Other People's Crap, Now Online!

Darlings, imagine my thrill in discovering thrifting has entered the internet age. Yes, Goodwill now has a site where you can browse other, slightly more sane people’s discards to your heart’s content and bid on said discards. Is this not the best of all possible worlds? Of course, you miss out on that dusty, funky aroma of true junk shops, but on the upside, you get to read the Goodwill employees’ brave attempts at spelling really tough words like “mandala,” “potpourri,” and “cloth.” Go here now and bid on crap you don’t really need but cannot live without. But hands off the “Fine Gold Metal Memo Holder,” bitches. It’s MINE.

Calling It In

Yes, I'm still sick. No, the thought of what that Harridan, MJ, from Infomaniac would say has not kept me from posting anything. Well, maybe a little. Mostly it's due to Saki having gotten so accustomed to bossing me around while I'm home all day that he now stands guard over the keyboard so I can't type anything. It is so Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I suppose I'll be having rats for lunch next.

Fabuless

Thombeau, the zany empress of Fabulon, has decided to close up shop and shut down the site. Am I bummed? Yes, I am totally bummed. A trip to Fabulon is the highpoint of my day, and I adore the old darling. Still, I’m sure coming up with the breathtaking scope of images he does every single day must be tiring, to say the least, so I suppose he deserves his break. I just hope he returns soon.

Please note the entire absence of jokes about gender reassignment, rehab, and/or Nicole Richie here. I am restraining myself.

More of Them Dutch Babies

Turns out when you google images of Dutch Babies, you get pictures of baby Dutch bunnies.

It is adorable to the point of overload. Can you stand it?

Miss Janey wins for actually asking for the recipe of Dutch babies. Yay J. The rest of you are ok, but Jason and MJ will be kept after class for general snarkiness.

Dutch Babies: a haiku of sorts

425 degree oven

10 inch skillet

3 eggs

1/3 cup sugar

teaspoon vanilla

salt

2/3 cup flour

2/3 cup milk

4 tablespoons butter

Whisk eggs, sugar, vanilla, and salt together.

Whisk in flour and milk until smooth.

Melt butter in skillet. Before it turns brown, pour in batter. Bake for 20 minutes until puffed up and the center is lightly browned in spots.

Serve with fruit (thank you Jason. Bitch.) Raspberries and peaches are really good too.

Look out for the stupid pan handle because it will be hot as a motherfucker.

File Under "Babies, Dutch"

The lovely Diane left us with a recipe for Dutch Baby, which, alas, is not a sex act between some blue eyed, rosy cheeked blond and an illegal Turkish immigrant in an Amsterdam toilet, but rather, a morning pastry rather like a big ass popover. You make a very simple batter with eggs, milk, flour and sugar, sort of like one for a crepe, melt butter in a skillet, carefully pour the batter in and shove it in a hottish oven for about twenty minutes.

The best part is announcing it's ready by careening through the house shrieking "WHO WANTS BABIEEEEEEEEEES?" Plus, it's terribly tasty.

Mesmerizing

You know what the greatest line in songwriting is? It's the lyric in "Lust for Life" where Iggy Pop is singing about love and makes the transcendent metaphor that it is "...like hypnotizing chickens."

Research into this fascinating concept reveals there is, naturlement, a Wikipedia page on Chicken Hypnosis

Insights like this are a weighty burden. I’m just glad we’re able to share them here. Also, I’m glad to share this buttchop picture:

It's like hypnotizing ass chickens.

Manflu: It's Better than Pigflu

MJ the Infomaniac accuses me of having the Manflu and does so as if that were a bad thing. Get you, that’s what I say. The Manflu appears to consist of taking to one’s bed and whining (the name would imply People with Vaginas never indulge in such behavior, to which I reply “Midol.”)

I have no problem admitting to my genius in both categories. I inherited my talent for sleeping from my dear mother who would sleep for 16 hours at a stretch if the goddam kids would just let her. In turn, I am no slacker either; if remaining unconscious were a sport, I would qualify for the Olympics. Our friend Ehsen takes a nap in the evening and only gets up to go to bed for the night. I am awed by such commitment and have taken to imitating him.

As to whining, surely the most cursory glance at this blog would prove my devotion to the art.

Why MJ thinks I need an excuse for either is beyond me. Being sick, Manflu or not, only provides me with a focus for both, but at the same time distracts me from my top form. This just in: being sick sucks. The houseboys, led by Zieglus Manitobus here, have started a nonstop novena in their best underpants on behalf of my recovery, which both I and the priest at Our Lady of the Sacred Secret Place both appreciate, but it doesn’t seem to be helping yet.

Crimes of the Cat

I don't know why people think cats are incapable of math. The Evil and Adorable Saki has no trouble determining the exact mathematical center of my bed. And then clinging to it immovably, assuring that I get to nap in a Z formation around him.

Fluids. Lot of Fluids.

Yet another charming visit with Diane von Austiberg comes to an end, too soon, too soon. Did I mention we went to the fabled Chez Panisse? Did I mention it was deeeeeeelish? Indeedy.

