Monkeys would be filed under "T."

5. Link back to Blog Cabins in your post so that I can eventually type "alphabet meme" into Google and come up #1, then make a post where I declare that I am the King of Google. (mrpeenee's note: I can't get Blogger to let me paste in links anymore, I don't know why. If you do, let me know. In the meantime, the charming Blog Cabin hides out at http://blogcabins.blogspot.com/)

6. If you're selected, you have to then select 5 more people.

Stinkylulu claimed his list revealed his trashy taste in films, but mine makes him look like Pauline Kael. Anyway, I tag Muscato, Jason, Thombeau (who usually doesn’t do these, but this seems right up his alley,) Larry, and Miss Janey. They're not doing anything anyway.

Herewith, mrpeenee’s alphabetical listing of cinematic greatness:
• All About Eve
• Bondo Gods Vol. 3
• Casino Royale (mmmmm. Daniel Craig)
• Dil Chahta Hai
• Ed Wood (Johnny Depp! In angora!)
• Female Trouble (barely edging out Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill!)
• Grey Gardens (staunch, darling, staunch.) It kills me to leave out Gosford Park
• Hope and Glory
• I’m the One that I Want (does this count as a movie? Who cares, it’s Margaret Cho)
• Jezebel
• Kiss Me Kate
• Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events
• Mystery Science Theatre
• Nosferatu
• I can’t think of anything
• Pink Flamingos
• The Queen
• Rocky Horror Picture Show (I know, I know. I can’t help it. I don’t care. Shut up.)
• Sunset Boulevard
• This is Spinal Tap
• There have never been any movies made that start with the letter u. It’s a little known fact.
• Volver
• Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (tied with The Women)
• Young Frankenstein
• Zardoz (Sean Connery! In something that looks like a diaper!)

Fast Times at etc..., Part Two

Since R man left for the bright lights of Annapolis yesterday, I am leading La Vida Bachlorette, let me tell ya. In the 24 hours he's been gone, I have:

Played solitaire. The only real reason for owning one of these computer machines is access to solitaire.

Watched porn. All right, all right, two reasons to own a computer. And let me strongly recommend the thespian efforts of Max Orloff in Under the Big Top. Yowzah.


Took the day off from work, slept late and briefly considered shaving. Nix.

Reorganized the tupperware cabinet because last time I was looking for the good tofu holder tupperware, I couldn't find it. Don't you hate when that happens? Please also note this is where I started taking That Queen Michael Guy's advice to heart.

Which also led to pulling out the refrigerator and cleaning under it. I am not making this up, sadly. A kitchen accident with a pot of navy bean soup wound up with a big glob o' beans down between the cabinet and the refrigerator. Recently, R Man remarked they looked rather like someone had puked there and let it dry. Not anymore, motherfucker.

Which led to my finally ditching the old scrubbing sponge I've been using for, uhm, let's just say too long. I have a huge pack of them thanks to Costco and yet I cling to each one as if it were a controlled substance.

And now, I'm off for muffins at Mission Beach (weekdays are the only time you can get in there anymore) and a round of thrift store hunting. It will not be nearly the thrill it would be with our dear Diane von Austinberg lending her talents, but I plan on soldiering on.

I know, it 's all just a mad, gay whirl, but I'll try to squeeze in bulletins as they develop

In responding to my post "Fast Times at mrpeenee High," Michael Guy chimes in with:

"Perhaps the hallway needs a good Murphy's Soap scrubbing between your bouts with the Bronte sisters."

Ignoring the snarkiness there (cause I am not about to encourage that queen,) I do have to confess that I love the smell of Murphy's Soap. Astringent, just bordering on sour, it is a aroma that suits my personality. Were I to actually wear cologne, I would probably use it as my signature scent. Just a tiny, tiny dab behind my ears and on my wrists. Imagine the reactions at the sex club.

And by the way, did you know you're not supposed to use Murphy's on wood floors sealed with polyurethane, like most floors are? Certainly those in Chez peenee are and yet we can't keep the cleaning lady from laying into them with Murphy's. At least they smell good.

Culicidae

In addition to co-workers known to be a menace to mental health, we now have mosquitoes in our cube farm. What the hell? I work on the sixth floor of a skyscraper in the middle of the financial district of San Francisco; the guys trying to deliver my new computer couldn't get in for a month, but blood sucking parasites can? What's with that? I have visions of skeeters cruising up in the elevator, stopping at our floor, "Thanks, I'll get off here."

When I first noticed a couple of them here, I thought I might be hallucinating, reverting to my Gulf Coast childhood. I was annoyed that if I was going to hallucinate I'd come up with mosquitoes instead of Rod Taylor.


But then I realized they really were mosquitoes, albeit tiny wimps unlike the great big honking predator ones from the swamps of my youth, so I squashed them. How gratifying.

Fast Time at mrpeenee High

The only draw back to having a sweet, sweet boyfriend (I know, I know. We got married, we struggle for equality and yet I cringe at the idea of referring to R Man as my husband. Doesn't work for me. Sorry) who lets me do anything I want and encourages a great many of my bad habits is that I'm not able to get away with anything behind his back when he's gone cause there's nothing to do that I don't do while he's here. I keep thinking along the lines of "the cat's away" and yet I am a mouse with no inclination to play. Or none that I can't do when he's here, so what's the big deal? Sex with other guys? As much as I can snag and with his blessing. Binge intoxicants? Ick. Not unless you count Alka Seltzer. Thrift stores? Oh, well, OK. My idea of a big time these days is staying up to midnight reading. Whoo hoo. I'm a wild man.

Besides the houseboys, like Interpretive Danse artiste Gabriel Percy here, get all pouty if I'm not home at feeding time right on the very dot. What can I do?

