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Dream House Toilet

I'm pretty sure I mentioned months ago our decision to renovate my bathroom and bedroom. Things got a little off track what with R Man's open heart surgery and my new found fascination with that video of the OK Go band where they do synchronized routines on treadmills, but now we're cooking baby. Mostly we had to wait for Jose, the world's greatest contractor, to work us into his schedule.

Jose did such a spectacular job on R Man's bathroom two years ago that we never considered anyone else for this one. Mine is much simpler than R Man's, where we tore out walls and moved plumbing. This time, I'm just ripping out (I love the verbs renovation allows you) the funky old cabinet and fake marble counter and the dull, dull, dull tiles around the tub. Also, I was determined to remove the cheesy vinyl sheet flooring which couldn't have expressed "Discount Closeout Crap" more clearly if the dusty rose and baby blue swirls had actually spelled those words out.

The first day was the always thrilling demolition. I am not one of those queens who wants to hang around and watch, plus it's too noisy. BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM. We let Jose and his guy in and went off to work. When we got home, tile, floor, cabinet and hideous counter were all in a tidy little pile in the garage. Since then things have whizzed right along. Tasteful new downlights, the most gorgeous white marble tile ever and now, new paint, a beautiful rosy pink. Not that insipid pale pink, not harsh bubble gum, not the creepy shade of Barbie's breast, oh no. This is like Jackie O's delicate bits.

The bathroom is actually two separate rooms, one big one with the sink (that's the pink room) and a smaller one with the tub and toilet, which I've painted a buttery cream to go with the bee-you-tiful jade, aqua, sapphire glass tiles around the tub.

Everyone always has plenty of horror stories about reno nightmares, but so far, we haven't had anything like that. Jose is calm and sweet and very patient and never makes a big deal about how little we know about construction. Plus every day when we come home, we get to see the progress. It's like being in our very own decorating show. We should be finished by this time next week, maybe even as soon as this weekend. Hoo hoo. I'm looking forward to it. R man is everything you could want from a boyfriend when it comes to sharing his bathroom, but I'm accustomed to my own space. And also, going downstairs to pee in the middle of the night, when I don't want to wake R Man up, is a drag. Give me back my toilet, that's what I say.

Lotto Madness

Whee, yippee, hoo hoo. I just won $10 on my lottery ticket from Wednesday night. Yay. I was so thrilled I considered sharing news of my good fortune with the lady in the elevator just now, but I worry enough about crazies in San Francisco without adding to their number. Cold rainy weather? Who cares? I got me ten bucks. Hoo hoo indeed.

Me, My Hat and I

Look, I understand to my friends in Chicago and Michigan and other unfortunate places like that, my claims that it's cold here might be met with a certain lack of enthusiasm. After all, they have to deal with blizzards and black ice and those snow angel things and glaciers and other frigid thingies. All right, all right, but a week of 40 degree weather and rain and I'M COLD, okay?

Which is why I've been considering wearing my liquor store hat. I know no one else calls them that, usually they're referred to as knit caps or watch caps. To me, they always represent the disguise thugs put on when they're preparing to knock over a liquor store. And it's better if you pronounce "liquor" the way we did in the south, "likkah." As in "I don't care what I look like, I'm gonna put on my Likkah Stoh hat."

R Man is much too sweet to actually forbid me doing anything, no matter how ridiculous, but he has made it clear that were he ever to put his foot down against something, liquor store hats would be way up on the list. And I have to say, his feelings are understandable. I'm tall and skinny with a long, thin face. Add in the cap and I look sort of like a project that hasn't been finished yet. Still, when I'm standing in the rain waiting for a bus, a liquor store cap sounds pretty enticing. How bad, I think, could I actually look? Has there ever been a train of reasoning along those lines that doesn't lead to tears? No. Still....

Just a Skirt and a Combo

I know with my established passion for cheesy 80s dance music like Pet Shop Boys and their ilk, it may not be expected to hear that I'm equally wild for the torchy, bluesy female jazz singers of the 40s and the 50s. Sarah Vaughn, Carmen McRae, Ella Fitzgerald, Julie London - love'em. Billie Holiday, of course, because, you know, I'm gay, and my absolute favorite, Dinah Washington, They all have such strong clear voices, but Washington's has an added complexity I love.

