Defenestrate the Development Agency

One of my favorite public art pieces in San Francisco is a rundown rat trap that was a residence hotel until a fire there twenty years ago. In 1997, artist Brian Goggin turned it into the Defenestration Building with furniture crawling out the windows and up the exterior walls, some of it leaping from the roof. Couches and refrigerators and a floor lamp and an armoire not only hang off every surface, but also twist in very un-furniturelike ways. They all seem very animated, especially the spindly little end tables that scramble along like cats on ice. It’s wacky.
The building itself, not so wacky. It’s a substantial piece of real estate on a prominent corner that’s been abandoned for decades and the fact its ramshackle state adds to the dilapidation of Sixth Street is pretty damn annoying. Sixth Street is a filthy skid row that has resisted the steady efforts of the city and several very right thinking non-profits to change it for the better. I know, I’ve worked with Urban Solutions, one of the best nonprofits involved, for years and watched them struggle against the entrenched shabbiness of the area that defeats most of the businesses that try to move in there. So dealing with one of the most derelict buildings in the neighborhood is okay by me.

But the only solution the local development agency can think of is tear it down, art and all, and start over. It’s a big sturdy building, why not renovate the interior and keep the art on the outside? There’s little enough charm in the world, why destroy some on purpose?

I Want to Dance Like Jimmy Somerville

It is absolutely not true that I stopped listening to music twenty years ago. Well, okay, it's sort of true. In fact, it's totally true. I lied.

80's fag disco dance synthpop is the soundtrack of a very happy time in my life, the time I was happiest dancing, so imagine how pleased I was to stumble on Jimmy Somerville (one of my all time faves) singing "You Make me Feel Mighty Real" (one of my all time faves.) Is this old? Was I just oblivious? Probably. It is actually better than Sylvester's original. I know, gasp. I would share it with you, but the only performance on YouTube is abysmal, so you have to go find it yourself. It's on ITunes, it's only 99 cents. Get real, mighty real.

This Is Wrong

So wrong.

Ronettes - Be My Baby

Phil Spector is in jail and today Ellie Greenwich died. This is an odd, sad time for all of us who are fans of big hair, big sounds and big girl groups. While many of Greenwich’s obits emphasized “Da Doo Ron Ron” “Leader of the Pack” and “Chapel of Love,” everyone (and by everyone I mean me) knows this is her finest moment.

Dr. mrpeenee Recommends

You know what I think would be a really good idea? Anesthesia on demand. It worked for Michael Jackson, right up to the point where he all died and stuff, so why not for me? I would set up appointments for all the owie stuff that I dread, go under and let the owie teams go at it. Teeth cleaning and dental work? I have you down for 10:00 to 11:15. Dermatological removal of broken blood vessels around my nose? You’re up. Colonoscopy? Eeks, ok, I’ll squeeze you in at 11:30, but don’t dawdle.

It’s brilliant. Even the electrolysis of Secret Lady Places for those of us who are not technically Ladies and whose places are hardly Secret, yes, even that. This way everyone who puts off these unpleasant but necessary upkeep items will jump on my Conked Out Bandwagon cause then they get all of it out of the way AND they get to get loaded. This is health care reform that we could sell. I bet Rush Limbaugh already does it.

Do You Smell That?

Last night I made pan seared salmon. Perfectly tasty, no big deal, but now the house smells like a bait shop at low tide. Ick.

Which reminds me, when I refer to a Secret Lady Place, it is a phrase I stole from MJ over at Infomaniac which in turns reminds me that when you Google the tantalizing term "mangina" (what? I suppose you haven't?) you turn up images similar to this:

Not that I'm bothered by this. Of course not.

Which in turn reminds me that Muscato is sneaking snacks in Oman during Ramadan when he should be fasting. It all comes together now, doesn't it?

Design Star: Let Me Know When It's Over

Design Star. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it was three days ago, but I just now watched it because I was reading Sunday night and now, having seen it, I'm glad I didn't stop. The show is teetering terribly close to Must Skip TV.

In my previous posts about this, I may have been a teeny bit too focused on how irritating the late, unlamented Taschika was, how totally cute little tiny Nathan was (he's gone! How can that be? He was like a design elf) and speculating about how Dan might look in really tight thongs that I sort of overlooked the fact that none of these losers are any good at design. How did they get on this show? Except Dan and his tight thong, and lucky the talent guy who got to interview THAT. They suck. They all suck.

