"Like large, round melons...."

I love Mark Sanford. He is a hero and role model to tall, skinny homely guys everywhere. Not terribly cute or smart and yet scoring the hot love action! I say yes!

Still, I would recommend to him that during these press conferences expressing contrition over said hot love action, he refrain from gestures such as the one above. Unless of course he's actually describing voluptuous South American buttocks, in which case, I'd like the audio included.

"Mexican Breakfast", Helpfully Explained

Wesley Darling (and whatever happened to HIM, anyway?) posted this on his blog ages ago, but you need it now, believe me.

High Finance, Low Scruples

R man and I are re-financing our mortgage. No big thrill, but at least it gave me something to make conversation about with my father when I spoke to him on Sunday. As soon as I mentioned what we were doing, he offered to loan us $100,000 at a ridiculously loan rate. I think it’s to my great credit that I refused. I do not want to take advantage of my father’s generosity. According to my father, that is not a trait I share with my brothers, which in turn, makes me even less eager to join in at the trough.

Never the less, he pressed me to accept because, as it turns out, he has $100k in an “investment” which has lost money three of the last four years. I know the last year has been rough, but prior to that, one would have had to work aggressively to lose money. And that would appear to be exactly what my father did. Some guy cold called him and talked him into this great money making opportunity. I think there were more details, but I didn’t hear them; I had put the phone down so that I could more effectively bash my head on the kitchen counter in frustration.

Say you are an elderly man sitting around watching old guy movies. The phone rings and a stranger says “mrpeenee’s father, I would like to talk to you about your portfolio. “ Do you reply, “My sons have repeatedly told me not to talk to gypsies”? Nope. You say, “Where do I send the check?”

When you’re a little boy, you think your daddy knows everything, that he’s Superman. Then, as you grow into a smartass punk teenager, you decide he’s a brainless idiot who knows nothing. Later, having matured, you come to see that you’ve been too harsh, that he’s a perfectly sensible adult, just like you. And then, at 54 years old, you realize you were right when you were a sullen 15 year old: he is an idiot who is a menace to himself.

So now, I can either join in with my brothers, be no better than they are, and take the money (although I would pay it back, just like a regular mortgage. That would be good just for the novelty’s sake,) or not take it and wait for yet another scam artist. Oh, what the hell, who am I fooling? Make that check out to mrpeenee and get it in the mail. It would seem I have more in common with my dear brothers than I thought.

Puh-ride. Puh-leeze

Oh. Right. Gay Pride Weekend. It is, of course, impossible to overlook in San Francisco, but It fails to stir me. Sorry. A huge parade of every possible sub-group known to queerkind. S&M lesbian-supporting vegan gay members of a co-opertive bike repair store will probably have their own float tomorrow. And I say yay, right on, etc., but I plan on skipping it once again.

The first year we lived year, I got involved in the Pride Committee, editing their magazine/program and was so thoroughly appalled by their petty, small mindedness, I fled, never to return. The old saw about "the smaller the stakes, the more vicious the politics" applies to these warped queens with a vengeance. I got to be one of the flag bearers at the front of the parade, (in front of the Dykes in Bikes, bitch) but even that was not enough to change my mind. I don't need a parade to be proud, I live a life that would need a tattoo that read "FAG" on my forehead to be any more out.

Instead, I'm staying home listening to music and playing solitaire. Even my music is gay. Here's a partial rundown of what I've heard tonight:

"Homosapien" by Pansy Division
"But Not for Me" by Judy Garland
"Dirty Back Road" by the B-52s
"The Crying Game" by Boy George
"Dancing with Tears in My Eyes" by Ultravox
"This Time Baby" the classic disco hit by Jackie Moore as re-interpreted by Lulu
"Dancing Queen" by the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus
and, of course, numerous tunes by the Pet Shop Boys.

As Lucullis Trajen (below) remarked when he brought in a tray of petit fours, "It doesn't get any gayer."

R Man-less

R man took off this morning for a conference in Washington and to visit his family in Annapolis. I hate this. Except for work we spend very little time apart and it makes me uneasy, as if I have to keep an eye on him. He's very much smarter than I am, but he's not good at navigating airports and dealing with hotels and things like that. I can't bring myself to pin a note to his collar, just in case, but don't think I haven't considered it.

A lot of this comes from feeling like I don't deserve to be as happy as I am, that I'm not worthy of the very contented life we lead. I need to stop worrying.

And Recipes, Too!