Nurse R Man

R Man's father is sick back on the East Coast, so R Man is flying back there on Thursday to offer succor and to help his older sister who is holding down the fort there now. R Man and I really don't like traveling without each other (despite my tendency towards vagueness, it turns out I'm much better at logistics. The rumor that I pin a note to his jacket when he leaves home alone, however, is just a big fat fib.) but this is one instance where I'm willing to offer long distance support. I adored R man's mother, but his father and I have a much more chilly relationship. Polite, but cool. I address him by his title, "Doctor," and he doesn't address me at all, if he can help it, which is ok by me. So, bon voyage to the R Man; if you're in the Baltimore airport this week and you bump into him, tell him I said "Hey."

High Times in SF

We had a lovely evening yesterday. Dinner with the oh-so-charming Anne at the oh-so-delish Mission Beach (I recommend the Pomegranate, Persimmon, Duck salad) and then off to the high culture of a concert by the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra.

We had tried subscribing to the SF Symphony last year, but, ho hum, it didn't take. I much prefer the oddball charm of PBO, their tiny, but pretty hall and of course, the music. I always thought the symphony here sounds too sweet, Symphony Hall has this weird muffled acoustics and they play way too much damn Mahler.

Plus, the audience at PBO is much more amusing to watch. It's mostly composed of stern, sensible spinster ladies and elderly homosexuals, creaking old Marys. It can be hard to tell them apart, but usually the men wear more jewelry. Big brooches pinning their shirt collars close and important, say-something rings on their index fingers. And semi-decorative walking sticks. Perhaps you know the look. I take comfort in knowing that, with my rhinestone cuff links, as I get grayer and more decrepit, I will just fit in more and more, shuffling in late and cranky during the Handel overture.

Dental Hygiene Hijinx

Oh dear. I have this gigantic piece of dental architecture taking up space in my mouth. More than a bridge, it's kind of a civil works project. To floss it, I have to thread the dental floss in this stupid flexible plastic needle, shove that between the bridge and my gum, pull it through and then saw away with the floss.
Of course, I should only do this in the privacy of a small, dark, LOCKED closet for privacy sake (or, at the very least, the men's room. Same thing) but when I have half a pound of goddam burrito stuck under there, I figure "What the hell, nobody's coming by my desk, I'll just knock this out real quick and no one will ever know." No one except for the prissy Lady from all the way across the office who chose that moment to pop in and ask me something about schedules. "Oh, I'm SO sorry. Let me get back to you when I don't have a couple of feet of dental floss dangling from my mouth."

Fabulous.

Trim a Tree

before

after

during. I want it clearly understood, I did not pay David extra to take his shirt off. Honest.

Sparkle Neely, Sparkle

mrpeenee actually does not come from a family of drag queens, although rhinestones do show up a lot as familial mementoes. Case in point: tonight when we go to dinner, I will be wearing on my cuffs the links that were part of my father's rhinestone stud set from when he was young and, apparently, the terror of South Texas.

The idea that my father, who displays the suave finish of Jed Clampett, even had a stud set is amazing. That they were composed of rhinestones is like stumbling across Sarah Palin's past as a pole dancer.

I've had them for years and never worn them (well, how often has the need for stud set come up in your life? There's no need to struggle for double entendre here, I provide them for you.) I had to scavenge a stone from one of the shirt front studs to replace one in the cufflinks lost in who knows what madcap evening of long ago. I've rinsed them in vinegar to shine them up (come to mrpeenee for household tips for drag queens) and am looking forward to being the hit of our dinner table.

Big Times

Oh, my little chickens, what excitement around our normally sleepy little corner. Yesterday was the anniversary of R Man dropping by his cardiologist and winding up being whisked into the hospital for open heart surgery. Let that be a lesson to you, duckies. It was also our 27th anniversary of meeting in a sleazy New Orleans bar. My, my, my. Who could have known pulling my pants down in the backroom of Jewel's would be such a brilliant first step.

And then today is R Man's birthday; happy, happy sweetie. His 60th, in fact. To start the celebrations of such a momentous one, we had lunch at the Zuni Cafe yesterday with his best friends - delicious, amusing and LONG on very hard seats. My butt is still sore, but it was a wonderful time.

I gave R several CDs of Renaissance music including a piece written for some long gone Pope which was only performed for his Holiness, alone, all by his bad self, on Easter by a choir of men and pussyboys. God only knows what went on after that, although I am perfectly wiling to speculate.

And a hat. He dug it. Dinner tonight at the always delightful Range with yet more friends (who knew we had so many?)

Tomorrow, of course, is our date with destiny when the beautiful and lovely David comes over to cut down the tree in our backyard. To finish the birthday celebration, we're having hot dogs for lunch. We have been very virtuous ever since the silly old cardiac incident by not eating fat or processed meats, which way leave out hot dogs, so this exception is a big deal. I also realize from sad experience with you guys and your lacivous comments whenever poor little Dave is mentioned, that combining him and wieners in one post is asking for it. Consider this a present to you all, you vulgar dogs you. Knock yourselves out. Happy birthday.

OK. OK. OK. No more whinging, no more glum woeful posts. I refuse to allow a bunch of mormon funded, oh-what-about-the-children shrieking harridans make me miserable. Wouldn't that just be handing them an even greater victory? The days are too beautiful to waste and will not last, R Man's birthday is Monday so we're making a four day weekend out of this to celebrate, we had tasty, tasty udon for dinner and besides, I'm not good at being downcast for long. It could be my sunny disposition, it could be my tiny little short attention span; whatever. I am hereby moving on.

Plus Ernesto Garimundus, the houseboy in charge of our Laundry and Wiccan Centre, says I am bumming him out and that I should stop.So what could I do?