This show was kids room and none of the finished products looked better than the before pictures. In fact, that's what they all sort of looked like: the starting point for a before and after show. The shicksa who had the artsy little girl and stapled random fabric up on the wall. Why did she get to stay? Also, I think the tight thong may be cutting the blood off from Dan's head cause I can't imagine why else he would pick that dreadful red and green palette. Do you think he's color blind?

Loni and Antonio? BLAH BLAH BLAH .... You could walk into any IKEA and come out with a better finished product.

I think Jason's pink princess room, while not any great shakes, was the best one, and he got tossed. The hell? Still any of them could have gone home, they're all equally bad.

I miss Nathan. But to help us all through these difficult moments, a photo of Dan:My advice? Stick to your day job and your thong.

A Bowl Full of Summer Goodness

Is there any more beautiful phrase than "ripe peaches"? At least one that doesn't involve muscular young men and their orifices? No, there is not.

Peaches are my favorite fruit in the world, so terribly tender and sweet, but I am firm in my stand against peach fuzz. The sensation of it on my teeth makes me cringe. Perhaps I am simply too delicate. So the glorious excess of a bowl of peaches, peeled and sliced and just waiting for me to tuck in is food nirvana for me.

The Little Office of Horrors

I want it clearly understood that I have NEVER brought in a single plant to my office. Not one. Not. One. And yet, over the years, I have inherited a small grove of ficus, spathiphyllum, dracaena, dieffenbachia (which I don’t even like,) spider plants and who knows what other vegetable oddities. All of these drifted into my life as orphans on the brink of death that I rescued from turning into potted sticks. My reward for saving them from stickhood was more people turning their neglected plants over to me. So now I’m taking care of 26 plants there.

This is no high-end horticulture we’re talking about. I water everybody on Friday, occasionally take a pair of scissors to the most rank overgrowth and wish them all a hearty “good luck.” That’s it, that’s all, and yet, they thrive. These are some tough ass plants. I figure if my efforts are insufficient, then they need to take themselves off to houseplant hell.

The biggest drawback is that on Fridays, I’m trapped at the kitchen sink filling up several gallon jugs to go water the troops and natch, that’s when my co-workers come loitering around to chat me up. Am I a bad person for not enjoying these moments of bonhomie? Most of these are people I’ve worked with for the better part of twenty years and if they’ve ever had anything interesting to say, they’ve withheld it from me.

Including the more-than-zaftig Lady who I ran into today as she was microwaving her Lean Cuisine lasagna in the middle of the afternoon. She confided her new diet focused on several small meals throughout the day. I considered asking if a Lean Cuisine constituted a “small meal.” Aren’t they supposed to be sort of, you know, lunch? But then I realized how little insight I have into the Lean Cuisine world and besides, I didn’t want to get into it. I had plants to water.

Thai Time

I've mentioned how I have never liked "happy endings" on my massages. They're sort of like watching porn while you're getting a pedicure. Mixed signals, you know? Here's a perfect example: I got a couple of massages from Jay a few years ago. In real life he is even humpier than he looks here. And while I regard that as a dandy thing, and while being rubbed by him sounds like it would be even dandier, I was so distracted by his extreme humpiness, I couldn't pay attention to the massage itself. And since there was no happy ending, the massage was all there was to pay attention to. So now he sends me emails reminding me I haven't seen him in a while and I just stare at the message, conflicted.

Fortunately, I have found Pan.O my goodness, sweet, adorable, skin like satin and muscles like cantaloupes. Thai massage and a happy ending to end all happy endings. Yowzah, in fact, Yow. Zah. He is so fine, so fine, and his Thai massage involves things I blush to discuss in front of the Ladies.

Now of course there is a reckoning. Lie down with dogs, get up fleas, lie down with Thai rentboys, get up with a trip to the doctor for penicillin shots. Oh dear. I thought those days were all behind me. Looks like I was wrong.

Goddam Spell Check

The pot I was cooking in last night was (and is) a brasier. Not a "brassier" as spell check insisted, or "brassiere", as those masters of the junior high humor, Jason and Mistress MJ, so fondly hoped.

My annoyance is only tempered by the fact that seeking out a photo of it reveals that the manufacturer refers to it as a "cocotte," which brings up charming allusions to both coquette and Cockette. At least, it does for me.

Vive le Poulet

Of course, you realize today is Napoleon’s birthday. One of R man’s most charming characteristics is the light freak on he has for the Little Colonel. To celebrate we had a dish I created that I’ve called Chicken Napoleon.

Saute boneless chicken thighs in your new, groovy tiny Staub brassier pan. Remove from pan, keep warm.

