Friday Haiku

Time goes so slowly
But I grow old so quickly.
Wait, how does that work?

intermission

mrpeenee is sick. A little fever, achy, even less energy than usual. I plan on sitting around in my jammies, unshaven and a little smelly and playing solitaire on the computer instead of blogging. See you around.

mrpeenee on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown

I'm mad at Netflix, or the universe, whichever is responsible. I've had Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown on our queue there for more than a year and it's still not available. How can the greatest movie ever made not be released? It's a travesty, I tell you, a travesty.

Always a Bridesmaid

Big sloppy wet ones for my girls Miss Janey and Elizabeth for their wholehearted support of the gay marriage ruling by the California Supreme Court on their blogs (links are listed over there on the right, I'm too lazy to cut and paste the urls here.) If I have to be in a fight, it's nice to have friends like this on my side.

And yes, I know it's going to be a fight and the conservatives energized by this will sweep into the voting booths and overcome their unhappiness with a war that will not end and an economy that will not start and vote against me and all my brothers who just want to jump the broom with somebody with a penis and you know what I say to that? I say O Please. I wasn't looking for this fight, I was satisfied with the small crumbs that came my way, domestic partnership and such, but it's here now and if some small minded bigot wants to continue to deny me equality with him and his little missus then he's going to have to actually stand up and actively vote against me.

I stick my tongue out at him, neener, neener, neener.

mrpeenee: The Weekend Report

I regard any weekend without at least one big nap as a lost cause and that's just how this last one went. Errands, haircuts, dining out at both fabulous and almost-fabulous boites, and a matinee at the symphony on Sunday all took up valuable napping time. Plus playing with the new kitty who has turned out to be an absolute hellion. I have the scars to prove it, but I adore him, the little brute.

We finished our symphony subscription with Dvorak's From the New World, which I love. Yes, it's true, I'm a sucker for warhorses. As long as it appears on the Columbia House recordings sold late at night on cheap TV stations, I'm up for it.

The feed bag was a whirl of toney joints around town, like Zuni Cafe and Foreign Cinema and Mission Beach. Mmmm delish. R Man had quail at Foreign Cinema and I'm still jealous, the taste he gave me was so fabulous.

Plus, most of the weekend was very warm, which encourages the muscular young poofs in the Castro to walk along slowly in their tight little tee shirts. Again, mmmm delish.

Finally, I am though with Small Business Week in San Francisco, the five day long marathon of hand shakes and small talk. To celebrate, our houseboy Gabor Processnus spelt out a smutty haiku in chocolate cupcakes. God love him.

Interweb Wonders

You know what we have here?

We have a Japanese Lady passionately entwined with a squid, that's what. Things that have no possible explanation fascinate me. Much in the same way as this cephalapod lovin bitch captures my wonder, so too do the many, many spam emails I get about porn involving busty young nubiles in the cow shed. I get no other porn spam and yet daily I average a dozen or more invitations to see some young Lady (frequently named Brittany) do the nasty with some farm animal. How did I wind up on this particular mailing list? Is it karma? Why don't I ever get invited to visit Muscular Young Brazilian Twin Body Builders Who Can Open a Beer Bottle Without Using Their Hands? Huh?

I'm Working

I know, from bitter experience, that when I admit a big part of my job is going to parties, I am in for a load of snark. It’s not that I’m laying claim to a high life at Studio 54, luring disco dollies to a life of vice, still, just try connecting the word party with your job description and anyone you’re speaking to will immediately layer on the grief. Thickly.

Maybe I should be clearer in my definitions. These “parties” are not gala events, full of high spirits and laughs. They are networking events for businesses, organized solely for entrepreneurs to trade business cards and try to make connections that will lead to sales, or deals, or some benefit for them. It’s work. It may look like a party, it may walk like a party, it may have an open bar, but it's work.

When I was shoved into this job, from a quiet backwater of personnel, I had to train myself to walk into large crowds of strangers and start introducing myself, explain what my agency does, and shovel out my business cards like a human vending machine. I was amazed to find out I’m good at it, but over the years my amazement has turned into a kind of horror. This is my one big talent?

So this week is our celebration in San Francisco of the national Small Business Week. Because of that I have 28 events, parties, networkers, make contacts, seminars, panels, workshops, you name it that I have to attend and be Little Miss Small Business. We’re about halfway through and the biggest parties are behind me, yay. If my voice doesn’t give out (I’m already hoarse and sound remarkably like a bad imitation of Kathleen Turner) I’ll be fine. I can already see Friday night and the last party glimmering in the distance.

Hi, I’m mrpeenee. I work for somebody or the other. Do you have my card?

News Flash

This just in: a fondness for black sweaters and an affectionate orange tabby cat are not a great combination.

In economic news, stock in lint removers soared this week.

