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?

Married? Not So Fast, Buddy

I didn't expect to be so disappointed if Proposition 8 passed. Prop 8 is the California amendment which eliminated same-sex couples' right to marry, and it's passing right now by a tiny, tiny margin, but tiny, tiny margins are all it takes in a democracy. I thought that I had a hard-headed view about how very unlikely it was that the gays would achieve something so thrilling as this minor bit of equality, but I seem to have been swept up by my wedding and the general optimism. Living a life as an out gay man in San Francisco, I suppose I've gotten a skewed perspective that things have changed, that things are better. On one hand I know they are better: I have a sweet happy life with a wonderful man I love that I could not have imagined being mine when I first struggled out of the closet 25 years ago, and yet.... And yet, this reminds me that the morons who plagued me as a sissy in elementary school have not gone away. I suppose they never will.

th th th that's all folks

When I was a little boy, I had a terrible stutter. My family as a whole was going through a very rough patch and I reacted by developing a stammer and then was so embarrassed by that, I quit talking, pretty much. By the time I entered adolescence, it had faded away, thank god. Oddly enough, I once mentioned this to my mother and she was amazed to hear that I had stuttered. She said she had never, not once, heard me have a hard time starting a sentence or a word. Were we in parallel universes? I don't know.

I'm still so self-conscious about the possibility of stuttering, I find myself rehearsing what I'm going to order at length the whole time I'm standing in line, just to make sure the words actually get out. The few times since I've grown up that I've had to deal with it has always been because of stress.

So tonight I met a new guy who is a volunteer teacher here for me. We had only communicated by email before and I had no idea that he had a bad stammer of his own. As I was making small talk with him, I realized my own stutter was coming back. Sympathy stuttering, who knew? I was horrified that he would think I was mocking him, I knew couldn't make myself stop (it doesn't work like that) and so I took the coward's way out: I started coughing and pointed towards the general area of the restroom, rushed off and am now hiding at my desk where I will not have to deal with him again, hopefully. Also, hopefully, he'll just think I have consumption and not that I'm a rude jerk.

Life is so complicated.

Fall Back

The design of the office building in which I toil includes a long, street-level colonnade which opens onto a courtyard, which in turn is surrounded on three sides by tall buildings. It makes for a very protected environment, especially attractive on a rainy, blustery day like today. There's a Starbucks there, so you can sit cozily watching the rain and the schmoes running through it whilst sipping your tea. Sweet.

Speaking of sweet and autumnal events, my office is once again awash in leftover Halloween candies, all of it the no-name, generic variety, odd knockoffs of Tootsie Pops and Hershey Kisses and every other trademarked goodies. My theory is these are either the offerings trick or treaters scorned, or they are the detritus of what my co-workers' kids scored and subsequently refused. I can't blame them. All this crap looks suspiciously like it's composed of equal parts corn syrup, wax, and rat droppings.

Amy Camus, P.I. R.

Oh dear, yet another Giant Among Us cut down. Yma Sumac has passed, returned to her Incan forefathers. Who knew she was still alive-ish, here in 2008? Did you know? I didn't know. The obit in the SF Chronicle today was filled with myth busting dreariness, but did include the scintillating nugget that she had a LP re-issued in the 90s called "Yma Rocks!" I am off to amazon as soon as I finish this to snag one.

I saw her in a 50s movie with Robert Young(!) about a bunch of plane crash survivors in the Andes being warbled at by Herself. I think I saw it. Maybe I just dreamed it. Still, I salute you, oh Peruvian Songbird of Extreme Freakishness.