Saute shallots, celery, and carrots over medium high heat to create a well established fond. The point of the recipe is to use the word “fond.”

Deglaze with the white wine that’s been lurking around the refrigerator for a while.

Combine ingredients, put in 350-degree oven for 45 minutes.

Realize you forgot to preheat the oven, appropriately named "Imperial Majesty"

Have a drink and curse volubly.

Realize that a dish like this is pretty much bullet-proof and that it will turn out fabulously, which it did. Vive, baby.

So, as soon as I win the lottery, my plan is to buy a vintage Palace trailer home and install it here at Chez Peenee. It would be an homage to my white trash roots. I could have it rolled into the side of the garage we don’t use, which would make it terribly convenient, but not much of a view, as fond as I am of the interior of our garage. Besides R Man’s father still owns the Electra convertible he bought in 1965, which I lust after and someday that beauty will need to live in our garage and then whence the Palace trailer?

I think a better idea (and this is where the lottery winnings come in) is to have one of them big-ass cranes come in and hoist it up over our house onto the side of the canyon behind us. Fabulous views and instant trailer park. I would then be able to decorate it to resemble my East Texas granny’s shack and I would go up there and brood, even though I'm not particularly good at brooding, but I think it's a skill I could probably develop. Especially if I spent all my lottery winnings getting some stupid trailer up in the backyard.

I would also invite the Nuzzo twins over. But they couldn’t stay, cause, you know, not enough room, and besides, those mix-n-match dew rags tell me those boys are trouble, just plain trouble.

Saki Time

R Man saw our neighborhood coyote again, down the street, sort of hanging out. The coyote, not R Man. Maybe it was another coyote and not the same one, we don’t really know them that well, just well enough to say hey to. The whole thing led us to have yet another conversation with Saki warning him he cannot go outside, that he’s an indoor cat. Basically he’s ok with that, but because he’s also a teenage boy cat, he can’t take these kind of chats without getting sullen.

He’s all “I can take that stupid coyote.”

And we’re all “You play with stuffed mice filled with catnip.”

And he’s all “He’s practically a stupid dog.”

And we’re all “He’s practically a dog twice as big as you that eats feral cats.”

And he’s all “I'm going to go take a nap.”

Seven Big Ones

Ha, ha, fooled you. Not Big Ones like that.

Bob, over at I Should Be Laughing, has presented me with the (immensely deserved) Premium Meme Award. It’s terribly of sweet of the old dear, so big thanks to him. And the Academy.

I have absolutely no idea where Premium Meme came from; Googling it leads to some pretty darn amusing blogs, but its origins are lost in the mist of the interwebs.

Anyway, not only does it come with this swell, albeit tiny, art piece

It also involves rules. To whit: list seven of your personality traits, as evidenced on your blog and then pass the award on to seven other blogs with notable personality.

1) I’m lazy. I would blog a great deal more, but the burden of sitting down and typing complete words is just overwhelming. Besides, coming up with topics to post interferes with my nap time. Completely unacceptable

2) I’m lecherous. Pretty much the only thing that will stir me out of slouching in a chair, staring off into space is the prospect of boybutt. Boybutt. Mmmm.

3) I am gluttonous. Why eat two chocolate covered marshmallow cookies when you can eat the whole box? You never know when your husband will find them and eat them himself, the piggy little thing.

4) I’m greedy. I could share those chocolate covered marshmallow cookies, but then how could I eat them?

5) I’m wrathful. If I can muster the energy after you have crossed me, I will say nasty things about you behind your back. Take that, bitch.

6) I’m envious. I look at how many followers all my little blog friends have and think, “Damn. I want elventy bazillion followers, too.” But then I see how many comments they get on every single post, and I remember how bad I feel about not replying to the ones I already get and I realize “Mmmmaybe not so much.”

7) I am so proud. Did I tell you I won the Premium Meme Award? Did I mention I live in the most beautiful city in the world even though I don’t deserve it? Did I point out in the post asking how many mens my readers had sexed it up with, I came in so far ahead you couldn’t even see my dust? Oh, I did? Silly me.

OK, OK, enough about little me. With a flourishing rip of the envelope, I award the Premium Meme award to

Jason

Muscato

The Other Andrew

Ray Ray

Ayem8y Mean Dirty Pirate

Donna Lethal

Michael Guy

Mitzi

TJB

P A Bohemian Stephen

I know it's more than seven, I may not be able to edit, but I can count. I'm an overachiever.

Go to it.