Etta James is also a big fave. She frequently sang songs that would normally have been more appropriate for men, songs where she was apologizing for breaking her lover's heart and asking for a another chance to go fuck, and this time she won't stomp on their tender emotions, honest. Chumps. Her worse choices tended to be the standards that were the mainstays of all her contemporaries. Her cover of "Someone to Watch Over Me" is painful and when she sings "I'll Be Seeing You" it sounds less like a promise and more like a threat. "Yeah. I'll be seeing you, bitch, and I got a knife." She's so much better sticking with the ever dreamy "At Last."

Hee hee

It's a mark of how easily amused I am that two things made me laugh recently. At dinner last night our friend Anne revealed her dog is being treated for some medical condition with doggie Viagra. I laughed.

I laughed at the barbers this morning too when someone mentioned the word rehab (it's that kind of barbershop) and the other barber announced in a firm voice "Rehab is for quitters." Hee hee.

Operators Are Standing By

Here's another one of my secret shames I'm willing to blab all over the internet: although I got the gene that makes boys queer (in spades baby)I missed out on that portion of it which allows the gays to spot dick. Darn DNA. While my gay brethren are able to scope out scrotum in the dark, around corners, in a blizzard and when lead-shielded, I am completely oblivious. I just don't see it. No matter the size of the moose-knuckle, I always miss it. They might has well be wearing a burkha.

My friends have long since become accustomed to my insensibility to male anatomy no matter how beguilingly displayed. Let me recreate a dialogue, originally delivered in tones of pity and exasperation:

"Did you see that?"

"See what?"

"That guy's box. He had the crotch cut out of his jeans with his dick painted silver and big pink bow tied around it."

"No kidding? Really? I didn't see it."

I hate it when my friends roll their eyes like that.

But I've decided to take control of my life. First, I've admitted my handicap, soon I'll organize a support group. But you can do your part. I'm here to announce the creation of Mrpeenee's Alliance for the Basket Blind. Won't you help?

Houseboy Hypnotique

For a while I've been concerned that a rogue hypnotist has been getting to the houseboys and mesmerising them, putting them under, so to speak. Just this afternoon, I found Bernard Aloysius wandering down the bad part of Turk Street, sound asleep in his underpants. God knows what might have happened to the poor thing if I hadn't stumbled on him in the very nick of time. For that matter, there was a very suspicious grease spot all over his, well, never mind. My point is that the boys are easily enough confused without this type of "mind control." It's just not right, I tell you.

These Little Town Blues

The grimy little town I grew up has made the news. Amazingly, not in relation to being smacked by a hurricane, which is the only reason anyone has ever paid any attention to it before.

Baytown, Texas is a wart on the intestinal tract that is the Houston Ship Channel. It's location between that and a large oil field encouraged Humble Oil to build a gigantonormous oil refinery there. Humble Oil eventually morphed into a lil ole company you might have heard of: Exxon. The refinery is considerably larger than the scruffy burg that hugs it skirts. Scent is supposed to be the one sense that you're not able to call up in you memory, but I swear I can close my eyes and smell that goddam stinkpot.

When I was growing up, although Baytown boasted several very swanky establishments where you could buy guns and ammo, there were no book stores. My whole life, I equated "making it" with "getting the hell out."

So why is this particular Mouth O' Hell in the headlines? A serial male rapist there, and by that, I don't mean a rapist who is male, rather this is a rapist of males. The Houston newspaper emphasizes the rarity of this: "Male-on-male serial rapists are so rare that this case marks the first time the FBI has ever profiled a man alleged to have assaulted other men."

That's my hometown - cancer-causing pollutants and sex freaks. I thank the goddess every day that I escaped.

Eau d' Subway

As I stepped onto the jammed pack subway car this morning, I immediately noticed the suspicisouly open space left around the hunched over little gnome about a third of the way back down the car. Crazy? Or stinky? Or both? As the doors shut and his musky aroma rose up at least one of the answers became clear. I know from experience it is impossible to hold your breath for more than one stop and I was going three. Oh well. I love the big city.