Thrift stores all over town are now beaten to their knees by Diane, Destroyer of Other People's Crap. Over the years we've been shaking them down, we've noticed junk stores are becoming an endangered species here in San Francisco. I guess rents are just too expensive. Plus, now plenty of them have abandoned used furniture the better to focus on worn out sweaters and stinky wool sport coats. The suggestion that they have simply run out of furniture because I have bought it all is totally unwarranted and you should stop listening to R Man, anyway.

Diane left Tuesday, I started feeling off on Wednesday and woke up today, Friday, sick as a dog. A quick trip to the doctor reveals what I thought was a bad cold and sore throat is "a little fluid on your lungs," a diagnosis that I know from bitter experience can lead to bronchitis, so when doctorman started writing a prescription for antibiotics (and codeine cough syrup! Hoo hoo! Score!) I was not arguing.

I am such a bad patient, I can never remember the names of the medicine I consume, so I always refer to all the antibiotics I have ever choked down as Astromyacin, even though my doctor patiently assures me there is no such thing. I think there certainly should be since it is such a kickass name, I'm sure it would be terribly effective. The current batch of Astromyacin (or whatever the hell its real name is) had better be working since it's already making me feel like I've been punched in the gut and placed under the french fry lamp at Burger King.

But mrpeenee, you ask, what is the good news, the sunny side? Let's see.... 1) this didn't happen while Diane was in town, yay, and 2) I was supposed to leave Monday for a conference in Minneapolis and now I don't have to go. See "hacking cough" "punched in gut feeling" and "contagious." I'm sure Minneapolis is a charming city and I was not pouting about being sent there for a weak, but sticking around San Francisco instead is ok with me.

After all, somebody has to keep an eye on the houseboys, like dear little Petit Diego here, cause as soon as I turn my back, I'm sure MJ would be in there fomenting all over the place. Tramp.

Thrifting avec Tante Diane

Darlings, it's me, dropping a line from the mad, gay whirl of hosting Tante Diane. We've eaten (pulled pork sandwiches at Mission Beach. Mmmm,) we've cooked (fusilli ala crazy bastard) and we have knocked out some serious thrift store action. Having hit every junk store in the city, I now have some pulmonary condition brought on by Second Hand Dust and a new charming little blue glass bowl.

A day in the world of Other People's Crap:


From the Telly Savalas Fine Arts Collectible Plate Series.

We recommend the Salvation Army on Guerrero for all your little bitty china high heel pump needs. Breathtaking.

Community Thrift on Valencia. Mecca for serious junk store junkies.

If you have to assure people in writing that you're the "Corvette of office chairs" chances are you're not. This wasn't.

mrpeenee has a lovely dining room already, and yet, he lusts after these. Stop me now.

A wee little cauldron for Satanic Rite Barbie,

Fashion News Update: sleek stilettos printed in hot pink odd Spanish cartoons are going to be the next big thing.

Dead Santa. CSI Mission Thrift Store is treating it as a drive-by. Details as they develop.

Pig. Fairy. Fairy pig.

The pig in a kimono disturbed Diane.

The Diane-centric Visit

I'm sure you must have asked yourself occasionally "What is the high point of mrpeenee's year?" Well, obviously, it is the annual visit of Diane von Austinburg, which this year starts right about, oh, now, in fact.

Diane: so smart, so charming. A fabulous cook, she and I enjoy working in the kitchen together (not easy with my Tyrannosaurus Chef attitude.) We both love thrift stores, but I am the merest piker compared to her laser-like ability to find gold amidst the dross. Her genius at Boggle is legendary, even if it does include cheerfully making up words, which she calls "pushing the envelope" and I call "cheating." We also have a lengthy list of the best restaurants to hit. Chez Panisse, here we come.

Mostly, it's the pleasure of hanging out with someone who remembers me before I was old and cranky. Yes, it's true. Photographic proof provided below.

Walmart Abuse

Do I condone smacking some brat screeching nonstop in public? Certainly not. Do I understand the desire to do so? Oh my yes. Personally, I'm a grouchy old man and a kid with a broken volume control is one of those things that make me twitch with rage. But I control myself; I pick up my giant 36 pack carton of Ramen and get the hell out of Walmart. I do not lay into the little spawn of Satan and if I did, I certainly wouldn't leave witnesses to point me out to the cops.

But that would appear to not be the M.O. of one Roger Stephens of Stone Mountain. I can commiserate, but not excuse him. He's 61, stuck in a Georgia Walmart, his days as a hot stud are so far behind him he can't even see them in the rear view mirror and now this kid will not SHUT THE FUCK UP AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH.

Anyway....

STONE MOUNTAIN, Ga. – Police say a 61-year-old man annoyed with a crying 2-year-old girl at a Walmart slapped the child several times after warning the toddler's mother to keep her quiet.

A police report says after the stranger hit the girl at least four times, he said: "See, I told you I would shut her up."

Roger Stephens of Stone Mountain is charged with felony cruelty to children. It was unclear if he had an attorney and a telephone call to his home Wednesday was unanswered.

Authorities say the girl and her mother were shopping Monday when the toddler began crying. The police report says Stephens approached the mother and said, "If you don't shut that baby up, I will shut her up for you."

Authorities say after Stephens slapped the girl, she began screaming.


Really, haven't we all been there before?