Lively Up Your Commute

I took the subway up to the Castro after work this evening to meet R Man. Naturlement, it was jam-packed, but I nimbly snagged my favorite place to stand if I can't get a seat and then, as a reward from the goddess for all my sweetness and wonderfulness, this terribly cute young man in a lovely black suit with charcoal pinstripes wedged in next to me. Even our positions were ideal, I was able to ogle him without being vulgarly obvious. Not that that has ever slowed me down particularly, but it's nice to avoid it, if one can.

But the very most best part? As we pulled into the Castro station he bent over to pick up his briefcase/backpack/manpurse/clutch/whatever and bumped his ass very firmly into my hand. Not on purpose, get real. And I WAS NOT GROPING HIM. Had I been doing so, I certainly would have done a better job of it than the brief, but thrilling contact I managed. I got off the car humming, it takes so little to make me happy in these, my declining years.

Unfortunately, he was not Ross Hurston, pictured above, although he was dressed even nicer. I've seen Hurston on the street here a couple of times. One of the sweetest things about San Francisco are the feral porn stars we get to observe. I was surprised to find out he has an Australian accent, but then I was surprised to find out porn had dialogue, so I guess that makes sense.

More Dan Tits, Less Taschika. Moving in the Right Design Star Direction

Some of the most beautiful words uttered on Design Star: "Tashicka, Your Show Has been Canceled. And, By the Way, You're an Untalented, Whiny, Gasbag Hack." Even better, the way the judges finally just admitted they were not even going to pretend to deliberate about it, but just shove her ass out onto the street. I'm amazed they let her use the door and didn't force her to climb out a window. I would have.

Plus, finally, an all-too-brief view of Dan with his shirt off.

The competition? Uhm, I think stupid might be the word I'm looking for here. You're going to convert your garage to living space, fine. Since you have it filled with crap instead of using it to store your car, why not?

So wouldn't the primary consideration on the transformation seem to be getting rid of the garage door? I mean, what else defines a big square room as a garage? And yet, neither team did, and one REPLACED the old one with nice new one. Am I missing something? Is there a new decorating rage in suburbia for a wall that rolls up to allow an unobstructed view of the driveway? Maybe if you were shooting at some wacky post-industrial mechanized biker chic, but that's not the story here.

The results? Dumb. Dull. Lot of shrieking around and flailing and hard work, but no pay off. Plus the ceilings are just raw old garage wood. I'm starting to think none of these guys are exactly design Einstiens.

Lastly, this one got lambasted for being dull.Well, yes, but honey, they're shopping at Sears. I think they should be commended for not winding up with Early American wagon wheel chandiliers.

I also still claim Nathan, the tiny little gay elf, might be a Hidden Talent. If he can survive being on teams that suck, we'll see. And I still can't tell the two blondes Ladies apart.

QSFI

I went to my first meeting of my queer sci-fi book club tonight. Eight very nice guys, not at all the nerd fest I was dreading. There was a wide range of opinions about the book we discussed, Flora Secunda. Most of them pretty much stuck with “I liked it…” or “I didn’t like it…” and then a sentence or maybe two about some detail that had struck them. Not mrpeenee. I adore sharing my opinions; perhaps you’ve noticed. After all, my insights are so darn insightful it would be selfish to keep them to myself.

I really let loose about how much I enjoyed the book (and I truly did, it’s charming,) how it compared to other examples within the genre, the queer subtext of two of the characters, the clever sendups of the clichés in fantasy writing, all the good stuff. I believe I used the word “trope,” and I used it correctly.

My sister clubbers seemed a little overwhelmed. I could see them wondering, “Does this queen think she’s Oprah?” But I had a good time. I haven’t had a chance to talk about reading like this since I was in school and then I was so shy, so blanketed with self-directed homophobia, I would never have dreamed of taking the floor so assertively. I seemed to have blossomed, or, possibly, over-ripened.

We also chatted about the book coming up next month. At some point since the rise of Lord of the Rings in the late hippie era, science fiction split off into two main arenas: hard sci-fi and fantasy. Hard stuck more with possibilities of actual science, computer and astronomy usually. Fantasy, influenced by Tolkien, wandered off into magic and parallel universes. It’s more concerned with metaphysics than physics. The shorthand way to talk about the split is space cowboys vs. elves. I tend to prefer fantasy, although not exclusively, but I suspect the rest of the group are more of the Space Cowboy ilk. We’ll see.