Beefcake on Demand

In the previous post, our beloved joe*to*hell piteously whimpered that he would be happier if the boybutt was uncovered. I always try to be responsive to boybutt demands, and so I present said boybutt, Rafael Alencar, in all his glory:

La La La la La

Bad times and the misery they bring are usually traceable to a identifiable event like, oh I don't know, say, ones long-time companion having sudden open-heart surgery. For instance.

The source of a feeling of peace and contentment, on the other hand, is much harder to put your finger on. Maybe it's just the lack of crises. I was thinking about that just now over a big ol' plate of enchiladas for lunch since I am enjoying just about the sweetest little spell of good times you could ask for.

Nothing in particular, perhaps that's the key. I'm sure coming out of R Man's heart troubles (eight weeks ago yesterday) is a big part of it, but it seems to be just a peaceable kingdom for me now. Yay. It's hard to appreciate these quiet, easy times and it's easy when they're gone to think they're never coming back, but in fact these are the norm, at least for me, and it's important to keep that in focus.

Just to keep things balanced, I'll include a gratuitous piece of boybutt here because boybutt is crucial to ones sense of happiness, don't you think?

Brenda Dickson Remix

We're sending this out to darling Wesley Darling.

It's a huge vagine.

Houseboy Discipline

Sorry, I'll be right back, don't mind me. You know how it is, it's always something with houseboys. I told Marmaduke to stop jumping rope (those same singsong rhyme, over and over. It grates on my nerves) and cut the grass right now, but he just will not mind, so now I have to go deal with him. It's the time-out closet for you, young lady!

Rip My Bodice. Please.

Romance novel covers fascinate me. They’re this odd bastard creation of maudlin respectability (the Ladies are always well covered up) with gay porn man meat, decorated with that icky Playgirl hairdo. It’s this intersection of ladylike sensibility with great big man titties that thrills me.

It also apparently spoke to some genius named Longmire, who put together a page of pretty hilarious parodies. Here's my fave below, but you can go here to see the rest. They’re worth it.
http://www.worldoflongmire.com/features/romance_novels/

The Drone Report

Many years ago, when mrpeenee was young and charming, he arrived in this office and began his dazzling career doing whatever it is he does. At the time, there was a sizable gang of amusing people to share the workday with. My best friend was here, two of my three bosses (why did I have three bosses, I can barely ignore one at a time) were pretty darn hilarious, and a gaggle of gay boys meant there was always someone around for a quick chat.

Over the years, they've all slipped away and last week, the very last one, my boss Darlene, made her escape. She was a brassy and exasperting mess at times, but she also had a subversive sense of humor and we shared the idea that this whole work thing was overrated and taken far too seriously.

So now it's me and the Deadwood Forrest. In some ways, the quiet makes life easier, I'm forced to actually concentrate on the task at hand. But boy, coffee breaks are so much duller.

CSI Salad Bar

The Scene: A crowded salad bar downtown on a wet Thursday lunch hour

The Perp: A stodgy "person" of indeterminate sex

The Crime: Holding up the whole goddam line by inspecting each spinach leaf, every individual pea, every solitary carrot slice before making a choice. Forcing a respectable middle aged civil servant to refrain from screaming "It's a piece of broccoli, not a religious conviction. Move it." Aggravated aggravation.

The Verdict: Justifiable homicide.

Smoke this Gun

I love The Smoking Gun, the website devoted to collecting and displaying mug shots of various criminals, both famous and obscure. I have no idea why I find it so amusing, but I can spend quite a while scrolling through shots of murderers, rapists and conmen. My only cavil is that they tend to be extremely homely. Imagine my thrill then when I stumbled on this cutie. Those lips, those eyes, that stupid shirt. There was no reference to the charges he was busted on (Unlawful Adorableness? Who knows?) but I plan on standing by my man regardless.

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/

A Round of Tacos, Por Favor

Where do you go for lunch when it's grey, cold and blustery? If you're a simple little thing like me, you immediately start looking for Mexican food. Of course, I seek out taquerias when it's hot and sunny, too, and anything in between. I love Mexican food, it must be my Texas childhood rearing its ugly head once again. Other people may think of tomato soup and grilled cheese as comfort food, but give me enchiladas any day.

I lived in Seattle for a while in my youth and it was the lack of dishes served with salsa that eventually drove me away. A year without tacos was all I could take.