Cat News. Suck it

I've been holding off on reports about our new cat, Saki, in the hopes that I could hide what a ridiculous old poof I am, but I suppose I have to give in the inevitable. He is simply too cute to ignore.

We took him into the vet (speaking of cute, you should have seen the humpalicious new vet they have there. Every time he passed through the waiting room, the heads of R Man, Super Agent Fred and me swiveled to follow him like a cat watching a finch and he seemed just about as nervous as one, too.) Anyway, our very sweet vet confirmed that he didn't think Saki was 3 years old like the cat pound people had said, that he's more like 10 months old, just out of being a kitten. Yay, I adore being right. If only I had won the humpy vet as a prize for my insights.

Saki as already taken over the house, in just a week. Initially sweet and adorable, now he's adorable and ferocious, a real boy cat. He sleeps with R Man and obviously has characterized me as "The Other One." Fine, I don't care, I'm his slave.

In the Realm of mrpeenee’s Senses

Little known, but fascinating truths about how I perceive the world around me:

I like sirens. Cop cars and fire trucks screaming by me on the street thrill me in some deep down odd spot.

I find the odor of skunks kind of pleasant. Not enough that I would buy skunk scented candles, but still. And it’s a lucky thing, too, since we share the canyon we live in with packs of polecats and every year about this time I’ll wake up in the middle of the night with that distinctive smell wafting in through the open windows. Mmm.

Even though I am a very picky eater (I hate raw onions, I don’t like lamb, I always pass on candy with nuts in it) I adore beets and liver, two of the least popular food products known to man. Liver is just part of my fascination with edible internal organs: sweet breads, kidneys, tongue, bring ‘em on. I draw the line at tripe, though, since that is just too far down in the alimentary canal and it smells like it.

There is an escalator coming up out of the BART Civic Center platform that has a small bump under the handrail. As you’re gliding up into the thrilling carnival of downtown San Francisco, the bump makes a small, pleasant thump under your hand. I always make a point of using that escalator.

I’m too near-sighted to have one for vision. My whole day to day goal is to not bump into anything.

Houseboys on the Lam

Our very sweet houseboy, Anicius Manlius Boethius, whose ability to organize the porn collection is rather spotty, I’m afraid, was planning to run away from home and head over to “Are You There, Blog, It’s Me Stephen.” I believe I might have mentioned in the past that that hussy Stephen is a Bad Influence. Any way, I pointed out to Anicius that he had once again mislaid his panties and by the time he found some, he had forgotten about Stephen, thankfully, and wandered off to put together a hot game of shuttlecock.

All’s well that ends well, huh?

Workaday Haiku

It’s a cold, hard world
But my bed is soft and warm.
You think that’s a choice?

Oh, Just Do It. You Know You Want To.

I snagged this from Sicko Ricko's blog

GO TO THE FOLLOWING SITE:

http://www.tatuagemdaboa.com.br/

TYPE YOUR FIRST NAME ON THE 1st LINE

TYPE YOUR LAST NAME ON THE 2nd LINE

(Skip your e-mail address)

Click on VIZUALIAR and watch the video.

Life at the Tubs

I went to the baths over in Berkeley tonight and I just want to remind my brothers out there in the sex club community: no means no; everybody gets turned down sometime; and there's a distinction between being persistent and being a stalker. Catch a clue, honey, if I wasn't interested a half hour ago, I probably haven't forgotten you and changed my mind since then. As my friend Kevin once said, "I will never be that bored."

Sargent

John Singer Sargent, the 19th century portraitist, is an artist I've always liked. In Wikipedia's bio of him (Wikipedia is my source of all information - true, untrue, gossip, blather: who cares as long as it's stated with conviction?) I just discovered this fabulous quote about him:

Jacques-Émile Blanche, who was one of his early sitters, said after his death that Sargent's sex life "was notorious in Paris, and in Venice, positively scandalous. He was a frenzied bugger." A frenzied bugger. Please note that I request here officially that that be inscribed on my tombstone.

This is his portrait of one Thomas E. McKeller. Tasty. If he was frenzied, I can see why.

Bringing Up Baby

We sprang our new cat from Kitty Jail yesterday and brought him home. Oh, he is so cute and friendly as all get out. The Animal Care and Control people estimates his age at around 3 years old, but I think he's younger; his face looks barely out of kitten stage and he rolls on his back to bat at your hand like a kitten. He has the oddest voice I've ever heard from a cat, very high-pitched and hoarse, sometimes he sounds more like a hawk. We've pretty much landed on Saki as his name, it's more fun to say than Zim. Thanks to Miss Janey for her vote on the naming issue, I shall occasionally remind him his hair is fierce in your honor.

Anyway, here's his pictures. Caution: Extreme Adorablenss.