A flurry of emails between the divine Diane von Austinberg and me throughout the day (which I barely was able to squeeze in while working like a dog, slaving away, hardly able to look up from the grindstone, etc. etc. etc...) included the following from Diane:

speaking of food (as we so often do) here's my new favorite summer salad: corn, toasted walnuts, feta, olive oil, lime juice, with a little black pepper.

Doesn't that sound fabulous?

So now I've gone from Brazilian porn stars to Barbie dolls to recipes. To paraphrase Neil Patrick Harris:

This blog could not be gayer

if Liza was the mayor

and Elton John took flight.

Barbarama

The messy Muscato continues torturing me with updates of his touring about Paris. Bitch. Not only is the tramp gadding about in my most favorite city (WITHOUT ME) he had the gaul (get it? Gaul, not gall? Oh never mind) to hit the Barbie doll exhibit there. Also WITHOUT ME. Go here for details, if you can bear to.

When I finished grinding my teeth, I was reminded of my girlyboy youth when my favorite pastime was playing with my friend Stephanie’s vast collection of Barbies. My favorite was a classic, with that early Barbie slutty-eyed face and three wigs. A cursory search on Google reveals she was “Fashion Queen Barbie,” a name that just makes it all even better. Then the Google search pointed me towards an E-bay auction where for only 50 bucks you can snag this:

All that and a grass skirt, too. A BARBIE DOLL GRASS SKIRT! Could life be any sweeter?

Business Beef

I just had a long meeting with a local business investment guy about a new undertaking he's putting together that will benefit minority entrepreneurs. It's a wholly admirable concept, very interesting and complicated and he was looking for some intelligent input from me about the project. Which is very gratifying and would have been fine since I actually know that stuff down cold, except he looks rather like a tall version of Rafael Alencar.

Even though he was wearing more clothes than this, it was still tough staying focused on business advice when all I could think about was how very smooth his skin seemed to be. And how very much of it there was. Beauty is so darn distracting. Did I mention he had the top two buttons of his shirt undone? Tease.

The Thrill of It All

Not that I'm complaining (I know, I know, but odder things have happened,) but the quietly contented life R Man and I have does not really generate tons of blockbuster blogging material.

On a recent weekend, we went out for breakfast.

At Chow. Of course. We live in a city famous for its fabulous eateries and yet we only go to three of them.

Then we took Saki down to get his pedicure. That was exactly as popular as you might expect. Still, he's a very, very good boy, but I couldn't get a shot of the cute guy clipping his nails. Rats.

Then we came home and I took a nap. No pictures, sorry.

So that's the trade-off, a happy life for a dull blog. Maybe I'll just start making shit up. Did I ever tell you about the time I was kidnapped by pirates off the coast of someplace I'll have to figure out later? Let me get back to you on that.

Another Openin', Another Show

Years ago, I wrote the divine Diane von Austinberg the following little note because she sidelines in the theater in Austin as a costume designer and had mentioned she had a ready stock of non-committal platitudes for occasions like the one I describe here.

“I let John talk me into a play last week. I have no idea why. He claimed it was "Something About Yes" which sounds like a sweet little valentine of a play. It turns out he just meant he couldn't remember the actual name, but knew it had the word "Yes" in it. In this universe the real name was "The House of Yes" which had been a movie with Parker Posie and Freddie Prinze, Jr. We spent the evening trying to decide if actors who rose to the level of competent could have saved it, but it seems unlikely. It was just a bomb waiting for a fuse. The plot line included incest and Jackie Kennedy's Channel suit. You do the math.

We were there because John's acquainted with the Stage Manager. Naturally, at intermission we had to make small talk with him and I was desperately trying to come up with some of the innocuous remarks you had given me as appropriate for when talking to theater people who are riding a dog. Of course, I couldn't think of any of them except for the definitively feeble "everyone's remembered their lines" I said it with real conviction, but somehow it was still so very lame.”

Herewith, Aunt Diane's list of things to say when speaking to folks from the theatre:

Cheat sheet (note that "performance" and "show" can often be substituted for each other, which specific term is used to better effect depends on whether one is talking to an actor or director):

1. That was SOME performance.

2. You'll be remembered for this for a long time.

3. What a show!

4. How DID you come up with that interpretation?

5. I've never seen anything like it!

6. I'm stunned!

7. You must be getting a lot of attention for this!

8. The critics didn't do the show justice.

9. What a night!

10. That was really something!

Note the importance of exclamation marks. Tone of voice is everything; your words may be subject to interpretation but the enthusiasm in your voice leaves 'em thinking you loved it. My friend Kathy's personal favorite is "Oh, you!!!" accompanied by a mild chuck on the upper arm and downcast eyes that indicate she'd never in her life be able to match that performance.