I should make clear that the San Francisco Mexican food scene is far from the paragon available in Houston, but I have become resigned to it, certainly it's better than what I had available to me in rainy Pacific Northwest, where I could have really used a chalupa or two. And I know there is plenty of misguided opinions against Tex-Mex cuisine. You know what I have to say to that? I say "Suck It Bitches." I'm going to go get another order of tortillas. Corn, not flour.

One Tin Soldier Rides Away. Bitch.

On a long ago post, Soldier Boy… , I mentioned I couldn’t figure out how to post the pictures of R Man’s little toy soldiers, including the very popular Princess Mattress Feather. I just got it (duh) so finally, not that anyone but me cares, mrpeene presents

Kiss My Brass

Woohoo. We went out to lunch with John and Dan (actually it was brunch, but we're all too middle aged to admit that) where they revealed John's christmas present from Dan was tickets to Bette Midler's show in Las Vegas in March. My squeals of jealousy made people out on the street assume they were slaughtering pigs to make fresh sausage. John, god love him, immediately jumped in and urged us to join them.

Have I ever mentioned R Man's taste in music stretches from the Renaissance to the Baroque, but not much farther? Handel is his idea of contemporary listening and while I share his fondness for early music, I also harbor a passion for, say, Ms Midler's "One Monkey Don't Stop No Show."

I pretended to not notice R Man's lack of enthusiasm and climbed up on John's Nevada bound bandwagon. Not that I'm really wild about visiting Las Vegas, but if that's where Bette is (in the big ass show room originally built for Celine Dion. Howzabout that?) then count me in.

Here's a bulletin: tickets to this shindig are not cheap. I just spent more for a pair of them than I did on the first car I bought, ever so many years ago. Still, I'm already looking forward to this. And since I announced to R Man these are my birthday present, I might as well be.

Woohoo. Viva.

Guy Maddin - Sissy Boy Slap Party Director's Cut

Remember - NO SLAPPING.

Why? Cause you scream like a little girl, that's why.

With immense thanks to Hello My Name is Danny.

New Order - True Faith

I know it's clear how stuck I am on music from that sorry era when Ronald McDonald was president, but I love 'em. Especially this one with its amazing video.

Separated at Birth

Houseboy Drama

All right. Which one of you bitches told Hieronymous it's "Tsunami Season"? Hahaha, very funny. I've spent all morning trying to talk sense into him and he still won't come down out of that goddam tree. And don't tell me to call the fire department. The last time I tried that I liked to have never gotten them out of the houseboys' dormitory, the whole hook and ladder truck.

So you can laugh now, but when I found out who's responsible, you are off the Christmas card list. You hear me? Off The List.

"Klaatu barada nikto."

The Day the Earth Stood Still is one of my favorite moves. Ever. I vividly remember seeing it with my older brother when I was about six years old and being entranced. Aside from being a classic piece of science fiction and masterfully paced story telling, it is just beautiful. Black and white, but with silvery tones and velvet blacks; lots of the best scenes are shot at night with shadows deep as a trench, it's like the best film noir with the added thrill of a flying saucer. Plus the glam Patricia Neal carried off by a giant space robot.

So I now I find out Hollywood is planning a remake. Of course. Take something iconic and perfect and try to recreate, or "better" it. When I heard Keanu Reeves was cast in it, I assumed he'd be the robot, since that's what his so-called acting has always reminded me of. Silly me. He is, of course, this generation's Michael Rennie. Yet another sign that we are living in the end times.

Rainy Saturday

If I were trying to achieve something today, I would be some pissed since rain continues to fall by the drenching bucket, but I am, in fact, blessedly purposeless today and glad of it. We have a fire in the fireplace, rain pattering on the skylights, I have on my new scuffies, the garden has overnight turned green but not yet a shaggy mess, it is a perfect day.

I will return shortly to being a grouchy bitch, but for right now I plan on reveling in the cozy charm of the here and now.

Houseboy Culture

Oh dear. One of my favorite houseboys, Rudolfo Innocento, has invited us especially to his spoken word performance at the Lesbian Vegan Anarchists Social Centre and Bait Shop on Sunday afternoon. Such a dear boy and I hate to disappoint him, but I just don't know if his idea of combining the works of Depeche Mode and Patsy Cline is something he can, you know, pull off. He had a hard enough time with the Marilyn Manson/Pet Shop Boys piece. Plus they always serve those awful mung bean brownies for tea, but what can one do?