Viva le Weekend

Cat porn:


Also, I finally planted the dahlias and the Coleonema I bought last week at the shmancy nursery. I keep forgetting the name "coleonema" but it's common name is "Breath of Heaven" and who could forget that? The foliage has a lovely spicy scent, so much so, that I moved it to the very front of the bed so I can smell it without crawling across all the other plants in the way. They hate it when you do that. And I love the striped agave. I know the correct term is "variegated," but let's face it, this is STRIPED. I wish I had gotten more, but if I had, I'm sure I couldn't have made the mortgage this month. Priorities, darling, priorities.


A little orphan mum I snagged at the half price place earlier this summer that was abjectly pathetic it was so straggledy looking. I whacked it way back and it has repaid my tough love now with some charming rose pink flowers, which is ok with me, especially since I thought it was probably going to be either white or yellow.


And sweet peas. The little old lady of the garden. More lovely scent. Plus, you have to plant the seeds in April if you want flowers in July and I always forget so I'm terribly pleased with myself for remembering. Yay me.

Busted. Sort of.

My Gay Men's Science Fiction book club is meeting this Sunday to discuss Flora Segunda, a book I hadn't even started until last night. Omigosh, it's just like being back in college, except I'm bald, paunchy, and not loaded. But aside from that, the unprepared for my assigned reading part I still have down pat. So I took today off from work, planning on staying at home, eating cookies and reading like a fiend. Which I did for a while, Flora Segunda turns out to be most charming, but then I got distracted. Darn porn.

Let me just say this about Brad Patton's enormous man meat: merciful heavens. Once I got past all that, I turned to catching up with my little blog friends. How I miss you all ever since my agency installed their evil web filter that won't let me peruse your chatter. I really do work, you know. I crank out press releases on subjects so arcane I have no idea what I'm talking about and I do it with panache. I administer a training program of more than 400 classes a year with an audience of around 10,000 businesses who think I am a god. I refrain from slapping anyone, ANYONE, professionally. And I did it all while keeping up with the bloglandia. But no more. Rats.

Speaking of my job, it and the interwebs collided last week when I was contacted on my mrpenee email by two people asking me to be their friend on Facebook, two people I only know through work and whom I do not relish knowing that my handle is "mrpeenee." As soon as I finished screaming like a little girl, I rushed over to the Facebook/Myspace/Nolife page and deactivated my account. Thombeau and Donna Lethal and who knows who else are very active there, but they have more grooviness in their fingernail clippings than I do in my entire being, so trying to keep up with them is pointless.

Knowing how the internet works, I'm sure it's too late. I don't even know if I had a link from Myspace to this blog, but if these queens could hunt me down, I shudder to think what else they can find.

When I was a regular habitue of the local sex clubs I was always a little concerned that I would run into someone I knew from my work. Naturally, I did a couple of times, and we would just both pretend to ignore the hard-ons hanging out of our pants, but still and all, a teensy awkward. We also used to see our mailman at Blow Buddies ALL THE TIME. He had those major pencil eraser nipples and would suck anything that was big, no matter what form of nastiness it was attached to.

Anyway.

I know, I know, "don't put up anything you don't want your mother or your boss to read" but what funs is that? The enchiladas I had for lunch and the local weather already comprise a big chunk of what I write about. If I cut out everything else, who'd want to read this? I certainly wouldn't.

As a mark of my defiance, here’s a houseboy

Garden Art

Wait, wait, what do you mean it’s Sunday night? I was just getting used to the weekend. Damn.

And what a sweet, quiet little weekend it was too. We had lunch with friends, one of whom suggested we head over to a nursery because they have an excellent coffee bar there. That, I think, is San Francisco at a glance. No experience is complete without espresso. But because there is no nursery I would every turn down, we were off. The place is called Flora Grubb, which has to be the greatest name for a plant purveyor ever, plus it turns out to be the real name of the owner. She was very sweet, too.

Total fabulosity, everywhere you looked was inspiration, thrilling inspiration. A real strong point was their ability to contrast the textures of adjacent plants so beautifully.

They specialize in vertical assemblies of succulents, big hangings that are like abstract paintings. Did I mention the old Edsel they’ve turned into a planter, with a big ass palm tree bursting through the rook and the engine block turned into a cactus garden? Totally too cool. With lattes.

And EXPENSIVE, bitches. I bought two dahlias, a small cypress, an agave and a pot and it was $140. Onehundredandfortyfuckingdollars. Had I dropped that much at the cheap little nursery I usually go to, I wouldn’t have been able to fit it all in the car.

Still, I’m glad we went. The whole thing appealed to me like an excellent art museum, but even better cause, you know, gardens. With lattes.