Thank you Diane.

WWDVD (What Would Diana Vreeland Do?)

This room from the N.Y. Times today reminds me so forcefully of the style I was enraptured by 25 years ago, when modern decor dinosaurs roamed the earth. The only thing missing that I can see is a severe glass vase holding a single perfect calla lily. And a giant stereo. And a mirror for serving cocaine. But aside from that, a perfect reproduction.

The difference now is that I no longer see it as sleek and stylish, but rather as chilly and bland and so very been-there-done-that. One of the great appeals of minimalism has always been that it’s so easy to reproduce on the cheap. Any waiter with a bucket of white paint and a lack of furniture can pretty much hit it. And after you’ve been in one apartment with a black leather couch and no place to read, you’ve been in them all. It’s really as predictable as any chintz, chintz, chintz homage to Laura Ashley and Sister Parish.

So what’s a queen do? Some happy medium, I think. I like the tidy sparseness of minimalism, but I also want soft edges and comfort and COLOR. Imagine what a little red fringe would do for this room. Well, ok, so that’s not a great example, but you know what I mean.

Bust Your Windows

Youtube, in their mighty wisdom, will not allow you to share the video of "Bust Your Windows" by Jazmine Sullivan any longer, so read this, then go watch it over there. Bastards.

Jason from Night is Half Gone mentioned the marching band from the school where he teaches played this during Mardi Gras, which in itself is dazzlingly cool for them. I mean, we played crappy Sousa marches. Anyway, I've adored it since then. The beautiful instrumental line is from "Bad Man's Waltz" although it sounds more like a tango to me.

The boyfriend eye candy is fine, but I'm not sure about the fashion choices here. A crocheted beanie AND a fur trimmed hoodie that's a little too tight? I don't want to be all Go Fug Yourself here, but Jaz, darling, when one has a chest the size of a laundry basket, padding it with animal pelts is not the way to go. Still, love the song.

mrpeenee Triumphs in His Sleep

Darlings, there I was, drifting through yet another boring, boring, boring meeting. It was very early (I'm pretty sure it was that "morning" thing people are always gassing on about so enthusiastically) and I was not the laserbeam of mental focus I might have been. I suddenly realized that one of the corporate sponsors from our big hoohah last month was regaling the table with very nice things about me and the agency I work for. Fawning, in a word. I suspect other members of the committee who work for other, lesser entities, wanted terribly to explain I was not the big shot genius this guy had mistaken me for, but fortunately, the meeting moved on before they could quite figure out how to do so.

To celebrate, I'm posting a random picture of a cute houseboy, Echoium Bunyyious. Enjoy.

Iggy "Shuffle Deck" Pop

I know this is not incredibly original, but I was struck once again by the incongruity of Iggy Pop shilling for a cruise line with “Lust for Life.” The Nursing Home of the Sea and Iggy Pop. Doesn’t that seem like it would have been a funny joke on Saturday Night Live at one time? And now, it’s just another commercial. Cause nothing says Lust for Life like fat children going down a water slide in the pool on the Lido deck.

No more beating my brains, indeed.

The Gays and Their Girls

Riding back from lunch just now, I was sitting across the aisle from a classic fag-and-his-hag duo. Oh, it’s possible I was imagining things, that the young man was not the least bent, but I truly suspect the farthest down on the LGBTQI spectrum he could fall would be the Questioning bit. As for her, her role in life was well and truly cemented.

He was young and adorable, even his braces (!) seemed like flattering accessories. She was, uhm, not adorable. A little overweight, bad two-tone hair, “artistic” shoes and a too tight horizontal striped tee shirt. It’s actually the shirt that makes me wonder if the boy was all the way out. Surely anyone who has left the closet behind would have talked her out of such a mistake.

She was overly gregarious, laughing loudly and telling some complicated story that lasted from Church Street all the way downtown and which required lots of touching, constantly patting him on the arm or grabbing his knee. His contribution to the conversation seemed to be mostly sub-audible static.

I foresee all too clearly the future here. More hanging-out together that she construes as dates; a late night, teary proclamation (on one side or the other, or both); text messages ignored; and then a confrontation in a bar to be named at a later date.

Haven’t we all been there before?

Work Load

As we bid adieu to the weekend and prepare to face the grindstone, mrpeenee understands the thought going through all of our heads: Why must work be so deadly dull? Why must we toil in workplaces that engender sympathy with the socialist anarchists of yore? Just once, couldn’t we get on the subway with a sense of expectation rather than dread?