I Like Neither Pina Coladas nor Getting Caught in the Rain

It's not often I regard my little cube prison / office as cozy, but days like this help. The weather seems to have decided to squeeze our five monthlong rainy season into one day today. I can stand at the window (during those few moments when I'm not working, working, working) and stare down at the poor schlubs struggling down Market Street against the sheets of rain and feel grateful for being here in my dry perch, especially since just moments ago I was one with them, wet and bedraggled. Of special charm is the fact that the intersection I look out at has a nifty trick draft that catches the unwary umbrella and inverts it as you come around the corner. Whoops! What fun! If only the vistim cursing and struggling with his now useless umbrella would look up, I'd be glad to wave. Cheerfully. It might make him feel better.

2007: A Date That Will Live in Suckiness

I got off BART this morning and there was a guy in the station who was doing something I'm sure the more charitable among us would characterize as "singing." Basically strumming the same chord and declaiming over and over and over "It's all gonna be all right." While I was not impressed by his technique, I had to admire the thought.

Let us not fool ourselves, this past year has been crappy. Oh sure, I got a very nice pair of scuffies for Christmas and I've made many new charming friends here in bloglandia (hey ya'll!), but aside from that, crappy.

So now it's over and much more than Happy New Year, I'm tempted to say Good Riddance to the old one. Don't let the door hit you on the ass, bitch. I read on another blog that odd numbered years are always bad and I'm willing to cling to that, the whole point of superstition being the illusion of control in a formless chaos.

So here's to our leapin' 2008. It's all gonna be all right.

Abba - Dancing Queen

Feel the beat from the tambourine.

Thombeau, Mr. Fabulon, brought this up. It's his fault.

It's a Sin

So I took the 7 Deadly Sins test and these are my results. Are these a surprise? The questions seem awfully uninterested in gluttony (not one word about Lil Debbie snack products, for instance) or I suppose I would have scored higher there.

Greed:	Medium
Gluttony:	Medium
Wrath:	High
Sloth:	Medium
Envy:	Medium
Lust:	Very High
Pride:	High

Discover Your Sins - Click Here

Ahh, Home to San Franceeesco

Thanks again to all my blog friends for your support while we were off visiting Superagentfred (SAF) during his sad time. Yay blog friends.

We got to Baltimore Saturday evening after an annoyingly protracted trip (hint: do not try to fly anywhere during late December. Every fucking thing that can go wrong will and the explanation will be "Oh, it's Chicago.") SAF was distracted but holding up well, all things considered, and surrounded by friends who had, like us, rallied to his side. Interestingly, most of them were from here, but were in the area for the holidays, like Philly and Maryland, and were able to be there for him. They were all very flattering about saying they had been waiting for R Man and me (as the designated adults) to come and tell them what to do, but that was just window dressing. They had the distressing details of a sudden death well in hand by the time we showed up. All that was left for me to do was make the salad dressing and set the table, which I was glad to do, no problem.

Special mention has to go out to SAF's friend Christine who was fielding the unceasing calls, making lists, contacting contacts and generally biting the nuts off anyone unwise enough to get in her way by not getting on the Christine train. Yay Christine.

And what sad crisis is worth its name without some added grief? In this case, it was the sewer backing up in SAF's basement in the middle of funeral arrangements and autopsies and assorted other miseries. SAF seemed close to flipping out, so we took him back to our hotel for a nap while the Super Friends turned to. Christine proved her genius by producing her father the plumber, on the Sunday night before New Years, Russell mopped up and Jen charmed the straight guys from the sewer department. It's a testament to how much your support group loves you when the will they will wade through sewage for you and then make jokes about poo water. Yay Super Friends.

R Man walked SAF through what to consider about the will and probate and reviewed all the alarming details of the finances. I made SAF watch Legally Blonde with me on cable. I could tell it helped and I was glad to do it. Yay me.

Then we had a fifteen hour trip home. Delays, flights cancelled, standing in line at customer service for an hour, 1:00 AM flights out of Denver - delightful. Oh, it's Chicago.