Let me just say, sweetie, when malicious gossip and petty theft are no longer enough to get you to your desk with a smile, I am here for you with ideas to help spark your cubicle-bound existence. Ideas that the nattering naysayers in personnel and legal might term “inappropriate” or “sabotage” or some other pin headed jargon, but that’s why these concepts are best executed without getting caught. Like Secret Santa, but much more amusing.

MRPEENEE”S TIPS FOR OFFICE HIGHLIFE

1. In every office, lurking in some obscure corner, is a bulletin board filled with notices about EEO compliance and Heimlich maneuvers. Find the most salacious pornography review you can, clip it out (neatly!), tack it up on the board, and see how long it takes for anyone to notice. It might be months, or even years, before anyone catches on to the critical insights of Brazilian Butt Bombers 4. This is probably most effective without illustrations such as the one below.

2. You know the prissy know-it-all in accounting who is such a pain for everyone to deal with? I’m sure he would probably appreciate regular mailings that you sign him up for from a variety of gender reassignment centers around the country. Even if he doesn’t, the clerk in the mail room who reads everything that comes in and is a more reliable conduit of information than the Huffington Post certainly will.

3. Have a long, dull meeting ahead of you? Sneak into the conference room early and plant a lacy underpanty thong casually, but prominently on the corner of the table. As you sneak back out, get ready for a presentation on quarterly projections not to be forgotten anytime soon.

4. Speaking of presentations, when the next ethics training rears its ugly head, try to get to the PowerPoint show Mr. Personality Monotone Lawyer will be using. Delete all the odd numbered slides and, voila, all the same old crap you’ve heard before in half the time!

5. That overly eager intern whose perkiness sets your teeth on edge could probably benefit in more ways than one from date rape drugs regularly slipped into his gingko biloba guarana green tea.

6. There is no office so bitterly divided that it cannot be brought together by a small fire in the file room.

Sparkle Thombeau, Sparkle

Darlings, even here, in our quiet little burg by the sea, we have culture.  And I don’t mean the kind the nurse down at the clinic takes before you have to call all your recent “dates.”  No, no, I mean EVENTS that add a little glamour even to my own fabulous existence.

For instance:

MONDAY JULY 20 
6 PM - Meet & Greet Reception with Patty Duke

8 PM - Gala Main Event


Marc Huestis presents SPARKLE, PATTY, SPARKLE!

 A Gala Tribute to Academy Award® Winner Patty Duke Live In Person! 
Interviewed by Bruce Vilanch with Screening of the classic VALLEY OF THE DOLLS & Performances by Connie Champagne & Matthew Martin 


 Benefiting New Leaf Services, NAMI Walk/S.F. Bay Area, Mental Health Association of S.F.

 It'll be Patty Duke's time to shine as Marc Huestis presents SPARKLE, PATTY, SPARKLE! a gala tribute to Academy Award® Winning star Patty Duke. The screen legend will take center stage for a stellar live in-person interview with comic extraordinaire Bruce Vilanch. They'll discuss her amazing career including winning the Oscar for her remarkable portrayal of Helen Keller in the 1962 classic THE MIRACLE WORKER; playing the iconic Neely O'Hara in VALLEY OF THE DOLLS; writing 2 best selling books (Call Me Anna and A Brilliant Madness: Living With Manic Depression Illness); and her recent stage triumph as Madame Morrible in the smash hit S.F. production of WICKED (now running in an open ended engagement at the Orpheum Theatre.) 

They'll be fun a-plenty with an only in San Francisco screening of the classic VALLEY OF THE DOLLS, fabu career clip reels including rare chestnuts from THE PATTY DUKE SHOW, and sizzling send up performances by Connie Champagne as Neely O'Hara & Matthew Martin as Helen Lawson. It'll be a night to remember at San Francisco's historic Castro Theatre!

Can you believe it?  Miss Duke her very self taking the stage.  I mention this in particular because Thombeau, the old darling from Fabulon, and I occasionally address each other as Helen and Neely as a nod to our great love for Valley of the Dolls.  And now, Thombeau has announced a brief break from Fabulon.  I initially didn’t think much about it, just nodding when he muttered something about a gig, all the while thinking to myself “Rehab AGAIN?  Didn’t she just get back?  Must have some goddam frequent flyer thing going at Promises.”  But now I see the truth, the timing is just too coincidental.  Don’t you get it?  Connect the dots, sweetie.  “Thombeau” really is Patty Duke.

 This explains so much.  Maybe too much.